The Viscount's Wallflower Bride

by Lauren Royal

  In midnight blue silk with spills of silver lace, tonight she resembled an enchanting water sprite. She’d been fluttering her eyelashes at the newcomer all evening, reminding Violet of Jewel. Not that she blamed her sister. Like Ford, Lord Randal wore no wig, and he had a stunning mane of long, dark blond hair. He was tall and lean, with a poet’s face and eyes of steely gray—the most intense eyes Violet had ever seen. When he looked at a person, he really looked at her, as though he could see right into her soul.

  Shame about the mustache, though. Luckily, that could be fixed.

  Eating single-handed, Ford used his fork to cut a bite of the tanzy rather awkwardly. “I’ve asked Rand to translate that old book for me, Lady Rose. He’s a fellow now at Oxford—he specializes in ancient languages.”

  “Languages?” The cinnamon spoon slipped from Rose’s fingers and clattered to the table.

  When Ford squeezed Violet’s hand again, she stuffed a prawn in her mouth to smother a giggle.

  Rose sent her a brittle smile. “Violet,” she said sweetly, lifting the salt cellar, “would you care for some salt on your roast chicken?”

  That stopped Violet cold. She shook her head violently.

  Rose turned back to Lord Randal. ”I’m conversant in a few languages myself,” she announced. It was the first time Violet had ever heard her sister volunteer that information to a gentleman. “Perhaps we can work on the translation together?”

  “Perhaps,” Lord Randal said, smoothing his mustache. “Ford tells me you’ve already examined the book.” Violet thought his voice sounded a touch too deep, as though he were trying to sound older.

  He and Rose were made for each other.

  “Yes, I’ve examined it. But not for very long.” Rose licked orange butter sauce off her lips. “Perhaps together—”

  “Beatrix!” Lily stage whispered. “How on earth did you get in here?” She leaned down to scoop up a small striped cat, settling it on her lap.

  “Lily,” Mum said. “Not when we have company.”

  “She’s lonely.” Lily stroked the cat’s fur before reluctantly setting her back on the carpet. “She had a bad day.”

  Lord Randal cocked his head. “Pray tell, how does a cat have a bad day?”

  On his other side, Rose touched him on the arm, a clear bid for his attention. “Lily here claims she can feel her animals’ emotions. She collects injured creatures. Cats, birds, rabbits, the odd squirrel. She’s turned our old barn into a menagerie, or rather an infirmary for damaged critters. She even has a mouse.”

  Lily nodded. “His little leg was broken, poor thing.”

  Ford scooted his chair closer to Violet’s, sending her breathing back into turmoil. But a quick scan of the table assured her no one had noticed. The others were all looking at Lord Randal, who in turn had focused his intense gray gaze on Lily.

  “Cats and mice together?” he asked.

  To Violet it seemed he was looking into her youngest sister’s soul, but Lily, bless her, appeared entirely unaffected. “I have but three cats at the moment, and they’ve been with me since they were kittens. When creatures are raised side by side, they can learn to be brothers and sisters. Even cats and mice.”

  “Fascinating,” Lord Randal said.

  “Lily dreams of building an animal home,” Rose announced.

  “A what?”

  “An animal home,” Lily repeated softly. Like Violet, she’d never shared her dream outside the family. Reaching a hand beneath the table, she slipped the cat a bit of chicken while measuring their guest’s reaction with her steady blue gaze. “A nice clean building where hurt or abandoned creatures can be brought to live. People who work there will care for them until they are healthy enough to return to the wild or they find a home with a family.”

  Lord Randal ran his tongue over his teeth, then nodded slowly. “That’s a very nice idea. And innovative, too.”

  Violet sent him an approving smile. “Our grandfather encouraged us to be innovative,” she told him, trying to ignore Ford’s thumb tracing circles on her palm. “Or rather to follow our dreams. And, as he put it, leave our marks on the world.”

  “And what is your dream, my lady?”

  Violet took a bite of chicken, stalling for time. Although she’d told Ford her dream and he hadn’t laughed, it remained difficult to share with another.

  Then Ford shifted his hand to lace their fingers together, and his reassuring warmth loosened her tongue. “I wish to write a book about philosophy,” she blurted, shoving her spectacles higher on her nose. “My own ideas. And use my inheritance to publish it some day and distribute it far and wide. Of course,” she hastened to add, “I have a lot of studying and thinking to do before then.”

  Lord Randal didn’t laugh. “Of course. An admirable dream, Lady Violet.” He turned to Rose. “And your dream, my lady?”

  “I…I dream of falling in love,” she said, and prettily lowered her lashes.

  No one had much to say to that. Violet only just managed to stave off a laughing fit by squeezing Ford’s hand as hard as she could.

  Jewel broke the silence first. ”Oops!” She dropped her napkin and dove to the floor to go after it. “Pretty kitty,” came her voice from beneath the table.

  “Jewel…” Ford warned. But she didn’t come up. Instead, Rowan slipped off his chair to join her.

  An alarmed meow came from somewhere below.

  “Poor Beatrix. What are they doing to you?” Leaning down, Lily swept the cat back to her lap. She rubbed its small, furry head with a finger. “Go out now, Beatrix. I shall come to you later.”

  Beatrix did go out, leaping gracefully from Lily’s lap to the patterned carpet, her striped tail high in the air.

  “She obeyed.” Admiration lit Lord Randal’s eyes. “A cat complied with your command.”

  “Holy Hades,” came Rowan’s voice muffled from below. “Look, Jewel.”

  “Language, Rowan!” Mum admonished.

  Jewel’s head popped up. “Uncle Ford, are you holding hands with Lady Violet under the table?”

  “No!” Ford yelped, raising both his hands, fingers spread to prove his point.

  It was the second time Violet had seen him blush. Knowing her own face must be redder than Trentingham’s roses, she was sure the truth was obvious.

  Lily gasped. Rose smirked. Mum’s mouth curved into a smile.

  “What’s that?” Father mumbled.

  It was a long supper.

  THIRTY

  LATER, FORD seated himself beside Violet at the round table in Trentingham’s library. Emboldened by the wine he’d consumed during supper, he inched over in his chair until one of his knees rested against hers, then leaned to whisper in her ear. “I’m looking forward to Monday.”

  She turned her head slightly, her cheeks prettily flushed, and he hoped that meant she was looking forward to Monday, too. But then her eyes suddenly narrowed. She set down the book she’d been reading. ”I just want you to know,” she whispered back, “that I am nearly eighteen, and my mother doesn’t run my life.”

  He wouldn’t challenge that statement for all the gold in England. “I’m certain the decision was yours alone,” he assured her. “I’m just glad you decided to come.”

  “Oh,” she said, and then, “Oh!” when his arm snaked around to rest on her shoulder. Her hand drifted up to toy with the end of her plait, which he’d noticed she sometimes did when she was flustered.

  Not that she had cause for worry. It was clear as the lenses over her eyes that nobody else in this room was going to take note of the two of them together.

  Candles burned, warding off the dark. Reluctant to say goodbye to each other, Rowan and Jewel had fallen asleep on a corner of the patterned carpet, half twined where they’d dropped in their play. Across the table, Rand and Rose huddled over Ford’s ancient book.

  Violet’s sister was plainly smitten.

  “I’m not sure,” she crooned to Rand now, “but do you think this might mean ‘
mystery’? It’s awfully similar to the same word in German.”

  “Possibly.” Rand flipped a couple of pages, peering at them critically. “But I don’t see much else that looks to be Germanic.”

  Ford traced his finger along the curve of Violet’s shoulder, smiling to himself when he felt her shiver.

  Rand flipped back to the original page. “Do you suppose the five words might be from five different languages? I’ve been assuming it’s only one.”

  “That could be.” Hero worship flashed in Rose’s eyes. “I hadn’t considered the possibility.”

  “Five words?” Ford went still. “What five words?”

  “The five words of the title,” Rand said, frowning at the page, a finger over the text. “What if this were German, like you were saying, but an older version?” A tinge of excitement crept into his voice. “And this looks Hellenic, perhaps meaning ‘emerald,’ and this maybe Slavic—”

  “Mystery and emerald?” Ford breathed, his heart threatening to hammer right out of his chest.

  “Yes, Slavic,” Rand murmured, nodding to himself. “And this one…” Quite suddenly he straightened in his chair. “Five words, five different languages. Translating to ‘Mysteries of the Emerald Slab.”

  Ford blinked, gripping Violet’s shoulder for support.

  His friend leaned across the table to lightly punch his shoulder. “Secrets of the Emerald Tablet, you fool.” He grinned. “You found the book, Lakefield. It’s a blessed miracle.”

  All the air seemed sucked from Ford’s lungs. It was a blessed miracle. And a marvel, and a wonder, and—

  He leapt from the chair and swept Violet into a fierce hug. Then he kissed her smack on the lips, right in front of her gaping sister.

  He was still beaming the next day when he showed up at his brother’s castle.

  THIRTY-ONE

  COLIN WASN’T beaming when Ford delivered his daughter, along with a still-weak Nurse Lydia they’d fetched along the way.

  While Lydia crept off to her bed, Colin’s wife, Amy, knelt in the entry and held Jewel close. “How did you both fare?”

  “We got along famously.” Pleased that Amy seemed fully recovered, Ford turned to his scowling brother. Colin looked very parental with their tiny son cradled in his arms. “What’s your problem?” Ford asked.

  Colin swayed back and forth in the age-old motion that soothed a baby to sleep. “You mean to tell me you were alone with Jewel all this time?”

  “Of course not. Hilda and Harry were there, too.”

  “Those old barnacles?”

  “Colin!” Amy set their daughter on her feet and took her hand, leading her from the square entrance hall. “Jewel seems no worse for the wear.”

  The rest of them followed. “How is Hugh?” Ford asked, referring to their other son, a lad of four.

  Her raven hair shining with health, Amy smiled over her shoulder. “Much better. He’s napping now.”

  He looked to the child in his brother’s arms. “And Aidan?”

  “Had a very light case,” Colin said, patting the baby’s back.

  “I had fun, Mama.” Jewel twirled in a circle, around and around under Amy’s arm as they went down the corridor. “Uncle Ford bought me this necklace on my birthday!” Still twirling, she lifted the silver filigree heart she wore on a black ribbon around her neck. “And he let me sleep in his bed. And he paid me to be good!” Reaching the sitting room, she dropped cross-legged to the floor and began digging in her pockets. Shillings fell to the stone slabs with a merry sound.

  Amy seated herself in a blue upholstered chair and picked up a small knife. “You’re rich, poppet.”

  “I’m saving up to buy a mi-mi”—Jewel looked at Ford, but he knew better than to help her now—“mi-cro-scope. Uncle Ford showed me a book with pictures. Written by Mr. Heck.”

  “Hooke,” Ford corrected, leaning an elbow against the mantel. “And the book is called Micrographia.”

  “Mr. Hooke drew pictures of big, icky things. Close-up things.” Jewel collected her coins, making a neat stack. “When I buy the mi-cro-scope, I’m going to share it with Rowan.”

  Settling Aidan in a wooden cradle, Colin raised a brow. “Who’s Rowan?”

  “My friend from Uncle Ford’s house. Lady Violet’s brother. I’m going to marry him.”

  Amy’s father had been a jeweler in London, and she’d been raised in the trade. Whittling away on a piece of wax that looked like it might someday become a ring, she appeared to be stifling a laugh. “Does Rowan know you’re going to marry him?”

  “Of course. I told him. And Uncle Ford is going to marry Lady Violet.”

  Ford’s elbow slipped off the stone ledge. “I am not!”

  “Not yet, anyhow,” Colin drawled, taking the chair beside his wife’s. “You’ll need at least another seven years to make up your mind.”

  Ford ignored him, focusing on his niece instead. “What on earth gave you that idea?”

  All innocence, she looked up from her spot on the floor. “I saw you kissing her.”

  “You did not.”

  “Did so.”

  “Did not.”

  Colin rolled his eyes. “No wonder you two got along. You’re as childish as she is. I take it you’re over Tabitha, then?”

  “Did you think I was upset about her elopement?” Ford vaguely remembered being so, but couldn’t fathom why. “She meant nothing to me. No more than a convenient diversion.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Colin crossed his arms, looking less than convinced. “Tell me about this Violet.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” Ford wandered over to gaze at a portrait of some long-dead ancestor. He didn’t have anything like it in his house—nothing to personalize his living space, nothing to make it a home.

  Jason, his oldest brother, had plenty of paintings at Cainewood Castle. Perhaps Ford ought to ask him if he could spare one or two for Lakefield.

  “Lady Violet is merely a neighbor,” he told the ancestor, a lady with shrewd blue eyes and a blond head poking out from an enormous, starched ruff. “Violet brought her little brother over to play with Jewel sometimes, that’s all.”

  “And Uncle Ford is taking her to a ball tomorrow night,” Jewel piped up. “In London.”

  “What ball?” Amy asked.

  “Gresham College is throwing a party to welcome back the Royal Society. Lady Violet would like to meet John Locke, who will be in attendance. End of story.” Ford thought his ancestress’s shrewd blue eyes appeared skeptical. Mind your own business, he admonished her mentally, turning his back on the painting. “And it’s not a ball.”

  “Will there be dancing?”

  He walked to a chair and plopped onto it. “Yes, I suppose there will be dancing.”

  “It’s a ball, then,” Amy declared. “I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.”

  “Do you not think,” Colin asked, drumming his fingers against his thigh, “that if you’re considering wedding someone, you ought to introduce her to the family?”

  “I’m not wedding her.” Ford’s hands clenched on the chair’s arms. “I’m not wedding anyone. I’m not ready to get married.”

  “Jason is back from Scotland.” Colin’s eyes looked contemplative. They were emerald green like Jewel’s, and he was just as single-minded as his daughter. “I’m sure he’ll be fascinated to hear about this.”

  “There’s nothing for Jason to hear,” Ford said. “Are you deaf?”

  “And Cait,” Amy added, apparently deaf as well. “And Kendra and Trick.” Her amethyst eyes sparkling, she smiled down at the wax ring. “They’ve all just arrived home last week. We’ll have to arrange a family visit to Lakefield.”

  As there seemed to be an abundance of deaf people in his life lately, Ford raised his voice. “I’m busy working on my watch,” he all but shouted. “There will be no visits.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  FEELING MORE lighthearted than ever in her memory, Violet twirled in her new ball gown, a veritable conf
ection of pink brocade and silver embroidery.

  Monday night had finally arrived. One of her dreams was coming true. She was going to Gresham College to rub elbows with the Royal Society, the most brilliant minds in all of England.

  Feeling dizzy, she stopped and held out her skirts. “What do you think?” she asked her sisters. “Will it do for an event here in London?”

  Lily beamed. “I’ve never seen you in anything so fancy.”

  Crossing the bedchamber to tweak one of Violet’s ruffled sleeves, Rose shot Lily a conspiratorial grin. “She’s finally coming around.”

  “What do you mean?” As she drew breath, Violet’s ribs strained against the intricate brocade stomacher that tapered to her waist. She frowned. The cut of the bodice hadn’t appeared this narrow on the French fashion doll. She didn’t remember it feeling this tight during the fittings, either. Wondering if she’d gained weight, she smoothed her full brocade skirts. “Coming around to what?”

  “Dressing to impress.” Rose’s grin turned impish. “I’d wager he’ll be very, very impressed.”

  “John Locke?” Violet walked to the pier glass and straightened one of the fat brown curls that rested on her shoulders. Somehow, the French woman Mum had hired had managed to coax her thick, unruly hair into a stylish coiffure. Most of it was pulled up in the back, twisted with strands of pearls to match the ones on her necklace and underskirt. “I cannot wait to hear his ideas. But Locke is a philosopher. I doubt he cares what I look like.”

  “Not Locke, you goose. Viscount Lakefield.”

  “I’m not trying to impress him,” Violet said. Staring at herself in the mirror, she bit her lip. “Does the dress seem rather…tight?”

  “Perfectly so,” Rose said with relish. “Who even knew you had such a nice shape hidden in there?

  A crunch of gravel drifted through the open window, and Lily hurried to look out. “He’s here, Violet. He’s climbing down from his carriage. And oooh, he’s dressed very fine.”

  Violet’s stomach fluttered. “Let me see,” she said, thrilled that with her spectacles she’d be able to. But by the time she hurried over to look, Ford had already ascended the house’s front steps and disappeared from view.