The Viscount's Wallflower Bride

by Lauren Royal

UPSTAIRS, CHRYSTABEL let the curtain drop closed. “She’s not alone, Joseph. Ford was waiting.”

  “I told you Violet was too smart a girl to go wandering off by herself. Even if she wasn’t bright enough to realize we’d notice. Now come back to bed.”

  “Should we go after her?” She perched herself on the mattress, wrapping her arms around one raised knee as she faced her husband. “Are we doing the right thing?”

  “She’ll be safe with him.”

  “My immediate concern is for her virtue, not her safety. Like the Master-piece says, she’s at that age—”

  “Oh, Chrysanthemum, you said yourself we can trust in her good sense.” He took one of her hands. “And though I was skeptical at first, I have come around to your way of thinking. I know how overwhelming first loves can be—”

  “You remember how it was with us,” she interjected with a smile.

  He chuckled, his emerald green eyes crinkling around the edges. Those deep, expressive eyes were the first thing Chrystabel had noticed about him. And they hadn’t changed a whit since the day they’d met.

  “Indeed. But unlike us,” he continued, “Violet has kept her head. Instead of rushing into marriage, she’s taking time to consider the wisdom of such a choice.”

  “Too much time, if you ask me,” Chrystabel grumbled.

  “I know you’re frustrated, darling.” Joseph tugged gently on the tail of her nighttime plait. “But I, for one, am proud of her.”

  When Chrystabel didn’t immediately respond, he poked her shoulder. “Oh, all right,” she conceded, “I’m proud of her, too. I suppose.”

  “Good. And you agree she’s earned our confidence?”

  Chrystabel shrugged helplessly. “If seeing Ford alone will help convince her…and you’re certain nothing unseemly will happen…” With a gusty sigh, she settled back beneath the covers. “I would’t have to fret over her virtue if she’d just see sense—”

  “She will. Lakefield is a clever fellow.” Joseph planted a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “He’ll think of something.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  “THIS ROOM doesn’t have a door,” Violet whispered.

  “It’s a drawing room,” Ford said at a normal volume, rising from the faded red couch. “Most of them don’t.”

  “Shh!” Violet kept picturing Hilda lurking in the corridor, and just her luck, Mum was planning to deliver more Spiced Rosewater perfume tomorrow.

  “Relax.” Ford crossed to a side table where a jug and two goblets sat at the ready. It seemed he’d prepared for her arrival. “Hilda’s and Harry’s rooms are at the other end of the house and two floors up. They cannot hear us.”

  Violet flinched at the clink of drinkware. “What if one of them comes downstairs to use the privy?“

  “They won’t. They are neither of them used to strong drink, and I insisted on sharing a bottle of sherry sack with them after supper—of which I drank very little.” Ford grinned, crossing back to the couch with a cup of wine in each hand. “I guarantee no interruptions.”

  Only somewhat reassured, she accepted her goblet and sipped the white Rhenish wine as Ford settled himself beside her. He sat rather close, although true to his word, no part of them actually touched. Her gaze strayed down to the scant inches that separated them.

  After a stretch of silence, she cleared her throat. “Well. Shall we begin?”

  “Begin what?”

  “The conversation.” At his blank stare, she rolled her eyes. “The one where you talk me into believing you’re in love with me?”

  He looked amused. “What could I possibly say that I haven’t already said?”

  “Faith, how should I know? This was all your idea.” Too irritated for manners, she took a gulp of wine and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Now he looked even more amused. “I had something other than talking in mind.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Telling you that I love you hasn’t worked. I was thinking perhaps I’d show you instead.”

  It took her a moment to grasp his meaning.

  Then she leapt off the couch. “Is that why you brought me here?” She’d spilled wine on herself, but she hardly noticed in her state of shock.

  “What?” Looking equally shocked, Ford rose and cast about for somewhere to put down his own wine. “Violet—no, I—”

  “Was your plan to ruin me so I’d have to marry you?” Her voice wobbled, but she held on tight to her outrage, determined not to cry in front of him.

  Some new emotion stole over his face, though Violet couldn’t make it out until he stepped closer, into the glow from the branch of candles behind her.

  White hot rage.

  Never in her life had she seen such anger on a person’s face. Eyes blazing a brilliant blue, mouth set in a twisted line, he spoke in a voice of deadly quiet. “How dare you?”

  She gasped, astounded at his nerve. “How dare I?”

  His eyes burned into hers for a moment that felt like an eternity. Then he turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her anymore, and Violet’s heart sank to the vicinity of her stomach. She suddenly feared she’d made a dreadful mistake.

  “I don’t understand how you can think these things of me,” he said toward the wall. He didn’t sound angry anymore. He sounded ill. Exhausted. “You call me a liar—yet you must be one yourself, for you once claimed to love me. And you couldn’t possibly love someone you believe capable of such cruelty and selfishness.”

  She opened her mouth to defend herself, but no words came out.

  Because he was right.

  She did love him, of that she had no doubt. And all the things she loved most about him—his warmth, his generosity, his desire to help people—were the exact opposite of the devious motives she’d just ascribed to him.

  How could Ford Chase ever hurt another for his own gain when it was in his very nature to sacrifice his own gain for others? As he’d done with the watch.

  And how could she, Violet Ashcroft, aspiring philosopher and lover of reason, have failed to notice such a glaring contradiction?

  Well she’d noticed it now, thank heavens. How close she’d come to turning her back on the love of her life. Unless it was already too late…

  “Ford?” Cautiously she reached to touch his shoulder. Though his face was still turned away, somehow his posture radiated pain and disillusionment.

  He shrugged her off. “I’ll take you home.”

  Tears flooded her eyes. “Ford, I’m sorry.” She winced at the inadequacy of the words. “I didn’t mean it. I know you would never hurt me—or anyone. You’re far too good and honorable for that. And I…”

  When she hesitated, his shoulders tensed. He suddenly whirled to face her, and her heart jumped into her throat.

  But the fury was gone from his eyes. All she saw there was love. And desperate hope.

  Answering hope rose inside her. She wanted to tell him how wrong she’d been about everything, how much she loved him, that she’d be honored to become his wife. But she couldn’t seem to find the words. After all she'd put him through, she wanted her declaration to be perfect—

  Seeing the light in his eyes begin to fade, she seized his hands and said the first thing that came to mind. “What was it you wanted to show me?”

  Some distant part of her observed that his palms felt rough. From the day’s renovation work?

  Staring down at their joined hands, he made no response.

  She looked down, too, and realized she was breaking her own no-touching rule. But she wasn’t about to let go of him, not for anything. “You said you didn’t want to talk,” she prompted him. “You wanted to show me something.”

  He measured her a moment, then shrugged. “I wanted to show you my plans for the house.”

  “For fixing it up?” She blinked at him, nonplussed.

  “Yes. You see”—he cleared his throat—“I’ve put a lot of thought into making the place a co
mfortable home for us. For our family. And perhaps if I could show you how I envision our life together…” He trailed off, his eyes searching hers for a reaction. Violet thought he might be holding his breath.

  Her heart melted. “Show me. Please.”

  SIXTY

  “IS THIS WHERE you sleep?” Violet asked.

  “Yes.” Ford gave her hand a squeeze. “This will be our bedchamber. Unless, that is, you prefer your own—”

  “No,” she said emphatically, making him grin. She blushed and added, by way of explanation, “My parents have always shared a bedchamber.”

  Leaving her at the threshold, he took the candle around the room and lit others. “I know it doesn’t look like much now,” he said, watching her take in details as they became visible.

  He was trying to see his home as she would. Dominating the chamber was a four-poster so enormous it couldn’t possibly fit through the doorway—the bed had to have been built in the room. Fashioned of heavy oak, it was dark with age and smoke from the blackened brick fireplace. Grayish bed-hangings draped from a wooden canopy overhead, looking as though they might once have been rich and possibly blue.

  A very long time ago.

  Violet’s gaze moved over the walls paneled in plain smoke-stained oak divided into squares with simple molding, then paused again on the bed. Another, deeper blush staining her cheeks, she averted her eyes. Ford bit back a smile, presuming the sight had turned her thoughts to their wedding night.

  Unless, of course, she was just mortified by the bed’s shabby state. But considering they’d been through most every shabby room in the entire shabby house, he doubted an old piece of furniture could shock her now.

  She ventured farther into the bedchamber, her head tilting back to examine the beamed ceiling coated in peeling white paint. “It’s very…interesting,” she said politely.

  "I believe it's the ceiling of the original great hall, retained when the floor and fireplace were added some years later.”

  “Fascinating.” After glancing around a bit more, she pointed to an open door across the chamber. “Where does that lead?”

  “An attached sitting room. And over here, in this corner, that door leads to a smaller chamber I was thinking could be your dressing room.”

  Her lips curved in a smile. “That sounds…quite…” She broke off amidst a violent yawn. Her third in the past ten minutes.

  “You’re tired. Would you like me to take you home?”

  “No, I can’t leave yet. I need to…” She bit her lip. “Um, see the other bedrooms.”

  “All right.” Ford suspected she’d been about to say something different, but any inclination to remain had to be, in his estimation, a very good sign. It had been a gamble revealing to Violet the full extent of the repairs this house needed. Most women would run in the other direction.

  But as he well knew, Violet wasn’t most women.

  And he could think of no other way to show her what she would be giving up by refusing him. Not only his love, but the home they would make together. The library he’d build for her in the space currently occupied by his study, where she would someday write her book. The enormous dining room—two rooms he was planning to join together—where their big families could gather for Christmas dinner each year. The nursery where their babies would sleep, and extra bedrooms they could move into as they grew older.

  Their whole lives together, here in this house.

  When he looked around the place now, he didn’t see decay and neglect. All he saw were years of love and happiness ahead of them.

  Could Violet see it, too?

  When he noticed her stifling another yawn, he took her elbow. “At least lie down for a few minutes,” he said, steering her toward the bed.

  “Oh, I couldn’t.” Dragging her feet, she eyed the four-poster with trepidation.

  “Of course you can. There’s nothing improper about it if I’m not in the bed with you. I won’t even pull down the covers—don’t think of it as a bed, think of it as a handy horizontal surface for resting. Here…” Relinquishing her arm, he dashed to the sitting room.

  “Ha!” she called after him. “There’s nothing that isn’t improper about this!”

  Returning with a scarred wooden chair, he set it next to the bed and sat on it. “See? I shall sit right here—at a safe distance—while you rest. Please. Otherwise I fear you’ll tumble over.”

  When she still didn’t move, he rose and went to her. Ignoring her noise of protest, he lifted her easily into his arms and deposited her on the bed, then pulled off her shoes. She made more noises. But she didn’t get up.

  “There,” he said, reseating himself. “Isn’t that more comfortable?” She snorted. He grinned. “Now imagine how comfortable it will be after all of the improvements. Refinished oak, a fresh mattress, new bedhangings—do you like blue?”

  “Ford,” she said, her voice suddenly serious. Her fingers toyed with the end of her plait. “How will you pay for all of this? Even with my dowry—”

  “I’m going to turn the estate around,” he rushed to assure her. “My financial position isn’t stellar; that much is true. But nor is it dire. If I pour all my funds into the estate instead of my research, I can make it productive again.” Raking a hand through his hair, he rose from the chair again and paced. “I’m afraid, love, that we won’t be able to fix up the whole house right away. We’ll finish the exterior and our bedchamber first, then the main living rooms. And once the estate is turning a profit, we’ll be able to pay for the rest. But, Violet—”

  He turned and knelt beside the bed. Reaching for her hand, he captured her gaze. In the dim, flickering light, her eyes behind her spectacles looked as dark and fathomless as the night sky.

  “Violet, no matter what happens, I will never take your inheritance from you. Not a penny of it. Not ever. You have my word.”

  Something in those beautiful eyes softened. Shifting onto her side to face him, she set aside her spectacles before lifting her hand to his cheek. Fingertips grazed his jaw so delicately he felt their warmth more than their touch. “Thank you for saying that,” she breathed.

  Then her hand curled around the back of his neck and dragged his head to hers, and their lips met with an intensity he’d never felt from her before. Or from anyone. Burying her hands in his hair, she rolled onto her back, urging him onto the bed with her.

  He hadn’t the strength to resist that wordless invitation. Though he’d promised not to touch her, he went. He was touching her already, after all—and she had touched him first.

  To lie on a bed with his love was a dream come true, even though they were both fully clothed. He molded the length of his body to hers, feeling fire everywhere they made contact, every nerve he possessed buzzing with overwhelming sensation. Still, he wanted to be even closer, wanted nothing between them, not even a single particle of air. His arms burrowed beneath her, enfolding her, holding her to him as hard as he could while he kissed them both senseless.

  A long time later, they finally calmed, then stilled. Lying side by side, facing each other, their ragged breathing was the only sound Ford could hear over the blood pounding in his ears. For a moment, he just drank in the wonder of being here in his bedroom with her. Her gown was all rumpled, and her lips looked deliciously pink and slightly swollen from their kisses.

  “I love you,” she said quietly, “for what you said. About my inheritance. But it’s not necessary.”

  I love you, she’d said. That had to be a very, very good sign. He smoothed back some hair that had escaped her plait. “What do you mean by it’s not necessary?”

  “When we marry—”

  “When?” A fist seized his heart. Had he heard correctly? He struggled up on an elbow. “Does that mean you’ll agree to marry me?”

  Her well-kissed lips spread into that wide, infectious smile that had first made Ford notice her all those weeks ago. She nodded.

  Then he could’ve sworn he died, because his heart exploded wi
th joy. But he didn’t care. He was too busy kissing Violet all over again. She felt soft and incredible in his arms, and she smelled like flowers, and she was all his.

  “I love you so much,” he whispered fiercely, pressing his forehead to hers. Because it was true, and because he wanted to hear her say it again.

  “I love you, too,” she whispered back, and those three little words warmed him from the inside out, like the strongest, richest brandy imaginable.

  They shared one more extraordinarily gentle kiss. “Marry me tomorrow,” he said against her lips. “I’ll ride to get a special license as soon as the sun comes up—I’ll be back with it by nightfall, and we can wed the next morning.”

  He felt her smile. “I can tell you my mother won’t consent to that. She loves weddings—she’ll want to invite everyone she knows.”

  “If she makes us wait, she may not get a wedding at all. I shall expire from anticipation.”

  She laughed giddily. “Is that so?”

  “Quite so. It must be tomorrow. Do you think you can convince her?”

  “I doubt it.” Pulling back, Violet shrugged. “Why such a hurry? What will happen if we don’t get married tomorrow?”

  “Nothing will happen—except I’ll miss you every single second we’re not together.”

  Her laugh was muffled by the pillow. “I won’t be far. Just next door.”

  “Next door is much too far.” Sighing, he rolled onto his back, taking one of her hands with him. His thumb slowly stroked her palm. “Will you try talking to your mother?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He hoped her best would be enough. How long did it take to plan a large wedding? A month? Two? Even one more night alone in this bed sounded like torture, let alone a few dozen.

  “Violet?” he called softly, but there was no answer.

  She was sound asleep.

  SIXTY-ONE

  “JOSEPH?” CHRYSTABEL called softly, shaking her husband’s shoulder. Outside their window, the pre-dawn sky was just beginning to turn pink.