Violet (Flower Trilogy) (24 page)

She fluffed her satin overskirt, staring at him while she willed herself to believe she was a fair lady in the company of a man in love with her.

‘‘I’m famished,’’ he said, and she laughed, breaking the tension. He led her to the table and seated her, handing her a goblet of wine. She sipped while he took the other chair.

He lifted a strawberry and raised it to her mouth.

Oh my, he was feeding her.

‘‘What did he talk about?’’ Ford asked.

‘‘Who?’’ A berry had never tasted so delicious.

‘‘King Charles.’’

For a moment, she looked around in confusion.

Then he laughed. ‘‘I meant John Locke, of course.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ A little giggle threatened to escape, so she sipped more wine. ‘‘He is brilliant.’’

He swiped a spear of asparagus off a plate piled high. ‘‘More brilliant than I?’’

She cocked her head, making a show of considering.

‘‘In a different way.’’ Sipping again, she warmed to her subject. ‘‘Do you know what he told me? He said all mankind should be equal and independent, and no one should have the right to harm another in his life, health, liberty, or possessions.’’

He bit the end off his third asparagus. ‘‘Not even the King?’’

‘‘No one.’’ ’Twas so radical a thought as to be startling, but so clear the way Locke had explained it.

‘‘There should be a standing rule to live by, common to everyone, and made by legislative power, a liberty to follow one’s own will in all things where one does not harm another, and not to be subject to the arbitrary will of another man. Arbitrary power, he said, becomes tyranny, whether those that use it are one or many.’’

‘‘I wouldn’t discuss this with Charles,’’ Ford said, handing her a marchpane.

She bit into the sweet almond confection. ‘‘I’ve never thought to discuss politics with the King, but now I just might.’’

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. ‘‘Damnation, what have I started?’’

‘‘Locke says every man has property in his own person, and no one has any right to that but himself.

The labor of his body, the work of his hands, are his, and the only reason for men to unite and put themselves under government is the preservation of their property.’’

‘‘You’re excited by these ideas.’’ He’d finished the asparagus. From yet another plate, he spooned up a bite of cheesecake blanketed in rich puff pastry. ‘‘I can hear it in your voice,’’ he said, holding out the spoon.

Enjoying the traces of nutmeg and mace, she let the creamy cheese, both sweet and tart, melt on her tongue. ‘‘I
am
excited. These are new things to think about. A new way to look at the world.’’ She drained her goblet, feeling woozy from not only the wine but the ideas spinning in her brain. ‘‘Thank you so much for bringing me.’’

‘‘Thank you for coming.’’ He reached to refill her cup, then leaned even closer, brushing her mouth with a feather-light kiss. ‘‘You enjoyed hearing about the scientific discoveries, too, did you not?’’

‘‘Very much.’’ Her lips tingled. ‘‘I surprised myself.’’

‘‘I’m surprised to find the philosophy interesting as well. So we’re even this night.’’

‘‘This night.’’ Just this one night. She sighed, taking pleasure in the wine and the company, the candlelight, the music that drifted from the quadrangle, the stars in the clear summer sky. Knowing it had to end. ‘‘Can you hear the laughter from the quadrangle? I think everyone must be out there now.’’ But she didn’t want to join them. She didn’t ever want to leave this magical, private place.

Afraid he might assume she wished to rejoin the party, she changed the subject. ‘‘Is Hooke really a drunk?’’

His brow furrowed in confusion. ‘‘Whatever makes you think that?’’

‘‘He said living here is convenient, because when he falls down stumbling drunk, he is close to his bed.’’

His face cleared. ‘‘Don’t let his dry humor fool you.

Far from being a drunkard, I think he and Wren are addicted to coffee, if anything at all. Best of friends they are, too.’’

The faint music from the quadrangle stopped. Another burst of laughter sounded. ‘‘Their wives must be very proud of them,’’ Violet said.

‘‘Wren’s wife is very kind.’’ With one finger, he traced little circles on the back of her hand where it rested on the table. ‘‘Hooke has yet to marry, though.’’

‘‘Well, then, whom was he dancing with?’’ she asked, hiding a shiver.

‘‘Why did you assume she was his spouse? You’re here with me, and we’re not husband and wife.’’

‘‘Of course we aren’t,’’ she said quickly, and if the tone of his voice implied he wanted them to be, she had to remind herself why she didn’t. Still, her face heated at the thought, and she was thankful for the concealment of the candlelit night.

‘‘The Gresham professors are required to be bachelors,’’ he explained, still lazily teasing her hand.

‘‘Hooke calls that woman his housekeeper.’’

‘‘She lives with him?’’

‘‘Mm-hmm.’’

She grinned. ‘‘You don’t dance with Hilda.’’

‘‘Hilda doesn’t look like that.’’ He raised his hand and ran one warm fingertip alongside her face. ‘‘And she’s a
real
housekeeper.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ Her skin tingled wherever he touched. ‘‘Oh.

You mean she’s really a—oh.’’

‘‘Yes. Oh,’’ he repeated with a devilish lift of one brow. All at once, the laughter grew louder. The door flung open, and a few couples spilled out onto the piazza. ‘‘We’ve been found,’’ he groaned.

‘‘There you are,’’ one of the women said, drawing a man away from the other couples to where Violet sat with Ford.

‘‘Ah, yes.’’ The middle-aged man shot the woman a rather impatient look before he addressed Ford more neutrally. ‘‘We’ve heard you found
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet
.’’

‘‘I have.’’ Ford reluctantly rose, bringing Violet up with him and curling an arm around her waist. ‘‘John Evelyn,’’ he said by way of introduction. ‘‘May I present Lady Violet Ashcroft.’’

‘‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.’’ Evelyn had a lean, thoughtful face, shadowed by his own graying hair. ‘‘My wife, Mary.’’

Mary was much younger, a pretty woman with a round face and curly hair that brushed shoulders left bare by a neckline lower even than Violet’s. She smiled and bobbed a curtsy, her large pearl earbobs bobbing along with her. ‘‘ ’Tis a pleasure to meet you, my lady.’’

‘‘The pleasure is mine,’’ Violet said.

Introductions concluded, the woman turned to Ford.

‘‘Would
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet
be for sale, my lord?’’

‘‘I’m afraid not.’’ His words sounded genial enough, but Violet felt him tense. ‘‘And you’d have to fight Mr. Newton for it, anyway.’’

‘‘ ’Tis just as well, my dear,’’ Evelyn said.

The tone of his voice confused Violet. She turned to look up at Ford.

‘‘I think,’’ he said, ‘‘that we’d best be on our way.’’

And he drew her out of the lovely piazza he’d created, leaving the others to enjoy it.

‘‘What was that all about?’’ Violet asked as they walked back through the building. ‘‘I would think he’d be pleased she wanted to buy him the book.’’

He dropped his hand from her waist, linking his fingers with hers instead. ‘‘She wants it for herself.

Her husband calls her a ‘kitchen scientist.’ Not fondly, I might add.’’

‘‘I could tell.’’ The quadrangle was quickly emptying, the musicians packing up. ‘‘Does he not approve of her interests, then?’’

‘‘He believes housekeeping should be her priority.

His wedding gift to her was a calligraphy copy of his own treatise on marital duties. The ladies at Court think his wife the unhappiest woman in the world.’’

‘‘I cannot blame her,’’ Violet said, stepping carefully in her heeled shoes across the dew-damp grass.

‘‘Her husband would say she has her children to console her.’’

‘‘And you would say?’’

He shrugged, squeezing her hand. ‘‘I know only that were I to be deprived of my scientific interests, I would be unhappy, too.’’

‘‘Then let us hope your wife is more indulgent than Mary Evelyn’s husband,’’ she heard herself say.

Egad, how could she bring up his future wife?

But he only laughed, drawing her through the passage that led back to the Reading Hall and entrance.

In the arched tunnel, he stopped and turned to face her. ‘‘I am hoping my wife will be very indulgent, indeed,’’ he said, his voice a husky drawl.

‘‘She’d have to be.’’ A nervous giggle escaped her lips. ‘‘Are we leaving now?’’

‘‘In a minute.’’ He stepped closer, backing her against the stone wall. ‘‘There will be a long line for the carriage this late.’’

The evening had flown. ‘‘What time is it?’’ she asked.

‘‘Does it matter? Your mother mentioned no curfew. I think she must approve of me.’’ Her heart raced as he slowly drew off her spectacles and slipped them into his pocket. ‘‘The church bells rang one o’clock quite a while ago.’’

‘‘Oh. I wasn’t listening.’’

His hands were skimming up and down her sides, making it hard to listen at all. Everywhere he touched felt so warm.

He lowered his head, his mouth inching toward hers, and she waited, waited, her breath catching when he finally found his target. His lips were gentle but insistent, and despite all her reservations, she returned his kiss with reckless abandon.

‘‘Violet,’’ he murmured, his mouth turning urgent, the caress deepening until his tongue mingled with hers. His hands continued their explorations, stroking her shoulders, gliding around to her back, trailing down to cup her bottom and pull her close.

She was shocked, but her body arched toward him instinctively. Buffeted by new sensations, she moaned, a soft sound of capitulation. Pleasure streaked through her, sweeping her from the tunnel into a place where only he and she existed . . .

. . . and all the while he still kissed her.

He tasted of berries and wine, and she wanted more. Her own hands reached under his coat to explore his body the way he was touching hers. Firmness to match her softness. She pressed closer, molding her curves against him, feeling a hardness down below that, according to the
Masterpiece
, meant he wanted her.

Right or wrong, whatever his reasons, he wanted her. Her, Violet Ashcroft. The realization stole her breath, robbed her of thought—

Laughter burst through her pleasurable haze as two other couples entered the passage, clearly in their cups.

‘‘ ’Night, Lakefield,’’ one of the men called facetiously. ‘‘Sweet dreams.’’

Ford pulled back with a groan, snatching his hands from her posterior. ‘‘ ’Night, Hartwell,’’ he mumbled.

His labored breath seemed to echo in the tunnel as he waited for them to clear the other end.

Then he smiled at her, a dazed smile, and leaned close, angling his head. His lips trailed her forehead, her cheek, her throat. In the sensitive area afforded him by her scandalous neckline, he nibbled and kissed, his tongue tracing a shivery line to her cleavage. Her hands clenched his shoulders, she sagged back against the wall—

And three more men stumbled into the tunnel.

‘‘ ’Night, Lakefield,’’ they called in drunken unison.

‘‘Let us line up for the carriage,’’ he said with a sigh.

‘‘At least there we’ll be able to find some privacy.’’

Violet rode in a carriage, crossing London on roads so impossibly smooth it felt as though she floated.

The sidelight illuminated a crimson velvet interior, rich, plush, decadent. And upon this upholstery she reclined . . . while Ford kissed her senseless.

Knock-knock-knock.

A soft moan escaped her lips, half passion, half annoyance. Some very rude person was rapping on the carriage door.

Knock-knock-
knock
!

‘‘Don’t answer,’’ she whispered to Ford. To be sure he complied, she threaded her fingers through his hair and held his mouth captive to hers. He responded with a violent passion, his lips devouring . . .

Knock-knock-knock!

With a growl borne of frustration, she bolted upright, wrested unwillingly from the dream. Her eyes popped open, but all was pitch-black.

‘‘Who is it?’’ she forced through gritted teeth.

Knock-knock-KNOCK!

‘‘Who
is
it?’’ She swung her legs off the bed and pushed open the hangings, reaching for the floor with her bare feet. Feeling blindly for her spectacles, she managed to locate them and shove them on, but of course they didn’t help.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!

‘‘
Who is it!
’’ she yelled, padding toward her door and fumbling in the darkness for the latch. Her fingers finally closed on it, and she jerked it open.

It didn’t open very far.

Bang!
Like a gunshot, the noise came across the corridor, accompanied by a feminine shriek. Then the latch was yanked from Violet’s hand, as—

SLAM! her own door flew closed.

Her frustration mounting, she opened it again.

Bang!

SLAM!

Bang!

SLAM!

She paused for a moment, shaking the last dregs of sleep from her head. She drew a deep breath, then gingerly opened her door again, just a crack. And heard the sound of a young boy’s giggles.

‘‘Rowan!’’ she admonished, but her own laughter was bubbling up now, neutralizing the sternness she’d intended.

Her hand was still on the latch, and something pulled on the door, though it didn’t slam this time. A steady pull.

‘‘Rowan?’’ Rose’s voice called.

From down the corridor came the sound of another door opening, then Lily’s sleepy voice. ‘‘What is all this noise?’’ she said through a yawn.

‘‘I got you!’’ Rowan crowed. ‘‘It worked!’’

‘‘What worked?’’ Violet asked suspiciously. A soft flare of light illuminated the corridor as someone—

Lily, she guessed—approached with a candle.

‘‘Rowan, I cannot believe what you did!’’ Lily exclaimed. Instead of disapproval, admiration tinged her voice. ‘‘You clever boy!’’

‘‘What?’’ Rose snapped, apparently still trapped behind her door and as mystified as Violet. ‘‘What did he do?’’

Lily’s laughter echoed in the corridor. ‘‘Wait a minute.’’ Violet heard the small
clink
of the silver candlestick landing on a table, then a rustling, scratching sound as Lily did something with her door.