by Lauren Royal
The sun felt warm on her skin, and Socrates’s white hide was tickly against her legs. She leaned into a turn, loving the wind in her hair, the fluid movements of the animal beneath her. Suddenly she felt like she’d been cooped up in the house entirely too long. The fresh air felt marvelous. She decided she should leave her books behind and get out more often.
“We should ride the other way,” Rowan said.
Lily pulled up alongside him. “Why is that?”
He shook his head ruefully. “I don’t want to see Jewel.”
Three days had passed since he’d drunk the chocolate, and he was still scratching. And doubtless still hearing Jewel’s laughter in his ears.
Rose laughed now. “Jewel went home with her parents, you goose.”
“Oh.”
“And anyway,” Violet soothed, “I’m sure she won’t…”
Her words trailed off as Lakefield House came within sight.
“Oh my,” she said, staring at the decimated garden. “What do you think happened?”
“A storm,” Rowan guessed. “With lots of blowing.”
Lily’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I expect we would have felt the effects of that at Trentingham.”
Rose shaded her eyes with a hand. “Is that a hole in the roof?”
They drew nearer. “Oh my,” Violet said. “Is that—oh my.”
“On the ladder there.” Lily cocked her head. “Is it Ford?”
Rose drew breath and let out a very unladylike shout. “Lord Lakefield! Is that you?”
Her voice carried so well, even their father would have turned his head. Which the man on the ladder did, to reveal a face splattered with paint. His clothing wasn’t faring any better. As they rode closer and came to a stop near the house, Violet watched a white blob roll down his hair and land on one of his boots.
She burst out laughing.
Ford backed awkwardly down the ladder and limped over to look up at her on her horse. He crossed his arms, then dropped them, grimacing at the white handprints he’d just made on his clothes. “What’s so funny?”
At that, her sisters burst out laughing, too.
With a supreme effort, Violet controlled herself. “What,” she asked, “do you think you’re doing?”
“I told you I was going to fix this place up.”
Another little giggle escaped. “I didn’t think you meant to do it yourself.”
Rose snorted. “It looks worse than when you started.”
He glared at her a moment, then his lips twitched before he broke into a full-fledged grin. “My lady, I reckon you’re right.” He turned to address Violet. “May I speak with you for a moment? In private?”
She looked to her sisters, but this, after all, was what she had come for. So she shrugged and handed her reins to Lily, slid off Socrates, and followed Ford around the corner of the house.
The moment they were out of sight, he dragged her into his arms.
Her gasp of surprise was covered by his mouth. The familiar weakness stole over her, and her body went limp as her whole being focused on his kiss. His lips opened hers, and his tongue swept her mouth, gentle and demanding at the same time. He smelled of Ford and paint, of forbidden lust. She ached for the pleasure she now knew he could give her.
Breathless, nearly senseless, she pulled back, then looked down at her gown and gasped again.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll buy you another.”
“I’m more concerned with what my family will think.”
He ran a paint-stained finger down her arm. “They’ll think I couldn’t help myself, because I’m in love with you. Which is true.”
She shivered. “Ford—”
“Will you come over tonight? Will you let me show you how much I love you?”
“I cannot do that!” It was one thing to go to supper and inadvertently end up in a bed. It was quite another to plan such an assignation from the outset.
This wasn’t what she had come for. She’d come to look into his eyes.
But she did that now, and all she saw was temptation.
He grinned, his teeth as white as the paint. “How about if I scrub up first?”
“That—that has nothing to do with it. I cannot come here at night, Ford.” She brushed at her hopelessly stained skirts. “What would my family think?” she added, knowing well what they would think. They would most likely think it was perfectly all right. And they would definitely think she should marry him.
“You came once for supper with your mother’s blessing,” he reminded her—as though she hadn’t spent half her waking hours replaying that night in her head. “Besides, your family has no need to know.”
She was shocked speechless for a moment. “You mean I should…sneak out? I couldn’t!”
“Why not?” While she stood there with her mouth open, he elaborated, reaching to twirl a lock of her hair. “I’ll come and get you—I’d never ask you to make your way here alone.” Her scalp tingled. “Or if you’d prefer, I’ll sneak into your chamber instead.”
“No!” She’d be mortified if they were caught. “For one thing, from what I’ve seen here today, you can barely climb a ladder.”
“Too true.” Dropping the curl, he gestured at the house. “I think this project is finished. At least until I can hire some competent laborers.”
“That’s the first sane thing you’ve said this afternoon.”
He curved an arm around her waist and pulled her close again, nipping softly at her bottom lip with his teeth. “Wait until you hear what I have to say to you this evening…”
“Ford…”
“I’ll be there, waiting, at eleven o’clock.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Below your window.”
Greedy for a real kiss, she turned her head until her lips met his. And took what she wanted. And wanted still more.
“I am not climbing out a window,” she whispered when she finally came up for air.
Fifty-Eight
DUE TO THE state of her gown, Violet’s sisters had teased her mercilessly all the way home. Never mind that she had a reputation for tripping, they’d refused to believe she’d stumbled and fallen against the paint.
When they arrived at Trentingham, she’d endured more teasing from Father and Mum.
And now, hours later, after a bath and supper and many feigned yawns as she took herself off to bed, she was not climbing out a window.
She was sneaking out the back door instead.
The faintest sound of a pebble hitting her window had sent her racing downstairs. She simply couldn’t help herself. Before sending her off to face her sisters in her paint-stained gown, Ford had given her one last kiss that had buckled her knees. She’d known then and there that she would find a way to meet him.
One night. A few precious hours. She was hopelessly in love—and equally determined not to let that influence her decision.
And the truth was, she was more confused than ever.
Had she not seen, just this afternoon, the very proof he wanted her for her money? Ford Chase, the man who’d refused to manufacture his watch because aristocrats didn’t go into trade, was reduced to painting his own house, tending his own gardens. If that wasn’t proof he was desperate, she didn’t know what was.
Yet his eyes, when they’d met hers at the end of that final kiss, had looked so honest, so straightforward, so sincere…pools of deep blue she’d have sworn reflected a true passion in his heart.
Confusion. It should have made her refuse to meet him.
But now that she knew the bliss she could find in his arms, she seemed helpless to resist. There were also practical reasons for agreeing to this night—she was a practical woman, after all. Perhaps by sharing herself with him again, she would uncover his genuine motives. And if those motives weren’t the ones she so desperately hoped for, well, then at least she would’ve grabbed her happiness while she could, knowing it might have to last the rest of her life.
Besides all that, she had quest
ions and wanted answers, and he was the only person she felt she could ask.
She’d only just slipped out the door when she found herself caught up and swung in a wide circle. “I knew you’d come out!”
“Hush!” she admonished in a harsh whisper. “We’ll be caught.”
“Then you’ll be forced to marry me.” Sounding not at all displeased with that possibility, he set her on her feet. “Come here, my darling Violet.”
“I’m here,” she whispered, searching his eyes, which looked black in the moonlit night.
Something in them changed as he murmured, “No, come here.” And he pulled her close, crushing her against his body.
She barely had time to rip off her spectacles before his mouth descended on hers, hot and needy. For a long, heady moment she almost wished they would be forced to marry. What a relief it might be to have the decision taken out of her hands. Then she ceased to think at all, just feeling instead. Feeling the things only Ford Chase had ever made her feel.
When he finally let her go, the book dropped to the grass between them. He bent to pick it up. “What’s this?”
She turned hot, thankful for the cover of darkness. “Aristotle’s Master-piece,” she mumbled, fumbling her spectacles back on.
He tugged her close again, running a hand down her back to her bottom. She felt all melty inside. “Hmm?” he asked. “Why’d you bring a book?”
“I…well…there are things I don’t understand.” She licked her lips. “I was hoping you could explain them.”
“Me? Explain philosophy to you?”
“It’s not philosophy, Ford.”
UPSTAIRS, CHRYSTABEL let the curtain drop closed. “She’s not alone, Joseph. Ford was waiting.”
“I told you Violet was too smart a girl to go wandering off by herself. Even if she wasn’t bright enough to realize we’d notice. Now come back to bed.”
“Should we go after her?” She perched herself on the mattress, wrapping her arms around one raised knee as she faced her husband. “Are we doing the right thing?”
“He’s a good man. She’ll be safe.”
“She’ll be ruined.”
“Oh, Chrysanthemum, this was your idea in the first place. After you took such pains to explain it to me, I cannot believe you’re having second thoughts. Besides…” His hand sneaked under her night rail and up her thigh. “Were you ruined?”
She tingled. “Of course not. But that was different.” She met his eyes, that emerald green she’d sunk into from the first time they met. “We’d already decided to marry.”
“So has Violet. She just hasn’t figured it out yet.”
When his hand brushed her hip, she sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I expect she needs this to push her over the edge. I know they’re perfect for each other, I just think—”
“Stop thinking, Chrysanthemum. Our Violet is in trustworthy hands.” With fingers made agile by long years of practice, he swept the night rail up and off. “Stop thinking now. It’s time to feel instead.”
Fifty-Nine
SEATED ON THE faded red couch in Ford’s drawing room, Violet watched him flip pages.
“You’re right,” he said, his eyes widening. “This is not philosophy.”
She sipped the wine he’d poured upon their arrival—white Rhenish, not red Italian. “It was supposedly by Aristotle. I thought it was philosophy when I bought it.”
“When I bought it, you mean. I cannot believe I bought you a bloody marriage manual!”
“Hush!” Violet kept picturing Hilda lurking in the corridor, and just her luck, Mum was planning to deliver more Spiced Rosewater perfume tomorrow. She could imagine the tell-all that would ensue if she and Ford failed to modulate their voices. “I just need an explanation.” She opened to a page where a bit of paper stuck up; she’d marked the confusing spot before leaving to meet him. “This chapter. ‘A Word of Advice to Both Sexes: Being Several Directions Respecting…’”
“‘Copulation,’” he finished for her, turning redder than the draperies. “Shouldn’t you be asking your mother these things? Why the devil are you bringing this to me?”
She would die before asking her mother. “You’re a scientist. This is physiology, isn’t it?”
“Not of the sort I learned at Wadham College.”
“Well, can you help me or not?”
“Let me see what it says.” Blowing out a breath, he focused on the book. “‘Since nature has implanted in every creature a mutual desire of copulation—’”
“Wait.” There was that word again. Egad. “This room has no door. What if Hilda overhears? Or Harry?”
He grinned. “Perhaps they’ll get an education.”
“Ford—”
“I was fooling, my love. They sought their beds hours before I left for Trentingham. Relax, will you?” He reached to refill her cup. “They don’t even know you’re here.”
“But they could come downstairs.”
He seemed to consider that a moment. “Then shall we go up? The rooms upstairs have doors.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, he rose and tucked the book beneath one arm. Handing her both cups, he took the bottle and a candle to light the way. She followed him up the worn steps, wincing at every crack and creak.
Thank heavens Hilda and Harry were old and hard of hearing.
On the landing, he turned right and walked her into a chamber.
A bedchamber.
“D-do you sleep here?” she asked. No matter that she’d come here expecting to share his bed, actually seeing it was a shock.
“Yes, I sleep here.” Setting the wine on a small table, he took the candle around the room, lighting others. “I’m sorry it’s not more elegant. It will all be repaired, though, Violet. I hired some laborers today after you left.”
She sipped, staring at the bed, a four-poster so enormous it couldn’t possibly fit through a door—it had to have been built in the room. It was fashioned of heavy oak, darkened with age and smoke from the blackened brick fireplace. Grayish bed-hangings draped from a wooden canopy overhead, looking as though they might once have been rich and possibly blue.
A very long time ago.
The walls were paneled with plain smoke-stained oak, divided into squares with simple molding. She looked up to find a beamed ceiling coated in peeling white paint.
“It’s very…interesting,” she said, for lack of a better description.
“I believe it’s the roof of the original great hall, retained when the floor and fireplace were added some years later. Soon, it will all look good as new.”
“That will take a lot of money,” she said dubiously.
“Not so much,” he assured her. “The building itself is sound. And I’m going to live here and manage the estate, see that it earns a profit.”
She was listening with half an ear, avoiding looking back to the bed. With some relief, she noticed an open door across the chamber. In the way of older houses, a room lay beyond with no corridor to divide them. “What’s that?”
“A sitting room of sorts.” His half-smile told her he was aware of her nervousness. “Come, I’ll show you.”
A short, unpadded settle, a single armless chair, and a small, low table filled the tiny room. Although it was less than beautiful, like the rest of the house it was clean. And there was no bed.
“Lovely,” she said, setting down the wine cups and settling herself on the low-backed oak bench.
He’d carried the candle in with him, and he set that on the table, too. Instead of taking the chair as she’d expected, he squeezed onto the settle beside her. “Would you mind if I get comfortable?”
Without waiting for an answer, he tugged off his boots. And peeled off his stockings.
Her mouth went dry. She moistened her lips. “Will you explain Aristotle’s Master-piece now?”
“Of course,” he said, wiggling his toes. With a flourish, he opened the book to her marked spot and tilted it to catch the candlelight. “‘Since nature has
implanted in every creature a mutual desire of copulation, I thought it necessary to give directions to both sexes for the performing of that act.’” Frowning, he glanced up. “Did you feel directions were necessary?”
His warmth wedged next to her made it difficult to focus on the words, but she already knew what the book said. She kept staring at his toes. He had very nice toes. “Just keep reading,” she told him. “Please.”
Before he did so, he shrugged out of his surcoat and laid it over the settle’s arm. “Very well, then,” he said. “‘It would be very proper to cherish the body with generous restoratives, so that it may be brisk and vigorous, and if their imaginations were charmed with sweet and melodious airs, and cares and thoughts of business drowned in a glass of racy wine, that their spirits may be raised to the highest pitch of ardor and joy, it would not be amiss.’” Leaving the book open on his lap, he worked the knot in his cravat. “‘For inspiration, creativity, and resourcefulness enrich the delights of Venus.’”
“See?” she broke in, alarmed to find he wasn’t just removing his shoes—he looked to be undressing. “This is what I don’t understand.”
He twisted on the settle to face her. “Generous restoratives, sweet and melodious airs, and a glass of racy wine—did I not provide those for you, my love?”
Her face flushed hot. Yes, he’d provided food, music, and wine, and although she wasn’t sure what was meant by racy, the word seemed to fit the mood of that night. “It’s the other that makes no sense. Imagination. Inspiration, creativity, and resourcefulness.”
“Doesn’t it?” He drew off his cravat, setting the froth of white on the table.
“Read the rest.”
“As you wish.” He shifted even closer to her, if that were possible. “‘It is also highly necessary, that in their natural embraces, they meet each other with an equal ardor and an eye to ingenuity.’” As he read, he loosened the laces at his neck. “‘I do advise them, before they begin their conjugal embraces, to invigorate their mutual desires with much daring and inventiveness. Freshness and originality will make their flame burn with a fierce ardor, by those endearing ways that love can better teach than I can write.’”
