by Lauren Royal
This wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. He wanted her for all the wrong reasons, but she wanted him anyway.
His voice deepened as his eyes burned into hers. “Thank you for forgiving me for whatever thickheaded thing I said yesterday.”
Yesterday rushed back, those heady moments by the river when she’d thought he’d understood, and then his words: You know, most ladies would think they have better things to do with their money.
Most ladies would use their money to buy a highly ranked husband.
She swallowed hard, hurt anew at the reminder that she wasn’t like most ladies. That she wasn’t pretty enough—or normal enough—for a man to want her only for herself.
But his hands smoothed up her neck until they cupped the sides of her face, and those doubts fled her head. Her heartbeat suddenly seemed louder than the dozens of ticking clocks.
She wondered if he could hear it.
With his index fingers, he drew her spectacles forward and off. A little click sounded when he set them on the table behind her. Then he lowered his head, capturing her lips with his, and she was no longer wondering anything at all.
Her thoughts were lost in the rush of feeling. The blood seemed to heat in her veins, her knees weakened, and when his lips parted hers, the tip of his tongue hot and carnal and exciting in her mouth, she felt as though she’d been waiting for this all of her life. Without thought, she raised her arms and twined them around his neck, pressing against him, savoring his warmth.
His arms tightened around her, pulling her even closer, until every curve of her body felt like it had been formed to match his. She’d thought she was finished with this, finished with him. But nothing could be further from the truth.
Loud, childish voices came drifting down the corridor. Ford and Violet pulled away simultaneously. Her cheeks burning, Violet smoothed her skirts as the youngsters came in, chatting happily. She blinked at their blurry faces, then spun around to the table and grabbed her spectacles, shoving them back onto her face.
“Here, Uncle Ford.” Jewel held out the pitcher.
Ford took it and filled the pan with water. Nonchalantly. Like nothing had ever happened.
Well, she told herself sternly, to him a kiss probably was nothing. Especially a kiss with her. He was obviously proceeding with the experiment perfectly calmly. She shook her head to clear it, determined to pay attention.
With a forearm, he swept aside springs and gears to set the pan on his work surface. Bright sunlight streamed through the window and glinted off the water.
He handed Jewel the small rectangle of mirror. “Put this in,” he instructed, “so one end is in the water and the other end is resting on the side of the pan.”
“May I do something?” Rowan asked.
“In a moment.” They all watched as Jewel, looking very self-important, placed the mirror. Then Ford turned to Violet’s brother. “You get to do the crucial part.”
Rowan’s green eyes danced. “What’s that?”
“Move the pan around, and the mirror if necessary, until the sunlight reflecting off the mirror makes a patch of light on the wall.”
The walls in the attic were unvarnished wood. Rowan did as he was told, gasping when a bright rectangle appeared like magic.
“What, you didn’t believe it was possible?” Ford ruffled the boy’s dark hair.
Rowan gave him a crooked smile. “I just wasn’t sure I could do it.”
“You can do anything you put your mind to,” Ford told him. “Always remember that.” He handed Violet the piece of paper. “Now, hold this so the patch of light shines directly on it.”
Enjoying the game, she did as he asked…and watched a brilliant range of colors bathe the white sheet.
“Holy Hades,” Rowan said.
Ford’s eyes met Violet’s. “Do you like it?”
“A rainbow,” she murmured.
“Yesterday I told you I would make you one.”
Thrilled, she stared at the beautiful hues. “I thought you meant figuratively.”
“Now you can have rainbows without needing to prefer rain.”
She felt herself blush. “I never did really prefer rain.”
“I figured that,” he said and laughed, and any embarrassment she might have felt was lost in the shared moment.
“Why does it work?” Rowan asked.
Ford turned to him, all scientist now. “The water sitting on top of the slanted glass is a wedge shape. When the sunlight bounces off the mirror, that wedge of water does the same thing a glass prism would. It’s called refraction. The prism refracts the sunlight and breaks it down into all the different colors of light.”
“May I try?” Jewel took the paper and held it away, then slipped it back in the beam of light.
The colors burst forth again.
“My turn.” Rowan tried it himself, smiling at the results. “What do you mean by colors of light? Isn’t all light white?”
“No. White light, like sunlight, is actually a combination of all the colors of light.” Ford’s language was simple although the concepts weren’t; he didn’t talk down to the children. “Isaac Newton presented this experiment at the Royal Society last year.”
Violet sighed. “I wish women were allowed.”
“One was, once. Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle. But not as a member. She had written a book called Observations upon Experimental Philosophy, and she was allowed as a guest to observe some of our own fine experiments.”
She gave him a wan smile. “I don’t expect the Royal Society would be interested in any book I could write.”
He looked contemplative. “Not as a group, perhaps. They can be a snobbish lot. But individual members would certainly take an interest.” Rowan and Jewel began playing in the water, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Have you heard of John Locke?”
“No.” She pulled her brother’s hand from the pan. “Who is he?”
“A brilliant philosopher, although he has yet to publish any significant papers. You should meet him. Perhaps he could help you achieve your dream. His ideas are quite thought-provoking.” He rolled his eyes, then grinned. “I cannot believe I said that.”
“I cannot believe you said that, either.” Though he’d never voiced it in so many words, she suspected he was much too logical and concrete a scientist to be drawn to philosophical musings.
When Rowan flicked droplets in Jewel’s face, she shrieked, but Ford only smiled at them absently. “The Royal Society is holding an event next week. A celebration, if you will.”
“What are they celebrating?” Violet asked, watching the girl pull a beaker off a shelf as Rowan turned away and became preoccupied by something on the cluttered table.
“Ever since the Great Fire when the City offices were temporarily set up at Gresham College, the Royal Society has been meeting at Arundel House instead.”
Only half her mind on Ford’s words, Violet saw Jewel scoop water from the pan, partially filling the beaker. He was oblivious, she thought. He could truly pay attention to only one thing at a time.
“But now that the Royal Exchange has reopened and the government moved out,” he continued, “we’ve been invited back. The college is throwing a grand entertainment to welcome us.”
With a victorious shout, the girl dumped the water on Rowan’s head.
“Jewel!” Ford gasped, finally responding at the sound of Rowan’s howl. He whirled to face her. “You must ask before you touch anything in here. That beaker could have had chemicals in it.”
He didn’t care that his niece had drenched Rowan’s hair and shoulders, Violet thought. Only that she might have ruined an experiment.
“It was empty, Uncle Ford,” Jewel said.
Clearly struggling for calm, Ford dragged a hand through his hair. “Chemicals can dry and become invisible. And some can burn skin. Worse than fire.”
“Oh.” Jewel looked chagrined.
And Violet felt the same way, knowing she’d underestimated him.
Again.
“Are you burned?” Jewel asked Rowan. “You don’t look black.”
“He’d be red,” Ford said.
“I’m fine.” His hair still dripping wet, Rowan poked her in the stomach.
Violet opened her mouth to chide him, then decided the girl deserved it.
“I’m going to plan a prank on you,” he promised Jewel, ruining the threat with a mischievous grin.
“You’d best hurry.” Ford tossed him a towel. “She’s going home next week.”
“Home?” Rowan’s grin faded. “Can’t she just live here from now on?”
“I think her parents would have something to say about that.” Ford took the pan and leaned out the window to dump the remaining water. “I heard from my brother this morning. There have been no new measles cases the past week, so if matters there continue to improve, I’ll be taking Jewel home on my way to London for the Royal Society celebration.”
He paused for a moment, then turned to Violet. “John Locke should be there. Would you like to come as my guest?”
Twenty-Five
“OF COURSE you’ll go with him.”
“Mum!” Violet paced the perfumery. “The celebration is in London.”
Chrystabel looked up from the vial in her hand. “So?”
“So we’re not in London, in case you haven’t noticed. Parliament isn’t in session, and you know Father prefers the countryside and his gardens. You don’t mean for me to travel to London alone with Lord Lakefield, do you?”
Knowing Violet expected it, Chrystabel did her best to look shocked. “Of course not. But I won’t have you miss this opportunity, either.” It was a perfect excuse to get Violet and Ford together without the children—just what they needed to make their budding romance bloom. But Chrystabel knew better than to reveal her strategy. “I know that you’ve dreamed of attending a Royal Society meeting, and I mean to see you go.”
“It’s not a meeting, Mum. Only a social event.”
“And as close as you’ll ever get to your dream, unless you disguise yourself as a man.” She set down the vial, meeting her daughter’s gaze. “Don’t even think of it.”
“Disguising myself? I wouldn’t.”
No, her daughter wouldn’t try that, Chrystabel supposed—even Violet knew she could never pull off such a prank. Her face might pass for a pretty lad, but her body was very womanly.
If only a man—the right man—got his hands on that body, he would never let go. And Chrystabel wasn’t averse to arranging for that to happen. Desperate mothers were sometimes drawn to desperate measures, and she knew for a fact that all would turn out right in the end.
Chrystabel’s instincts were as dependable as dew sweetening a rose. And if sometimes it made her a bit uneasy to trust her intuition where her own daughter was concerned, she reminded herself how accurate her feelings invariably were.
Mothering wasn’t always a comfortable job.
“Father won’t want to leave his flowers,” Violet insisted. Thanks to her agitated pacing, her spectacles had slipped down her nose. She pushed them back up. “He grumbles enough about spending the wintertime in London, although he won’t shirk his duties to the House of Lords. He won’t go in summer.”
Wondering if her daughter was going to wear a hole in the carpet, Chrystabel chose another vial. “Then we’ll go without him.”
“Mum! We’ve never!”
“There’s a first time for everything, Violet.” She added a drop to the bottle she was working with, swirling to mix the fragrances. “Your sisters would love a few days in the City—”
“But we cannot travel without Father—”
“Nonsense. We’ll take a brace of footmen, and I am certain we’ll arrive safe and sound. With Jewel leaving, Rowan will appreciate the distractions London has to offer. And your sisters have been dying to pay a visit to Madame Beaumont’s establishment, to see the newest fashions. It will be a lovely holiday for all.” She made a notation on Mrs. Applebee’s card, then smiled up at her daughter. “Now, have you a suitable gown for this event?”
A nice, low neckline would be suitable indeed.
OF COURSE Violet didn’t have a gown. With all the delays, she had yet to be fitted for new clothing, and a ball gown wouldn’t have been included in the order in any case.
But suddenly it seemed paramount to Mum—and to Violet, though she only admitted it silently—that she look as presentable as possible for the Royal Society celebration.
So the seamstress and her assistant were fetched immediately, and Violet found herself subjected to an hour of measuring and prodding, accompanied by much babbling in incomprehensible French. This was followed by a second hour, during which Madame presented her with a mind-boggling array of fabrics, along with fashion dolls from Paris, all dressed in miniature versions of the latest gowns.
As though she could be fooled into thinking she’d ever look like one of those dolls.
They ended up deciding on a gown in two shades of purple embroidered with gold thread and pearls. The dress would be started today, and tomorrow the women would be back for what promised to be a day full of tucking and pinning. Madame said she would have to “accomplish zee impossible” to have it ready in time for them to take it to London.
By the time the seamstress left, a headache was throbbing in Violet’s temples. She wanted nothing more than to get off by herself for some thoughtful reading.
In the peaceful sanctuary of her lilac-hued room, the pile of new books beckoned. Between Ford’s visit to talk to Rose and the afternoon in the laboratory, she hadn’t found a minute to peruse the titles.
She sat on the bed and ran a finger down the stacked spines. Thomas Hobbes, Human Nature; René Descartes, Discourse on Method; Aristotle’s Master-piece. That was the one. “‘Plato is dear to me, but dearer still is truth,’” she quoted under her breath, smiling at Aristotle’s words, the perfect expression of her own feelings. She couldn’t imagine why she’d never heard of this book, but she was glad she’d found it.
Leaning back against a plump velvet pillow, she sighed and opened the cover. And gasped.
Twenty-Six
“NESBITT!” The next afternoon, Ford hurried down the gravel path to meet his friend. “It’s been entirely too long.”
Three years, he realized suddenly. Sad, how friendships suffered when men’s lives took them separate directions. But Rand’s smile convinced him that things hadn’t changed between them.
Lord Randal Nesbitt swung off his black horse, his dark blond hair glinting in the sun. “This had better be important, Lakefield.” The words sounded serious, but he strode forward to give his old friend an affectionate clap on the shoulder. “So this is the place, is it?” He squinted up at Ford’s house.
“Well, yes.” His gaze following Rand’s, Ford shifted on his feet. “I’m planning some renovations.”
He hadn’t been, not really, since his stay here wasn’t permanent and he couldn’t afford renovations in any case—not without changing his lifestyle. But seeing his home through Rand’s eyes made him wonder how Violet must see it.
The paint had worn entirely off the front, leaving bare beige stone. He’d never noticed before that it was a darker color on the left half, which had been added early this century, and a lighter color on the older half. The windows were different, too—four modern ones on the new side, five mullioned ones on the Tudor portion.
The building was sound, but its aesthetics left much to be desired.
“Rand.” In an effort to draw his friend’s attention from the dismal architecture, Ford touched him on the arm. “I may have found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.”
Startled, Rand’s steel gray eyes met Ford’s. “That fabled book you used to babble on about? You’re jesting.”
“I’m not. At least I hope not.” He guided Rand up the steps. “I found this book in a shop in Windsor—looked like it’d been there for ages. It has five words in the title and the alchemical symbol for gold on the fi
rst page, and it looks exactly as the book has been described. But I cannot read it. Not a word.” He led his friend through the entrance hall and around the corner into his study. “Violet’s sister—”
“Violet?”
“A neighbor.”
Rand plopped onto a faded green chair. “What happened to Tabitha?”
“She eloped with the Earl of Berrescliffe.” Incredibly, it no longer seemed important. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“The way you said ‘Violet’…”
Wishing not to alienate his friend by sitting behind his massive oak desk, Ford dropped heavily to an iron chest that sat against one wall. “I didn’t say ‘Violet’ any special way.”
“Come on, man,” Rand said. “I’ve known you since we were lads. We were at school together, remember?” His quick grin emerged. “I can tell when you’re interested in a woman.”
Ford leaned back against the dark, Tudor oak paneling. “You don’t know me so well anymore.”
A tense moment passed while Rand considered that statement and Ford mentally kicked himself for offending an old friend.
“The hell I don’t,” Rand finally said. When his smile grew even wider, Ford wavered between feeling relieved and annoyed. “What did you want to tell me about Lady Violet’s sister?” Rand asked. “Violet is a lady?”
“She is.” Guessing where his friend was leading, Ford sighed. “And her sister is a linguist of sorts. Her younger sister,” he stressed, noting the interest that lit Rand’s eyes.
He knew Rand every bit as well as Rand knew him.
“How young?” Rand asked, clearly not considering that an impediment. He was younger than Ford by four years—a brilliant student who had entered Oxford early, while, due to his family’s exile, Ford had started a little late.
“Seventeen,” Ford said. “And a sheltered country miss.” Though accurate, the description somehow didn’t fit Rose.
