Violet (Flower Trilogy) (23 page)

She was a fool for falling for his meaningless advances, for forgetting that if he wanted her at all, it could only be for her inheritance. His offer to introduce her to Locke had been no more than an excuse to put her spectacles on display for his celebrated friends. The realization was an ache, a heaviness in her chest. It mattered not that she should have known the truth all along. No amount of telling herself so worked to allay the hurt.

‘‘Is Locke here yet?’’ Ford asked the ever growing assembly.

‘‘Inside,’’ Boyle said, waving to a chamber off the quadrangle. ‘‘Holding court.’’

‘‘Excuse us, gentlemen.’’

Now that she was actually about to meet the esteemed John Locke, a knot formed in Violet’s middle.

‘‘I was enjoying that conversation,’’ she said as Ford drew her away. If this was her only chance to ever mingle in such company, she was determined to make the most of it.

‘‘And they were enjoying you. We will talk to them again later.’’ He smiled down at her, seeming warm and sincere as ever.

Her head spun with confusion.

The chamber Boyle had indicated turned out to be the refreshment room. Along one wall, long tables were laden with bottles of canary, Rhenish wine, and claret. Guests filled their plates from platters piled with fine cakes, macaroons, and marchpanes. Splendidly dressed men and women chatted while they ate, seated at small round tables. At one of these, a man stood with one foot perched on a chair, talking to a large group that had gathered around him.

‘‘John Locke,’’ Ford said, nodding in the man’s direction. Tall and slim, there was little in his appearance to suggest greatness. Although his speech was animated, his eyes looked melancholy, set in a long face with a large nose and full lips. He wore no wig, and his hair was straight and pale. His hands moved when he talked, his long fingers waving beneath the ruffled cuffs at his wrists.

As they drew close, she could hear his words. ‘‘Government,’’ he said, ‘‘has no other end but the preservation of property.’’

A squat, balding man crossed his arms. ‘‘How can you speak such blasphemy? I’ve never heard such a thing.’’

‘‘New opinions are always suspected, and usually opposed, without any other reason but because they are not already common.’’

‘‘He’s quite busy now,’’ Ford whispered. ‘‘An introduction must probably wait for later.’’

‘‘Oh, but may I stay and just listen?’’ She waved an arm toward the tables bulging with refreshments. ‘‘Go, get yourself something to eat and drink. I will be right here.’’

Ford smiled as he moved toward the refreshment tables. He appreciated a woman who understood a man’s stomach came before a philosophy debate, although he had to admit Locke’s ideas were more intriguing than most.

Not nearly as intriguing as what he was bound to learn from
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet
, however.

‘‘Why the grin?’’ Newton asked, already filling a plate at the bountiful buffet. Gresham College was certainly welcoming the Royal Society back in style.

Deliberately nonchalant, Ford picked up a plate for himself. ‘‘No reason.’’

‘‘I’m not
that
oblivious.’’ Newton studied a strawberry before adding it to his selections. ‘‘ ’Tis that woman, I’d wager. Lady Violet? Lovely, is she not?’’

‘‘No. I mean, yes, of course she’s lovely.’’ She
did
look lovely tonight, and ’twas not only the fancy gown.

The excitement in her eyes lit her whole face. He’d never thought to meet a woman excited by science, or anything much academic. Tabitha certainly hadn’t been.

Thinking about that, he chose radishes and slices of musk melon. ‘‘I wasn’t smiling about Lady Violet.’’

Newton bit into a macaroon. ‘‘What, then?’’

‘‘I . . .’’ Dying to share it with someone, Ford leaned close and spoke under his breath. ‘‘I’ve found
Secrets
of the Emerald Tablet
.’’

‘‘You found
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet
?’’ Newton fairly bellowed.

‘‘Hush! ’Tis yet to be translated. I’m not ready to announce—’’ But it was too late. Heads had turned, and a speculative murmur ran through the room.

Hooke rushed over. ‘‘Is it true?
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet
exists? You have it in your possession?’’

‘‘Not at the moment,’’ Ford hedged. Then, at the sight of Wren and Boyle approaching, he gave up.

They’d find out soon enough, anyway. ‘‘I’ve given it to an expert to translate. But yes, I found it, and I own it.’’

More men pressed close to hear the incredible news.

‘‘How much did it cost you?’’ someone asked.

‘‘One shilling.’’ A stunned silence filled the room, and he felt a grin stretch his face. ‘‘The bookseller thought it worthless,’’ he added.

‘‘I’ll buy it for fifty pounds,’’ a man offered.

Hooke raised a hand. ‘‘A hundred.’’

Normally the most polite man Ford knew, Wren elbowed his good friend out of the way. ‘‘I’ll pay you five hundred.’’

‘‘I’ll double what anyone else offers.’’

Silence reigned again as they all turned to stare at Newton. The man could well afford to honor the bid.

He was wifeless, childless, and his father had died three months before his birth, leaving a tidy estate to his only son. Newton had inherited land from a subsequent stepfather as well. He sounded sincere, and no one moved to say he was not; the man was known to sometimes take offense when none was intended.

‘‘ ’Tis not for sale,’’ Ford said at last. ‘‘Not at any price.’’

‘‘Well.’’ Newton held his cup of Rhenish aloft in a toast. ‘‘I trust you’ll let me know if ever you change your mind.’’

Conversation broke out in a deafening babble as people exclaimed over the find and maneuvered toward Ford to pump his hand and offer congratulations. The room turned hot and close as more male guests made their way inside to join the crowd. Spirits were passed hand to hand from the tables to the back of the chamber, and soon everyone was clinking goblets to celebrate the discovery of the decade.

An hour flew by before Ford managed to work his way through the throng and into the corner where he’d left Violet. She was gone, along with the rest of Locke’s audience. The area had been overtaken by guests marveling over
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet
.

Light-headed with success and more wine than he customarily drank, Ford hurried outdoors to the improvised ballroom. Only a few couples graced the dance floor, the colonnaded courtyard sparsely populated in general. It seemed every member of the Royal Society was in the refreshment room.

Another chamber blazed with light, but a peek into it almost had him backing away. ’Twas crammed with chattering ladies—all those deserted, he supposed, by the men in the other room. He pushed his way in, though he really didn’t expect to find Violet. She didn’t strike him as the social, gossipy type.

He was correct.

Stopping three times to acknowledge congratulations, he crossed the quadrangle and through a building, opening the door to a small, deserted piazza.

’Twas bordered by structures that had lately held City government offices, but were empty for now, until Gresham College could hire a full staff and resume operations. The piazza looked dark and peaceful, especially after the excitement elsewhere in the college.

He stepped outdoors, breathing deep of the fresh night air. Then, suddenly struck by an idea—perhaps not as brilliant as the spectacles, but clever nonetheless—he headed back inside to talk to one of the serving maids.

Half an hour later, Violet entered the quadrangle and almost bumped into Ford. She smiled when his hands went to her shoulders to steady her, although it hadn’t been necessary—these days, with her spectacles, she hardly ever tripped. ‘‘Fancy meeting you here,’’ she quipped, feeling a loss when he let go.

He failed to return her smile. ‘‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’’

‘‘We had to escape that room.’’

‘‘We?’’ he asked, looking a bit vexed. He eyed her low bodice.

She yanked up on it. ‘‘Mr. Locke and I. Whatever was happening in there drew everyone’s attention, and suddenly I found myself alone with him.’’

His eyes filled with an odd mixture of relief and concern. ‘‘But I hadn’t made an introduction.’’

‘‘None was needed.’’ Locke had introduced himself without even making mention of her spectacles, simply accepting her as she was. ‘‘It seems he recognized a kindred soul. We wandered off and talked and talked . . .’’ She frowned suddenly. ‘‘Where were you all that time?’’

‘‘Word got out about me finding
Secrets
—’’

A red-wigged gentleman came toward him with an outstretched hand. ‘‘Heard of your good luck, Lakefield. Congratulations. If ever you want to sell it—’’

‘‘I don’t.’’ Ford pumped his hand. ‘‘But I thank you.’’

‘‘Just let me know.’’

As the two of them watched the man walk off, Ford sighed. ‘‘It seems everyone has to congratulate me—

or make an offer to buy it. And Newton has offered to double anyone’s bid. Can you imagine?’’

What she couldn’t imagine was him passing that up when he so obviously needed money. She measured his clear blue eyes. ‘‘You were serious, then, when you claimed you wouldn’t sell at any price.’’

‘‘I meant it. Having been missing for so many years, it seems magical that the book should end up in my hands. No matter that I don’t believe in such things, it feels like fate.’’

She did understand how he felt. If she should ever find an ancient philosophy book, handwritten by one of the masters, she’d be loathe to sell it as well. And she supposed it would feel like fate, too.

‘‘Maybe it
was
fate,’’ she said softly. ‘‘Do you not believe that sometimes things are meant to be ours?’’

He only smiled, a mysterious smile that made her uneasy.

She reached up to adjust her spectacles. ‘‘Well, I’m happy your announcement provided a distraction,’’

she said by way of changing the subject. ‘‘I expect without that I’d never have spoken alone with Mr.

Locke, and oh, we had the most lovely conversation.’’

‘‘Tell me about it.’’ Another well-wisher approached, and Ford impatiently took Violet’s arm. ‘‘I know a place where I can listen without interruption.’’

He led her across the quadrangle, where a few more couples were dancing now that men and women were filtering out of the buildings and meeting up with one another. She noticed Wren with an apple-cheeked, brown-haired lady. Hooke, ungainly and awkward, danced with a beautiful, willowy woman taller than himself.

Ford took Violet through a building and pushed open a door. And they stepped into a veritable wonderland.

Candles sparkled everywhere—perched on the sills of the windows surrounding them, sitting on the benches around the perimeter, scattered on the patterned brick paving. Their flickering flames warded off the night, bathing the small piazza in a romantic glow.

In the center sat two chairs and one of the small round tables from the refreshment room, offering a selection of sweets and savories. A pair of goblets rested side by side, a half-filled bottle nearby.

Gasping, she turned to Ford. ‘‘How did you know all this was here?’’

‘‘It wasn’t.’’ The door shut behind them with a soft thud. ‘‘I arranged it.’’

There were buildings all around, but all the windows were black. They were alone. She and her brilliant country neighbor were alone in a piazza in London.

A piazza he’d had prepared especially for her.

Stunned, she shifted her gaze to meet his. ‘‘This isn’t like you.’’

He gestured at her gown. ‘‘This isn’t like you, either.’’

Heat rose into her cheeks as he reached to gently remove her spectacles. One arm curved around her waist. ‘‘Perhaps,’’ he continued, drawing her close,

‘‘we bring out the best in one another.’’

And she felt the length of him pressed against her as he bent his head to meet her lips.

This wasn’t a stolen kiss, impulsive and rushed while the children’s heads were momentarily turned. This was sweet and unhurried. The lightest brush of his mouth, first on her bottom lip, then the top. Over her cheek and across her forehead and down to her chin.

He cupped her face in his hands and ran one thumb over her lips before he finally covered her mouth with his own.

She felt . . . cherished. Her breath caught, and her heart stopped, then began pounding in her chest. She hadn’t known it could feel like this, hadn’t thought she wanted a man. But suddenly she did, with every fiber of her being.

Oh my, the
Masterpiece
had been right. Her mind was definitely stirred to venery.

Still gentle and slow, he deepened the kiss, coaxing her lips to part. She was floating, whirling. His tongue slipped inside to mingle with hers, and it was shocking, but glorious, too. Soft, sweet, tasting of the wine of celebration. His hair smelled lightly of soap and fresh air, his skin smelled of that exotic, spicy scent. It felt so good to be held. Her head spun with the wonder of it all.

When he pulled away, she just stood there, swaying for a moment, and then she opened her eyes. All around them, the candles flickered, gilding his features in a pale, golden light.

‘‘Thank you,’’ she whispered.

As he slid the spectacles back on her face, the beginnings of a smile curved his lips. ‘‘You’re entirely welcome,’’ he said.

He sounded sincere. Was she wrong, then, about his intentions? He’d claimed to have invited her expressly to introduce her to a man who could help make her dream come true. Then he’d gone to great trouble to whisk her off to this romantic hideaway when they could be with his friends instead, showing off her spectacles and celebrating his amazing discovery of the book. His kiss had transported her to another world, a place where she’d felt cared for and wanted. Could he actually want
her
, plain Violet . . . for herself?

No. She couldn’t allow herself to forget his words in the heat of a kiss. To forget his beliefs about women and money. To forget why he’d really brought her here.

She shook her head to clear it, but it didn’t quite work. And why should it, really? For this one magical night, a night of dreams come true, she would let herself live a fantasy. For just this night . . .