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“Phyllis?” Foxton staggered again. “What are you doing here? What’s going on? And... Joyce?”
“Good day, Father,” said his mother, her lower lip trembling. She and her sister clasped hands, blocking his exit path.
“Lady Beatrice, I demand to know what’s happening here,” Foxton shouted.
The duke suddenly leapt out from behind the chair, brandishing the now half-empty whisky bottle menacingly. “You demand nothing from my sister!”
Ford caught him by the elbow before he reached Foxton. “Allow your sister to work her magic, Thorndon,” he murmured. “Trust her methods.”
“Allow me to explain, Mr. Foxton,” said Beatrice. “Your daughters are here because it’s high time that you faced the consequences of your actions.”
Ford moved to stand beside her. “It’s time that we stood up to you.”
“This is outrageous. I want no part of it. Stand aside, Phyllis. Let go of Joyce’s hand and let me pass.”
Ford could see that it wasn’t working. Foxton’s heart was a shriveled thing that no amount of compassion could bring back to life.
But there was one heart in this room that was filled to bursting with love.
His own.
And if he didn’t ask Beatrice his question soon, he might explode. And was there any better way to illustrate the awesome power, and potential peril, of love than a proposal?
He dropped to one knee on the oak floor that they’d worked on together. “Beatrice. Before this goes any further, I need to ask you something.”
What was Ford doing? This wasn’t the plan. “Not now, Ford,” she whispered urgently. “I’m about to make my speech.”
“Let me make a speech first.”
“I’m leaving,” said Foxton.
“No, you’re not.” His daughters linked arms, standing in front of the doorway.
“Is it happening?” asked Isobel and Viola, appearing in the doorway. “Is it our turn?”
Tears gathered behind Beatrice’s eyes. Blast. This wasn’t at all how she’d wanted the scene to go. Everyone must be staring at them, but all she could see was Ford.
The sunflower in his eye. His powerful shoulders.
“Mr. Wright is down on one knee,” Viola whispered. “Hush now.”
“Lady Beatrice Bentley, you make me believe that love is stronger than hate. That good can triumph over evil. That a carpenter can find love with a lady. I swear to you that I will work my fingers to the bone to give you the life you deserve.”
“And what life is that?” she asked.
“A life where you never want for anything, a large house and a commodious carriage. Perhaps not so grand as what you’re accustomed to, but something you can be proud of.”
“Is that what I want?” She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Ford, I thought you knew me better. You’re talking about some Beatrice you’ve created in your mind. A princess on a pedestal. That’s not me at all. We could live in a one-room cottage and I’d be happy.”
“But where would you put all of your books?”
“Well, perhaps a one-room cottage with a large library attached?”
“You’ll need money to buy paper and ink.”
“True. But those aren’t extravagant requirements.”
“I may not be able to keep you in diamonds, but I want to keep you in the best ink, the finest quills, and the thickest paper.”
