by Lauren Royal
“I think I’m confused,” she said, thankful he couldn’t see her face. Without her spectacles, the river looked blurry in the distance.
He pushed her again. “Confused about what, sweetheart?”
The endearment filled her with a cautious thrill. “About everything. Why was this place so run down if you could afford to fix it up? Just because you never lived here?”
“No,” he said without hesitation. He wasn’t going to try to hide anything from her, and she loved him all the more for it. “I thought I could afford to fix it up, but that turned out not to be true. Until I asked Rand to sell Secrets of the Emerald Tablet for me.” He walked around to face her. “He got ten thousand pounds.”
She gasped. “Ten thousand pounds! Why…that’s as much as my inheritance!”
“I know.” Grabbing one rope, he stopped the swing and slid onto it. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? I suspect the buyer was Isaac Newton, since he’d pledged to double any other bid, but Rand told me the purchase was made on condition of anonymity.”
“I wouldn’t want anyone knowing I owned such a valuable thing, either.” That much, at least, was the truth. “I expect it would make him a target for robbery.”
“Perhaps.” Raking a hand through his hair, Ford scooted closer, close enough to be in focus. He captured her gaze with those incredible blue eyes. “I hope this will change your mind.”
“Ford, I’d already—”
“In a matter of months, Lakefield will be earning a goodly profit.” He pushed off with both feet, setting the swing to swaying. “You can marry me now without fear that I’ll spend your inheritance and rob you of your dream to publish.”
As though battered by the back-and-forth motion, her heart hurt. “Is that what you thought? That I valued a philosophy book over you?”
Suddenly she could see where he could have inferred as much, and her shame escalated beyond bearing. Her throat tightened painfully.
“I would never put a book before you,” she choked out. He hadn’t valued a book over her, either. He’d sold his precious alchemy book to win her. “Never. It’s just…well, I couldn’t bring myself to believe anyone would want me for myself. It was my failing, not yours. I’m sorry.”
Tears welled, and one rolled down her cheek.
She wasn’t acting now.
He reached to wipe away the moisture, his fingers a warm promise on her skin. “Don’t cry,” he said as the swing slowed to a halt. “Just say yes. Please. Marry me.”
“I’d be honored,” she whispered.
He caught her up in a hug so tight it threatened to crack her ribs. “I love you,” he said. “Have I told you I love you?”
“Only about a million times.” She laughed through her tears. “But I’ve neglected to tell you the same.”
His eyes looked anxious. “I’m waiting.”
She kissed him on the lips. “I love you, Ford Chase.” His mouth felt warm and dear on hers, and she kissed him again, thrilled when he pulled her closer and deepened it.
She sank into the embrace. The blood thrummed through her veins as his kiss convinced her she was his—and his alone. She hadn’t known it, but she’d been waiting for this all her life. This love, this trust, this acceptance of her as a woman.
There was that weakness again, those languid waves of pleasure flowing through her. That heat was building inside, that ache to take him into her and make him a part of her forever.
She wanted him. Here, now, today, tomorrow, for all time.
“I love you,” she said again breathlessly when he finally pulled back. “And faith,” she added with a shaky laugh, “I think I would’ve let you take me right here on this swing.”
That devilish brow lifted. “We’ll have to experiment with that sometime.”
Not only would she not put it past him, she looked forward to it.
A smile curved his lips as he toyed with a lock of her hair. “Before you change your mind, I expect I should ask your father for your hand.”
“Is that why you invited my whole family? Planning ahead?” she teased, reaching to his pocket for her spectacles. “All right, then. Just don’t forget to shout.”
SIXTY-FIVE
“SIX MONTHS,” Mum said after the congratulations and the hugs and the kisses. “It will take that long to arrange everything and allow people time to make plans to attend.”
“Tomorrow,” Ford countered loudly, evidently remembering Violet’s instructions to shout.
“Tomorrow!” Rose snorted. “Madame Beaumont cannot make a wedding gown by tomorrow.”
He turned to Violet. “Tell me you’re not going to London to order a gown.”
She shrugged. She was a newcomer to caring about fashion and knew nothing about planning events. “Three months?”
“One week.”
At that point, Father pulled Mum aside for a whispered conversation. Mum’s mouth fell open, and she nodded violently before turning back.
“Two weeks,” she said, “and that’s final.”
TWO WEEKS LATER, Violet’s wedding day had arrived, and she still wondered about her parents’ whispered discussion in Lakefield’s garden. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she’d heard the words “with child.”
She’d been mortified at the time to find they suspected she’d shared Ford’s bed, although between then and now she’d found herself a bit sad to learn she hadn’t conceived.
Maybe this month, she thought with a secret smile as Margaret finished threading a pale blue ribbon in her hair. Truth be told, she couldn’t wait to get back in his arms.
The two weeks since her betrothal had been excruciating. Odd how her parents had become so vigilant all of a sudden, when earlier they’d seemed so lax. She hadn’t found more than five minutes alone with Ford at any one time. Barely time to steal a kiss, and she ached for so much more than that.
“Why are you smiling?” Rose asked, watching Violet’s face in her dressing table mirror. “Brides are supposed to be nervous.”
“I’m not,” Violet told her. She wasn’t nervous in the least. This marriage was so right. Mum had been wrong to think Ford was too intellectual for her—so wrong she wondered if Chrystabel might be losing her matchmaking touch.
When her maid left, she stood and turned to face her sisters.
“You look beautiful,” Lily breathed.
Today, in her pale blue satin wedding gown, Violet felt beautiful. Still smiling to herself, she absently traced the pearls embroidered in scrolling designs on her stomacher. It no longer mattered that she would never be as pretty as either of her sisters. The man she loved wanted her, and that was all that counted.
“You should leave off your spectacles,” Rose said. “At least for the ceremony.”
“No.” She wanted to see everything clearly, especially Ford’s eyes when they exchanged vows. “Ford said I look fine in them. And I believe him.”
“I told you that you should marry him.” Though Rose’s voice sounded gloating, Violet didn’t care. “Just think, Violet,” she continued, her tone changing to one of half awe, half envy. “Tonight you’re going to learn the secrets of the Master-piece.”
“Oh, Rose,” Lily started, but then a knock came at the door and she went to answer it.
“A delivery,” the majordomo said, holding out a long, flat box. “From Lord Lakefield to Lady Violet.”
“Thank you, Parkinson.” Lily shut the door and carried the small wooden box over to Violet. “What do you suppose it could be?”
“Jewelry, I’m sure,” Rose said. “It’s a wedding present, after all. A necklace, I’d wager, from the shape of the box. Maybe diamonds.”
“I think not.” Generous though he might be, Ford was focused on the estate these days, and Violet doubted he had enough of her ten thousand pounds left to feel comfortable spending money on diamonds.
The box was tied—very crookedly—with a purple ribbon Violet thought she remembered seeing in Jewel’s hair. “Open it,” Rose s
aid, reaching for it. “I’m dying to see what he gave you.”
Violet pushed her sister’s hand away and untied the bow herself, then lifted the box’s lid.
“A feather!” Lily exclaimed. A question lit her gorgeous blue eyes.
“A feather?” Rose’s lovely brow creased in a puzzled frown. “What kind of wedding present is that?”
Her heart suddenly racing, Violet shrugged and hid another smile. She already knew the secrets of the Master-piece, but it was obvious her sisters didn’t.
SIXTY-SIX
AS EVENING FELL, it began raining. Violet stood with Ford and her family within Trentingham’s covered portico, watching the last of the guests sprint to their carriages while she waited to say good-bye to her father.
“It was a nice wedding,” Mum said, “wasn’t it?”
Violet sighed. “I can hardly remember it.”
“Perhaps you’ve had too much champagne?” That hint of the devil was in Ford’s eyes. “I remember it perfectly. A rather solemn ceremony, right here in Trentingham’s chapel.” It hadn’t been solemn at all. Violet’s lips twitched as he continued. “I have lingering impressions of much Tudor woodwork and jewel-toned stained glass, with my beautiful bride a glorious vision in blue.”
Lily giggled. She’d definitely had too much champagne. “I cannot believe so many people showed up with only two weeks’ notice! All of Father’s friends from Parliament, and your friends from the Royal Society—”
“And everyone Mum knows,” Rose cut in. She was still drinking champagne. “Which means everyone who lives within a twenty-mile radius.”
Ignoring her middle daughter, Chrystabel smiled at Ford. “You have very nice friends.”
Although Violet would swear her mother had once referred to Ford’s friends as “that odd group of scientists,” today she’d seemed to hang on their every word. “I saw you chatting with Mr. Hooke’s ‘housekeeper,’” she teased Mum.
“I enjoyed chatting with Rand,” Rose said dreamily, taking another sip. “And dancing with him.”
Rand had danced with Lily more often, but apparently Rose hadn’t noticed. Meeting Lily’s guilty gaze, Violet decided to hold her tongue on that subject. “I think at least two hundred people tried on my spectacles. My face hurts from smiling.”
Making sympathetic noises, Ford pulled her close. “My poor wife,” he said, kissing her softly.
“Ewww.” Rowan made a face. “More kisses.”
Everyone laughed. Earlier, Jewel had informed Rowan her Auntie Cait said kissing was encouraged at weddings, then planted one smack on his lips. Violet had never seen anyone turn quite so red as her brother.
“Here we are,” Father announced, coming out with a footman bearing the last of Violet’s trunks. He kissed her on the cheek. “I hope we’ll still see you around here.”
“Oh, it’s time,” Mum said with a sniffle, and wrapped her in a hug.
Rose drained the last of her champagne. “I want a full report on your wedding night. Tomorrow.”
“Oh, Rose,” Violet said with a groan. But she kissed her anyway. Tearing up, she gathered Lily and Rowan close.
“Enough,” Ford said. “Any more of this, and you’ll all turn to mush and be washed away by the rain.”
He grabbed Violet’s hand, and they made a dash for the carriage. She barely had time to lift her skirts before he grabbed her by the waist to swing her up and inside.
“I thought we’d never get out of there,” he complained as the door shut behind them and he dragged her into his arms. She’d been dying to be alone with him, too, and when he crushed his lips to hers, his kiss was hot and wild and wonderful. That delicious heat started spiraling through her.
But when the carriage lurched to begin the short, jarring journey to her new home, they bumped noses and then teeth. She laughed, smiling up at him as she snuggled closer.
Rain beat on the carriage’s roof, a soothing tattoo that made her feel even more warm and cozy and protected by her new husband.
“I’ve decided,” Ford said, “that rain brings me luck.”
“Because it sent everyone home early?”
“That, too,” he said cryptically.
She felt entirely too drained to figure out what he meant. For a woman who preferred not to be the center of attention, the day had proved both exhilarating and exhausting. “Mum was right. It was a nice wedding.”
“You can thank me for that. I extracted Colin’s vow, under pain of death, there would be no practical jokes.”
“He wouldn’t,” she protested. “Not at a wedding.”
“I can see you don’t yet know my brother. Ask Kendra and Caithren about their weddings sometime.”
“I will,” she said, very much looking forward to that. “I like your family.”
“I was sure they’d scare you away. They’re loud, and meddlesome—”
“And they love you.”
“I know,” he said. “And now that I’ve married you, I’m hoping they’ll approve of me, too.”
She didn’t quite understand what he meant by that either, but it sounded like something better discussed another time.
A few minutes passed in companionable silence. Then his arm tightened around her shoulders, and his voice turned low and velvet-edged. “Have you brought the feather?”
She’d spent the entire day thinking about that feather. Her heart suddenly pounding, she reached into her bodice and pulled it out, its satiny edges tickling between her breasts as the length of it slid free.
His eyes widened, and a grin spread on his face. He took the plume and tickled her nose, then pressed a slow kiss to the top of her head. A kiss so cherishing, she felt tears spring to her eyes.
“Oh, Ford,” she whispered, holding him closer, breathing in his heady patchouli scent. He trailed the feather across her lips and down the length of her neck, swirling it on the skin exposed by her wedding gown’s low décolletage.
She shivered, remembering his words. I’m going to save that for our wedding night. And then she shuddered, a luxurious shudder she felt clear down to her toes.
His smile now was pure male as he used the feather to tilt up her chin. “Darling, is that ardor I’m detecting?”
Later, she wouldn’t remember how she made it into the house. She wouldn’t remember how she came to be unclothed. She wouldn’t remember how she ended up on that towering four-poster bed now hung with new blue brocade.
But she would never, in her entire life, forget the feel of the feather she’d been anticipating all the long day of her wedding.
He had that feather dancing over every inch of her body, brushing, grazing, skimming, raising gooseflesh, and igniting delicious shivers. Her sensitized skin prickled with pleasure, yet the physical sensations paled compared to the love that swelled in her heart. Captured in his intimate gaze, she felt a sense of belonging she’d never imagined possible.
That ache was building, that hot ache that made her yearn for him to complete her. When the feather had kissed every part of her but there where the ache was centered, Ford dropped it and closed his eyes, bringing his mouth to meet hers.
This kiss was a promise, a vow, more binding than any words they’d recited in the chapel. She sank into its velvet warmth, savoring its wordless pledge. And when it turned demanding and hungry, the thrill of it sang through her veins, making her breath catch and her heart stutter and restart, then race in response to his fervor.
When he broke the kiss, she released a long, languid sigh. He kissed the corner of her mouth. He kissed her chin and her cheeks. He kissed his way lower. Rain pattered against the window as his mouth worshipped her body, a damp trail of kisses that touched every place the feather had touched earlier.
Every place but where she most wanted him.
He kissed her shoulders, her breasts, her rib cage, rolling her over to make certain no inch of flesh went unadored. His lips traced her spine, moving lower. He nipped her toes, his tongue flicking at her arches.
>
Her fingers clutched at the sheets, and she heard little moans and realized they were hers. Rolling her to her back once again, he kissed his way up her calves, her knees, urging her thighs apart to rain their delicate skin with more kisses. So close to where she ached to have him join her.
When he paused, her eyes flew open. She looked down to find his head was raised, and he was measuring her with that deep blue gaze. In the sudden stillness, her breath sounded harsh, her heartbeat unnaturally loud. He reached once more for the feather…
And then slowly, slowly traced it down the cleft where she ached.
And again.
The strokes were gossamer, the sensations ethereal, tantalizingly exquisite. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, squirming under the assault, throwing her head back in wild abandon. Again and again, and the heat was spreading, every nerve in her body alive, tingling, aroused nearly beyond bearing.
The storm intensified, both outdoors and within her. Rain slashed against the windows as he tossed the plume and replaced it with his tongue—a shocking caress, so hot and slick and intimate she thought she might die, might simply expire from a surfeit of sensation. It was building, that urgent sweetness, that raging desire. It seemed to be lifting her up toward the heavens.
A flash of lightning was followed by a rumble that matched the thundering of her pulse. Her entire world centered on where he was licking and suckling, and then, when she was certain her heart would burst from pleasure, he slipped a finger inside her, too, and she rocketed into the clouds.
It was a long, long fall back down. Plunging, spinning, tumbling, until at last she found herself grounded and back in his arms. For long moments she lay there, waiting for her heart to slow, her breathing to calm.
And then, starting over with the feather, she did to him all the things he’d done to her.
Ford inhaled her sweet scent, the essence of Violet. She smelled of flowers and desire, and every touch of the plume, every brush of her fingers and lips made him more certain of the rightness of them together. Her brandy-wine eyes were glazed, flooded with passion, and an answering passion flooded his heart. A depth of wanting he’d never even imagined.
