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“Don’t do that, my dear. You’ll spoil the arrangement.”
“What is my costume to be, Mama? You still haven’t told me.”
“You’ll see soon enough. Mrs. Adler will arrive any moment now. And how was Miss Mayberry?”
Beatrice stared blankly for a moment before remembering Ford’s story. “Ah, er, she’s doing well. She’ll be here tonight.”
“What will her costume be?”
“I believe she’s attending as the scales of balance.”
“Well that should be interesting. Such a strange girl, Miss Mayberry. Almost totally lacking in feminine graces.”
It was disconcerting seeing Ford inside her brother’s house. He looked as confident and commanding as ever. He never changed, no matter the setting.
She wanted to go to him. Pull him upstairs to her room to show him the pile of books by her bedside. He’d built her those bookshelves, and she couldn’t help thinking that perhaps he’d been trying to tell her something with his gift.
“Are you listening, Beatrice?”
“I’m sorry, Mama, what were you saying?”
“I was not at all satisfied with the way you waltzed at the last ball we attended. Your steps were very poorly executed and your carriage was insufficiently erect.”
Beatrice thought she heard a soft snort of laughter from Ford’s direction. Yes, her mother had saiderect. The man had a filthy mind.
And so did she, when it came to rogues who had been about to carry her into bedrooms.
“I’ll do better tonight, Mama.”
“It’s your carriage and the position of your neck the critics will be scrutinizing. Mr. Wright,” called her mother. “Do you waltz?”
Ford turned. “I know how to waltz. But I don’t care for dancing.”
“Overcome your distaste and help me, Wright. This is an urgent matter.”
“Mother,” Beatrice said, “he doesn’t want to waltz, and neither do I. I’m rather tired. May I go upstairs?”
“Not yet. I want to see you waltz. Every detail must be perfect tonight.” She sailed over to Ford. “Mr. Wright, indulge me for a moment. Come to the center of the floor”—she led him out by the hand—“so that I may show my daughter the correct posture for the waltz.”
Beatrice nearly broke into laughter when she saw the expression of helpless horror on Ford’s face as her mother positioned his arms to her liking and then stepped into them... and led him into a waltz.
“Now see, Beatrice,” her mother said. “Observe how the angle of my head makes my neck appear longer. Very nice, Wright. You’ll do much better for dancing practice than Hobbs, and that’s certain. Are you watching, Beatrice?”
Beatrice chuckled softly. “I’m watching.”
Ford glowered at her as he spun around the dance floor with her mother in his arms.
“There, now, it’s your turn,” said her mother breathlessly, curtsying to Ford and stepping away.
Ford held out his hand. “Lady Beatrice,” he said in his low, compelling voice. “May I have this dance?”
Her mother clapped her hands. “That’s perfect, Wright. Join in the spirit of things.”
The laughter died on Beatrice’s lips. All of the smolder had flared back to life in Ford’s eyes. Couldn’t her mother see it? He was practically devouring her with his gaze.
The temptation in that simple question was too much to resist.
Yes, I’ll dance with you. I’ll take you to my bed. I’d board a ship with you, if you asked me in that wicked way.
