by Lauren Royal
Rose nodded. “That sounds good.”
“Lily?” Violet looked to her youngest sister.
Though Lily was red-faced, she nodded, too. “It sounds like something we should know.”
“All right, then.” Having read this section already in the privacy of her room, she took a deep breath before sharing with her sisters. “‘Those parts that offer themselves to view at the bottom of the belly, the fissura magnaor with its labia or lips, the mons veneris, and the hair, are called by the general name pudenda.’”
A frown creased Lily’s smooth young forehead. “These parts have names?”
“Of course they do, you goose.” Rose leaned in closer. “Go on.”
“‘The clitoris is a substance in the upper part of the division where the two wings concur, and is the seat of womanly pleasure, being like a yard—’”
“A yard?” Lily asked.
“That’s what they call a man’s…”
“Oh. That.” Her blue eyes widened. “It’s not actually a yard, is it? I mean, when it’s—”
“Erect?” Judging from the single breathy word, Rose seemed to be lacking her customary aplomb. “Good God, I hope not. It couldn’t be. It’s not really a yard, Violet, is it?”
“Why do you think I would know?” But her face heated as she remembered feeling that hardness. “No, of course it isn’t,” she said as matter-of-factly as she could manage. “It wouldn’t fit if it were, would it? And it would show, don’t you think? When men just walked around? I’m certain it’s not a yard.”
“Probably men call it that because they wish it were a yard,” Rose said dryly.
Even Lily giggled at that.
Violet blinked hard and continued reading. “‘The clitoris…being like a yard in situation, substance, composition and erection, growing sometimes out of the body an inch, but that never happens except through extreme lust.’”
Rose harrumphed. “So a man gets a yard and we get an inch.”
“Oh, Rose,” Violet groaned.
“Keep reading,” Lily said.
“All right.” Violet flashed Rose a look of warning. “‘By the neck of the womb is the channel which receives the yard like a sheath, and that it may be better dilated for the pleasure of procreation, in this concavity are diverse folds, wrinkled like an expanded rose.’”
“A rose?” Rose harrumphed again. “That ‘concavity’ looks nothing like Father’s flowers.” When her sisters gaped at her, she bristled. “Well, it doesn’t. I’ve looked. With a mirror.” She narrowed her gaze. “Don’t tell me you haven’t.”
Violet just cleared her throat. “‘The hymen, or claustrum virginale, is that which closes the neck of the womb relating to virginity, broken in the first copulation. And commonly, when broken in copulation, or by any other accident, a small quantity of blood flows from it, attended with some little pain.’”
Silence descended on the summerhouse.
“Little pain,” Lily whispered finally. “That doesn’t sound too bad, does it?”
“I’m sure it’s not,” Violet said firmly.
But they all took a deep breath in unison.
“All right, then.” Violet turned the page. “Listen to this.” She swallowed. “‘There are many veins and arteries passing into the womb, dilated for its better taking hold of the yard, there being great heat required in such motions, which become more intense in the act of friction, and consumes a considerable quantity of moisture, which being expunged in the time of copulation, greatly delights the woman.’”
“Greatly delights the woman,” Rose breathed. “Gemini. We have to get married. Soon.”
Suddenly they heard a jaunty tune being hummed outside. “Oh, God!” Lily exclaimed. “It’s Mum!”
Leaping up, she ran for the door and jerked it open, Rose at her heels. The two of them pushed through at the same time, all but stumbling over each other.
“Good afternoon, Mum,” Rose said. “Come along, Lily. Father is waiting.”
“For what?” Mum asked, frowning at Violet as her younger daughters practically trampled her and ran for the gardens.
Shrugging, Violet snapped the book closed and set it face down on the bench. “What are you doing out here?”
Unlike Father, Mum avoided the outdoors, especially on a nice, sunny day like this one. She worried for her creamy complexion. Now she was wearing a big straw hat and carrying a basket over her arm, filled with stale bread. “I thought I’d just take some air,” she said. “And feed the swans.”
When Violet stood, her spectacles tumbled from her lap to the red-brick floor. She bent to retrieve them, hoping her mother wouldn’t notice the book on the bench. “Shall I come with you?”
“That would be lovely.”
She slipped the frames on her face as they crossed the wide, green lawn to the river. A multitude of daisies sprouted among the blades of grass; heaven forbid Joseph Ashcroft leave any part of his land free of flowers.
Chrystabel bent to pick one as they went. She twirled the white and yellow posy in her fingers. “Is the book you were reading interesting?”
Egad, she’d noticed.
“It’s philosophy.” Well, it was. In a sense.
“What is it called?”
“Um…” Violet felt her face heat, but the title certainly wasn’t a giveaway. “Aristotle’s Master-piece.”
Stepping onto the bridge, her mother threw her an arch look. “And is it?”
Her heart stuttered. “Is it what?”
“A masterpiece.”
“Oh.” Halfway across the bridge, Violet stopped and turned to the rail. She focused out over the river. “It’s Aristotle, you know. I’m sure you’ve heard me jabber enough about him.” She reached into her mother’s basket and broke off a bit of bread, tossing it out to the lone swan nearby. “I don’t expect you’d find it very interesting.”
“You might be surprised.”
Violet wondered what her mother meant, especially considering the tone of her voice, but she didn’t want to ask. She had a feeling she was better off not knowing.
More swans glided near, and Chrystabel tossed a few crumbs. “You miss him, don’t you?”
Him. Mum had to mean Ford. But Violet had never admitted to any interest in him, so how could Mum know?
“Miss whom?” she asked.
“Lord Lakefield, of course. Don’t be coy, Violet. For weeks you saw him every day, but now that Jewel is gone, you have no excuse to visit. I know you’re fond of him.”
“He’s a nice man,” Violet said carefully.
“You don’t allow a man to kiss you just because he’s nice.”
Violet’s jaw dropped open. She closed it, along with her eyes, then opened them and turned to her mother. “Wherever did you get the idea he kissed me?”
“One of your sisters.” Chrystabel held up a hand. “No, I won’t tell you which one, because it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me! It was Rose, wasn’t it?”
“I won’t be saying. Because it doesn’t matter. It’s acceptable to experiment. Do you imagine I never kissed your father before we married?”
Despite her outrage, Violet had to bite back a smile. Mum had done more than kiss Father. Violet knew she’d been born impossibly “early”—the girls had calculated the dates years ago.
But that was beside the point. “I’m not marrying him, Mum.”
Below them, the swans squawked, and Chrystabel broke off more bread. “Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, he hasn’t asked me. And for another, I wouldn’t agree if he did.”
“Can you explain why?”
“Why?” To avoid meeting her mother’s eyes, Violet took a hunk of bread and faced the graceful white birds. “Why should I? With or without my spectacles, I’m not blind. I know I’m no beauty. If he asked for my hand, it would only be to get my ten thousand pounds—God knows he needs it, as Rose has pointed out countless times. And I won’t marry for less than true love, Mum. I…I suspect ma
rriage isn’t all it’s purported to be, anyway.”
She wished she could still believe that with the fervor she once had. But she wasn’t quite so sure any longer, not since reading the Master-piece. Now, late at night, she lay in bed alone, wishing the feel of the sheets on her body were the feel of a man’s hands instead. Wondering if the sensations were as wonderful as the Master-piece claimed.
And Ford’s kisses had done nothing to convince her differently.
Great heat…in the act of friction…greatly delights the woman. Her very limited experience notwithstanding, she could believe it.
Chrystabel threw the last of her crumbs to the swans. “I see.”
Violet didn’t care for the way Mum had said that. Tossing the rest of her own crumbs, she turned to face her. “You’re not going to try to match me up with him, are you? Because—”
“Heavens, no! I want you to be happy, Violet. Married or not—whatever makes you happy.”
Mum sounded sincere. But on the way back to the house, Violet couldn’t help but wonder.
THIRTY-EIGHT
CHRYSTABEL LOVED the nighttimes.
In the quiet of the master chamber, her dear Joseph could always hear her. It didn’t quite make sense, which was why she sometimes teasingly accused him of selective listening. But he said it had to do with competing sounds. That during the daytime, there were noises, always noises: the servants going about their work, the animals in the fields, birds in the skies, dishes and silverware at mealtimes, and children talking all at once. He claimed that with more than one sound, he couldn’t distinguish any of them.
But within the thick, solid walls of their room, the nighttimes were blessedly quiet. And he also claimed that her voice was the one he could hear most easily, especially when there were no competing sounds. The perfect pitch.
That did make sense to her. Because they’d always, always been perfect together.
But now he had nodded off, though she’d expressly asked him not to. She leaned over the bed and poked him. “I told you to stay awake.”
Rolling over, he yawned and forced open his eyes. “Has Violet fallen asleep yet?”
“Yes. Finally.” She tapped the book she’d just placed on her night table. “I got it.”
“What?” He rubbed his face, then struggled up onto his elbows to see better. “What in blazes is this all about?”
Before answering, she lifted the covers and slid languidly between the sheets. When she spoke, her voice was low and seductive. “Aristotle’s Master-piece.”
“Holy Hades. The marriage manual?” Both his face and tone radiated his shock. “Where the hell would Violet get such a thing?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea, but I’m glad.”
“Glad?”
“Don’t be such a prude, Joseph. I know this book is supposed to be scandalous, but frankly, I hope she reads it from cover to cover.”
She saw no need to mention their other daughters were reading it as well. Dear Joseph wasn’t always as open-minded as she. Often he needed some time and guidance to come around to her way of thinking.
She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “If Violet finds the book stimulating enough, perhaps it will make her give up this ridiculous notion that she doesn’t want to marry.” Deliberately, she wiggled closer to her husband. When he put an arm around her, drawing her against his warm body, she looked up at him coquettishly. “Marriage has its benefits, darling, wouldn’t you agree?”
He gave her a long, slow kiss before he answered, the sort of kiss that had been making her senses spin from the very day they met. “Perhaps,” he allowed huskily, “if you put it that way.”
She nodded her woozy head. “It’s not as though we were saints before we wed. Violet is about to turn one-and-twenty, a woman grown.” At only one-and-forty herself, Chrystabel could well remember a young woman’s naïveté. “It will do her good to know a bit of something before she lands in her marriage bed. And this book might be our only hope of ever getting her there.”
“Hmmph.” Narrowing those green eyes that always made her melt, he rubbed his chin. “As Violet’s father, I believe it’s my responsibility to approve her reading matter.” He reached across her body toward the book. “Let me see it.”
“I was hoping we could read it together. It could be…what did I call it?” She licked her lips. “Stimulating.”
“Stimulating.” A slow grin spread on his face. “Now, Chrysanthemum, we’ve never needed outside stimulation. But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have a look. For curiosity’s sake.”
As he opened the book, she snuggled happily under his arm. “For curiosity’s sake, of course.”
THIRTY-NINE
AN IMPATIENT KNOCK came at the laboratory door before Hilda’s voice called through it. “Will you be wanting breakfast, milord?”
Ford blinked and then carefully, reverently, set aside his watch. Still in somewhat of a daze, he rose and went to admit her. “Is it morning already?”
His housekeeper’s hands fisted on her hips. “Have you not bothered to look out a window lately?”
He turned to the one right over where he’d been working. The sky was blue. Birds were chirping, the perfect accompaniment for a beautiful, sunny day.
“Did you stay up all night again?” Hilda demanded.
“What is it with the questions?” Ford shook his head, refusing to let her disapproval ruin his ebullient mood. “Come, I have something to show you.”
She followed him to his workbench, weaving around a water bath and flicking her dust rag as she went. “If you’d let me in here to clean once in a while, this wouldn’t be such a skimble-skamble mess.”
Accustomed to her lectures, he ignored this one and reached for his watch. “Here it is,” he said with a broad smile. “I’m finished.”
“It’s very nice.” She raised a glass funnel and wiped it off.
Nonplussed, he stared at her. “I know it’s not fancy, but do you see here? It’s different from other watches. It has a minute hand, like a clock. So you won’t have to guess how far into the hour it is by looking at only the single hand.”
“Well, that is very nice, my lord.” She smiled, but her faded blue eyes didn’t sparkle with the enthusiasm he was seeking. “Although you have clocks enough around here for me to tell the time, I expect for some this will be quite convenient.” She set down the funnel and glanced around the attic, sighing at the clutter and dust. “Will you be wanting breakfast now, then?”
He was silent a minute before mutely ordering himself to shrug off the disappointment. “Breakfast would be nice. I’ll be down shortly.”
He watched her calico-clad back as she picked her way through the maze that was his sanctuary. Convenient. She’d called his watch convenient. Although he supposed it was, that hadn’t been the reaction he was hoping for.
After years of planning and experimenting, he’d finally managed to come up with something that could benefit mankind. He wanted excitement, appreciation. A bit of hero worship wouldn’t be amiss, either. Suspecting Jewel would have reacted more to his liking, he found himself missing her all over again.
Luckily, another enthusiastic female lived not so far away.
FORTY
AN HOUR LATER, having bathed, shaved, and gulped down some breakfast, Ford found himself in the galleried entry of Trentingham Manor, proudly holding up his watch for Violet’s inspection.
“Oh my,” she said, her brandy-colored eyes wide with unabashed admiration. “It’s amazing. I cannot believe it! Can I just stand here a while and watch it work?”
Ford laughed, finally feeling that flush of success, wanting to hug and kiss her for giving it to him. “If you’d like. But if you’d care to invite me into a room with chairs, you can sit and watch it instead. That would be more comfortable, don’t you think?”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.” Holding the book he’d given her, she turned and started down the corridor. “I’ve forgotten my manners.”
/>
He walked beside her. “I’d forgotten how lovely you are.”
In his single-minded focus on his watch, he had forgotten. Intentionally forgotten. But she blushed prettily at the compliment.
“Besides,” he added, “I’m the one who’s socially inept. I should have exchanged pleasantries before shoving my invention in your face. Your manners, by contrast, are impeccable.”
She flashed him a smile that might as well have been a stab to his heart. Damnation, he shouldn’t have come. Neither she nor her parents would ever agree to a match, and here he was, falling in love all over again.
It was akin to torture.
She was wearing a yellow gown today, and her matching heels clicked on the corridor’s polished oak floor. “Would you show my family the watch? I’m certain they will be just as impressed as I.”
Remembering Hilda’s reaction—or rather, lack of one—Ford wasn’t so sure.
“Mum is in her perfumery,” Violet told him, and he shrugged and followed her to the left, through a study he hadn’t seen before. Unlike the pretty feminine desks in the library upstairs, this room’s desk was heavy and utilitarian. There were papers all over it, and a pile of ledgers that looked ready to topple. He figured this was where Joseph Ashcroft ran his estate. It was obviously hard work—an onerous job Ford had no desire to tackle for Lakefield.
But that’s exactly what he’d have to do if he were to have a prayer of winning Violet.
He looked away from the desk, preferring instead to gaze at her back as he followed her through the house. The yellow silk flared over shapely hips and nipped in at her waist above. Even as his hands itched to span that waist, he sighed to himself.
The entire Church of England could pray on his behalf, and it would make no difference at all. He’d never win Violet.
His watch was finished. He really should go back to London.
Like many old houses, Trentingham had few corridors, most of the rooms simply opening on to the next. The adjacent chamber was tiny, more or less a closet. But it would do as the storeroom for a laboratory. The walls were lined with row upon row of shelves, upon which rested vials of liquid. Chemicals.
