by Lauren Royal
The box was tied—very crookedly—with a purple ribbon Violet thought she remembered seeing in Jewel’s hair. “Open it,” Rose said, 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.
It was the difference between mere lust and true love. The difference that made his blood pump when before it had only flowed. The difference that aroused him nearly to the point of pain.
The difference that made her his.
Her mouth on him was sweet and hot, and he shuddered beneath her, her tender onslaught robbing him of his wits and his breath. And when at last he couldn’t stand any more, and he drew away and covered her with his body and slid into her welcoming warmth, he knew he was home. Home was wherever Violet was, and Violet was right here.
He shifted slowly within her, forcing himself to hold back, wanting to give her all the pleasure she was giving him. But her hands on his hips urged him on. And when he felt her peak for a second time, his heart gloried as he went with her.
For a very long time, he held her in his arms, kissing her hair and drawing in its sweet scent. He didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to move, didn’t want to break the spell. Usually one to turn over and go to sleep, he decided she must have enchanted him.
“I have a wedding present for you,” she said softly.
“Damnation.” The moment lost, he kissed her again, then sat up against the headboard. “I have nothing for you.”
“You sent me the feather, remember? And the ring is more than enough.” She smiled at it in the candlelight. Like Violet, it was simple: one large, rectangular amethyst with a row of small diamonds flanking each side. “It sparkles so,” she said. “It’s the prettiest ring I’ve ever seen.”
“A violet-colored gem for Violet. Amy made it. Especially for you.”
“But she’d only met me the once!”
“I think she captured you perfectly, though.”
“She did.” Still smiling, she dropped her hand. “Let me get your gift.”
When she slid from the bed and walked across the room, all he could think was that Violet undressed was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Gorgeous breasts rose above a curvy waist his hands itched to span. Flared hips led to long, shapely legs. Who’d ever have guessed all that was hidden beneath her plain gowns?
“Stop,” he said. “Right there.”
“What?” Her eyes darted furtively around. “Is there another hairy spider?”
“No.” He laughed. “I just wanted to look at you. You’re perfect.”
“I am not.” Self-consciously she folded her arms across her breasts. “I’m neither tall like Rose, nor petite like Lily. Neither plump nor slender.”
“Exactly. You’re perfect. Now, what have you brought me?”
“Just this.” Slipping back into the bed, she handed him a package wrapped in fabric, gathered and tied with ribbons on both ends.
He felt its shape. “A book? For a wedding present?”
“Just open it.” She grinned, looking so excited he thought if he didn’t hurry, his beautiful, naked wife might actually bounce on the bed.
He pulled off the ribbons, letting the fabric fall open.
And the breath left his body.
He stared down at it a moment, then raised his gaze to meet hers. “Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. How—how did you get this?”
“I bought it. With my inheritance.”
“From Newton?”
“From you.”
He pushed it into her hands. “Give it back. I won’t have you sacrificing your own dreams for this book. I’ve already given it up, and I’m not sorry for the bargain.” His voice sounded rough to his own ears, and he forced himself to gentle it. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful, my love. It’s just that—”
“No. You’re not understanding. I bought it, Ford. In the first place. Rand told me you’d instructed him to sell it, and I couldn’t allow that to happen. I couldn’t let you sacrifice your prized possession just to convince me of your love.”
His heart squeezed painfully in his chest. It was a moment before words would come, and when they finally did, he had only three.
“I love you.”
Sixty-Seven
IT WASN’T THE first morning Ford had awakened with a woman in his bed, but it was the first time with Violet. The first time that really counted.
At first he just lay there a while, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, enjoying the color he’d put in her cheeks, her lips still rosy from their middle-of-the-night encounters. Finally, unable to help himself, he reached out, brushing the side of her face with the backs of his fingers.
“Ford?”
“Hush, my sweet. Sleep.”
With a sigh, he rose so she could do so. Quietly he padded to the washbasin and splashed his face, then reached for a towel.
He stared at himself in the mirror.
What kind of a man was he? He’d thought he was doing the right thing, the responsible thing, when he’d sold the book to save Lakefield. He’d been so pleased with himself when he’d managed to make his home livable and still have money left to last for a while until the estate could turn a profit. It was the first time in his life he hadn’t spent every shilling the moment he laid hands on it.
Last night, when Violet returned the book, he’d been stunned and thrilled to discover the depth of her love and generosity. But as he studied himself this morning, reality set in.
Bloody hell, her money had paid for everything. And would continue to pay their expenses for the next few months, at least.
He closed his eyes, guilt battering his newfound happiness. Never mind that he was accustomed to living hand to mouth, he was now a married man. Shouldn’t he be the provider?
Society said not necessarily, but his heart told him yes. Especially because he’d been telling Violet that all along.
Straightening,
he looked in the mirror again and ordered himself to come to terms with it. Like it or not, his new wife had been his anonymous benefactor. At this point, all he could do was resolve to work hard, and not in his laboratory. Instead, on his land and in his study—he would do whatever it took to make sure his renovated estate proved successful.
As he tossed the towel to the washstand, his gaze fell on Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. He would ask Rand—the scheming bastard—to resume the translation, too. But he would no longer depend on an ancient book to rescue him. Gold wasn’t waiting at the end of rainbows. Or in an alchemy crucible, either.
Someday, somehow, he would provide Violet with the funds to publish her book. But the way it looked now, he thought with a resigned sigh, “someday” was far in the future.
A knock came at the bedroom door. He hurried into his breeches and went to answer it.
“Will you be wanting breakfast, milord?”
He looked from Hilda to Violet. “In an hour,” he whispered. “My wife is still abed.”
My wife. His heart swelled at hearing his own words.
“She’ll wake, will she not? It’s hot and ready now. Eggs and cheese. This new French cook certainly is fancy.” Hilda shoved a heavy tray into his hands. “Your mail is there, too.”
Openmouthed, he watched her sway down the corridor before he shut the door. “If I cannot control my servants,” he muttered, “how will I deal with my children?”
“You never did manage to control Jewel.”
“Too true.” He turned and put the tray on the bed. “You’re awake.”
“And famished.” Violet struggled to sit and spooned up a bite of the rich dish, puffed from oven baking and redolent with the scent of sharp Italian cheese.
He sat beside her and sipped coffee from a steaming cup. Setting it down, he took the first letter and snapped open the seal.
“‘Dear Lord Lakefield,’” he read aloud, thinking it might be a congratulatory note on their wedding. “‘I am writing on behalf of my client, Daniel Quare, Watchmaker, who is very interested in buying the rights to produce your patented watch. Please find enclosed a contract—’” He looked up. “What the devil…?”
