The Viscount's Wallflower Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “And I’d suggest you not tell her you did. If Violet knew I was doing anything to encourage this marriage, she’d run the other way. I’ve something of a reputation as a matchmaker, and my daughters are all dead set against becoming one of my statistics.”

  “I won’t breathe a word.” Encourage this marriage still rang in his ears, making his spirits rise with premature glee. He’d hoped Violet’s parents weren’t an obstacle, but now he knew for sure. That left only the lady herself. “What can I do to persuade her?”

  “It won’t be easy,” Lady Trentingham warned. “My daughter decided she was unmarriageable long before she met you. Old convictions are difficult to overcome.” She discreetly cleared her throat. “And I’m afraid the condition of your estate is doing little to convince her you’re not in need of her funds.”

  He’d known that, too. “What if I told you I am short of funds, but that’s not the reason I want to marry her?”

  They reached the river and turned, her brown eyes reminding him of Violet’s as she met his gaze for a long, silent moment. “I’ll give you points for honesty,” she said at last with a nod of approval. “But I fear it will make your task even harder. Lakefield’s sad state isn’t only due to neglect, then?”

  “Mostly. I am not in dire straits.” Heading back toward the house, he sighed. “The place was unoccupied long before it was deeded to me, but…well…”

  He supposed since she was giving him points for honesty, he might as well follow through. If his situation would make him unacceptable as a son-in-law, he’d as soon learn that now rather than later.

  Though that didn’t mean he was obliged to make things sound worse than they were.

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s true I’ve never made Lakefield a priority. I understand the estate was prime horse-breeding property before the Civil War, but nothing remains of that now save a few decrepit stables. And I imagine you’re aware there have been several disastrous agricultural years since I took ownership in ’61. However,” he rushed to add, “I assure you I’ve always made certain no one dependent on the property has suffered as a result.” Indeed, in order to see that none of the tenant farmers went hungry a few years ago, he’d been forced to mortgage the estate. Those payments were proving to be his downfall now.

  “I’m sure you have,” Lady Trentingham said soothingly. A touch of understanding infused her voice, making his pulse leap with hope. Could it be possible he still had her support? “But I understand there were few tenants left by the time you took over.”

  “True enough. If the estate is to produce a decent income, I must attract more people to move here.” And repair the housing meant to shelter them. Dozens of crumbling cottages—more costs he was too strapped to bear. But perhaps Rand was finished with the translation by now, and regardless, somehow he would work it out.

  He just hadn’t cared enough before this. Loving Violet made all the difference.

  He smiled at her mother, thinking having parents of this sort mightn’t be such a bad thing. “I just need to put my mind to it.”

  “And you’ve got a brilliant mind there.” She smiled back. “Perhaps Violet’s dowry will ease your way. You do know it’s three thousand pounds?”

  “No, I didn’t. It’s very generous.” More than he’d expected.

  But it wasn’t enough. No amount of money would be enough. Oh, he supposed there was some number of thousands that would dig the estate out of debt—to his disgrace, he had no idea how much—but he was coming to realize that without his ongoing efforts to ensure that Lakefield produced sufficient income to support all the people who depended on it, it would soon sink back into the morass.

  He was ready to take on that responsibility.

  Lady Trentingham was waiting for more of a reaction. “I’d have to win Violet first, and even then her marriage portion wouldn’t be enough,” he admitted, then realized she could take that the wrong way. “I mean, my own hard work—”

  “I understand.” She touched him on the arm. “My husband is an expert estate manager. I’m sure he’d be happy to counsel you.”

  Ford wasn’t too proud to accept help. “I’d be pleased to accept any guidance he’s willing to offer.”

  “You may have to shout a bit in the process.” Her smile this time was the same warm smile she’d given him the first day in his garden. “I have faith in you, Ford. And despite what she may think, I know my daughter well, so I’ll tell you this: She wouldn’t mind that you need her inheritance, as long as she were convinced you weren’t marrying her for it.”

  He wasn’t sure he believed that, and in any case, he didn’t want to take Violet’s money. Her dowry was one thing, her inheritance quite another. Having aspirations of his own, he’d think twice before jeopardizing her dream of publishing.

  No, he’d think ten times. Twenty. Surely there was another way to solve his difficulties.

  Lady Trentingham peered through the trees. “I think your family may be ready to leave.”

  Indeed, they were all gathered by the barge, shifting from foot to foot. A quick glance at the sun told him if they didn’t get back to Lakefield and their carriages soon, they wouldn’t make it to their homes by nightfall.

  But ahead of him, at the end of the path, stood Violet. Looking upset.

  Ignoring his siblings’ shouts, he hurried to meet her.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  WATCHING FORD approach, Violet took a deep breath.

  She was determined not to jump to conclusions. She’d had enough of that today—enough of indecision. She would talk to Ford calmly…and she wouldn’t let him touch her until afterward. She needed to keep her head clear.

  But before she managed to say a word, he took her hand. And the next thing she knew they were in the summerhouse, and he was pulling off her spectacles and dragging her into his arms. And clear thinking went right out the window.

  When he crushed his lips to hers, her knees weakened so, she feared she would tumble to the bricks beneath her feet. They clung together for a long, searing moment before he finally drew back.

  “I love you,” he said.

  She searched his eyes, still close enough to see. “So you’ve said.”

  “What else do you need me to say? Tell me, and I’ll say it.” He set her away, backing up until he looked blurry, until the backs of his knees hit the bench. “I know my life is a shambles,” he said, rushing on as though he’d prepared a speech, “but everything will get much easier after Rand completes the translation. I’m going to Oxford to see him tomorrow. And I know my home isn’t good enough for you, but I’m going to fix it up. Either way, whether Rand is done or not. I never did before, because…well, I’d never planned to live here. But now I want to.”

  “Just like that?” she asked, still feeling dizzy from the kiss. And heaven help her, still wanting more.

  “Just like that,” he said.

  It was exactly what she’d wanted to hear. If only she could believe it.

  Faith, how she wished she’d never heard Lady Tabitha’s name! She knew the Chase ladies’ interference had been well-intentioned. They hadn’t meant to trouble her, and they certainly hadn’t meant to give her yet another reason to question their brother’s motives.

  “I like your family,” she said, because she did.

  “I like your family, too. I want to live here, near your family.”

  “Ford—” She paused, then forged on. “Tell me about Lady Tabitha.”

  “What?” The shock in his voice worried her. “Where did you hear about her?”

  “Your sister. And Amy and Cait—”

  “Criminy, what did they say?”

  That an heiress you’d planned to marry—despite never truly loving her—jilted you right before you came to Lakefield…

  …where he’d conveniently found himself another heiress.

  She sighed, suddenly exhausted with her own suspicions. Too exhausted to confront him. “Just that you expected to marry her,�
�� she mumbled.

  “That was before I met you.” He stepped closer, so close the scent of patchouli overwhelmed her. “She meant nothing to me, Violet. Nothing.” His eyes burned into hers, willing her to believe.

  And perhaps she had meant nothing. But Violet had been too buffeted by emotions today to think straight.

  He loved her, he loved her not.

  She felt like she’d been through a war.

  He switched tactics, running a hand down her arm, and, predictably, she weakened all over. It was uncanny, this effect he had on her. And not only was her body weak, her heart was weak as well. Slowly but surely, Ford was conquering it, conquering her, robbing her of her of her good sense.

  “Marry me, Violet,” he said in a fierce whisper.

  Because too much of her wanted to blurt out yes, she took a step back before once again searching his eyes. Which meant she couldn’t really see them. In vain she willed them to give up his secrets. Perhaps feminine intuition skipped a generation?

  She loved Ford—of that she was certain. But as for the rest, she was only confused.

  “Marry me, Violet,” he repeated. “Please.”

  And before she could answer, she was back in his arms.

  When he kissed her this time, she forgot why she wasn’t sure she could marry him. She forgot she’d decided not to touch him. She forgot her own name.

  And when he finally released her, she grabbed her spectacles from him and ran.

  Out the door, through the garden, across the wide lawn to the portico and front door.

  “Violet!” Mum called. “Dear heavens, what has happened?”

  “He asked me to marry him again, the wretch!” she screamed before slamming the door.

  “THE LAST OF the champagne.” Joseph handed Chrystabel half a glass before climbing into bed beside her. “How is our dear eldest doing?”

  “She’ll survive. She didn’t want to talk at first, but she was glad I returned her spectacles.” Chrystabel sipped, letting the sparkling liquid slide down her throat and soothe her frayed nerves. “He shouldn’t have proposed again so quickly. His timing couldn’t have been worse.”

  Joseph took the glass from her and drained it. “What do you mean?”

  She sighed. “Following your ill-timed announcement of her inheritance, and Rose’s subsequent comment—”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t only that. His sister also spilled past history, confusing Violet. It reinforced her fears that Ford’s true motive is money rather than love.”

  “She could be right.” He grinned, clearly not understanding the gravity of this situation. “You married me for my money.”

  Well, he was just a man, so she shouldn’t expect him to understand. Giving in to his playfulness, she punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I did not. I married you for your flowers. How else would I make my perfume? And without my perfume, I’d have no excuse to visit and chat with all the neighbors—and find out Nancy Philpot’s son has left the army and is living with a Parisian courtesan.”

  “Ah, I see where that outrageous bit of gossip could be much more important than money.” He set down the empty glass and took her hand. “But are you certain that was the only reason you married me?”

  She pretended to consider. “I suppose insuperable desire may have also played a part. But it definitely wasn’t the money.”

  “It won’t come down to money for Violet, either,” he told her, and turned to blow out the candle, plunging the room into darkness.

  While he burrowed under the coverlet, Chrystabel remained upright, thinking. “You agree with me, then? That they’re well suited?”

  “Of course, darling.” Joseph’s arm snaked around her waist and pulled her down to nestle against him. “When have you ever been wrong?”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  SOME PLACES never changed. The King’s Arms, a tavern in Oxford where Ford and Rand had whiled away many an evening during their university years, was one of them.

  Occupying their usual spot at one of the long tables, the two friends supped on pigeon pie and ignored a loud argument about radical politics taking place just behind them. That was nothing new, either. John Locke’s challenging ideas had germinated here in Oxford, after all, while he was an undergraduate at Christ Church College.

  His pie disposed of, Ford nursed a tankard of ale, trying to be patient while Rand detailed his father’s latest transgressions against him. The two had never seen eye to eye, which explained why a marquess’s son would choose an unglamorous academic career in Oxford over a life of leisure and luxury at home.

  Not that Rand wasn’t happy here. Only nineteen years of age and already gaining notoriety in his field, he was on track to become the youngest Professor of Linguistics in the university’s history. And he was doing it all with no help or encouragement from his family.

  After finishing both his tirade and his ale, Rand stared pensively into the empty tankard, fingering his mustache. “If you’ve come to ask about the translation, I’m afraid I have no good news for you.”

  Ford’s heart sank. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “It’s more difficult than I had anticipated. There are words—and symbols—that seem unrelated to any language I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Symbols?” Ford frowned. “I saw a few formulas, which was one of the reasons I thought it might be Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. But those were just numbers, mathematics—”

  “Not that. There were a few pages stuck together—”

  “I opened a couple and saw nothing special, and I was afraid I might tear the paper.”

  “I steamed the rest open. Most were stuck from age, I imagine. But one…one, I believe, was on purpose.”

  “On purpose.” Ford sipped, swallowed, tried to tamp down his rising hopes. “Are you thinking it might be the page that reveals—”

  “No, nothing like that. I see no indication the secret you’re searching for will be found on a single page. It’s not going to be that simple.” Rand’s words reminded Ford of his family telling him something similar. “But this page is at the end, and it seems to be a legend for part of the code—perhaps for the author’s own use. There are words—most of which I cannot read—with other words beside them, like a list, you understand?”

  Ford nodded. “Go on.”

  “Well, that’s the page that has some odd symbols.” Rand tipped his tankard, letting the dregs of his ale run onto the table. “One of them, I think, looked like this.” He used a finger to scribble in the wet, a design like a triangle with a three-branched candelabra perched on top.

  “Air,” Ford said.

  “What?”

  “That’s the alchemical symbol for air. Or one of them. There are hundreds of similar symbols, some common, some not. Many whose meanings have been lost, but I can identify a number of them.”

  Excitement lit Rand’s gray eyes. “So even though I cannot read the word beside that symbol—which is gibberish, I suspect—when I find it in the text, I’ll know it means air.” He smeared the puddle, then used a finger to draw another mark. “How about this one?”

  Ford frowned at the squiggle. “I don’t recognize that.”

  “And this?”

  A circle with three dots that suggested eyes and a nose. “That’s a human skull.”

  Rand grimaced. “You mean a dead person?”

  “Yes. A skull can be powdered and—”

  “Never mind. I’d rather not know.” He smoothed the liquid and sketched another design. “What’s this?”

  It looked like the letter I with an arrow curving up through it. “That’s an instruction, not an ingredient. It means to filter.”

  After four more tries, one of which Ford could identify and three which he couldn’t, Rand gave up. “I cannot remember any more. We’ll fetch the book later, and you can write down the ones you know. But, Ford…”

  His friend’s gaze looked serious. “Tell it straight, Rand.”

 
; “Don’t get your hopes up, will you? It’s a single page of clues, and the symbols are few compared to all the other things I find undecipherable. Even with this help, the rest of it could take years.”

  Something fisted in Ford’s middle. Or rather, the fist tightened—it had been there for days already. “I don’t have years. Not if I want Violet.”

  “Ah. It’s like that, is it?” Rand signaled for another round. “Tell me.”

  Though Ford normally wouldn’t, his tongue was loosened by ale—and something akin to desperation. “My family approves. Her parents approve. But Violet refuses to marry for anything other than—”

  Rand perked up when a comely serving maid arrived with two more ales. Smoothing his mustache, he flipped her a coin. “My thanks,” he said in a deepened voice. After watching her retreat, he turned back to Ford and his speech returned to normal. “You can’t mean Lady Violet refused you? Most women would leap at the chance to wed a Chase, given your family’s connections to King Charles. And most fathers would insist on it.”

  “The Ashcrofts are not ‘most’ people. Their daughters are allowed to make their own decisions. And they have the most preposterous family motto: Interroga Conformationem.”

  “Question Convention?” Rand’s lips quirked with amusement. “Regardless, she should choose you. For security.” He took a gulp of ale. “Even without the Philosopher’s Stone, you’re hardly a pauper. Take her to Cainewood if she wishes to live in luxury.”

  “I don’t want to live at Cainewood.” He was tired of being a guest in someone else’s home. He’d much rather be in charge of his own life. “Anyway, it’s not luxury that Violet wants. She’s not a frilly sort of girl, and she has her own money.”

  “Ah. I remember. Given to her by the eccentric grandfather. To ‘leave her mark on the world.’”

  “Yes. And being familiar with Lakefield’s, um, deficiencies, she’s convinced herself I must be after her inheritance—which I’m not! I love her.”

  Rand’s eyebrows shot up. “Did you tell her that?”