Violet (Flower Trilogy) (15 page)

Ford’s hands on Violet’s back felt strong and warm, the pushes rhythmic and reliable. Her lids slid closed.

She didn’t want to go faster than anyone; she just wanted to blank her mind and enjoy the motion. With her eyes shut, she imagined she were flying.

She imagined she were young and beautiful, and Ford her lover, not just a flirtatious, overwhelmed uncle who wanted her to care for his niece.

‘‘Holy Christ,’’ Rowan complained, jarring her back into the real world.

Her eyes popped open. ‘‘I’ve told you not to say that.’’

‘‘No matter how high I get,’’ he panted, ‘‘I cannot seem to go faster than her. She swings three times and I swing only two.’’

Jewel snorted. ‘‘Because you’re heavier, you goose.’’

‘‘I’m not a goose,’’ Rowan said, and Violet cringed, suspecting the girl had picked up that insult from Rose. But Rowan seemed to consider Jewel’s analysis.

‘‘Anyway, you’re a girl, so you’ll get tired,’’ he decided smugly. ‘‘And then I’ll go faster.’’

‘‘No,’’ Ford said, giving Violet another push, ‘‘you won’t.’’

‘‘He won’t?’’ Violet asked. It made sense to her.

Well, perhaps not the part about Jewel tiring—the girl was a bundle of energy if ever she’d seen one—but Rowan was definitely heavier.

‘‘He won’t,’’ Ford repeated. ‘‘The swing is a pendulum—’’

‘‘Like in your laboratory?’’ Jewel interrupted loudly.

‘‘Just like that.’’ He pushed again. ‘‘Only you are the weight at the bottom.’’

Jewel’s dark hair streamed behind her, then flew forward to hide her face. ‘‘And he’s a heavier weight, so . . .’’

‘‘No, the amount of weight doesn’t matter.’’ When Violet swung back, Ford wasn’t there to push. She slowed down to listen. ‘‘The time a pendulum takes to go back and forth is called the period,’’ he said, walking over to push Jewel instead. ‘‘And the period depends on the length of the string. Or in a swing’s case, the ropes.’’ He reached to give Rowan a shove.

‘‘Jewel’s ropes are quite a bit shorter, so Jewel swings faster.’’

‘‘Are you sure?’’ Rowan asked dubiously.

‘‘Positive. But test it yourself. Switch swings with Jewel. That’s what an experiment is all about.’’

The children dragged their feet on the ground to stop the swings, and Ford came back to Violet.

Soon Rowan and Jewel had switched sides and were pumping again. And Rowan was going faster. ‘‘You’re right!’’ he yelled.

‘‘Of course I’m right.’’ Ford gave Violet another little push. ‘‘But I didn’t figure it out myself. Galileo first made the observation.’’

‘‘I know all about Galileo,’’ Jewel told Rowan importantly. ‘‘Uncle Ford named his horse after him.’’

She swung back and forth, back and forth. ‘‘I want to go faster again!’’

‘‘I’ll swing a hundred times and then you can,’’

Rowan offered.

‘‘Fifty times.’’

‘‘As you wish. But we’ll switch back after another fifty.’’ In his loud, young voice, he started counting.

Ford gave Violet a huge shove, and she soared out over the river, swinging back so hard one of her shoes flew off and landed on the grass with a
plop
.

‘‘Oh!’’ she exclaimed, the word sounding breathless and giddy. ‘‘Stop!’’

‘‘Why?’’ He pushed her again, and when she rushed back, he plucked off her other shoe. She heard that one, too, plop somewhere behind her back. ‘‘There,’’

he called as she swung away again, ‘‘now you’ll really feel like a child.’’

Laughing, she wiggled her toes, feeling free in only stockings. And he pushed her higher. And higher.

And higher. ‘‘Stop!’’ she screamed, meaning it this time. ‘‘Or I think I might get sick!’’

He grabbed the ropes and jerked her to a halt.

‘‘Better?’’

‘‘Much.’’ She gave a shaky laugh. ‘‘I guess I’m too old for this after all.’’

‘‘No one’s too old for this,’’ she heard him say. And then an arm curved around her waist and fingers cupped her chin.

Warm lips nuzzled her neck.

Her hands clenched the ropes as a delicious shiver rippled through her. ‘‘The children . . .’’ she murmured, attempting to turn her head. But his mouth trailed her throat, making her entire body weaken and blocking her from looking. She heard the children’s chatter and hoped that meant they weren’t watching, and then it didn’t matter, because Ford was tilting her back, back, until his face was hovering above hers, only upside down.

And he was all she could see. All she could care about.

Slowly he drew off her spectacles and lowered his mouth to meet hers.

The kiss was gentle yet demanding, like the one yesterday, only more so. And different, like they were kissing each other’s bottom lip. Something ached deep inside her, and her hands clenched the ropes. Then, unlike yesterday, his tongue slipped out and traced the seam of her mouth. ’Twas shocking and wild and wonderful. That single caress stole her breath, her thoughts . . .

And it was over all too quickly. Slanting a furtive glance to the children, he reluctantly pulled away. She shifted upright, and he handed her the spectacles with a smile.

A secretive smile. A smile she hadn’t the experience to comprehend.

Her hands shaking, she took the eyeglasses and fitted them back on her face. Leaving her stunned, he moved from her sight. She struggled to catch her breath, listening to him collect the book and her shoes.

‘‘Thirty-seven, thirty-eight,’’ Rowan chanted.

Ford paused for a breath behind her, collecting his wits. Why the devil had he risked that in front of his niece? Someone had left one of the inn’s benches near the tree—to sit and watch their children, no doubt—

and he dragged it over to the side and sat. He set Violet’s shoes on the grass and the book in his lap, then looked up.

‘‘Forty-eight, forty-nine . . .’’ On the opposite side of the tree, Rowan reached fifty, and the children traded places.

‘‘You’re very good with them,’’ Violet said quietly.

Never, in ten lifetimes, had Ford thought anyone would tell him that. Of course, he’d never thought he’d kiss a woman like Violet Ashcroft, either. An innocent country miss who spouted philosophy.

‘‘ ’Twas only physics,’’ he said dismissively, staring at her profile. Her lips were parted. They looked kissable. ‘‘Science. I’m good at science.’’

Still motionless on the swing, she turned her head to look at him. ‘‘You’re good with your niece. And Rowan.’’

He felt totally inept with them, but he didn’t want to argue. ‘‘Perhaps that’s because I never grew up myself,’’ he suggested instead. ‘‘My family would tell you that.’’

‘‘You’ve said something like that before,’’ she recalled, looking flushed and flustered and beautiful.

The spectacles had slipped down her nose, and she pushed them back up. ‘‘What are they like, your family?’’

‘‘Loud,’’ he answered with a grin. ‘‘I have a twin sister, Kendra, and two older brothers, Jason and Colin. All married. Among the three of them, they have seven children already, and I suspect more to come. Jewel is the oldest.’’

‘‘No wonder you’re good with children, then.’’

‘‘No.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘ ’Tis not like that. I’ve played with them, of course, and when I’m not in London, I live with Jason and his family at Cainewood.

Two boys, he and Cait have. But before now, I’d never taken care of my nephews or nieces.’’ They all had nursemaids to see to that. ‘‘I’ve never taken care of
anyone
before.’’

He’d been the baby of the family. Everyone had always taken care of
him
.

‘‘Well, you’re doing a proper job.’’ She shifted to look over at Jewel, who was shrieking with laughter as she soared through the air beside Rowan.

His niece looked happy. Perhaps Violet was right, and he wasn’t doing such a bad job after all.

‘‘And your parents?’’ she asked, turning back.

‘‘What are they like?’’

‘‘Dead.’’

‘‘Faith,’’ she muttered, her face going white. ‘‘I’m so sor—’’

‘‘Don’t be sorry.’’ He turned the book over in his hands. ‘‘I was all of one year old when they left to fight for King Charles, seven when they died at Worcester. I barely even remember them. My oldest brother more or less raised me, with the help of the exiled Court. ’Twas an interesting life.’’

Her fingers trailed up and down the ropes. ‘‘And a rough life, I’d wager.’’

He shrugged. ‘‘Not really. Although my parents sold most everything to help finance the War, I was too young to worry where my next meal would come from.

Someone else always took care of that. The Court moved from Paris, to Brussels, to Bruges and back . . .

the world was my playground. I suppose things were tight, but a child doesn’t need much.’’

She met his gaze, and something twisted in his gut.

‘‘A child needs love,’’ she said softly. But he heard a challenge in her voice.

‘‘I had love.’’ Uncomfortable under that gaze, he looked at the sun sparkling off the river instead.

‘‘From my sister and two older brothers. I never wanted for anything.’’

A short silence stretched between them, and he finally looked back. One of her stockinged feet reached for the grass and pushed off. ‘‘And after you were no longer a child?’’ she asked, swaying back and forth.

‘‘A youth has more needs than a boy.’’

‘‘Mine were met.’’ How to explain a life in a few short sentences? Why did he care that she understood? ‘‘By the time Charles regained the throne, Jason and Colin were grown. Men with responsibilities. Cromwell had stolen their youth, and neither of them were ever afforded a chance for formal study.

As a younger son, I should never have owned land.

But a year following the Restoration, Charles granted us all titles and estates . . . and I left mine behind and went off to university.’’

‘‘How old were you then?’’

‘‘Seventeen. And spoiled rotten.’’ He’d never thought of it that way before, but it was nevertheless true. After completing his studies at Oxford, he’d returned to live with Jason. He’d never had to fend for himself. Never worried for anyone else. Never even had to chase after a woman, since they always seemed to come after him.

He grinned. ‘‘I’ve led a charmed life.’’

‘‘I’m sure you haven’t,’’ she said quickly, and he remembered Tabitha. That part of his life wouldn’t fall under the heading ‘‘charmed’’ . . . but for some odd reason, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. And it certainly didn’t hurt.

Leaning back, Violet stuck her legs out straight and stared at her stockinged feet. ‘‘Nothing is that simple.’’

But it had been. It had been for him.

They fell quiet, and he smiled at the charming picture she made on the swing. He’d never talked with a woman like he talked with Violet Ashcroft—never met one who seemed interested in discussing much beyond fashion and gossip. Never talked with
anyone
who made him reveal parts of himself he hadn’t even known.

And though he’d never suffered for lack of bed sport, he’d never wanted a woman like he suddenly wanted this one right here.

Right now. He wanted to kiss her again. And more.

But she was the Earl of Trentingham’s daughter. A sheltered country lass. ‘‘What was
your
childhood like?’’ he asked.

‘‘Boring in comparison.’’ Still looking down, she turned her toes this way and that. ‘‘Grandpapa sent money for the cause, but he never went off to fight.

He put family before the monarchy. We never went into exile, either. I’ve never been outside of Britain.’’

‘‘But he did support King Charles?’’

She looked up. ‘‘Oh, yes. Of course he did. My family was never anything but Royalist.’’

‘‘I’m surprised Trentingham wasn’t attacked by Cromwell’s forces, then. Cainewood was.’’ And had the cannonball marks to prove it.

‘‘They confiscated Trentingham and occupied it, but we weren’t there. Grandpapa had a secondary title and property that went along with it. Tremayne Castle, very near Wales. Not helpful for the Roundheads strategically, and I suspect too far away for them to bother with.’’ She glanced over at the children.

‘‘Rowan is Viscount Tremayne now.’’

‘‘So your family stayed there for all the years of the War?’’

‘‘And after. All through the Commonwealth, until the Restoration. Besides having an odd penchant for studying languages, Grandpapa was a stickler for family security.’’ She pushed off again, gliding up and then down, slowing immediately when she did nothing to sustain the momentum. ‘‘My parents were wed at Tremayne, and I was born there. As were Rose and Lily. I was eight before I ever stepped foot on Trentingham soil.’’

‘‘Eight?’’ he said, surprised. ‘‘How old are you now?’’

‘‘Twenty.’’ From the tone of her voice one would guess she thought twenty was a doddering old maid.

But he’d thought she was older. Not that she
looked
older, but Tabitha was twenty-one, and except in matters of the bedchamber, Violet seemed so much more mature.

‘‘I’m twenty-eight,’’ he told her.

‘‘I figured that,’’ she said, ‘‘when I heard you went off to university at seventeen, a year after Charles returned from the Continent.’’

‘‘Unlike Rowan, you are good at mathematics.’’ He grinned, thinking she was good at a lot of things. Especially heating his blood. ‘‘Does your family sometimes live at Tremayne Castle now?’’

‘‘Not anymore. We retreated there to wait out the Great Plague—Rowan was born there, then. But then Grandpapa died, and we haven’t been back since.’’

Seeming deep in thought, she stared out over the Thames, swaying gently to and fro in the swing. ‘‘The castle was only ever half built. Mum says it’s too far from London, and Father prefers Trentingham’s gardens. ’Tis a quiet sort of place, Tremayne . . .’’ She met his gaze again with a smile. ‘‘See, I told you my childhood was boring.’’

To his great embarrassment, his stomach growled.

Loudly.

‘‘Oh!’’ she said. ‘‘ ’Tis been at least two hours since you said you were starving! Before we even bought the books!’’

‘‘I haven’t perished.’’ He stood and handed her the shoes. ‘‘But I wouldn’t mind wandering over and taking a table.’’

While she put them on, he went to fetch the children.

‘‘Not yet!’’ Jewel yelled, swinging higher. ‘‘Another minute!’’