Violet

by Lauren Royal

  “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?”

  “He’s a good man. She’ll be safe.”

  “She’ll be ruined.”

  “Oh, Chrysanthemum, this was your idea in the first place. After you took such pains to explain it to me, I cannot believe you’re having second thoughts. Besides…” His hand sneaked under her night rail and up her thigh. “Were you ruined?”

  She tingled. “Of course not. But that was different.” She met his eyes, that emerald green she’d sunk into from the first time they met. “We’d already decided to marry.”

  “So has Violet. She just hasn’t figured it out yet.”

  When his hand brushed her hip, she sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I expect she needs this to push her over the edge. I know they’re perfect for each other, I just think—”

  “Stop thinking, Chrysanthemum. Our Violet is in trustworthy hands.” With fingers made agile by long years of practice, he swept the night rail up and off. “Stop thinking now. It’s time to feel instead.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  SEATED ON THE faded red couch in Ford’s drawing room, Violet watched him flip pages.

  “You’re right,” he said, his eyes widening. “This is not philosophy.”

  She sipped the wine he’d poured upon their arrival—white Rhenish, not red Italian. “It was supposedly by Aristotle. I thought it was philosophy when I bought it.”

  “When I bought it, you mean. I cannot believe I bought you a bloody marriage manual!”

  “Hush!” Violet kept picturing Hilda lurking in the corridor, and just her luck, Mum was planning to deliver more Spiced Rosewater perfume tomorrow. She could imagine the tell-all that would ensue if she and Ford failed to modulate their voices. “I just need an explanation.” She opened to a page where a bit of paper stuck up; she’d marked the confusing spot before leaving to meet him. “This chapter. ‘A Word of Advice to Both Sexes: Being Several Directions Respecting…’”

  “‘Copulation,’” he finished for her, turning redder than the draperies. “Shouldn’t you be asking your mother these things? Why the devil are you bringing this to me?”

  She would die before asking her mother. “You’re a scientist. This is physiology, isn’t it?”

  “Not of the sort I learned at Wadham College.”

  “Well, can you help me or not?”

  “Let me see what it says.” Blowing out a breath, he focused on the book. “‘Since nature has implanted in every creature a mutual desire of copulation—’”

  “Wait.” There was that word again. Egad. “This room has no door. What if Hilda overhears? Or Harry?”

  He grinned. “Perhaps they’ll get an education.”

  “Ford—”

  “I was fooling, my love. They sought their beds hours before I left for Trentingham. Relax, will you?” He reached to refill her cup. “They don’t even know you’re here.”

  “But they could come downstairs.”

  He seemed to consider that a moment. “Then shall we go up? The rooms upstairs have doors.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, he rose and tucked the book beneath one arm. Handing her both cups, he took the bottle and a candle to light the way. She followed him up the worn steps, wincing at every crack and creak.

  Thank heavens Hilda and Harry were old and hard of hearing.

  On the landing, he turned right and walked her into a chamber.

  A bedchamber.

  “D-do you sleep here?” she asked. No matter that she’d come here expecting to share his bed, actually seeing it was a shock.

  “Yes, I sleep here.” Setting the wine on a small table, he took the candle around the room, lighting others. “I’m sorry it’s not more elegant. It will all be repaired, though, Violet. I hired some laborers today after you left.”

  She sipped, staring at the bed, a four-poster so enormous it couldn’t possibly fit through a door—it had to have been built in the room. It was fashioned of heavy oak, darkened 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.

  The walls were paneled with plain smoke-stained oak, divided into squares with simple molding. She looked up to find a beamed ceiling coated in peeling white paint.

  “It’s very…interesting,” she said, for lack of a better description.

  “I believe it’s the roof of the original great hall, retained when the floor and fireplace were added some years later. Soon, it will all look good as new.”

  “That will take a lot of money,” she said dubiously.

  “Not so much,” he assured her. “The building itself is sound. And I’m going to live here and manage the estate, see that it earns a profit.”

  She was listening with half an ear, avoiding looking back to the bed. With some relief, she noticed an open door across the chamber. In the way of older houses, a room lay beyond with no corridor to divide them. “What’s that?”

  “A sitting room of sorts.” His half-smile told her he was aware of her nervousness. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  A short, unpadded settle, a single armless chair, and a small, low table filled the tiny room. Although it was less than beautiful, like the rest of the house it was clean. And there was no bed.

  “Lovely,” she said, setting down the wine cups and settling herself on the low-backed oak bench.

  He’d carried the candle in with him, and he set that on the table, too. Instead of taking the chair as she’d expected, he squeezed onto the settle beside her. “Would you mind if I get comfortable?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he tugged off his boots. And peeled off his stockings.

  Her mouth went dry. She moistened her lips. “Will you explain Aristotle’s Master-piece now?”

  “Of course,” he said, wiggling his toes. With a flourish, he opened the book to her marked spot and tilted it to catch the candlelight. “‘Since nature has implanted in every creature a mutual desire of copulation, I thought it necessary to give directions to both sexes for the performing of that act.’” Frowning, he glanced up. “Did you feel directions were necessary?”

  His warmth wedged next to her made it difficult to focus on the words, but she already knew what the book said. She kept staring at his toes. He had very nice toes. “Just keep reading,” she told him. “Please.”

  Before he did so, he shrugged out of his surcoat and laid it over the settle’s arm. “Very well, then,” he said. “‘It would be very proper to cherish the body with generous restoratives, so that it may be brisk and vigorous, and if their imaginations were charmed with sweet and melodious airs, and cares and thoughts of business drowned in a glass of racy wine, that their spirits may be raised to the highest pitch of ardor and joy, it would not be amiss.’” Leaving the book open on his lap, he worked the knot in his cravat. “‘For inspiration, creativity, and resourcefulness enrich the delights of Venus.’”

  “See?” she broke in, alarmed to find he wasn’t just removing his shoes—he looked to be undressing. “This is what I don’t understand.”

  He twisted on the settle to face her. “Generous restoratives, sweet and melodious airs, and a glass of racy wine—did I not provide those for you, my love?”

  Her face flushed hot. Yes, he’d provided food, music, and wine, and although she wasn’t sure what was meant by racy, the word seemed to fit the mood of that night. “It’s the other that makes no sense. Imagination. Inspiration, creativity, and resourcefulness.”

  “Doesn’t it?” He drew off his cravat, setting the froth of white on the table.

  “Read the rest.”

  “As you wish.” He shifted even closer to her, if that were possible. “‘It is also highly necessary, that in their natural embraces, they meet each other with an equal ardor and an eye to ingenuity.’�
�� As he read, he loosened the laces at his neck. “‘I do advise them, before they begin their conjugal embraces, to invigorate their mutual desires with much daring and inventiveness. Freshness and originality will make their flame burn with a fierce ardor, by those endearing ways that love can better teach than I can write.’”

  “See?”

  Apparently finished “getting comfortable” for now, he reached for his wine. “See what? The author is rather enamored of the word ardor, isn’t he? Three ardors in two paragraphs. And it would enhance readability if he broke up all those long sentences…who wrote this, do you know?” Sipping, he flipped back to the title page single-handedly.

  “It’s anonymous.”

  “I can see why.” He shut the book and set it on the table, looking relieved to be finished with the reading. “Now, what is it you don’t understand?”

  “All of it! What ways can love teach better than he can write?”

  “Almost anything is better than he can write.”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “What does he mean by giving these directions to invigorate mutual desires with ingenuity and daring and inventiveness?” Although she’d never shared this chapter with her sisters, she’d read it so many times the words were burned into her brain. “And freshness and originality?”

  “What do you mean, what does he mean?”

  “I mean, how can one be creative in copulation?” She blushed at her use of the word, but went on. “I’ve seen the animals in the fields, and each species has only one way to go about it.”

  A grin spread on his face.

  Suddenly, she felt very, very stupid.

  “What?” she asked suspiciously, trying to scoot farther away on the settle but only managing to smash herself against the hard wooden arm.

  Very slowly, he ran a finger down her nose. “Let me tell you, darling, there are many, many ways to go about it.”

  “Oh.” The finger continued down to her lips, tracing them lightly. “Oh,” she repeated against it. “In that case, never mind.”

  “No, no.” Smiling, he handed her his cup. “You came to me for physiology instruction, did you not? Let me explain the many ways.” His eyes sparkled with devilment, and she couldn’t quite decide whether to be irked or intrigued. “First, there is the disrobing. Many ways to be creative with that.”

  Intrigued, she decided, gulping a mouthful of wine. “Are there?”

  “Absolutely. For example, you could dance for me while you remove your clothing.”

  “Dance?” she gasped.

  “Oh, yes. You could hum a tune or sing a song while you did that, and I would enjoy it very much. Or I could dance for you.”

  Although he’d proven himself a good dancer at the Royal Society event, she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around that picture.

  “No?” he continued, obviously reading her face. “Well, then, of course, we could remove each other’s clothing instead.” She looked down to see him doing just that, his fingers detaching the tabs of her stomacher. “Inventively.”

  She drained the rest of the wine. “Inventively?”

  “Mm-hmm.” The stomacher dropped to the floor. “For example, I could use my teeth.”

  “Your teeth?”

  “My teeth,” he murmured, inclining his head. He bit one of her laces and drew back to untie the bow. Her heart slammed against her ribs. With his head down there, she was sure he could hear it.

  He knelt at her feet and pulled off her shoes, then eased his hands beneath her skirts to raise and drape them over her thighs. It was a good thing she’d finished the wine, because the cup dropped from her fingers and rolled across the planked floor. It stopped against the wall with a clink.

  “My teeth,” he repeated, using them to capture one of the ribbon garters she’d tied below her knees. In a trice, both were gone, and he used his teeth—his teeth!—to draw off her stockings after that.

  He used his tongue, too, tracing hot, wet trails down her legs.

  When a shiver rippled through her, he raised his head. “Are you, by any chance, feeling ardor right now?”

  A nod was all she could manage.

  With a grin of pure masculine pride, he rose to his feet, taking her hands to bring her up with him. “Now, before we begin our conjugal embraces, we are instructed to invigorate our mutual desires with much daring and inventiveness.”

  How could he speak so matter-of-factly, she wondered, after undressing her with his teeth?

  “I think…” She licked her lips. “I think I can see now, there are indeed many ways, so—”

  “But I would be remiss if I failed to demonstrate the wide range of options in invigorating our mutual desires.” As he talked, he pulled his shirt off over his head. The resulting ripple of muscles invigorated her desires quite effectively. “For example,” he continued conversationally, his long fingers working the laces that secured his breeches, “one can employ things in an invigorating manner.”

  “Things?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Yes, things.” Pausing, the breeches still hanging on his hips, he scanned the Spartan room. “There’s nothing much in here, though, is there? In the way of things, I mean.”

  “No,” she agreed, drifting slowly down toward the settle. Her knees felt inordinately weak.

  He seized her around the ribs and held her up, his hands feeling hot through her bodice. She blinked. “What sorts of things are you looking for?” she asked, half afraid to hear the answer. Or maybe only one-quarter afraid, because truth be told, she was also intrigued beyond bearing.

  “Oh, any number of things,” he said blithely, raising his hands to her shoulders. He eased her gown and chemise down to her waist. “A feather, for instance,” he elaborated as he plucked her limp arms from her sleeves, “can engender many pleasant sensations.”

  Her jaw went slack, and her gaze dropped down to her bared torso.

  “Yes, there.”

  The thought of that made her pulse leap. Then it raced when he brushed her breasts with his fingertips. Lightly, lightly.

  “Feather-light,” he whispered as she watched herself tighten in response. “But not nearly as effective as an actual feather.”

  She closed her eyes, swaying, imagining that feather, thinking it was very difficult, actually, to imagine anything feeling better than what he was doing now.

  Then she felt her gown pool at her feet, and her eyes flew open to find his gaze riveted there.

  “Yes, there,” he repeated. “A feather can be very effective there.”

  He had no feather. Yet she imagined herself sprawled wantonly on that enormous bed in the next room while he teased her with one.

  Faith, she could feel it. He wasn’t even touching her now, and she could feel it. Her face was getting hot—no, her whole body was getting hot. She sank back onto the settle.

  “Are you perhaps feeling ardor?” he inquired, fetching the chair and dragging it over to face her. His breeches were the last of his clothing, and those looked as though they might slide off his slim hips.

  She half wished they would.

  He sat and scooted the chair closer, so close their knees touched. Then closer still, until one of his legs slipped between both of hers.

  She stared at his bare chest, thinking she must be dreaming. She was stark naked, and a man’s knee was between her legs. Her open legs, exposing where he wanted to tease her with a feather.

  Reaching out, he raised her chin. “Violet? Are you paying attention?”

  His muscles flexed with his movements. She wanted him. Now. She couldn’t take any more of this lesson. “Ford, I—”

  “I’m remembering,” he interrupted smoothly, “that the book gave directions to be resourceful. Therefore, since the only thing we have here is wine, I should use it to demonstrate creativity.” He raised his cup and swirled the liquid with two fingers. “For example, we can use it as paint.”

  Holding her gaze, he anointed the crest of one breast with a sweeping, circular motio
n.

  Shocked, she looked down. A droplet of wine seemed poised to fall, and she gasped when he bent his head and caught it on his tongue. Then his lips closed over her, and he suckled the rest of it off.

  Her breath caught as a dizzying wave of excitement rolled through her, matching the rhythm of his mouth.

  “Ford—”

  “Hmm?” His eyes looking glazed, he dipped his fingers again and painted her other breast. “Mmm,” he murmured, not a question this time, but a sound of satisfaction. “Red wine would be most flattering on this rosy little confection, but white looks fetching as well.”

  How could he talk like that while he was doing this to her? The wine felt cool on her skin, and his tongue felt hot as he licked it off, ever so slowly and thoroughly. She forgot whatever it was she had meant to say. If she’d even known in the first place.

  Finally he sat back, giving her a lazy, seductive smile. “Now,” he announced, the instructor again, “there is the finale, otherwise known as ‘conjugal embraces.’ There are many ways—”

  “I am sure there are many ways,” she cut in. She ached, an ache that was becoming unbearable. “I liked the first way we tried perfectly well.”

  As though he hadn’t heard her at all, he cocked his head and eyed the settle. “That looks damned narrow and uncomfortable, but if we move to the bed, we could try it on our sides. Either face to face, or me behind you. Or I could lie back and let you ride me—”

  She gasped, but he only grinned.

  “Not ready for that? Or is it that you wish to stay in this chamber? I suppose we could try it standing against the wall, or…I know, right here on this chair.” And before she could react to that astounding barrage of ideas, he’d grabbed her by the waist and hauled her, facing him, to straddle his lap.

  Somehow he’d maneuvered his breeches down, because she could feel him, right there where she ached. “Oh my,” she breathed, closing her eyes to revel in the sensation. Amazed at her own boldness, she wiggled closer.

  She was dying to have him inside her.

  She ran her hands up his chest and felt him gently tug off her spectacles. Her eyes flew open as she realized he’d brought her this far, to the brink of completion, without so much as a single kiss.