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One thing he knew for certain: Lady Beatrice Bentley was trouble.
Flame-haired, nimble-fingered, tool-belt-wearing trouble.
She made him laugh. She was intelligent and talented.
She looked incredible in a tool belt.
But forbidden things were always alluring. And what was alluring as well was that she needed his help to best Foxton and keep this property.
Being her knight in sawdusty trousers was exhilarating.
Ford had a personal stake in her victory. Personal because it was a way to wrest control back from his grandfather. But at some point, he’d begun caring more about helping Beatrice find her freedom than being a thorn in his grandfather’s side. This could be a haven for her. She didn’t have to retreat to the countryside. Why shouldn’t she live here if she wanted to escape her mother? It wasn’t a grand house, but he could make it a perfect bookish retreat for her.
She’d asked him why he hadn’t become an architect, and something inside him had reawakened. Some long dead ambition to not only build and repair structures, but to design them, as well.
But dreaming larger was perilous. They were from entirely different social classes. Her brother was his father’s employer.
Ford needed Thorndon to take his warning seriously and avert all suspicion from his father in the matter of the missing profits on the Thornhill estate. The duke wouldn’t be inclined to feel kindly toward Ford if he found out that he’d been kissing his refined, innocent sister.
If Ford’s intentions weren’t honorable, and how could they be when dallying with him would ruinher life, then he had no business becoming intimate with Beatrice, in conversation or up against bookshelves.
Finish the renovations, speak with Thorndon, and get the hell out of London, away from her searching questions and her luminous eyes.
Chapter Eighteen
It had been nearly a week since Beatrice had visited the bookshop. She hadn’t been back to unpack the crates of books, and she hadn’t discovered the hidden meaning in her aunt’s letter. Her mother had kept her busy running from one social engagement to the next, but there was another reason Beatrice had stayed away.
She needed to inventory these feelings she was having for Ford. File them away into tidy little lots. Make them more manageable and less confusing, and hopefully be rid of them for good.
This evening she was attending a meeting of the Mayfair Ladies Knitting League at the Duchess of Ravenwood’s apartments.
Fern, the duchess’s maid, served red wine in dainty glasses. Normally they drank brandy or sherry out of teacups, but today their newest member, Lady Henrietta Prince, had brought wine for them to taste from her ancestral cellars.
Beatrice drained her glass in one swallow and held it out for more.
Wine-fueled oblivion. Perhaps intoxication might help her forget the sensual scenes that filled her mind’s eye. Ford lifting her, carrying her across theroom in his strong arms, setting her against a bookshelf and covering her with his body.
She’d wrapped her limbs around his hips and felt his hardness pressing against her...
“This vintage is meant for sipping, Lady Beatrice,” admonished Lady Henrietta, her full lips pursing. “You won’t experience the complexity if you gulp it like that.”
“I’m not here for the complexity—I want the sweet oblivion.”
“What are you trying to forget?” asked Viola.
“My life.”
“Is it your mother again?” Viola asked with a sympathetic smile. “What’s she done this time?”
“Ahem, ladies.” Isobel brought her gavel down upon the lectern. “I call this meeting of the Mayfair Ladies Knitting League to order. Let the record show that there are”—Isobel glanced around the room—“four ladies present this evening. Our president, the Duchess of Ravenwood, is still absent, though we expect her back soon from Egypt. Is anyone taking notes? Where’s Miss Finchley?”
“She had a little explosion in her chemistry lab today,” Viola said.
“Is she all right?” asked Beatrice. Miss Ardella Finchley was one of the sharpest minds she knew, but tended to be vague on the practical details of life. Her gloves were always mismatched, and her stockings always had a run.
“She’s unharmed. But she’s staying home to try and scrub the foul odor away before her mother returns from the Continent.”
“I’ll take the notes,” Viola volunteered.
