by Lauren Royal
She didn’t know how to respond, but her lips tingled. His fingers felt warm on her skin. When he moved toward her again, her gaze darted up to the perfumery’s windows. Her family lurked behind the glass, probably still exclaiming over Ford’s invention. A pale oval appeared behind a pane, then disappeared. She’d bet the Master-piece it was Rose, spying.
He raised that devilish brow. “Afraid we’re being watched?”
“I wouldn’t put it past my sisters.”
He nodded, and they strolled across the bridge and along the far bank of the river. Cattle grazed in the fields beyond, and a hawk circled lazily overhead. As Ford slipped his hand into hers, her gaze flicked once more to the window, and he chuckled beside her.
They walked in silence, listening to the whinnies of the horses in the field and the songs of two lovebirds in a tree. Violet focused on the feel of their joined hands, startling when he slipped his thumb inside to play upon her palm. The sensation sent a little thrill through her.
If only she could believe it was the same for him.
A small wooden gate marked the entry to the woods, and they paused only long enough to open it.
Here were new sounds: twigs crackling beneath their feet, leaves rustling overhead. Still playing with her hand, Ford led her to a tree stump and sat upon it, drawing her down to his lap.
It was most improper, but she didn’t want to move. Though they weren’t actually far from the house, the canopy of trees made this place feel secluded and private. She shifted sideways to face him, noting the faint circles under his eyes. “Looks like someone’s not sleeping,” she said quietly.
“I was up all night finishing the watch.” He raised their joined hands to brush his lips over her knuckles. “Didn’t even realize it was morning until Hilda offered me breakfast.”
“You should have slept, then, after you were done.”
“I couldn’t. I was too excited. I wanted to show it to someone.” He paused, pressing a slow kiss to the back of her hand while slanting a glance up at her. “I wanted to show it to you. Only you, Violet.”
Her breathing shallowed at the thought. Faith, she wanted to believe him. “I’m sorry, then, that I brought my family—”
“No. I enjoyed showing it to them, too.” Still holding her hand, he used his free hand to sweep the hair off her neck. “But you were the one I truly wanted to share it with.” He bent his head, his warm lips grazing her nape.
Pleasure rippled through her.
She wanted this. Whenever he touched her, especially like this, she wanted him. It was as though she had no control over her own body.
His mouth trailed the back of her neck, her collarbone, her shoulders revealed in the wide neckline of her new gown. She felt his breath, the heat of it sending a shiver down her spine. He drew off her spectacles and set them on her lap, then placed his hands on her cheeks. His mouth met hers, his thumbs gently stroking as he kissed her.
She was undone. Resistance fled, and she twisted to more fully face him, slipping her hands beneath his coat. His mouth turned wild and demanding, his tongue fencing with hers, an impassioned bid for possession.
And oh my, she thought with what little ability to think she had left, she wanted to be possessed. She strained closer to him, wanting. That curious warmth was spreading in her middle.
Great heat…greatly delights the woman.
He threaded his fingers into her hair, cupping her face in his hands as he tilted it back. His lips traced a path down her chin, her neck, a hot, damp swath of sensation. Then his tongue crept out, licking, stroking, dipping into the valley between her breasts. A bolt of excitement streaked through her, straight to a place she hadn’t had a name for until last week.
Her seat of womanly pleasure.
“Ford,” she breathed, her hands tightening where they gripped his sides. “What are you doing to me?”
Although she hadn’t meant him to answer, he stilled and raised his head to meet her eyes, a dazed expression in his own. “It’s you, Violet. You make me lose my head. I know I shouldn’t be doing this.”
He drew a long breath and slowly let it out. With a small, wry smile, he reached beneath his coat to remove her hands from his body. He set the first in her lap and lifted the second to his mouth, kissing her fingertips before he placed it atop the other.
“I think I may have fallen in love,” he confessed in a husky whisper.
Her world skidded, then righted itself. It wasn’t quite “I love you,” but close. He was saying all the right things, in just the right way to make her question all her old insecurities. When he looked at her like that, with those incredible blue eyes, she wanted to believe him more than she’d wanted anything, ever.
She just didn’t know whether she could.
She slipped her spectacles back on, determined to regain her control, to focus her mind on other, more practical things. “Where will you sell it?” she asked quietly.
His eyes cleared, a concern stealing into them, a disappointment in her lack of response. “Sell what?”
“Your watch.”
“My watch?” He sighed, then bent his head, his hair flopping forward like a young boy’s.
A hot stab of love sliced through her.
“I’m not planning to sell my watch,” he said. “I’m not equipped to manufacture watches.”
Stunned, she sat up straight and felt him tense in response. “Well, then,” she asked, “what do you plan to do with it?”
He straightened, too. “I’ll bring it to the next Royal Society meeting. I’m certain it will be a sensation.”
“And then…”
“That’s it. I have other projects I’m working on—”
“You’re serious, then?” She couldn’t believe it. “You have no plans for the watch?”
“I invented it. That was my plan.” When she tried to rise, his arms tightened around her. “I’m not a businessman,” he said softly. “I have no knowledge of that world. The creation was a satisfying end in itself.”
“I don’t understand you,” she said. True, the aristocracy in general saw trade as beneath them, but only a rich man had the luxury of doing what he pleased without thought to profit.
Or a man who planned to rely on his wife for income.
She didn’t want to think that of him. His words to her had sounded too sincere, his admission about the watch too uncalculated. She’d seen how much he cared for Jewel; she knew his heart was a good one. His steady gaze looked honest, not deceitful, and she no longer believed all his kisses were only a ruse.
But she couldn’t help wondering.
He stared at her for a long, silent moment. A bird fluttered from one tree to another. A cow lowed in the fields beyond the woods. She heard her blood pounding in her ears.
“I don’t understand me, either,” he agreed, and finally let her rise.
Forty-Two
“HAVE YOU AND Ford had a fight?” Sitting cross-legged on Violet’s bed that night, Lily patted May-dew on her face from a bottle she’d purchased in London. “He didn’t seem very happy when he came back for his watch.”
Violet paced her bedchamber, restlessly touching things at random. “No, we didn’t fight.”
She had no idea how to explain what had happened in the woods, because she hadn’t yet figured it out. The two of them had walked back in silence, as though they had nothing left to say to each other. But Ford hadn’t seemed angry. Before they’d reentered the house, he’d even brushed a kiss across her forehead at the door. And then sighed before he opened it.
She sighed now. “I still cannot believe he isn’t going to do anything with the watch.”
Rose played with her hair, examining herself in the mirror at Violet’s dressing table. “Not everyone is as ambitious as you are, Violet.” She turned from her reflection, her tresses twisted up high. “Do you prefer it up or down?”
“Up,” Lily said at the same time Violet said, “Down.”
“Some help you two are
.” Rose stood, fluffing her white night rail. Violet was struck anew by her younger sister’s stunning beauty, but quickly suppressed the stab of envy. “It’s not like you can change him,” Rose told her. “And why would you want to, anyway? You keep insisting you’re not interested in him.”
Violet plopped on her bed so hard the ropes creaked a protest beneath the mattress. “I just find it hard to believe he can invent something so important and not be interested in selling it. Or patenting it, at least. At the Royal Society event, I heard that Christopher Wren patented a device for writing with two pens. If anyone uses his idea, they have to pay for it.”
Lily scooted nearer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Why is this bothering you so, Violet? It’s not your invention.”
“I just hate to see such brilliance go to waste.”
Blinking, Lily shifted to face her. “Perhaps Ford isn’t motivated by money, but it’s not as though he’s lazy. It’s only that he does things for other reasons than you would. He might invent something to make someone happy, or create something he hopes will be a benefit to mankind. His values may be different than yours, but that doesn’t mean they’re inferior.”
Violet wondered when young Lily had become so wise. “I never thought of it that way,” she murmured, more confused than ever.
Her two sisters exchanged a glance. “Did he kiss you again?” Rose asked.
“Maybe.” Violet stood and resumed pacing. She could feel her sisters’ gazes following her as she trod back and forth. Facing away from them, she stopped. “All right, he did.”
“And was it as wondrous as before?” When Violet failed to answer, Lily rose and came up behind her, settling her hands on her shoulders. “If you love him,” she said softly, “why won’t you consider marriage?”
“He hasn’t asked me.” Violet twisted out of her sister’s grasp. And because Ford had as much as said he loved her, something in her middle twisted as well. “And even if he did ask me, I would wonder if it were only for my inheritance. I’m not a woman who inspires love.”
Compassion flooded Lily’s deep blue eyes. “We love you, Violet!”
“You’re my sisters. That’s different.”
“Now I see why you’re so upset,” Rose said. “You wish he would sell watches and make a lot of money. Because if he still seduced you then, you’d know it was for yourself.”
That could be so, Violet realized, though she hadn’t thought of it in that way before. Rose was entirely too shrewd for her comfort.
Lily stepped closer. “Or is it your dream of publishing you don’t want to give up? Are you afraid that if you marry, your money will go to your husband instead of your dream?”
“No. Not that.” Maybe she would have agreed with Lily last month. But although she still wanted to write a philosophy book, she had new dreams now.
Yet she was sure, deep down, that if Ford were suddenly showered with gold, those new dreams still wouldn’t come true. And it irritated her that she’d even begun dreaming. She used to be content with her lot, and that had been much easier.
“My own money has nothing to do with it,” she said. “I just hate to see wasted potential. It disagrees with the practical in me.”
“But Violet,” Lily said quietly, “what is it you really want?”
Good question, Violet thought. She didn’t know anymore. “Maybe we should talk of something else.”
Rose shrugged, then grinned. “We could read more of the Master-piece.” She snatched the book off Violet’s bedside table. “Where did we leave off?”
“Here, give it to me.” With a sigh, Violet took the book and climbed into bed.
Lily ran around to the other side, and the three of them huddled together beneath the covers. “Just like old times,” Lily said. “Do you remember when we couldn’t read yet, Violet, and you used to read to us at night?”
“Read to us again, big sister.” Rose smiled with scarcely a trace of the innocence from their childhood. “We were learning about women’s parts. Is there a chapter on men’s parts, too? That’s what I want to hear about.”
“There is, but we need to finish this first.” Violet opened the book to Chapter Fourteen, “A Description of the Womb’s Fabric.” “‘In the lower part, where the lips are widest and broadest, for which reason women have likewise broader buttocks than men—’”
“We do not,” Rose interrupted.
“Some of us do.” Picturing Ford’s slim hips compared to her own, Violet cleared her throat. “‘The womb’s figure is in a manner round and not unlike a gourd. There are diverse little nerves, placed chiefly for sense and pleasure. As for the neck of the womb, it is of an exquisite feeling.’”
“Goodness.” Using a hand, Lily fanned herself.
Rose reached over to turn the page, showing no surprise or discomfort. “We’re learning so much, aren’t we?”
“Absolutely,” Violet said dryly. She looked back down at the book. “‘The externals are designed to receive the yard, and by their swelling up, cause titillation and delight in those parts. The action of the clitoris in women is like that of the yard in men, and the seat of the greatest pleasure in conception.’”
“Goodness,” Lily repeated.
“It sounds wonderful,” Rose said, “but what about the men’s parts?”
“Oh, very well. I think that’s Chapter Sixteen.” Violet flipped ahead. “‘Of the Organs of Generation of Man.’”
“That sounds like the chapter I want to hear.”
“You would,” Lily said.
“Hey—” Rose started.
“Just listen,” Violet interrupted. She couldn’t face an argument. Not tonight. “‘The instrument of generation in man,’” she rushed on, “‘commonly called the yard, and in Latin, penis a pedendo, is long and round. When the nerves are filled with animal spirits, and the arteries with hot and spiritous blood, then the yard is distended and becomes erect.’”
“Have you seen one erect?” Lily asked nobody in particular.
“No.” Violet was fairly sure she’d felt one pressed against her, but that wasn’t the same as seeing it.
“I’ve seen more than one,” Rose said.
Both Violet and Lily swung to stare at her.
“Covered by breeches,” she added, “but I could still tell.”
“You shouldn’t be looking there.” Violet snapped the book shut. “It’s not polite.”
“Well, I cannot help it. And I cannot help it if men get like that around me, either.”
Her two sisters groaned in unison.
With a sigh, Violet reopened the book. “‘At the end of the yard is the glans covered with a very thin membrane, by means of which and its nervous substance, it becomes more exquisitely sensitive, and is the principle seat of pleasure in copulation.’”
“Do you think it’s as pleasurable for men?” Lily asked.
“More,” Rose said. “Else why would they always be after it?”
Her sisters gasped.
“Well, they are,” she said defensively. “No sense glossing over the matter.”
Lily yawned. “Is there more?”
“The hour grows late,” Violet hedged, thinking that Rose didn’t need a book and Lily had heard enough.
“Let me see.” Rose grabbed the Master-piece. “There is more on men’s parts.” She scanned the page. “About testiculi and something called a scrotum. And the next chapter is…” She paused to turn the page. “‘A Word of Advice to Both Sexes, Being Several Directions Respecting Copulation.’”
“We must read that,” Lily said.
“Not tonight.” Violet had already read it several times. There were sections she didn’t understand, but she suspected they weren’t fit for the tender ears of her younger sisters. Or at least one of her sisters. “We’re finished for tonight,” she said.
Lily yawned again. “All right.”
Rose threw back the covers. “I suppose we should all get our beauty sleep so we can catch men and
try what we’ve learned.”
Lily groaned and whacked her on the shoulder as the two of them padded off to bed, closing the door behind them.
Violet removed her spectacles and leaned to blow out her candle, then lay beneath her sheets, staring into the darkness.
Every word of the Master-piece seemed to make her think of Ford in new and delicious ways.
And every word made not having him hurt even more.
Forty-Three
FOR THE DOZENTH time, Ford turned over in his lonely bed. His project was finished, but for some odd, annoying reason, he still found himself sleepless in the wee hours of the morning. Or perhaps it was because his project was finished.
It was time to leave Lakefield.
Tabitha’s elopement was behind him. Far behind him. So far behind him, he wondered what he’d ever seen in the woman—on the rare occasions he thought of her at all.
His watch was done, and although he had another idea to add a chime to wake the watch’s owner at a certain time of the day, he could work on that at Cainewood, or even in London. With the Royal Society settled back in its old home, the meetings would be more regular. He wanted to attend them.
But even though he knew Violet would never be his—even though he’d cursed himself a hundred times since this afternoon for not just leaving her the hell alone—he still found himself oddly reluctant to leave.
He levered up on an elbow and stared into the darkness at nothing in particular. When he grew bored with that—which was more or less immediately—he climbed from the bed and wrapped himself in a robe. As long as he couldn’t sleep, he might as well start designing the wake-up bell.
On his way up to the laboratory, he bumped into Harry coming down. “Pardon, my lord.” Holding a candle in one hand, Harry rubbed his bald head with the other. “I was just sneaking down for a midnight raid. I wouldn’t be averse to some company.”
“Midnight raid?”
“On the kitchen.” The houseman patted his round belly. “Hilda is always nagging me not to eat, so I don’t much. Not so she can see it.” He grinned. “She baked bread before retiring.”
