by Lauren Royal
He made up for that lack now.
His lips slanted over hers, his tongue invading her mouth, stroking hers, gentle and tender at first, almost exquisitely so. Then more insistent, more emphatic, angling his head, nipping her bottom lip, coming back to settle on her mouth and stay there, working his magic until she felt nothing but heat and a wild dance of tongues and lips and teeth.
For a long time, he just kissed her, until, wanting more, needing more, she rocked against him and her hands began roaming his body. And then, still kissing her, he began to touch her, too.
In this position, his hands were free. They teased her breasts, sending the blood in a rush through her veins. They cradled her face, making her heart melt with tenderness. They threaded into her hair, making her feel sweetly possessed. They wandered down her back, warm and swift, all the way to her bottom. He pulled her closer. A moan escaped her lips as she felt him pressing, pressing against where she ached. Until he finally slid inside.
And then deeper, still kissing her, kissing her until she wondered if she’d ever catch her breath. But she didn’t want him to stop. Deeper still, and he shifted, tilting his hips, and she moved with him. That feeling she remembered was building, an excitement so urgent she could barely keep from crying out. She was spiraling up, up—
And then suddenly he stopped, holding her hips in place with his hands. His lips clung to hers, one more sweet, lingering caress before he drew back.
Still straining against him, she opened her eyes.
“Sometimes,” he said softly, “one can find ‘freshness’ in an encounter by temporarily reversing the process.”
Her fingers clenched his shoulders. “Wh-what?”
“Although we are here in a conjugal embrace, there is nothing to say we cannot resume invigorating our mutual desires.”
Her squeak was one of distress, but he smiled as he eased her away, and the smile widened when she moaned at his withdrawal. Standing, he swept her up, cradling her with an arm beneath her knees and another around her shoulders, as she imagined he would carry Jewel were she asleep.
But Violet wasn’t asleep. Every fiber of her body was alarmingly awake. Wanting him back inside her.
He walked into the other chamber, kicking his breeches off as he went, and deposited her flat on her back in the middle of the bed. She gazed up at him. She could see he was still ready for her. Magnificently ready.
Faith, she wanted him more than she’d wanted anything in her life. Beseechingly, she held up her arms, waiting for his warm, welcome weight.
“We’re going back, remember? To invigorating our mutual desires.” Instead of joining her, he sat beside her and reached for the bottle of wine. It seemed like hours since he’d left it on the night table.
“Hmm,” he said speculatively. Her heart beat faster. She was beginning to anticipate that speculative “hmm”—and with good reason, as it turned out. He raised the green bottle so the candlelight shone through it. Then he spilled a bit into her navel and immediately leaned to lap it up.
His hot tongue in that little indentation made her belly quiver and sent a jolt of passion streaking through her. The ache between her legs intensified, an almost unbearable wanting. She called his name in a breathy cry.
“Hmm?” he murmured, a hum against her skin. His dark head moved lower, his tongue licking, his teeth nipping, down her pelvis and over the tender insides of her thighs.
And then he hovered there, where she ached.
She waited, feeling his warm breath washing over her, and when nothing happened, she grabbed his shoulders, his hair.
He lifted his head, meeting her gaze.
“Ford?” she whispered, wondering what she was asking. Would he touch her there with his mouth? She’d never imagined such a thing, but the thought of it sent such a hot stab of lust coursing through her, it completely stole her breath.
“No,” he decided with a reluctant shake of his head. “I’m going to save that for our wedding night.”
Air rushed between her parted lips. She wanted him there so badly, touching her, stroking her, filling her…
“Are you feeling ardor now?” he asked.
“Oh, please,” she breathed in reply, unsure whether she was asking for his mouth or his body, but needing something.
Some part of him, completing her.
At long last he came over her, warm along her length, groaning as his lips met hers above while down below he slid inside. Her blood sang at the sheer perfection of the way their bodies fit together. He thrust once, twice, and—
She exploded. That was all it took, and there was no other word to describe it. Lost to sensation, she barely felt him draw out of her before he shuddered and collapsed, burying his face in the crook of her neck.
“Violet,” he choked out, “I love you.”
Struggling to catch her breath, she missed him inside her already. But she hadn’t missed the fervor in his voice, the force behind his words. And when he finally lifted his head, she saw it there.
Love, true and honest.
She searched his eyes, learning this gaze by heart. And then she smiled, a tentative smile, wanting to tell him she loved him, too, but unable to find the words. After all she’d put him through, she wanted her declaration to be perfect—
A different light entered his eyes as he rolled off her, still holding her in his arms. A glint of humor. “You see, my sweet,” he said, a playful grin curving his lips, “there are many, many ways.”
“There are,” she breathed, knowing now there must be so much more. That reminded her. “You didn’t do that the last time. Leave me at the end.”
She felt him tense. “Last time,” he said, all the playfulness suddenly gone, “I thought we would soon be married.”
“Oh.” She knew he was waiting for her to say they would. But she was shocked beyond any more speech. A simple “Oh” was all she could muster.
How could she, levelheaded Violet Ashcroft, have done such an irresponsible thing?
He’d pulled out this time but, faith, they could have conceived a child that night on the barge. She’d been so carried away, she hadn’t thought about the consequences, never mind that the Master-piece had been quite clear in that regard. Thinking about it now brought a chill to her heated flesh.
She lay a while beside him, waiting for her heart to calm and her head to focus. Thank heavens he loved her; thank heavens she’d seen it in his eyes. The Ashcrofts might be unconventional, but a child born out of wedlock would strain their family motto a bit too far.
“Ford?” she called softly, but there was no answer.
He’d collapsed for real this time. He was sound asleep.
Her arms tightened around him, and her heart squeezed to match. She pressed a kiss to his warm, dear temple. She’d let him sleep a few minutes before she woke him and told him she’d be honored to become his wife.
SIXTY
“JOSEPH?” CHRYSTABEL called softly.
“Hmm?”
“Do you think our baby is still an innocent now?”
He rolled to face her. “She’s been alone with him before, my love.”
“You don’t think…no…”
“Yes.” He struggled up on his elbows, peering at her through the darkness. “Who, after all, brought home Aristotle’s Master–piece?”
“I’m sure she thought it was a philosophy book.”
He snorted and fell back to the pillows. “You just go on believing that, Chrysanthemum. Whatever makes you happy.”
No matter that she’d plotted to allow Ford to seduce her daughter, she would have known had it actually happened. She was sure of it. “If she’d been with him before, I would have seen it in her face.”
This snort was even louder than the first. “One cannot tell from a woman’s face whether she’s made love. If so, you’d be going about wearing a veil all your days.” She blushed, and he touched her cheek, then his eyes drifted closed. “But you believe whatever makes you happy, Chrysant
hemum my love, so long as you let me sleep.”
“FORD, WAKE UP!” Sitting beside him on the bed, Violet shook his shoulder. “I must get home!”
With a groan, he rolled against her, and for a moment all she could think was she wanted to crawl back into bed with him. Even through her skirts he felt impossibly warm and wonderful.
But impossible was the operative word. She finished attaching her stomacher and shook him again. “It’s morning already!”
He cracked an eye open and, seeing nothing but the single flame of a candle to break the darkness, promptly closed it. “It’s not morning.”
“Well, it will be soon. I cannot believe I fell asleep!”
Grabbing the candle, she hurried next door to fetch her spectacles. When the tiny chamber came into focus, her gaze fell on the single chair. Last night, she’d been entwined with Ford on that chair in a shockingly wanton conjugal embrace.
Her blood heated at the memory.
In the soft glow of the candlelight, the room didn’t appear nearly as shabby as she’d thought. Besides, he’d told her he was fixing up Lakefield. He hadn’t done it before because he hadn’t planned to live here, but now he was going to fix it up. He’d hired laborers already. Just like that, he’d said in the summerhouse. And last night he’d said he was determined to see the estate earned a profit. It was going to be his home.
Their home.
Home. She had to get home. She streaked back into the bedchamber. “Get up, will you? Or should I go home alone?”
“No.” He struggled to sit and ran a hand through his hair, leaving parts of it sticking straight up. Sleepy like this, he looked charmingly boyish, and the thought made her smile. Especially now that she knew he was so very much a man.
“I’ll get dressed,” he muttered. “Just give me a moment.” He blinked, shook his head, and began to rise from the bed. Stark naked.
She wasn’t ready for this. This morning-after business was more than she could take. “I’ll wait for you downstairs,” she told him. “Hurry.” But she sneaked him a sideways glance while she lit a second candle before rushing out the door.
My, he was magnificent.
She wanted him. God help her, she wanted him for good.
On her way down the stairs, she smiled at the worn boards that creaked under her feet, at the paneling on the walls that so badly needed refinishing, at the peeling paint on the beams overhead. None of it bothered her. The truth was, the condition of her home didn’t overly concern her. She just needed to know, deep in her bones, that the man she wed truly loved her. Her, Violet, not the monetary bounty that would come along with her.
And now she did know that, all the way down to her marrow. Love, true and honest—she’d seen it in Ford’s eyes. And though he hadn’t said it in so many words, he’d made it clear he didn’t need her inheritance. She could marry him now, knowing it was for all the right reasons. Knowing it was for love, not money.
Her entire body seemed to sing with happiness. As soon as Ford came downstairs, she would tell him she would be honored—no, thrilled—to become his wife.
It wasn’t as late as she’d feared. To her great relief, Hilda and Harry were nowhere in sight. She set the candle on a small marble table that could use a serious buffing, then paced Lakefield’s entrance hall while she waited for Ford and thought about her new life—the wonderful new life the two of them would have together.
Her dowry should cover the costs of renovation, leaving more of his funds available to improve the estate, which in turn would allow it to run more profitably. She was anxious to go over his plans. Since she wouldn’t be publishing her book for many years, perhaps she should suggest they use her inheritance to accelerate the improvements. The investment would surely come back to her long before she needed it.
Now that she knew Ford wasn’t marrying her for her inheritance, she wouldn’t mind him making use of it. In fact, it made little sense to let all that money sit idle for years.
Her gaze went up the empty staircase. What was taking him so long? Wondering if the sun were rising already, she jerked open the front door.
A shocked face was on the other side. Violet squealed, and the young boy turned tail and began running.
“Wait!” she called.
He stopped and pivoted back. “I have a letter, madam.”
Madam. Was her loss of innocence so obvious to a stranger, then? Or was it only that she’d reached the advanced old age of one-and-twenty?
Rather cautiously, he approached the door, holding forth a rectangle of sealed parchment. “Will you give this to the lord?”
“Of course. Let me just…wait.” She’d noticed a bowl with a few coins on the table in the entrance, and she went inside to fetch one, pressing it into the boy’s hand on her return. “Thank you.”
He touched his cap and took off.
She slowly closed the door, turning the letter in her hands. It looked long and very official. There was no return address, but she hoped…could it be from Daniel Quare, the watchmaker?
Her heart pounded at the thought.
She sent a furtive glance up the stairs before slipping her fingernail under the seal.
My dearest Lord Lakefield, she read. It is my sad duty to inform you that I have received a foreclosure notice on your estate. You have thirty days…
The letter fluttered to the floor, her heart sinking along with it.
It wasn’t in response to her query, and she had no business reading Ford’s private mail. But the parchment mocked her from where it sat on the dull wood planks. She took a deep breath before stooping to retrieve it, then set it on the table beside the bowl of coins. Ford would find it later. After he’d taken her home, after she’d told him she saw no reason to see each other anymore.
Foreclosure.
She would have to pray she wasn’t with child. Because he’d tried to fool her, and she’d done her best to fool herself…but she no longer had any illusions about why Ford Chase had been pursuing her so avidly.
SIXTY-ONE
TWO MEN WERE working on Lakefield’s roof. Three were painting the exterior of the house, two the interior. Another man was busy stripping the dark Tudor paneling for refinishing, and in the gardens, two more toiled, making order out of the disarray Ford had left.
In the meantime, he paced his laboratory, the letter in his hand.
Foreclosure.
The single word was like a fist to his gut. He’d had no idea his situation was this bad. Never again would he allow himself to stay ignorant of his finances.
He’d thought if he put his mind to the task—and the funds he usually spent on his science into the estate—he could make Lakefield profitable and dig himself out of debt. And he could, according to his solicitor. But it would be much more difficult than he’d imagined.
Foreclosure.
All these people he’d hired yesterday he’d have to dismiss this afternoon. In lieu of selling the estate, his solicitor had outlined an emergency plan to save it, but it certainly didn’t include funds for cosmetic restorations. His income would have to go into the fields, purchasing livestock, fixing the stables, and repairing crofters’ cottages so new tenants would have a place to live.
But that wasn’t the worst of his troubles.
He’d been sure the tactics he’d plotted with Rand were working, but for some reason he couldn’t fathom, after what he’d considered a night of shared bliss, Violet had awakened this morning and seen him in a different light. A light so dim and dreary, she’d made it clear she had no interest in seeing him ever again.
And now his dreams of repairing Lakefield so she’d view him in a brighter light were finished. Gone. His hopes of winning her were gone as well. Along with his spirits.
The disappointment was a physical ache. Empty years yawned ahead. He knew, with a sureness that crushed him, that he’d never find satisfaction in his scientific accomplishments again. Not without Violet here to share them.
Unless…
The letter fluttered to the floor as, determined, he set his jaw. He had one last chance to win her, one final opportunity to convince her, once and for all, that he loved her, not her inheritance. One way to fill his coffers with the kind of money that would make hers superfluous.
It would be the hardest thing he’d ever done…but with his only other option losing Violet, he had no choice.
No other choice he could live with.
SIXTY-TWO
VIOLET LOOKED UP from her philosophy book, muttering under her breath. She’d read the same page four times and still didn’t understand it. It had been three days since she’d seen Ford—three days during which she couldn’t concentrate on anything and snapped at everyone within earshot.
“Violet?”
Exasperated, she swung toward the door. “Yes?” she bit out, then bit her lip. Her mother didn’t deserve her misplaced ire. It wasn’t Mum’s fault that Violet was too plain and odd for any man to love except for her money.
She closed her eyes momentarily, then opened them, drawing on her last reserve of patience. “What is it, Mum?”
“There’s a man here to see you. Not Ford,” she added in a rush, and Violet was chagrined, knowing the leap of hope must have shown in her eyes. “His friend,” Mum said gently. “Lord Randal Nesbitt.”
Rand? Why would Rand want to see her? “Are you sure he isn’t here to see Rose, Mum? She’s the one who likes languages.”
“He asked for you. He’s waiting in the drawing room.”
Sighing, she reached for her spectacles. In a fit of melancholy that terrible morning, she’d tried to put them away in a drawer, because they’d reminded her too much of Ford. Of her dreams, dashed and broken. But after three or four hours of walking around half blind, she’d decided that was ridiculous. She wasn’t going to forget him anyway, and there was no point in bumping into things for the rest of her life.
She slid them on and made her way downstairs to the drawing room.
