Violet

by Lauren Royal

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

  THIRTY

  COLIN WASN’T grinning 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 hugged Jewel close. “How did it go?”

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

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

  “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 four-year-old son.

  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 fingered 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. 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 Violet.”

  “I am not.” Ford’s elbow slipped off the stone ledge. “Why, why—”

  “Problem, Ford?” Colin drawled, taking the chair beside his wife’s.

  Ford ignored him, focusing on his niece instead. “What the devil made you say that?”

  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. He would ask him if he could spare one or two for Lakefield.

  “Lady Violet is simply a neighbor,” he told the woman in the picture. She stared back at him blankly, her head poking out of a huge, starched ruffle that looked damned uncomfortable. “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. He’ll be there.” Ford turned from the painting. “End of story. 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 said blithely. “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 a woman, 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 ground out. “There will be no visits.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  MORE LIGHTHEARTED than ever in her memory, Violet twirled in her new ball gown, a veritable confection of patterned lilac satin.

  Monday night had finally arrived. One of her dreams was coming true. She was going to Gresham College to meet members of the Royal Society.

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

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

  “What do you mean?” Frowning, Violet tugged up on her bodice. The square neckline hadn’t seemed this low on the French fashion doll. She didn’t remember it being so daring during the fittings, either. Wondering what had happened, she smoothed her underskirt, deep purple velvet embroidered with gold thread in a diamond pattern. “Coming around to what?”

  “Dressing to impress.” Rose’s grin turned wicked. “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. Most of her hair was pulled up in the back, twisted with strands of pearls to match the ones on her underskirt and tasseled stomacher. “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. But, blushing from her hairline to her toes, she feared she must match the deep pink gown Lily was wearing.

  Those pink skirts rustled as her sister wandered to the window. “He’s here, Violet. The viscount. He’s climbing down from his carriage. And oooh, he looks so handsome in the torchlight.”

  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 mounted the town house steps and disappeared from view.

  “I’ll go meet him at the door,” Rose said. “Wait here, so you can make an entrance.” With a swish of her blood-red skirts, she swept out of the room.

  “An entrance, Violet,” Lily repeated softly. “An entrance!”

  An entrance. Contemplating her youngest, most innocent sister, Violet’s heart jumped into her throat as it suddenly dawned on her that she was going out alone with Ford.

  Until now, she’d focused on the excitement of meeting members of the Royal Society. Yet, for part of the evening at least, she and Ford would be alone. Really alone, not just sort of alone for a minute while the children’s backs were turned.

  She could hardly believe Mum had condoned it. More than condoned it—pushed it, in fact. But of course that was only because Mum knew how much she wanted to attend a Royal Society function.

  Mum would never expect anything untoward to happen. Not to Violet. Plain Violet. Violet, who would just as soon remain invisible.

  If only Mum knew that Ford had already kissed her. Five times. Five glorious times.

  As she’d done hundreds of times already, Violet couldn’t help but replay those kisses now in her memory. And even though she hadn’t eaten any hard salt things or spices today—hadn’t eaten much of anything, as a matter of fact—her desire to carnal embraces seemed almost insuperable.

  This promised to be a marvelous night.

  For just this night, she wouldn’t care that Ford showed interest in her for all the wrong reasons. For just this night, she’d put her heart into living each moment. For just this night, she’d allow herself to revel in this dream come true of mingling with England’s most eminent intellectuals…in the company of a man who made her heart flutter with the merest touch or look.

  Rose barged back in. “He’s waiting, Violet. I think you should keep him waiting a little bit longer.”

  “No.” She wasn’t calculating like her sister. “I’m ready.” As ready as she’d ever be.

  Although the Ashcrofts’ town house in St. James’s Square wasn’t nearly as massive as Trentingham, it was richly decorated and boasted a grand marble staircase. Violet’s new red-heeled shoes clicked as she walked down it.

  When Ford glanced up, a thunderstruck expression froze his features. His jaw went slack; his eyes widened. “You look…” he began, then seemed at a loss for words.

  Moving closer, she smiled to herself. “Different?” she supplied, gliding to a stop in front of him.

  “Um…yes.” As that incredible blue gaze raked her from head to toe, a devilish grin slowly spread on his face. “And beautiful.”

  It had taken him too long to add that last bit, and she wouldn’t have believed it, in any case. But it was nice to hear, even if it was only a polite fib. For just this night, she would pretend it was true. She’d never expected to hear a compliment like that from a man.

  And most especially from such an attractive one. Judging from his normal attire, she’d suspected Ford enjoyed dressing up a bit. She hadn’t been wrong.

  He looked magnificent. His brilliant blue suit made his eyes appear even bluer. Yards of lace dripped from the cuffs. A diamond pin winked from the folds of a snow-white cravat. The buttons on his velvet surcoat looked to be of real gold, and when he swept off his wide-brimmed hat to make her a solemn bow, a jeweled hatband sparkled in the light of the entry’s chandelier.

  Mum had loaned her the Trentingham diamonds, but she still felt dull and unadorned in comparison.

  “Shall we?” he asked.

  From out of nowhere, it seemed, her mother appeared and kissed her on the cheek. “Have a lovely time, dear.”

  “I will, Mum.” As Violet took Ford’s arm, she decided it might well be the loveliest evening of her life.

  After he’d handed her into his carriage, she was no longer so sure.

  Egad, she was alone with a man.

  She settled herself across from him, fluffing her skirts and offering him a stiff smile. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “The pleasure is mine.” His own smile looked amused. As the carriage began moving, he patted the seat beside him. “Come here, Violet.”

  “I’m comfortable over here, thank you.”

  “I promise I won’t bite you. At least, not until later.” At her gasp, he laughed. “I was only fooling. I won’t even kiss you, I promise. Just come and sit by me. Please.”

  She did, and he kept his promise not to kiss her, which she found rather disappointing. Especially after he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and swept aside her curls to nuzzle her neck.

  “You smell good,” he murmured. “Your hair, your skin…”

  “So do you,” she said breathlessly. He did. There was that hint of patchouli soap again, tonight overlaid by some exotic, very masculine perfume. She wondered if her mother could match the scent, so she could inhale it and remember this evening.

  Although the way it seemed to make her senses swirl, perhaps that wouldn’t be such a good idea.

  As the carriage lurched through the streets, his lips teased the sensitive hollow behind her ear, and his fingers traced a light, shivery pattern on her shoulder. Her flesh prickled, and a hot ache began to spread in her middle.

  Like the Master-piece had promised, her body was becoming more and more heated.

  “Oh my,” she said—the only words she could manage at the moment.

  “Shall I stop?” he asked, his breath warm against her throat. The carriage bounced in and out of a rut, his mouth bouncing along with it, landing damp against her skin. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

  Rough and raspy, his voice gave her another little thrill. She didn’t tell him to stop. Scandalously, his fingers trailed down, brushing the bareness revealed by her low neckline.

  He might have kissed her five times, but he’d never touched her there. No man had touched her there.

  Feeling weak, she slumped on the brown leather seat. The carriage’s wheels bumped over the cobblestones, the springs squeaked through the traffic-clogged streets—and her labored breathing sounded louder than all of it.

  They jarred to a stop, and through her thin satin bodice, Ford’s hand grazed her breast.

  Then returned and stayed there, lightly caressing.

  “Faith,” she breathed, feeling the crest swell and tighten in response. Her eyes drifted shut as a corresponding response shot through her body.

  Her desire to carnal embraces was very, very great.

  The carriage door was jerked open, and she bolted upright, her eyes wide. They’d arrived, and she’d learned that Ford was a man of his word.

  He hadn’t kissed her.

  He’d done something more scandalous—and far more dangerous.

  THIRTY-TWO

  VIOLET HAD always thought of scientific men as serious and staid, but there was an air of giddy excitement at Gresham College tonight.

  Not to mention she was still excited from what had happened in the carriage.

  Following Ford through the narrow gatehouse off Bishopsgate Street, she carefully tugged up on her bodice. Surreptitiously, she hoped. She wasn’t sure which was worse: being seen in such an immodest gown, or having someone see her adjust it.

  “This was once the home of Sir Thomas Gresham,” Ford said as proudly as if the mansion belonged to him. “Founder of the college.”

  Hand in hand, they crossed a simple courtyard toward the house, Violet’s knees feeling embarrassingly weak. Wishing she could switch off her feelings as easily as he apparently could, she tried to concentrate on what he was telling her. After all, this was a place she’d always wanted to visit.

  “When did the college open?” she asked.

  “At the end of the last century, following Gresham’s death and that of his wife. He had no living heirs, you see, so he gifted his home to the people of London. He wished to make scholarship available free to every adult citizen.” Pushing open a heavy oak door, he guided her into a large
chamber that looked medieval. “Here is the Reading Hall, where the lectures are given.”

  “Oh, I wish I knew Latin so I could attend them.” Beneath a lofty scissor-beam ceiling painted in dazzling hues of red and gold, rows of wooden benches faced a lectern, behind which rose an exquisite oriel window. “What a lovely place to learn.”

  “I imagine when the Greshams lived here, this would have been their great hall.” Ford walked her through the soaring chamber, their footsteps echoing on the well-worn stone floor. “The college’s seven professors have lodgings here at Gresham and are each required to give one public lecture a week.”

  Whom might she meet here tonight? Breathless with anticipation, she peeked into some adjoining rooms, a bit disappointed when she found them unoccupied. “It just looks like a big, old house.”

  “It was, remember. But you will see in a moment that although his family lived here for years, and his widow afterwards, Gresham had a college in mind when he built it.”

  Another small courtyard lay outside the Reading Hall, leading to an arched passage that opened into a massive, grassy square with colonnaded buildings on all four sides.

  “See?” Ford said. “It’s essentially a college quadrangle.”

  Flaming torches bathed the space in a warm glow. Musicians were tuning up in one corner. Talking animatedly in small groups, guests dressed in every color of the rainbow crowded the enclosure, their chatter filling the air.

  She was here. Finally, she was here. A serving maid handed her a goblet of canary, and she sipped the sweet wine, turning in a slow circle, imagining the area solemn, shut off from the hubbub of London by the buildings all around.

  “I can picture it quiet,” she said, “students leisurely crossing the grass, or perhaps hurrying if they’re late.”

  “Can you picture it paved over and crammed with shopping stalls?”

  She looked down at the fresh green grass beneath her feet. “Was it?”

  “Until recently. After the Great Fire, the whole administration of the City moved into the buildings, and the tenants of the Royal Exchange set up here in the quadrangle until it was rebuilt. A hundred small shops.”