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Thinking about kissing him made her breathing shallow and her heart speed.
She couldn’t blame it on the new gown, though the bodice was so tight around the ribs as to induce breathlessness.
It was all Wright.
His mismatched eyes and large, capable hands. The way he’d humored her, asking her to teach him more words, all the while seducing her with that disarming grin.
Why couldn’t she marshal her thoughts to order? It was most disconcerting. She supposed that time would be the only panacea.
She’d changed during her sojourn in Cornwall; London had stayed the same.
Her chambers were still decorated in the discordant combination of blush pink and pale blue that her mother considered pleasing.
Her mother, the dressmakers and milliners, and the lady’s maids were still trying to accentuate what they considered to be her best features and hide what they thought of as the worst. They drew attention to her slim waist with brightly colored sashes, and covered the right side of her face with thick spiral curls of hair, cascading silk ribbons, and veils.
In London, she was something to be concealed and camouflaged.
In Cornwall, at least she’d been free to wear simple, practical gowns of her choosing and pencils as the only ornament in her hair.
All of that temporary freedom was the only explanation for her unforgivable lapse of sense and that fictitious kiss.
She recalled with an inward groan the bemused look on his face. He’d known exactly what she was imagining. Dizzy-headed females must throw themselves at him all the time.
She’d made a narrow escape.
Mrs. Adler pulled the bodice even tighter and pinned it in place.
“Ouch!” Beatrice exclaimed as a pin jabbed her rib cage.
“Apologies, my lady.”
“If you didn’t fidget so, Mrs. Adler would be finished more swiftly,” said the dowager duchess, who must have concluded her speech some time earlier.
Beatrice should pay closer attention or she’d be subjected to more speeches. The “woe is me my daughter lives to give me gray hairs” one was particularly trying.
“Repeat the rules to me, Beatrice.”
“Er...”
“Oh, Beatrice.” Her mother heaved a sigh. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. I was explaining the rules.”
“The rules?”
Another exasperated sigh. “I have four simple rules for you to follow. The first is no hiding behind potted ferns.”
“Of course, Mama.”
“You must remain visible for the entirety of every ball.”
“I’ll do my best, Mama.” Hiding behind potted ferns was the best place to read during social engagements; everyone knew that. She always had a slender novel secreted in her reticule. Sometimes, if the event were held in a location such as her own home or the home of an acquaintance, she’d even gone so far as to hide books in the ballroom and retrieve them after the event was underway.
“The second rule, and I know you’ll find this one very difficult, is this—no reading in public.”
“Mama! You know I can’t promise that.” Reading was as essential as breathing. Without books, there could be no joy in life. “I must be allowed at least a little respite from the vacuous confabulation of London’s dunderhead dandies.”
“Which leads me directly to rule number three—no using archaic or nonsensical words and no explaining the origins of words. Under no circumstances are you to so much as mention your etymological dictionary. Such antics are the quickest way to dissuade potential suitors. No one likes a know-it-all, Beatrice.”
That was another one of her standard speeches.
