by Lauren Royal
He swiped a spear of asparagus off a plate piled high. “More brilliant than I?”
She cocked her head, making a show of considering. “In a different way.” Sipping again, she warmed to her subject. “Do you know what he told me? He said all mankind should be equal and independent, and no one should have the right to harm another in his life, health, liberty, or possessions.”
He bit the end off his third asparagus. “Not even the king?”
“No one.” It was so radical a thought as to be startling, but so clear the way Locke had explained it. “There should be a standing rule to live by, common to everyone, and made by legislative power—a liberty to follow one’s own will in all things where one does not harm another, and not to be subject to the arbitrary will of another. Arbitrary power, he said, becomes tyranny, whether those that use it are one or many.”
“I wouldn’t discuss this with Charles,” Ford said, handing her a marchpane.
She bit into the sweet almond confection. “I’ve never discussed anything with the king, but if I ever get a chance, I just might.”
“Damnation, what have I started?” he said with a good-natured roll of his eyes.
“Locke says every man has property in his own person, and no one has any right to that but himself. The labor of his body, the work of his hands, are his, and the only reason for men to unite and put themselves under government is the preservation of their property.”
“You’re excited by these ideas.” He’d finished the asparagus. From yet another plate, he spooned up a bite of cheesecake blanketed in rich puff pastry. “I can hear it in your voice,” he said, holding out the spoon.
Enjoying the traces of nutmeg and mace, she allowed the creamy cheese, somehow both sweet and tart, to melt on her tongue. “I am excited. These are new things to think about. A new way to look at our world.” She drained her goblet, feeling woozy from both the wine and the ideas spinning in her brain. “Thank you so much for bringing me.”
“Thank you for coming.” He reached to refill her cup, then leaned even closer, brushing her mouth with a feather-light kiss. “You enjoyed hearing about the scientific discoveries, too, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Very much.” Her lips tingled. “I surprised myself.”
“I’m surprised to find the philosophy interesting as well. So we’re even this night.”
“This night.” Just this one night. She sighed, taking pleasure in the wine and the company, the candlelight, the music that drifted through the air, the stars in the clear summer sky. Knowing it had to end. “Can you hear the laughter from the quadrangle? I think everyone must be out there now.” But she didn’t want to join them. She didn’t want to leave this magical, private place.
Afraid he might assume she wished to rejoin the party, she changed the subject. “Is Hooke really a drunkard?”
His brow furrowed in confusion. “Whatever makes you think that?”
“He said living here is convenient, because when he falls down stumbling drunk, he’s close to his bed.”
His face cleared. “Don’t let his dry humor fool you. Far from being a drunkard, I think he and Wren are addicted to coffee, if anything at all. Best of friends they are, too.”
The faint music from the quadrangle stopped. Another burst of laughter sounded. “Their wives must be proud of them,” Violet said.
“Wren’s wife is very kind.” With one finger, he traced little circles on the back of her hand where it rested on the table. “Hooke has yet to marry, though.”
She hid a delicious shiver. “Well, then, whom was he dancing with?”
“Why did you assume she was his spouse? You’re here with me, and we aren’t husband and wife.”
“Of course we aren’t,” she said quickly, and if the tone of his voice implied he wanted them to be, she had to remind herself why she didn’t. Still, her face heated at the thought, and she was thankful for the concealment of the night.
“The Gresham professors are required to be bachelors,” he explained, still lazily teasing her hand. “Hooke calls that woman his housekeeper.”
“She lives with him?”
“Mm-hmm.”
She grinned. “You don’t dance with Hilda.”
“Hilda doesn’t look like that.” He raised his hand and ran a warm fingertip alongside her face. “And she’s a real housekeeper.”
“Oh.” Her skin tingled wherever he touched. “Oh. You mean she’s really a—oh.”
“Yes. Oh,” he repeated with a devilish lift of one brow.
All at once, the door was flung open and the sounds of laughter grew louder. A few couples spilled out into the piazza.
“We’ve been found,” Ford said with a groan.
“There he is,” one of the women said, drawing a man to where Violet sat with Ford.
“Ah, yes.” The middle-aged man shot the woman a rather impatient look before he addressed Ford more neutrally. “We’ve heard you found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.”
“I have.” Ford reluctantly rose, bringing Violet up with him and curling an arm around her waist. “John Evelyn,” he said by way of introduction. “May I present Lady Violet Ashcroft.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” Evelyn had a lean, thoughtful face, shadowed by his graying hair. “My wife, Mary.”
Mary was much younger, a pretty woman with a round face and curly hair that brushed shoulders left bare by a neckline even lower than Violet’s. She smiled and bobbed a curtsy, her large pearl earbobs bobbing along with her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Violet said.
Introductions concluded, the woman turned to Ford. “Would Secrets of the Emerald Tablet be for sale, my lord?”
“I’m afraid not.” His words sounded genial enough, but Violet felt him tense. “And you’d have to fight Mr. Newton for it, anyway.”
“It’s just as well, my dear,” Evelyn said.
The tone of his voice confused Violet. She turned to look up at Ford.
“I think,” he said, “that we’d best be on our way.” And he drew her out of the lovely piazza he’d created, leaving the others to enjoy it.
“What was that all about?” Violet asked as they walked back through the building. “I would think he’d be pleased she wanted to buy him the book.”
He dropped his hand from her waist, linking his fingers with hers instead. “She wants it for herself. Her husband calls her a ‘kitchen scientist.’ Not fondly, I might add.”
“I could tell.” The quadrangle was quickly emptying, the musicians packing up. “Does he not approve of her interests, then?”
“He believes housekeeping should be her priority. His wedding gift to her was a calligraphy copy of his own treatise on marital duties. The ladies at court think his wife must be the unhappiest woman in the world.”
“I cannot blame her,” Violet said, stepping carefully in her heeled shoes as they crossed the dew-damp grass.
“Her husband would say she has her children to console her.”
“And you would say?”
He shrugged, squeezing her hand. “I know only that were I to be deprived of my scientific interests, I would be unhappy, too.”
“Then let us hope your wife is more indulgent than Mary Evelyn’s husband,” she heard herself say.
Egad, how could she bring up his future wife?
But he only laughed, drawing her through the passage that led back to the Reading Hall and entrance. In the arched tunnel, he stopped and turned to face her. “I’m hoping my wife will be very indulgent, indeed,” he said in a husky drawl.
“She’d have to be.” A nervous giggle escaped her lips. “Are we leaving now?”
“In a minute.” He stepped closer, backing her against the stone wall. “There will be a long line for the carriage this late.”
The evening had flown. “What time is it?” she asked.
“Does it matter? Your mother mentioned no curfew. I think she must ap
prove of me.” Her heart raced as he slowly drew off her spectacles and slipped them into his pocket. “The church bells rang one o’clock quite a while ago.”
“Oh. I wasn’t listening.”
“I wonder why,” he mused with a smile, skimming his hands up and down her sides. She was finding it hard to listen now. Everywhere he touched felt so warm, so tingly, so aware.
He lowered his head, his mouth inching toward hers, and she waited, waited, her breath catching when he finally found his target. His lips were gentle but insistent, and despite all her reservations, she returned his kiss with reckless abandon.
“Violet,” he murmured, his mouth turning urgent, the caress deepening until his tongue mingled with hers. His hands continued their explorations, stroking her shoulders, gliding around to her back, trailing down to cup her bottom and pull her close.
Though she was shocked, her body arched toward him instinctively. Buffeted by new sensations, she moaned, a soft sound of capitulation. Pleasure streaked through her, sweeping her from the tunnel to another place where only he and she existed…
…and all the while he still kissed her.
He tasted of berries and wine, and she wanted more. Her hands reached under his coat to explore his body the way he was touching hers. Firmness against her softness, warmth against her palms. She pressed closer, molding herself to him, feeling a hardness down below, that, according to the Master-piece, meant he wanted her.
Right or wrong, whatever his reasons, he wanted her. Her, Violet Ashcroft. The realization stole her breath, robbed her of thought—
Laughter burst through her pleasurable haze as two other couples entered the passageway, clearly in their cups.
“’Night, Lakefield,” one of the men called facetiously. “Sweet dreams.”
Ford pulled back with a groan, snatching his hands from Violet’s posterior. “’Night, Hartwell,” he mumbled. His labored breath seemed to echo in the tunnel as he waited for the intruders to clear the other end.
When Ford and Violet were alone again, he smiled at her, a rather dazed smile that made her heart lurch. He leaned close, angling his head. His lips trailed her forehead, her cheek, her throat. In the sensitive area afforded him by her scandalous neckline, he nibbled and kissed, his tongue tracing a shivery line to her cleavage. Her hands clenched his shoulders; she sagged back against the wall—
And three more men stumbled into the tunnel.
“’Night, Lakefield,” they called in drunken unison.
“Let’s line up for the carriage,” Ford said with a sigh. “At least there we’ll be able to find some privacy.”
Thirty-Five
VIOLET RODE IN a carriage, crossing London on roads so impossibly smooth it felt as though she floated. The sidelight illuminated a crimson velvet interior, rich, plush, decadent. And upon this upholstery she reclined…while Ford kissed her senseless.
Knock-knock-knock.
A soft moan escaped her lips, half passion, half annoyance. Some very rude person was rapping on the carriage door.
Knock-knock-knock!
“Don’t answer,” she whispered to Ford. To be sure he complied, she threaded her fingers through his hair and held his mouth captive to hers. He responded with a violent passion, his lips devouring…
Knock-knock-knock!
With a growl born of frustration, she bolted upright, wrenched unwillingly from the dream. Her eyes popped open, but everything looked pitch black.
“Who is it?” she forced through gritted teeth.
Knock-knock-KNOCK!
“Who is it?” She swung her legs off the bed and pushed open the hangings, reaching for the floor with her bare feet. Feeling blindly for her spectacles, she managed to locate them and shove them on, but of course they didn’t help. Black was black.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!
“Who is it?” she yelled, padding toward her door and fumbling in the darkness for the latch. When her fingers finally closed on it, she jerked it open.
It didn’t open very far.
Bang! Like a gunshot, the noise came across the corridor, accompanied by a feminine shriek. Then the latch was yanked from Violet’s hand, as—
SLAM! her own door flew closed.
Her frustration mounting, she opened it again.
Bang!
SLAM!
Bang!
SLAM!
She paused for a moment, shaking the last dregs of sleep from her head. After drawing a deep breath, she gingerly opened her door again, just a crack.
And heard the sound of a young boy’s giggles.
“Rowan!” she admonished, but her own laughter bubbled up, neutralizing the sternness she’d intended.
Her hand was still on the latch, and something pulled on the door, though it didn’t slam this time. A steady pull.
“Rowan?” Rose’s voice called.
From down the corridor came the sound of another door opening, then Lily’s sleepy voice. “What’s all this noise?” she said through a yawn.
“I got you!” Rowan crowed. “I got you both. It worked!”
“What worked?” Violet asked suspiciously. A soft flare of light illuminated the corridor as someone—Lily, she guessed—approached with a candle.
“Rowan, I cannot believe what you did!” Lily exclaimed. Instead of disapproval, admiration tinged her voice. “You clever boy!”
“What?” Rose snapped, apparently still trapped behind her door and as mystified as Violet. “What did he do?”
Lily’s laughter echoed in the corridor. “Wait a minute.” Violet heard the small clink of the silver candlestick landing on a table, then a rustling, scratching sound as Lily did something with her door.
A moment later, it opened wide. “He t-tied your doors together with r-rope,” Lily said, the words tumbling out between giggles. “So you were slamming each other’s open and shut.”
Directly across the corridor, Rose opened her now-free door and glowered at their brother. “You’re lucky you didn’t wake Mum.”
Rowan shrugged. “Mum’s room is too far away in this house. Besides, she’d find it funny, don’t you think?”
“I ought to murder you, you rapscallion.”
His little chest puffed out proudly. “I had to knock forever to wake you. But it was worth it. Jewel said it would work. Too bad she wasn’t here to see it.”
Violet’s heart squeezed at the melancholy look that stole across his face. “You miss her, don’t you?”
“I do. And I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.” A sheen of tears brightened his eyes. “I didn’t think I’d like a girl, but she’s not like any girl I ever knew. She’s more like a boy.”
Violet suspected pretty Jewel wouldn’t remind him of a boy a few years down the road. “You’ll see her again, I’m sure. And in the meantime, don’t forget we’re going home tomorrow, and Benjamin should be home by now, too.”
“Benjamin!” Benjamin and he had grown up together, close as two neighbors could be. With a boy’s short attention span, Rowan forgot Jewel immediately. “I’m going to sleep now, so tomorrow will come faster.” And with that, he took off down the corridor, to his own room across from Lily’s.
“What a rude awakening,” Rose said.
Violet sighed. “He yanked me from the most wondrous dream.”
“Did he?” Lily picked up the candle and swept past Violet into her room, Rose right on her heels. She lit Violet’s bedside candle from her own and set them both on the night table. “What was your dream about?”
When Violet didn’t answer immediately, her sisters exchanged a look, then sat in unison on the edge of her bed. “Tell us,” Rose said.
Violet’s cheeks flushed hot. She shut the door, cocooning the three girls together. “It was nothing, really.”
Rose crossed her arms. “You said it was wondrous.”
“Oh, all right.” She dragged the stool over from her dressing table and sat facing them, setting her hands on her knees. “We were coming home�
��”
“We?” Lily interrupted.
“Ford and myself. From the Royal Society reception.”
“How did that go?” Rose asked. “I tried to stay up to hear, but you returned home so late—”
“Hush,” Lily said. “The dream first.”
With all this squabbling, the dream was fading fast. In an effort to recover the mood, Violet shut her eyes. “We were riding home in his carriage, but it seemed to be floating—”
“Floating,” Rose echoed, and though Violet’s lids were closed, she could swear she saw her sister’s head nod knowingly. “Floating in a dream is supposed to be carnal in nature.”
“Rose!” Violet’s eyes flew open. “You are only seventeen. You’re not supposed to think about that.”
“Oh, rubbish. Father and Mum have been hanging all over each other since the day I was born. And you’re the one who showed me that book. Aristotle’s Master-piece.”
“I didn’t show it to you. You barged in on me reading it.”
Rose raised a brow. “Let’s read it some more.”
“Not now,” Lily said, giving Rose a little shove. “I want to hear the rest of the dream.”
“All right.” Violet swallowed and rubbed her suddenly damp palms against her night rail-clad knees. “Ford’s carriage is rather ancient, as you know, but instead of the hard leather, the interior was all plush red velvet. And I was leaning back against it, and he was kissing me—”
A romantic sigh came from Lily. “Did he kiss you really?”
“He already kissed her,” Rose said. “In the library.”
Lily turned on the bed to face her. “That doesn’t count. You described it to me in detail, and it was a quick kiss, not a real kiss.” She shifted back to Violet. “Did he give you a real kiss in the carriage?”
“Well,” Violet hedged. “Not then. Not on the way home. Lord and Lady Ailesbury begged a ride home, and since they only live around the corner, we had no time alone together.”
“But after you dropped them off?” Rose pressed.
“The street out front is very rutted, you know—the springs in that old carriage might as well be nonexistent.”
