The Viscount's Wallflower Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “No,” Rowan muttered. His fingers clawed at Violet’s skirts. Sensing his panic, she feared it would be only a matter of seconds before he found his way underneath.

  Lord Lakefield also wore a look of panic, though she couldn’t fathom why. “Do come in,” he urged, taking Violet quite improperly by the arm. Before the door shut behind her, she shot a helpless look back at the blur that was her maid Margaret in the carriage.

  She hadn’t intended to go inside.

  But here she was. Still gripping her arm, the viscount fairly hauled her down a passageway whose paneling was so worn that even with her bad eyes she could tell it needed refinishing. Behind her, Rowan held on like a drowning man clutching a life preserver. He was literally dragging his heels.

  Evidently undeterred, Lady Jewel chattered cheerfully as she walked along beside him. “How old are you? Your mother said you were six. Are you six? I’m almost six. When’s your birthday? Mine’s next week. Mama said we would have a celebration. But now she’s ill.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Violet replied, since it was clear Rowan wouldn’t. Her heels clicked on the wood-planked floor. She could feel the warmth of the viscount’s fingers through her indigo broadcloth sleeve.

  “Papa promised me she’d get well,” Lady Jewel said. “And he always keeps his promises.”

  They turned into a drawing room decorated in various shades of red and pink. Or perhaps they’d once all been matching crimson, but some pieces had faded.

  Lord Lakefield dropped Violet’s arm and waved her toward a couch. She pried Rowan’s hands from her skirts in order to sit, and he dropped cross-legged to the floor, his gaze on his lap.

  What were they doing here? Violet wondered, nervously twirling the end of her plait. Rowan was clearly miserable, and she hadn’t planned on staying in the first place.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Lord Lakefield told her. “I’ll go ask for some refreshments. I rigged up a bell”—he gestured toward the wall where she assumed it was placed—“but I’m afraid my staff is getting on in years. They’re a bit hard of hearing.”

  Dazed, Violet nodded. “So is my father.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s half deaf. Although my sister sometimes claims he just doesn’t want to listen to whatever theory I’m spouting at the moment.”

  Faith, she was babbling more than Lady Jewel.

  “Theory?” Lord Lakefield blinked. “You’re interested in science?”

  “Philosophy, actually.”

  “Oh.” Something indecipherable flickered in his eyes. “I’m certain whatever you have to say must be fascinating. If you’ll excuse me.” And with that, he took his long, lanky form out the door.

  She rose and wandered over to see where he’d pointed. A pull cord disappeared cleverly into a hole, attached, she assumed, to a bell. Her ears were still ringing with his words.

  “Fascinating…” she murmured to no one in particular. Apparently the viscount was trying to flatter her. No man ever thought a woman discussing philosophy was fascinating.

  But what could he be hoping to gain?

  “Well,” she said aloud, glad she had the common sense to recognize an empty compliment, “Jean de La Fontaine has written that all flatterers live at the expense of those who listen to them.”

  Lady Jewel blinked. “Huh?” She shook her head, then knelt on the floor next to Rowan. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked.

  SIX

  FORD HURRIED to the kitchen, not least because he had a feeling Violet Ashcroft was poised to bolt. And he couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Philosophy. Truth be told, he loathed the discipline—if one could even call the study of unprovable and oft indecipherable prattle a discipline. But at least this Violet seemed to have a keen brain in her head, which was uncommon, in his experience. Not that the ladies he knew were simpleminded, but he tended to gravitate toward girls of the fun and frilly variety. To be perfectly honest, after a long day at his studies or in his laboratory, he was seeking a diversion, not a fellow academic.

  Tabitha, for instance, had been a lovely diversion. But a diversion was the last thing Ford needed just now, and as he’d come to realize he couldn’t avoid all of womankind entirely, he’d decided to limit his female contacts to those who proved practical. Hilda, for example—his housekeeper—was a useful woman to have around.

  And as for Lady Violet…

  With her thick, chocolate-brown plait and eyes the color of his favorite brandy, Violet was nice-looking, although not the sort of beauty who would turn heads. Which was fine with him, since he wanted his head right where it was, thank you: square on his shoulders, where he could use it to concentrate on his work.

  If he could convince Lady Violet to stay a while and maybe even come back with Rowan tomorrow, perhaps he could finally sneak away to his laboratory. In which case he’d have to admit that his twin, Kendra, was right—ladies were good for more than just flirting and adorning one’s arm.

  Though not to her face, of course.

  As he barged into the kitchen, his housekeeper looked up from polishing the silver, one gray eyebrow raised in query. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Are the refreshments ready?”

  Hilda never answered a question—she always had one of her own. “Is Lady Trentingham here?”

  “No,” he said, wondering where Harry, Hilda’s husband, had gone off to this time. The two of them might be servants, but their marriage mimicked most of the aristocracy’s—which was to say they stayed as far from each other as possible.

  “Lady Trentingham is at home,” he told her. “The countess’s daughter came instead. Lady Violet.”

  “The sensible one?”

  “Come again?” Spotting a tray of biscuits on the kitchen’s scarred wooden worktable, he inched his way over.

  “The oldest, yes? Lady Trentingham calls her ‘the sensible one.’ The middle girl—Rose, I believe—is ‘the wild one,’ and the youngest, Lily, is ‘the sweet one.’”

  “She has three daughters? All named for flowers?” How absurd.

  “Are you not aware that her husband enjoys gardening?”

  “Yes. I am.” He slid one of the small, round biscuits off the tray and popped it into his mouth. Mmm, cinnamon. Dusting crumbs off his fingers, he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. ”How do you come to know all this?”

  Hilda frowned. “Why shouldn’t I know my neighbors?” She shoved at a gray hair that had escaped her cap, then went back to polishing the silver. “Lady Trentingham, she’s a perfumer, you know. Every once in a while, she drops by with a new bottle. Spiced Rosewater, I prefer.”

  “Spiced Rosewater?” He paused to reach for another biscuit.

  She slapped at his hand. “Leave it, will you? I laid them out in a pattern.”

  He scrutinized the tray, but his mathematical mind could discern no regular design.

  “Do you not like Spiced Rosewater?” she asked.

  He leaned close to a wrinkled cheek and sniffed. “It’s lovely.” In truth, she smelled like one of her cinnamon biscuits. But whatever made her happy.

  “When Lady Trentingham brings the perfume, she likes to sit a spell and chat. I’ve heard all the stories of her girls as they’ve grown.”

  “Lady Trentingham sits and talks to the household help?”

  “And why not? We’re people too, you know.”

  Of course they were—he just didn’t think about it much. And he was woefully ill informed about his neighbors. It seemed Lady Trentingham was well-nigh as eccentric as the earl.

  “Here comes Harry,” Hilda said, watching out the window. “Don’t you think it’s time to serve these refreshments?” She shoved a steaming pitcher into Ford’s hands and, taking the tray of biscuits, hurried out of the kitchen before her husband could make his way in.

  Hilda came up to Ford’s shoulder and seemed as wide as she was tall. Obediently carrying the hot beverage she’d prepared, he followed her ample
behind down the corridor to the drawing room. They stepped inside to see Violet Ashcroft on her hands and knees, her bottom jutting into the air beneath its layers of petticoats and sturdy, serviceable skirts. Which weren’t frilly in the least. A fitting gown for The Sensible One.

  Even through all that fabric, Ford could tell she had a rather nice bottom. Especially compared to his housekeeper’s.

  He frowned, mentally clamping down on his thoughts. He wasn’t supposed to be noticing any female’s bottom. He was supposed to be appreciating women for their practical uses only.

  Lady Violet’s brother was under the low, square table that sat before the couch. “Rowan,” she said. “You come out here this minute.”

  “No.” The boy crossed his arms, not a simple feat given he was lying on his belly. “Not until she leaves.”

  “C’mon, Rowan,” Jewel cooed, getting down on her knees herself. “Come out and play. I’ve always wanted to play with a boy.”

  Knowing Jewel had two brothers at home, Ford choked back laughter. And she wasn’t pronouncing boy at all the same way she had yesterday in the garden.

  His niece was clearly in love.

  And Rowan was having none of it.

  “We’ve brought biscuits,” Ford declared, announcing his presence. Lady Violet gave a little embarrassed squeal and jumped to her feet. Her pinkened cheeks matched his faded upholstery.

  “Biscuits?” Rowan asked. “What kind?”

  Ford grinned. Little boys were so much easier than girls. ”Cinnamon,” he said.

  “I’m still not coming out,” Rowan said.

  “Would you like a drink of chocolate?” Hilda coaxed, taking the warm pitcher from Ford’s hands.

  “Chocolate?” The boy inched forward. “Real chocolate?”

  “He cannot have it,” his sister said firmly. “Chocolate gives him hives.”

  Rowan crawled closer and bumped his head on the apron of the table. “Ah, Violet…”

  She reached to grab him by the wrist. “Got you, you little monster.” She dragged him out. “Now, I cannot blame you for being intimidated, but you must mind your manners. Guests don’t hide under tables.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “Guests don’t say things like that, either. It’s very rude.”

  Jewel rose, brushing off the mint green skirts that Ford had spent half an hour struggling her into. “Here.” She offered Rowan a biscuit, and he reluctantly climbed to his feet. “Eat this, and then I’ll show you Uncle Ford’s laboratory.”

  “No you won’t,” Ford said. Not again. He’d taken her to his laboratory yesterday afternoon, hoping she’d sit quietly while he worked. Ten minutes later he’d hauled her out—just before she’d managed to destroy the place.

  “Please, Uncle Ford?”

  “No.”

  “Puleeeeeze?” The look in Jewel’s green eyes bordered on pathetic. Chase eyes, like Kendra’s. Just what he needed…another Chase lady who could wrap him around her little finger.

  She must have realized her feminine wiles were working, because she turned her lavish charm on Rowan. “You must stay,” she told him. “Uncle Ford has magnets, and bottles of smelly stuff, and a pen-pen—”

  “Pendulum,” Ford supplied, remembering too late that she didn’t like to be helped.

  But she was so intent on convincing Rowan, she failed to take notice. “Yes, a pen-du-lum. And lots of clocks and a telescope. That’s a thing to see the stars.”

  “Is it?” Lady Violet asked, interest lighting her eyes. “I’ve never really seen the stars.”

  Scant moments ago, she’d looked like she was ready to haul Rowan home. Not that Ford could blame her, but his own sanity depended on Jewel successfully befriending the boy. He had to keep the Ashcrofts here. Whatever it took.

  He wouldn’t go crawling back to his brother for help.

  “I think Rowan might find my laboratory interesting,” he said with an inward grimace. “And although the telescope cannot help you see stars in the daytime, if you stay until dark—”

  “I cannot stay until dark!” Violet exclaimed with a horrified gasp.

  Criminy, these sheltered country girls. Ford had never met a lady so stuck on propriety—since, of course, such a lady would have been laughed out of King Charles’s court.

  He kept those thoughts to himself. “Shall we invite your maid in to chaperone?”

  She shook her head. ”I wasn’t planning to stay at all. I had thought to introduce Rowan and then leave—”

  “Leave me?” Rowan interrupted, looking even more horrified than she had. “I told Mum I didn’t want to come here!” He turned to his sister, burying his face in her dark blue skirts. “Would you really leave me, Violet?”

  She patted him on the head. “Of course not. You must have misunderstood me.” She glared at Ford as though to say, This is all your fault. And he knew, then and there, that his happy visions of working while she and her brother entertained his niece were just that—visions.

  Lady Trentingham’s fairy dust wasn’t going to work. Violet's mother wasn't his savior, and her suggestion that the children play together wasn't the answer to his prayers. As a man of science, he should have known better than to imagine such flights of fancy, even for a moment.

  Lady Violet wouldn’t prove useful to him, after all.

  SEVEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, Ford managed to get Jewel up and dressed by nine o’clock, at a cost of only two shillings. He was getting much better at this child care business. A good thing, because his dreams of hiring additional help had been dashed last night.

  A letter from his solicitor had arrived, hinting at financial concerns and asking for a meeting in London at Ford’s earliest convenience.

  Egad, he thought—it certainly wasn’t convenient now. Maybe after his niece went home. In the meantime, the two of them were getting along famously this morning. Having learned what she preferred for breakfast—bread and cheese, with warm chocolate to drink—he no longer had to pay her to eat at all.

  Now, if only he could bribe that little Rowan fellow to play with the girl, life would be rosy. True, after he’d suggested they stay into the evening, Lady Violet had hurried her brother home so fast she’d tripped over his threshold on her way out. But today was a new day, and he’d awakened with a new determination.

  Desperation bred courage and ingenuity.

  Getting the children together hadn’t been Violet’s idea, he reasoned, but Lady Trentingham’s. Perhaps the mother would be willing to try again. That goal in mind, he settled Jewel in front of him on his horse and began riding toward Trentingham Manor.

  “What do you call her?” she asked.

  “Why, my lady, of course. I would have to be much more familiar with her to use her given name.”

  Jewel’s little hands tightened on his where he held her around the waist. “You’re not fa-mil-i-ar with your horse? That’s sad. Papa is friends with his horse.”

  “My horse?” He was feeling thickheaded again. Women always seemed to do that to him, to his constant irritation. “Of course I know my horse. But he’s not a her. He’s a boy.”

  “Oh.” His niece was silent a moment as they reached the Thames and turned to ride alongside it. “What do you call him, then?”

  “Galileo.”

  “Gali-who?”

  “Galileo. Have you never heard of him? He was born in the last century, though he lived into this one.”

  “Was he a horse?”

  “No.” Ford choked back a laugh. “He was an astronomer and a physicist and a mathematician.”

  “That sounds boring.”

  “Oh, but it isn’t.” Sunlight glimmered off the water, a beautiful morning to visit. Ford was sure this encounter would end better than yesterday’s. “Galileo invented a horse-driven water pump, and a military compass, and something called a thermometer that measures hot and cold. And a much better telescope than the one invented before it.”

  “Like the one in your l
aboratory?”

  “Well, that one is called a reflecting telescope. It’s a newer one, invented by another man named Isaac Newton, only about five years ago. But he wouldn’t have invented it if Galileo hadn’t invented his telescope first. That’s the way science works. And with his telescope, Galileo discovered moons around Jupiter—”

  “Auntie Kendra told me about Jupiter. But not moons.”

  “She was talking about the Roman god.” Knowing his twin’s love of mythology, she’d likely traumatized the poor girl with bloody tales of Jupiter slaying wretched souls with his thunderbolts. “I’m talking about the planet.”

  “Like Earth?”

  “But much bigger. I can show you with my telescope. And I can show you Saturn, too, which has rings around it. Galileo was the first to notice those.”

  “That doesn’t sound boring.”

  Behind her, he smiled. “It’s riveting, I assure you. Did you know all the planets go around the sun?”

  “Mama told me that.”

  “Well, another man named Nicolas Copernicus thought so first, but Galileo wrote a book to explain it.”

  “Galileo is lucky,” she said. “Your horse, I mean. To be named after a special man.” She leaned forward to stroke the animal’s jet-black mane, which matched her own dark, wavy tresses. “Rowan is named for a tree.”

  “Did he tell you so?”

  “No. He wouldn’t talk to me.” Ford could hear the pout in her voice. “But when you were out of the room, his sister told me that in her family, the girls are named for flowers and the boy is named for a tree.”

  “That’s because their father loves to garden,” he told her as Trentingham Manor came into view.

  A wide lawn studded with shade trees sat between the river and the sprawling, red-brick mansion, its uneven skyline and irregular patterned brickwork the result of a century of alterations. In the extensive gardens set around it, Ford spotted a well-dressed man fiddling with a rose bush.

  “In fact,” he said, “I’d wager that’s Lord Trentingham there now.”

  Ford hadn’t seen the Earl of Trentingham in quite a few years, but as they rode nearer, he could see where Rowan had inherited his looks. The earl’s dark hair glistened in the warm summer sun. He looked up, raising a hand to swipe at his receding, sweat-slicked hairline.