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There was no going back for her. She’d turned a shadowy corner in her mind and found something she’d never expected.
Irrational desires. Swooning tendencies. A bad case of quivering ninnyhood.
She couldn’t go back; all she could do was move forward armed with this new information.
The most annoying thing about all of that practiced charm was its effectiveness. She’d never considered herself to be a girl who might be susceptible to good-looking, arrogant rogues with bulging biceps.
Who could have predicted such a nonsensical development?
Certainly not her small group of friends in London. Sensible, pragmatic ladies, all—fellow members of the Mayfair Ladies Knitting League. Not that they did much knitting. Theirs was a society secretly dedicated to the advancement of women’s goals and achievements in nontraditional roles.
Her friends would be quite disappointed to learn that Beatrice had succumbed to such giddy imaginings, especially after he’d insulted her dictionary by inferring that no one would want to read it.
The red rose he’d offered her languished on a table, its petals beginning to wilt. She brought it to her nose and inhaled the faint, sweet odor.
She set it between the pages of a little-used copy ofDebrett’sPeerage.
She’d keep this rose as a symbol of what the ancient Greeks would have termed herhamartia, her tragic character flaw: a heretofore unsuspected susceptibility to the appeal of charismatic rogues.
She would henceforth be on the strictest guard against all handsome rogues. All she had to do was survive one last Season in London and she could return to Thornhill House, and stay forever. The old maid in her library tower, surrounded by books, and probably some cats.
Wright would be long gone, and Beatrice could resume progress on her dictionary unimpeded by such virile distractions.
She slammed the book shut, covering the ruby red rose, a symbol of weakness. She must shore up her defenses and her determination in order to survive the trials of London and return to Cornwall as swiftly as possible.
Spinsterhood was going to be glorious.
Chapter Three
London, several weeks later
“Lady Beatrice Bentley! Do youwantto become a spinster?”
Why yes, mother, yes, I do.“Of course not, Mama.”
“Then please pay attention when I’m speaking to you.”
“Yes, Mama.” Beatrice had decided that in the interests of survival she would simply agree with everything her mother said.
“Put that book down.”
Reluctantly, Beatrice lowered the Gothic novel she’d been reading while being fitted for a new gown. The dressmaker, Mrs. Adler, a thin woman with a blade for a nose and a mouth bristling with pins, tugged at Beatrice’s hem under her mother’s watchful eye.
Since returning to London, Beatrice had managed only a few pages of research notes for her dictionary. It was exactly as she’d feared: too many fittings, tedious shopping excursions, and awkward morning calls.
She hadn’t even been able to see her friends Isobeland Viola yet, but they were coming over this afternoon for tea. She couldn’t wait to see them.
“That’s better,” said her mother. “If you’d only make an effort, you could make a brilliant match. I feel that this is your year, Beatrice, I truly do.”
The dowager duchess was all softness with her round face, full lips, and generous figure, but her ambition to marry Beatrice off to a duke, a marquess, or, at the very least, an earl, was as hard-edged as a cut diamond.
She had launched into the “if you’d only make an effort” speech, which Beatrice had heard many, many times before. She knew exactly when to murmur “yes,” and “of course,” and “quite right, Mama,” all while allowing her mind to roam free.
Usually her mind ran to the book she was reading, or to her dictionary, but lately her mind had been roaming to one topic and one topic only: Wright. More specifically, their encounter in the library at Thornhill House.
She’d left days after their exchange, so she’d never had to face him again. She doubted that he’d spared her a moment’s thought since he’d climbed down from her window, while she had thought about him almost constantly.
She must stop thinking about him. About how close their lips had been, and the uncharacteristic urge that had gripped her, the mad desire to kiss him.
