by Lauren Royal
Still amazed that he’d gifted her with this, Chrystabel nodded. “It does!”
“It will take a bit longer than your original method, but you won’t be losing any steam. Your oil will be purer and stronger.”
“It will,” Violet said with a smile. “It’s quite obvious, and quite brilliant.”
Overjoyed, Chrystabel rounded the table to impulsively wrap Lord Lakefield in a hug. “You’re a genius!” she exclaimed. “And so generous.”
And so perfect for her Violet.
His face was flushed when he pulled back. “It’s nothing, really.”
“It’s everything,” Violet disagreed from across the table, leaning forward on both hands. “Few men would take a woman’s hobby seriously, let alone devise ways to improve it. Most would be like John Evelyn with his ‘kitchen scientist’ wife Mary.”
Chrystabel hadn’t the slightest idea who John Evelyn was, but Violet’s eyes were filled with admiration. Her daughter was falling for Ford, she was sure of it. However, things weren’t progressing as quickly as she’d like. The man had a disconcerting habit of disappearing for days at a time while he invented one thing or another.
“Violet’s birthday is tomorrow,” she told him. “We’re having a family celebration. I’d be pleased if you would join us.”
“Mum—”
“I’m delighted to accept,” he interrupted smoothly. “But I was planning to ask if Violet might take supper in my company tonight.”
A little gasp came across the table. “Alone?” Violet asked.
“Well, Harry will be there, and—”
Violet opened her mouth.
“I’m sure she’d be pleased,” Chrystabel rushed to say before her daughter could decline the invitation. She just managed to suppress a grin.
“Shall I come for her at six, then?”
“Wait.” Violet raised both hands, palms forward, looking altogether defensive. “Have I no say in this?”
“Of course you do, dear.” Chrystabel fixed her with a steady gaze. “I just couldn’t imagine you refusing such a request after Lord Lakefield went out of his way to make this new distillery.”
Ford walked around the table, stopping nose to nose with her daughter. Or they would have been nose to nose, if he wasn’t so much taller. The dance had ended. As Chrystabel watched him capture Violet’s gaze with his own, her heart sang to see her daughter’s eyes soften.
Surrender.
“Would you rather not come?” he asked quietly.
“I…”
“Please say you will.”
Silence for a heartbeat. “All right.”
A less than enthusiastic response, but Ford looked as happy to receive it as Chrystabel was to hear it. This was exactly the sort of opportunity she’d been hoping would come along.
“I’m looking forward to it.” He bowed to both ladies. “Until six, then.”
FORTY-SIX
NO SOONER had Ford cleared the door than Violet’s sisters rushed in to see what he’d brought.
“He made this?” Rose dumped an armful of flowers on the table. “He really and truly made this without you even asking?”
Mum laughed. “How could I ask? I had no idea such a thing even existed.”
“That was nice.” Lily ran a finger down the gleaming copper tube. “Very nice.” She turned to Violet. “You should marry him.”
Violet’s mouth gaped. Though she’d discussed the subject with her sisters, she had trusted them to be more discreet. Especially in front of Mum. They had their pact to maintain a united front against any matchmaking.
“Has he asked you to marry him?” her mother asked with widened eyes.
“No,” she said shortly. That, at least, was true.
Lily bit her lip, looking to Violet in apology. “I was just teasing her, Mum. But it was very nice of him to make this. I cannot wait to see you use it.”
“And she should marry him,” Rose put in.
“Oh, do hush up,” Violet said, dropping onto a chair. She raised her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, then pushed them back into place to focus on her mother. “Why did you invite him to my birthday celebration? It was supposed to be a private party. Family.” The day would be disconcerting enough without celebrating it in public. “You’re not trying to match me up with him, are you?”
“Of course not.” Mum waved a dismissive hand. “He’d just brought me a gift. I felt it necessary to reciprocate in what little way I could.”
That made sense. Maybe. “Then what is your explanation for encouraging me to join him for supper? Alone, Mum? Harry and Hilda don’t count.”
“You’re twenty-one years old now, a woman grown. I’m sure I can trust you.”
Violet wasn’t sure she could trust herself.
“Besides, it was very much like I said, dear. He’d just done me an enormous favor, and I didn’t feel it would be right to refuse him a boon. It’s naught but a couple of hours in his company—surely you cannot find that too onerous.”
“But you really should marry him,” Rose said again.
Violet turned on her. “Why? So you can start your own husband hunt?”
“No.” Rose actually looked hurt, which made Violet feel terrible for lashing out. “You just seem perfect together. Mum, don’t you agree?”
Chrystabel’s fingers played over the flowers scattered on the table, picking out the white jasmines. “I promised you girls I would allow you to find your own husbands.”
“That doesn’t mean we don’t want your opinion,” Lily said.
“Yes, Mum,” Rose agreed. “What’s your opinion?”
Violet didn’t want to hear anyone else’s opinion. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d slink from the room.
Mum lifted the lid off the new still and began plucking jasmine petals, tossing them in as she talked. “I think he is brilliant.”
Rose began collecting carnations, doubtless planning another floral arrangement. “Which makes him perfect for our Violet, doesn’t it?”
“I didn’t say that, Rose.”
“But you thought it.”
Violet gritted her teeth. “Rose, would you hush up?”
“Girls. Stop bickering. It’s up to Violet to choose her own husband. I said from the first I thought Lord Lakefield was too much of an intellectual, and I haven’t changed my opinion.”
“But he’s so nice,” Lily said.
Violet’s fingers clenched on the chair’s arms. “You think so? Then would you marry him?”
“I’m not looking for a man like him,” Lily protested. “I’m looking for a man who shares my love for animals.”
“You’re too young to be looking at all,” Mum said.
Rose rubbed a pink bloom across her lips. “I like looking.”
“We all know that by now,” Violet said, rolling her eyes.
“Viscount Lakefield is very nice to look at.”
“You think so?” Violet repeated. “Then why don’t you marry him?”
Rose tossed her gleaming chestnut ringlets. “I’m looking for a man who appreciates my femininity. Your Ford looks right through me.”
“Not too difficult, since you’re so shallow.”
“Violet!” Her eyes wide, Mum stopped plucking.
“I’m sorry,” Violet muttered. She hadn’t meant to be mean; she was just tired of being pressured. “It’s only that Rose is so intelligent, yet she tries so hard to hide it.”
Rose turned to pull a vase from the shelf. “I’ve told you, men aren’t interested in intelligence.”
“Lord Lakefield is,” Lily said.
“And that,” Rose declared, plopping the carnations into the vase, “is why he’s so perfect for Violet.”
A sigh escaped Violet in a rush. How long will you abuse my patience? she paraphrased Cicero in her head, but the familiar quotation did nothing to help her regain her own.
This discussion was going nowhere at all, and if she heard one more time that she should mar
ry Ford—from her mother, her sisters, anybody—she feared she would scream.
She rose and headed for the door. “I need to go get ready.”
Lily came to block her way, her blue eyes concerned. “Don’t you want to see the distillery work?”
“Perhaps tomorrow,” she said, skirting around her sister. “Today I have no time.”
Thanks to Mum’s meddling, she had a supper date in less than three hours.
FORTY-SEVEN
“VIOLET!” HER father called from over by a border of pink candytuft. “Where are you going?”
Walking through the garden with Ford, she cast him an apologetic glance. “I’m off to Lakefield House for supper!” she shouted. “Did Mum not tell you?”
As they drew close, Ford took her hand. Father’s gaze focused on their linked fingers, and a smile flirted on his lips. Apparently he wanted her to marry Ford, too.
Egad, just what she needed. More family pressure.
“Have a pleasant time, dear.” Father leaned to kiss her on the cheek. “Be back by supper.”
“Supper?” Ford repeated. “Lord Trentingham—”
“Forget it,” Violet told him. “We could stand here all night. Mum will explain when I’m not at the table.” She gave her father’s arm a squeeze, knowing he hadn’t heard her low comments. “I’ll see you later, Father.”
“What?”
“I’ll see you later!” she shouted with a smile. “Sorry about that,” she said to Ford as they walked away. “We yell a lot in this family, but we never mean anything by it.”
“If you’re thinking that will put me off, you’re wrong. My family yells, too. And none of us are deaf.” Still holding her hand, Ford led her around the corner.
And there was that silly, old-fashioned barge.
She stopped in her tracks. “Where is your carriage?”
“It’s a beautiful evening,” he said, pulling her along. “I thought to spend it on the river.”
His sudden smile was disarming. She was speechless as they crossed the lawn, and although she hadn’t tripped in weeks, she nearly did as she stepped onto the barge. Nodding to Harry and the stable hands to cast off, Ford drew her into the unsuitable cabin that had nothing but a bed.
Only it wasn’t quite so unsuitable now. A little table and two chairs were also crammed into the cozy space. And the whole of it was lit by dozens of flickering candles.
He’d made a wonderland for her again, this time on his elegantly decrepit barge. The table was covered by a soft pink cloth, and silver domes hid various dishes. While she stood gaping, he leaned forward and swept one off.
“Supper,” he said. “Since Hilda’s culinary skills are a mite lacking, I had Harry fetch it from the cookshop in the village. I only hope it hasn’t all gone cold.”
Butterflies erupted in Violet’s middle. She laid a hand on her blue moiré stomacher. At this moment, more than any other, she wished she were a conventional beauty. Sure of herself, confident the man in front of her could have feelings for her that were real.
Because what she was feeling now was becoming rather overwhelming.
“Are you all right?” he asked, looking concerned.
“I’m fine.”
This was ridiculous. She’d been alone with him on the way to Gresham College, not to mention in the piazza while they were there, and nothing much had happened. Kisses, that was all.
But there had also been that moment in the passageway at Gresham. And that day in the woods. And snatches of the Master-piece kept running through her head.
And her entire family wanted her to marry him.
Two goblets sat on the table, the red wine in them gently swaying in rhythm with the barge’s movements. She reached to raise one to her lips and took a gulp for courage. “I…I thought we were dining at Lakefield.”
He drew out a chair and waited for her to sit, then pulled the door shut. “I never said that. I only asked if you might take supper in my company tonight.” He seated himself across from her. The table was so small their knees touched, yet it and the chairs filled every inch of available space. “Don’t you think this is more romantic?”
She wasn’t certain she wanted romantic. His knees felt warm against hers, even through her skirts. Her gaze kept straying to the bed, so close she could easily touch it.
“Where are we going?” she asked. They were moving at a good clip already.
He shrugged one blue-velvet-clad shoulder. “Nowhere. Up, then back. We scientists call that perpetual motion,” he added with a grin.
She shifted uneasily. “Nowhere?”
“Just you and me and the river, food, heady drink, candlelight…is it not enough?” In the flickering light, his eyes looked dark and earnest. He leaned across the table and took her hands, white lace falling away from his wrists. “I love you, Violet. I’m out to persuade you to love me back.”
There it was. I love you.
“Violet, did you hear me?”
Of course she’d heard him, and she wanted so much to believe him. She’d dreamed of someday hearing those three words—especially from someone as handsome and intelligent as Ford Chase.
But she remembered too many balls where she’d hid in corners and no man had ever tried to coax her out. And before that, when she was younger, those torturous Sundays after church, when boys would huddle around her little sisters while she sat nearby with a book, pretending not to care. Faith, even when she was just five, and Rose and Lily still babies, strangers would coo over them while she stood by unnoticed.
When she failed to respond, Ford rose and turned to stick his head out the window. “Johnnie, my lady is not yet persuaded. We need music.”
Almost at once, the strains of a violin reached her ears.
Despite her distress, a laugh bubbled out of her. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“Almost everything. I forgot about the cold night air. Wouldn’t want you to be chilled.” He closed the window’s shutters and reseated himself with a smile.
He was smooth, too smooth for her to handle. Her senses were spinning already, and he hadn’t even really touched her. And she knew what would happen the moment he did that.
She would want him. Her mind would be stirred up to venery.
No, more than that. Because she loved him. Because she so desperately wanted to be loved in return.
He was a study in contradictions. Part logical scientist, part romantic rake, part responsible uncle, part irresponsible boy. And she loved every confusing facet.
He dressed like a prince and lived like a pauper. He was the most generous man she’d ever known. He’d made her spectacles; he’d made her mother a distillery.
He was out to persuade her to love him back, but God help her, she already did.
And yet…before he’d managed to close the shutters, she’d glimpsed Lakefield House as they glided by. In the shadows of the waning day, it had looked even more shabby than she remembered, reinforcing her fears. She couldn’t help but wonder if his ever-more-frequent kisses—and his declarations of love—were only because of…
She didn’t want to think about that now. Thanks to her mother’s meddling, she was alone in a cabin with a man who claimed to love her. A man who could make the heat pool deep inside her with no more than a look.
Tomorrow she would turn twenty-one. Tomorrow she’d become a spinster. Tonight she intended to enjoy herself.
“Will you eat?” he asked, uncovering the rest of the platters.
As she’d expect from a country cookshop, the supper was simple. A lamb pie and a sweet potato pudding. And parsnips and asparagus.
Erection is chiefly caused by parsnips, artichokes, asparagus…
Violet thanked her lucky stars that artichokes, at least, weren’t on the table. Enjoyment was one thing, unbridled lust quite another. She piled parsnips and asparagus on her plate, determined to make sure Ford didn’t eat more than his share.
She raised her cup to her lips, then
froze.
…all strong wines, especially those made of the grapes of Italy.
“Is this wine Italian?”
He blinked. “No. It’s French.”
“Oh, good,” she said, gulping a swallow. Flowing down her throat, it felt warm and seemed to relax her.
The sweet potato pudding was smooth and tasty, swimming in butter with eggs, nutmeg, and dark sugar. The lamb pie was flaky and delicious. As they dined, they discussed the books they’d recently read—excluding the Master-piece—and the latest discoveries in science.
No other man had really listened to her, or spoken to her as though she were his mental equal. Violet slowly came to realize that those weeks when Ford was gone, working on one project or another, it wasn’t just his kisses she’d missed. Even more so, she’d missed their conversations.
He didn’t touch her during supper, didn’t so much as nudge her foot with his. But all the time he talked, he gazed into her eyes in a way that had her heart beating erratically, a way that said he’d rather be kissing her than making pleasant conversation.
In the face of that banked passion, she found it hard to eat, but she finished all her parsnips and asparagus.
When his plate was empty and she was only picking at hers, he refilled her wine cup. “Violet?” He reached across the tiny table and gently pulled off her spectacles. “May I kiss you now?”
He’d never asked before, and she didn’t know what to say. In the flickering candlelight, he looked blurry. But he must have seen her answer in her eyes, because he rose from his chair, taking her hands to bring her up with him. He leaned across the table, and she caught her breath as his lips met hers—
And a pewter platter crashed to the floor.
“Everything all right in there?” came Harry’s voice through the shutters.
Violet jerked back.
“We’re fine,” Ford called to Harry, looking a bit shaken as he bent to retrieve the platter. He set it back on the table, then ran a hand through his hair. Raggedly.
“This won’t work,” he told her, softly enough that Harry couldn’t hear. “Do you suppose I can coax you into joining me on the bed?”
