Violet (Flower Trilogy) (30 page)

‘‘No,’’ she said shortly. That, at least, was true.

Lily bit her lip, looking to Violet in apology. ‘‘I was just teasing her, Mum. But ’twas very nice of him to make this. I cannot wait to see you use it.’’

‘‘And she should marry him,’’ Rose put in.

‘‘Oh, hush up,’’ Violet said, dropping onto a chair.

She raised her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, then pushed them back into place to focus on her mother.

‘‘Why did you invite him to my birthday celebration?

’Twas supposed to be a private party. Family.’’ The day would be disconcerting enough without celebrating it in public. ‘‘You’re not trying to match me up with him, are you?’’

‘‘Of course not.’’ Mum waved a dismissive hand.

‘‘He’d just brought me a gift. I felt it necessary to reciprocate in what little way I could.’’

It made sense. Maybe. ‘‘Then what is your explanation for allowing me to join him for supper? Alone, Mum? Harry and Hilda don’t count.’’

‘‘You’re nearly twenty-one years old now, a woman grown. I’m sure I can trust you.’’

Violet wasn’t sure she could trust herself.

‘‘Besides, ’twas very much like I said, dear. He’d just done me an enormous favor, and I didn’t feel

’twould be right to refuse him a boon. ’Tis naught but a couple of hours in his company—surely you cannot find that too onerous.’’

‘‘But you really should marry him,’’ Rose said again.

Violet turned on her. ‘‘Why? So you can start your own husband hunt?’’

‘‘No.’’ Rose actually looked hurt, and Violet felt terrible for lashing out. ‘‘You just seem perfect together. Mum, do you not agree?’’

Chrystabel’s fingers played over the flowers scattered on the table, picking out the white jasmines. ‘‘I promised you girls I would allow you to find your own husbands.’’

‘‘That doesn’t mean we don’t want your opinion,’’ Lily said.

‘‘Yes, Mum,’’ Rose agreed. ‘‘What is your opinion?’’

Everyone wanted to know. Except Violet. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d slink from the room.

Mum lifted the lid off the new still and started plucking jasmine petals, tossing them in as she talked.

‘‘I think he is very intellectual.’’

Rose began collecting carnations, doubtless planning another floral arrangement. ‘‘Which makes him perfect for our Violet, does it not?’’

‘‘I didn’t say that, Rose.’’

‘‘But you thought it.’’

Violet gritted her teeth. ‘‘Rose, would you hush up?’’

‘‘Girls. Stop bickering. It is up to Violet to choose her own husband. I said from the first I thought Ford was too intellectual, and I haven’t changed my opinion.’’

‘‘But he’s so nice,’’ Lily said.

Violet’s fingers clenched on the chair’s arms. ‘‘You think so? Then would
you
marry him?’’

‘‘I’m not looking for a man like him,’’ Lily protested. ‘‘I’m looking for a man who shares my love for animals.’’

‘‘You’re too young to be looking at all,’’ Mum said.

Rose rubbed a pink bloom across her lips. ‘‘I like looking.’’

‘‘We all know that by now,’’ Violet said, rolling her eyes.

‘‘Viscount Lakefield is very nice to look at.’’

‘‘You think so?’’ Violet repeated. ‘‘Then why don’t
you
marry him?’’

Rose tossed her gleaming chestnut ringlets. ‘‘I’m looking for a man who appreciates my femininity. Your Ford looks right through me.’’

‘‘Not too difficult, since you’re so shallow.’’

‘‘Violet!’’ Her eyes wide, Mum stopped plucking.

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Violet muttered. She hadn’t meant to be mean; she was just tired of being pressured. ‘‘ ’Tis only that Rose is so intelligent, yet she tries so hard to hide it.’’

Rose turned to pull a vase from the shelf. ‘‘I’ve told you, men aren’t interested in intelligence.’’

‘‘Lord Lakefield is,’’ Lily said.

‘‘And that,’’ Rose declared, plopping the carnations into the vase, ‘‘is why he is so perfect for Violet.’’

A sigh escaped Violet in a rush.
How long will you
abuse my patience?
she paraphrased Cicero in her head, but the familiar quotation did nothing to help her regain her own.

This discussion was going nowhere at all, and if she heard one more time that she should marry Ford— from her mother, her sisters,
anybody
—she feared she would scream.

She pushed out of the chair and headed for the door. ‘‘I need to go get ready.’’

Lily came to block her way, her blue eyes concerned. ‘‘Do you not want to see the distillery work?’’

‘‘Tomorrow, perhaps,’’ she said, skirting around her sister. ‘‘Today I have no time.’’

Thanks to Mum’s meddling, she had a supper date in less than five hours.

‘‘Violet!’’ her father called from over by a border of pink candytuft. ‘‘Where are you going?’’

Detouring through the garden to meet him, she cast Ford an apologetic glance. He shrugged and took her hand.

‘‘I’m going to Lakefield House for supper!’’ she shouted. ‘‘Did Mum not tell you?’’

As they drew close, Father’s gaze focused on their linked fingers, and a smile flirted on his lips. Apparently
he
wanted her to marry Ford, too.

Egad, just what she needed. More family pressure.

‘‘Have a pleasant time, dear.’’ Father leaned to kiss her on the cheek. ‘‘Be back by supper.’’

‘‘Supper?’’ Ford repeated. ‘‘Lord Trentingham—’’

‘‘Forget it,’’ Violet told him. ‘‘We could stand here all night. Mum will explain when I’m not there.’’ She gave her father’s arm a squeeze, knowing he hadn’t heard her low comments. ‘‘I’ll see you later, Father.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘I’ll see you later!’’ she shouted with a smile. ‘‘Sorry about that,’’ she said to Ford as they walked away.

‘‘We yell a lot in this family, but we never mean anything by it.’’

‘‘If you’re thinking that will put me off, you’re wrong. My family yells, too. And none of us are deaf.’’

Still holding her hand, Ford led her around the corner.

And there was that silly, old-fashioned barge.

She stopped in her tracks. ‘‘Where is your carriage?’’

‘‘ ’Tis a beautiful evening,’’ he said, pulling her along. ‘‘I thought to spend it on the river.’’

His sudden smile was disarming. She was speechless as they crossed the lawn, and although she hadn’t tripped in weeks, she almost did as she stepped onto the barge. Nodding to Harry and the stable hands to cast off, Ford led her into the unsuitable cabin that had only a bed.

Only it wasn’t quite so unsuitable now. A table and two chairs were also crammed into the cozy space.

And the whole of it was lit by dozens of flickering candles.

He’d made a wonderland for her again, this time on his elegantly decrepit barge. The table was covered by a soft pink cloth, and silver domes hid various dishes. While she stood gaping, he stepped forward and swept one off.

‘‘Supper,’’ he said. ‘‘I had Harry bring it from the cookshop in the village, since Hilda’s kitchen skills are a mite lacking. I only hope it all hasn’t gone cold.’’

Butterflies erupted in Violet’s middle, and she laid a hand on her blue moireśtomacher. At this moment, more than any other, she wished she were a conventional beauty. Sure of herself, confident the man in front of her could have feelings for her that were real.

‘‘Are you all right?’’ he asked, looking concerned.

‘‘I’m fine.’’

This was ridiculous. She’d been alone with him on the way to Gresham College, not to mention in the piazza while they were there, and nothing much beyond kissing had ever happened.

But there had also been that moment in the passageway at Gresham. And that day in the woods. And snatches of the
Masterpiece
kept running through her head. And her entire family wanted her to marry him.

Two goblets sat on the table, red wine gently swaying in rhythm with the barge’s movements. She reached to raise one to her lips, taking a gulp for courage. ‘‘I . . . I thought we were dining at Lakefield.’’

He pulled the door shut behind them, then drew out a chair and motioned her onto it. ‘‘I never said that. I only asked if you might have supper in my company tonight.’’ He seated himself across from her.

The table was so small their knees touched, yet it and the chairs filled every inch of available space. ‘‘Do you not think this is more romantic?’’ he asked.

She wasn’t certain she wanted romantic. His knees felt warm against hers, even through her skirts. Her gaze kept straying to the bed, so close she could touch it.

‘‘Where are we going?’’ They were moving at a good clip already.

He shrugged one blue velvet–clad shoulder. ‘‘Nowhere. Up, then back. We scientists call that perpetual motion,’’ he added with a grin.

She shifted uneasily. ‘‘Nowhere?’’

‘‘Just you and me and the river, food, heady drink, candlelight . . . is it not enough?’’ In the flickering light, his eyes looked dark and earnest. He leaned across the table and took her hands, white lace falling away from his wrists. ‘‘I love you, Violet. I’m out to convince you to love me back.’’

There it was.
I love you.

‘‘Violet, did you hear me?’’

Of course she’d heard him, and she wanted so much to believe him. She’d dreamed of someday hearing those three words—especially from someone as handsome and intelligent as Ford Chase.

But she remembered too many balls where she’d hid in corners and no man had ever tried to coax her out. And before that, when she was younger, those torturous Sundays after church, when boys would huddle around her little sisters while she sat nearby with a book, pretending not to care. Faith, even when she was just five, and Rose and Lily still babies, strangers would coo over them while she stood by unnoticed.

When she failed to respond, Ford rose and turned to stick his head out the window. ‘‘Johnnie, my lady is not yet convinced. We need music.’’

Almost at once, the strains of a violin reached her ears.

Despite her distress, a laugh bubbled out of her.

‘‘You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?’’

‘‘Almost everything. I forgot about the cold night air. Wouldn’t want you to be chilled.’’ He closed the window’s shutters and reseated himself with a smile.

He was smooth, too smooth for her to handle. Her senses were spinning already, and he hadn’t even really touched her. And she knew what would happen the moment he did that.

She would want him. Her mind would be stirred up to venery.

No, more than that.

Because she loved him. Because she so desperately wanted to be loved in return.

He was a study in contradictions. Part logical scientist, part romantic rake, part responsible uncle, part irresponsible boy. And she loved every confusing facet.

He dressed like a prince and lived like a pauper.

He was the most generous man she’d ever known.

He’d made her spectacles; he’d made her mother a distillery.

He was out to convince her to love him back, but God help her, she already did.

And yet . . . before he’d managed to close the shutters, she’d glimpsed Lakefield House as they glided by. In the deep shadows of the waning day, it had looked even more shabby than she remembered, reinforcing her fears. She couldn’t help but wonder if his ever-more-frequent kisses—and his declarations of love—were only because of . . .

She didn’t want to think about that now. Thanks to her mother’s meddling, she was alone in a cabin with a man who claimed to love her. A man who could make the heat pool deep inside her with naught but a look.

Tomorrow she would turn twenty-one. She intended to enjoy herself tonight.

‘‘Will you eat?’’ he asked, uncovering the rest of the platters.

As she’d expect coming from a country cookshop, the supper was simple. A lamb pie and a sweet potato pudding. And parsnips and asparagus.
Erection is
chiefly caused by parsnips, artichokes, asparagus . . .

Violet thanked her lucky stars that artichokes, at least, were not on the table. Enjoyment was one thing, unbridled lust quite another. She piled parsnips and asparagus on her plate, determined to see that Ford not eat more than his share.

She raised her cup to her lips, then froze.

. . . all strong wines, especially those made of the grapes
of Italy.

‘‘Is this wine Italian?’’

He blinked. ‘‘No. ’Tis French.’’

‘‘Oh, good,’’ she said, gulping a swallow. It felt warm going down her throat, and seemed to relax her.

The sweet potato pudding was smooth and tasty, swimming in butter with eggs, nutmeg, and dark sugar.

The lamb pie was flaky and delicious. As they dined, they discussed the books they’d recently read—excluding the
Masterpiece
—and the latest discoveries in science.

No other man had really listened to her, or spoken to her as though she were his intellectual equal. Violet slowly came to realize that those weeks when Ford was gone, working on one project or another, ’twas not just his kisses she’d missed. Even more so, she’d missed their conversations.

He didn’t touch her during supper, didn’t so much as nudge her foot with his. But all the time he talked, he gazed into her eyes in a way that had her heart beating erratically. She had no doubt he’d rather be kissing her than making pleasant conversation.

In the face of that banked passion, she found it hard to eat, but she finished all her parsnips and asparagus.

When his plate was empty and she was only picking at hers, he refilled her wine cup. ‘‘Violet?’’ He reached across the tiny table and gently pulled off her spectacles. ‘‘May I kiss you now?’’

He’d never asked before, and she knew not what to say. In the flickering candlelight, he looked blurry.

But he must have seen her answer in her eyes, because he rose from his chair, taking her hands to bring her up with him. He leaned across the table, and she caught her breath as his lips met hers—

And a pewter platter crashed to the floor.

‘‘Everything all right in there?’’ came Harry’s voice through the shutters.

Violet jerked back.

‘‘Fine,’’ Ford called to Harry, looking a bit shaken as he bent to retrieve the platter. He set it down, then ran a hand through his hair. Raggedly. ‘‘This will not work,’’ he told her, softly enough that Harry couldn’t listen. ‘‘Do you suppose I can coax you into joining me on the bed?’’