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Beatrice couldn’t care less about jewels sewn on bodices.
All she wanted to do was relive forbidden kisses.
Ford wasn’t dressed for the opera but he didn’t care. Women were still giving him appreciative glances as he made his way through the crowd. Normally he would have returned those glances, assessing any offers, but tonight there was only onewoman he wanted to see—and she was floating above him, so far out of reach she may as well be on another continent.
He craned his neck to see her, wishing he had a pair of those little magnifying glasses on a stick that everyone was waving about. He stopped walking, and someone bumped into him and cursed in his direction.
Finally he located her box by searching for the glow of her red hair. She sat with her mother and another mature matron. As he watched, a fair-haired man wearing elegant black evening dress entered the box and bowed over her hand.
Mayhew.
The bastard was practically sticking his nose in her cleavage.
And Beatrice was smiling up at him, fluttering her lashes and laughing at something he’d said.
Ford’s jaw locked, and white-hot resentment obliterated all rational thought. That vile abuser had the right to bow over her hand and Ford was stuck down here, powerless to do anything about it.
Ford glared at them with rising fury. His fists clenched.
He couldn’t allow that man to propose to her. What if she bowed to the pressure from her mother, from society, and accepted him? His heart clenched along with his fists.
He didn’t belong in this glittering world, but he wasn’t going to stand down here like an impotent fool any longer.
He had to go up there and warn her.
He began pushing his way through the crowd. He didn’t care if he had to fight his way to her door and oust Mayhew by the collar.
“Mr. Wright, is that you?” A soft touch on Ford’s elbow drew his attention.
“It’s Miss Beaton, don’t you remember me? Why, whatever is the matter? You look ready to kill someone.”
“I have to speak with Lady Beatrice. I have to warn her about something. Someone. I’m going up there to speak with her.”
“My, that would cause quite a scene. You’re not dressed.”
“I’m wearing clothes.”
“Not the right ones.”
“I don’t care about any of that. I have to talk to her.”
“Mr. Wright, stop a moment. Listen to me. You can’t charge in there. It will put everything in jeopardy—Beatrice, the future of the bookshop, your very life. If you care about her, if you want to continue your work, then you have to calm down and come with me. I know a back way. And there’s an empty box at the end of the row.”
Ford realized that Miss Beaton was on his side. “You’ll bring her to me?”
“I’ll find a way. It might take a little while. Once you’re in the unoccupied box, you should try to relax. You might even enjoy some opera.”
“I doubt that.”
“Not an opera lover?”
“Don’t know, and don’t care.”
“Don’t dismiss what you haven’t tried. Wait until you hear the Queen of the Night’s most famous aria.It’s fiendishly difficult. I hope the soprano is ready for all of that coloratura and the top F.”
“I’m not here for the arias. I have to talk to Lady Beatrice.”
“My, so impatient.” She hit his arm playfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll give her the message.”
