Violet

by Lauren Royal

  Though another chamber blazed with light, a peek into it nearly had him backing away. It was crammed with chattering ladies—all those deserted, he supposed, by the men in the other room. He pushed his way in, not really expecting to find Violet. She didn’t strike him as the social, gossipy type.

  He was correct.

  Stopping three times to acknowledge congratulations, he crossed the quadrangle and walked through a building, finding the door to a small, deserted piazza.

  The little courtyard looked dark and peaceful, especially after the excitement elsewhere in the college. He stepped outdoors, breathing deep of the fresh night air. Then, suddenly struck by an idea—perhaps not as brilliant as the spectacles, but clever nonetheless—he headed back inside to talk to one of the serving maids.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  HALF AN HOUR later, Violet entered the quadrangle and nearly bumped into Ford. She smiled when his hands went to her shoulders to steady her, although it hadn’t been necessary—these days, with her spectacles, she hardly ever tripped.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” she quipped, feeling a loss when he let go.

  He failed to return her smile. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “We had to escape that room.”

  “We?” he asked, looking a bit vexed as he eyed her low bodice.

  She yanked up on it. “Mr. Locke and I. Whatever was happening in there drew everyone’s attention, and suddenly I found myself alone with him.”

  His eyes filled with an odd mixture of relief and concern. “But I hadn’t made an introduction.”

  “None was needed.” Locke had introduced himself without even making mention of her spectacles, simply accepting her as she was. “It seems he recognized a kindred soul. We wandered off and talked and talked…” She frowned suddenly. “Where were you all that time?”

  “Word got out about me finding Secrets—”

  A bewigged gentleman came toward him with an outstretched hand. “Heard of your astounding luck, Lakefield. Congratulations. If ever you want to sell it—”

  “I don’t.” Ford pumped his hand. “But I thank you.”

  “Just let me know.”

  As the two of them watched the man walk off, Ford sighed. “It seems everyone has to congratulate me—or make an offer to buy it. And Newton has offered to double anyone’s bid. Can you imagine?”

  What she couldn’t imagine was him passing that up when he so obviously needed money. She measured his clear blue eyes. “You were serious, then, when you claimed you wouldn’t sell at any price.”

  “I meant it. Considering the book went missing for so many years, it seems magical that it should end up in my hands. No matter that I don’t believe in such things, it feels like fate.”

  She did understand how he felt. If ever she should find an ancient philosophy book, handwritten by one of the masters, she’d be reluctant to sell it as well. And she supposed it would feel like fate, too.

  “Maybe it was fate,” she said softly. “Do you believe that sometimes things are meant to be ours?”

  He only smiled, a mysterious smile that for some reason made her uneasy.

  She reached up to adjust her spectacles. “Well, I’m happy your announcement provided a distraction,” she said by way of changing the subject. “I expect without that I’d never have spoken privately with Mr. Locke, and oh, we had the most lovely conversation.”

  “Tell me about it.” When another well-wisher approached, Ford impatiently took Violet’s arm. “I know a place where I can listen without interruption.”

  He led her across the quadrangle, where the dance floor seemed to be filling now that men and women were filtering out of the buildings and meeting up with one another. She noticed Wren with an apple-cheeked, brown-haired lady. Hooke, ungainly and awkward, danced with a beautiful, willowy woman quite a bit taller than himself.

  Ford took Violet through a building and pushed open a door. And they stepped into a veritable wonderland.

  Candles sparkled everywhere—perched on the sills of the windows surrounding them, sitting on the benches around the perimeter, scattered on the patterned brick paving. Their flickering flames warded off the night, bathing the small piazza in a romantic glow. In the center sat two chairs and one of the small round tables from the refreshment room, offering a selection of sweets and savories. A pair of goblets rested side by side, an open wine bottle nearby.

  Gasping, she turned to Ford. “How did you know all this was here?”

  “It wasn’t.” The door shut behind them with a soft thud. “I arranged it.”

  Though there were buildings all around, their windows were completely black. They were alone. She and her brilliant country neighbor were alone in a piazza in London. A piazza he’d had prepared especially for her.

  Stunned, she shifted her gaze to meet his. “This isn’t like you.”

  He gestured at her gown. “This isn’t like you, either.”

  Heat rose into her cheeks as he reached to gently remove her spectacles. He curved an arm around her waist, drawing her close. “Perhaps,” he continued, “we bring out the best in each other.” And she felt the length of him pressed against her as he bent his head to meet her lips.

  This wasn’t a stolen kiss, impulsive and rushed while the children’s heads were momentarily turned. This was sweet and unhurried. The lightest brush of his mouth, first on her bottom lip, then the top. Over her cheek and across her forehead and down to her chin. He cupped her face in his hands and ran a thumb over her lips before he finally covered her mouth with his own.

  She felt…cherished. Her eyes closed. Her breath caught. Her heart seemed to stop, then began pounding in her chest. She hadn’t known it could feel like this, hadn’t thought she wanted a man. But suddenly she did, with every fiber of her being.

  Oh my, the Master-piece had been right. Her mind was definitely stirred to venery.

  Still gentle and slow, he deepened the kiss, coaxing her lips to part. She was floating, whirling. His tongue slipped inside to mingle with hers, and it was shocking, but glorious, too. Soft, sweet, tasting of the wine of celebration. His hair smelled lightly of soap and fresh air, his skin emitted that exotic, spicy scent. It felt so good to be held. Her head spun with the wonder of it all.

  When he pulled away, she just stood there, swaying for a moment, and then she opened her eyes. All around them, the candles flickered, gilding his features in a pale, golden light.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  As he slid the spectacles back on her face, the beginnings of a smile curved his lips. “You’re entirely welcome,” he said.

  He sounded sincere. Was she wrong, then, about his intentions? He’d claimed to have invited her expressly to introduce her to a man who could help make her dream come true. Then he’d gone to great trouble to whisk her off to this romantic hideaway when they could be with his friends instead, showing off her spectacles and celebrating his miraculous book discovery.

  His kiss had transported her to another world, a place where she’d felt cared for and wanted. Could he actually want her, plain Violet…for herself?

  No. She couldn’t allow herself to forget his words in the heat of a kiss. To forget his beliefs about women and money. To forget why he’d really brought her here.

  She shook her head to clear it, but it didn’t quite work. And why should it, really? For this one magical night, a night of dreams come true, she would let herself live a fantasy. For just this night…

  She fluffed her satin overskirts, gazing at him while she willed herself to believe she was a fair lady in the company of a man in love with her.

  “I’m famished,” he said, and she laughed, breaking the tension. He led her to the table and seated her, then poured two goblets of wine. While she sipped, he moved the other chair close to hers and sat.

  He lifted a strawberry and raised it to her mouth.

  Oh my, he was feeding her.

  “What did he talk about?” Ford asked.
>
  “Who?” A berry had never tasted so delicious.

  “King Charles.”

  For a moment, she looked around in confusion.

  Then he laughed. “I meant John Locke, of course.”

  “Oh.” A little giggle threatened to escape, so she sipped more wine. “He’s brilliant.”

  He swiped a spear of asparagus off a plate piled high. “More brilliant than I?”

  She cocked her head, making a show of considering. “In a different way.” Sipping again, she warmed to her subject. “Do you know what he told me? He said all mankind should be equal and independent, and no one should have the right to harm another in his life, health, liberty, or possessions.”

  He bit the end off his third asparagus. “Not even the king?”

  “No one.” It was so radical a thought as to be startling, but so clear the way Locke had explained it. “There should be a standing rule to live by, common to everyone, and made by legislative power—a liberty to follow one’s own will in all things where one does not harm another, and not to be subject to the arbitrary will of another. Arbitrary power, he said, becomes tyranny, whether those that use it are one or many.”

  “I wouldn’t discuss this with Charles,” Ford said, handing her a marchpane.

  She bit into the sweet almond confection. “I’ve never discussed anything with the king, but if I ever get a chance, I just might.”

  “Damnation, what have I started?” he said with a good-natured roll of his eyes.

  “Locke says every man has property in his own person, and no one has any right to that but himself. The labor of his body, the work of his hands, are his, and the only reason for men to unite and put themselves under government is the preservation of their property.”

  “You’re excited by these ideas.” He’d finished the asparagus. From yet another plate, he spooned up a bite of cheesecake blanketed in rich puff pastry. “I can hear it in your voice,” he said, holding out the spoon.

  Enjoying the traces of nutmeg and mace, she allowed the creamy cheese, somehow both sweet and tart, to melt on her tongue. “I am excited. These are new things to think about. A new way to look at our world.” She drained her goblet, feeling woozy from both the wine and the ideas spinning in her brain. “Thank you so much for bringing me.”

  “Thank you for coming.” He reached to refill her cup, then leaned even closer, brushing her mouth with a feather-light kiss. “You enjoyed hearing about the scientific discoveries, too, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Very much.” Her lips tingled. “I surprised myself.”

  “I’m surprised to find the philosophy interesting as well. So we’re even this night.”

  “This night.” Just this one night. She sighed, taking pleasure in the wine and the company, the candlelight, the music that drifted through the air, the stars in the clear summer sky. Knowing it had to end. “Can you hear the laughter from the quadrangle? I think everyone must be out there now.” But she didn’t want to join them. She didn’t want to leave this magical, private place.

  Afraid he might assume she wished to rejoin the party, she changed the subject. “Is Hooke really a drunkard?”

  His brow furrowed in confusion. “Whatever makes you think that?”

  “He said living here is convenient, because when he falls down stumbling drunk, he’s close to his bed.”

  His face cleared. “Don’t let his dry humor fool you. Far from being a drunkard, I think he and Wren are addicted to coffee, if anything at all. Best of friends they are, too.”

  The faint music from the quadrangle stopped. Another burst of laughter sounded. “Their wives must be proud of them,” Violet said.

  “Wren’s wife is very kind.” With one finger, he traced little circles on the back of her hand where it rested on the table. “Hooke has yet to marry, though.”

  She hid a delicious shiver. “Well, then, whom was he dancing with?”

  “Why did you assume she was his spouse? You’re here with me, and we aren’t husband and wife.”

  “Of course we aren’t,” she said quickly, and if the tone of his voice implied he wanted them to be, she had to remind herself why she didn’t. Still, her face heated at the thought, and she was thankful for the concealment of the night.

  “The Gresham professors are required to be bachelors,” he explained, still lazily teasing her hand. “Hooke calls that woman his housekeeper.”

  “She lives with him?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  She grinned. “You don’t dance with Hilda.”

  “Hilda doesn’t look like that.” He raised his hand and ran a warm fingertip alongside her face. “And she’s a real housekeeper.”

  “Oh.” Her skin tingled wherever he touched. “Oh. You mean she’s really a—oh.”

  “Yes. Oh,” he repeated with a devilish lift of one brow.

  All at once, the door was flung open and the sounds of laughter grew louder. A few couples spilled out into the piazza.

  “We’ve been found,” Ford said with a groan.

  “There he is,” one of the women said, drawing a man to where Violet sat with Ford.

  “Ah, yes.” The middle-aged man shot the woman a rather impatient look before he addressed Ford more neutrally. “We’ve heard you found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.”

  “I have.” Ford reluctantly rose, bringing Violet up with him and curling an arm around her waist. “John Evelyn,” he said by way of introduction. “May I present Lady Violet Ashcroft.”

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” Evelyn had a lean, thoughtful face, shadowed by his graying hair. “My wife, Mary.”

  Mary was much younger, a pretty woman with a round face and curly hair that brushed shoulders left bare by a neckline even lower than Violet’s. She smiled and bobbed a curtsy, her large pearl earbobs bobbing along with her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” Violet said.

  Introductions concluded, the woman turned to Ford. “Would Secrets of the Emerald Tablet be for sale, my lord?”

  “I’m afraid not.” His words sounded genial enough, but Violet felt him tense. “And you’d have to fight Mr. Newton for it, anyway.”

  “It’s just as well, my dear,” Evelyn said.

  The tone of his voice confused Violet. She turned to look up at Ford.

  “I think,” he said, “that we’d best be on our way.” And he drew her out of the lovely piazza he’d created, leaving the others to enjoy it.

  “What was that all about?” Violet asked as they walked back through the building. “I would think he’d be pleased she wanted to buy him the book.”

  He dropped his hand from her waist, linking his fingers with hers instead. “She wants it for herself. Her husband calls her a ‘kitchen scientist.’ Not fondly, I might add.”

  “I could tell.” The quadrangle was quickly emptying, the musicians packing up. “Does he not approve of her interests, then?”

  “He believes housekeeping should be her priority. His wedding gift to her was a calligraphy copy of his own treatise on marital duties. The ladies at court think his wife must be the unhappiest woman in the world.”

  “I cannot blame her,” Violet said, stepping carefully in her heeled shoes as they crossed the dew-damp grass.

  “Her husband would say she has her children to console her.”

  “And you would say?”

  He shrugged, squeezing her hand. “I know only that were I to be deprived of my scientific interests, I would be unhappy, too.”

  “Then let us hope your wife is more indulgent than Mary Evelyn’s husband,” she heard herself say.

  Egad, how could she bring up his future wife?

  But he only laughed, drawing her through the passage that led back to the Reading Hall and entrance. In the arched tunnel, he stopped and turned to face her. “I’m hoping my wife will be very indulgent, indeed,” he said in a husky drawl.

  “She’d have to be.” A nervous giggle escape
d her lips. “Are we leaving now?”

  “In a minute.” He stepped closer, backing her against the stone wall. “There will be a long line for the carriage this late.”

  The evening had flown. “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Does it matter? Your mother mentioned no curfew. I think she must approve of me.” Her heart raced as he slowly drew off her spectacles and slipped them into his pocket. “The church bells rang one o’clock quite a while ago.”

  “Oh. I wasn’t listening.”

  “I wonder why,” he mused with a smile, skimming his hands up and down her sides. She was finding it hard to listen now. Everywhere he touched felt so warm, so tingly, so aware.

  He lowered his head, his mouth inching toward hers, and she waited, waited, her breath catching when he finally found his target. His lips were gentle but insistent, and despite all her reservations, she returned his kiss with reckless abandon.

  “Violet,” he murmured, his mouth turning urgent, the caress deepening until his tongue mingled with hers. His hands continued their explorations, stroking her shoulders, gliding around to her back, trailing down to cup her bottom and pull her close.

  Though she was shocked, her body arched toward him instinctively. Buffeted by new sensations, she moaned, a soft sound of capitulation. Pleasure streaked through her, sweeping her from the tunnel to another place where only he and she existed…

  …and all the while he still kissed her.

  He tasted of berries and wine, and she wanted more. Her hands reached under his coat to explore his body the way he was touching hers. Firmness against her softness, warmth against her palms. She pressed closer, molding herself to him, feeling a hardness down below, that, according to the Master-piece, meant he wanted her.

  Right or wrong, whatever his reasons, he wanted her. Her, Violet Ashcroft. The realization stole her breath, robbed her of thought—

  Laughter burst through her pleasurable haze as two other couples entered the passageway, clearly in their cups.