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She stared at him, openmouthed. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“We agreed to follow the rules.”
“Are you going to destroy articles of my clothing every time we meet?”
“Quite possibly. If you come to the bookshop while I’m working you’ll encounter dust, debris, water... probably some rats I flush out of the basement. It might be best for you to stay away, at least for the first few days.”
“Trying to be rid of me already. I’m only here for another half hour. I’ve used most of my allotment of hours. The coachman will wait for me here.” She used her key this time to let them into the building.
They were met by a gloomy Coggins and a chipper offer of hot tea from Mrs. Kettle, which they politely declined.
Wright entered the front room. “I’ll start bringing the crates upstairs. Where should I leave them?”
“You can place them in the reading room adjacent to the first-floor landing.”
He stacked two crates, lifted the heavy load, and disappeared into the hallway.
Beatrice examined the titles on the shelves. She’d have to move the most ancient and rare volumes upstairs to the reading room, to protect them from Wright’s dust and destruction. The remainder of the books would need to be covered with cloths.
Excitement bubbled up in her chest, giddy and sweet.
She owned these volumes. She owned this building.
She wasn’t going to let anyone take this newborn freedom away from her.
When Ford returned downstairs, Lady Beatrice was still there. He’d assumed she’d be gone by now. He’d loitered upstairs for at least a quarter hour, stacking and restacking crates, and giving himself a stern talking-to about the divestment of bonnets from highborn ladies whose brothers held the fate of one’s family in their hands.
The devil had made him do it. And the sight of her red hair radiant in the sunlight had been worth risking the fires of hell.
Not only was she still here, she was in the process of removing more articles of clothing.
The fire in the grate was doing an admirable job of heating the small room, but did she have to disrobe if she was only staying a few more minutes?
Ford nearly sprinted back upstairs, but he had a job to do. Crates to carry. No time to waste.
He’d simply have to ignore the lady, and the languid way she undid her smart blue coat. Button after brass button, fabric parting to reveal the lovely, and extremely impractical gown beneath. It was pale pink, with large puffed sleeves that ended in silk bows at her elbows, tied so tightly that he could see the mark they made on her skin.
Her elbow-length white gloves came off next.
As he repacked crates and stacked them together, he watched her from the corner of his eye. Why did it take so devilishly long to remove gloves? Each luminescent pearl button gave way to her fingers in a slow, tantalizing revealing of flesh.
She tugged one glove all the way off and draped it over her shoulder while she worked on the secondone. The discarded glove dangled down her back, where his fingers wanted to roam.
Over her delicate shoulder blades, along the ridge of her spine, down to the sweet curve of her...
None of that. Lift some heavy crates and climb those steep stairs again in penance for forbidden thoughts.
When he returned, she was standing by the bookshelves with a dusty volume in her hands, her face rapturous as she turned pages.
“Are you inventorying or reading?” he asked.
“Just a few more pages,” she murmured. “And then I’ll go.”
Why did fancy ladies cover up their hands and leave their chests so exposed? He approved of this bodice. It was edged in darker pink ribbon that might even match her...
Don’t picture her nipples.
He groaned aloud.
