Violet (Flower Trilogy) (37 page)

‘‘Ford . . .’’

‘‘I’ll be there, waiting, at eleven o’clock.’’ He kissed the corner of her mouth. ‘‘Below your window.’’

Greedy for a real kiss, she turned her head until her lips met his. And took what she wanted. And wanted still more.

‘‘I am
not
climbing out a window,’’ she whispered when she finally came up for air.

Due to the state of her gown, Violet’s sisters had teased her mercilessly all the way home. Never mind that she had a reputation for tripping, they’d refused to believe she’d stumbled and fallen against the paint.

When they arrived at Trentingham, she’d endured more teasing from Father and Mum.

And now, hours later, after a bath and supper and many feigned yawns as she took herself off to bed, she was
not
climbing out a window.

She was sneaking out the back door instead.

She couldn’t help herself. Before sending her off to face her sisters in her paint-stained gown, Ford had given her one last kiss that had buckled her knees.

She’d known there and then she would find a way to meet him.

One night. A few precious hours. She was hopelessly in love—and equally determined not to let that influence her decision.

And the truth was, she was more confused than ever.

Had she not seen, just this afternoon, the very proof he wanted her for her money? Ford Chase, the man who’d refused to manufacture his watch because aristocrats did not go into trade, was reduced to painting his own house, fiddling with his own gardens. If that wasn’t proof he was desperate, she knew not what was.

Yet his eyes, when they’d met hers at the end of that final kiss, had looked honest, straightforward, sincere . . . pools of deep blue she’d have sworn reflected a true passion in his heart.

Confusion. It should have made her refuse to meet him.

But now that she knew the bliss she could find in his arms, she seemed helpless to resist. There were also practical reasons for agreeing to this night—after all, she was a practical woman. Perhaps by sharing herself with him again, she would uncover his genuine motives. And if those motives should not be the ones she so desperately hoped for, well, then at least she would’ve grabbed her happiness while she could, knowing it might have to last the rest of her life.

Besides all that, she had questions her inquiring mind needed answered, and he was the only person she felt she could ask.

She’d barely slipped out the door when she found herself caught up and swung in a wide circle. ‘‘I knew you’d come out!’’

‘‘Hush!’’ she admonished in a harsh whisper. ‘‘We’ll be caught.’’

‘‘Then you’ll be forced to marry me.’’ Sounding not at all displeased with that idea, he set her on her feet.

‘‘Come here, my darling Violet.’’

‘‘I’m here,’’ she whispered, searching his eyes, black in the moonlit night.

Something in them changed as he murmured, ‘‘No, come here.’’ And he pulled her close, crushing her against his body.

She barely had time to rip off her spectacles before his mouth descended on hers, hot and needy. For a long, heady moment she almost wished they
would
be forced to marry. Have the decision taken right out of her hands. Then she ceased to think at all, just feeling instead. Feeling the things that only Ford Chase had ever made her feel.

When he finally let her go, the book dropped to the grass between them. He bent to pick it up. ‘‘What is this?’’

She turned hot, thankful for the cover of darkness.

‘‘
Aristotle’s Masterpiece,
’’ she mumbled, fumbling her spectacles back on.

He tugged her close again, running a hand down her back to her bottom. She felt all melty inside.

‘‘Hmm?’’ he asked. ‘‘Why’d you bring a book?’’

‘‘I . . . well . . . there are things I do not understand.’’ She licked her lips. ‘‘I was hoping you could explain them.’’

‘‘
Me?
Explain philosophy to
you
?’’

‘‘ ’Tis not philosophy, Ford.’’

Upstairs, Chrystabel let the curtain drop closed.

‘‘She’s not alone, Joseph. Ford was waiting.’’

‘‘I told you Violet was too smart a girl to go wandering off by herself. Even if she wasn’t bright enough to realize we’d notice. Now come back to bed.’’

‘‘Should we go after her?’’ She perched herself on the mattress, wrapping her arms around one lifted knee as she faced her husband. ‘‘Are we doing the right thing?’’

‘‘She’ll be safe.’’

‘‘She’ll be
ruined
.’’

‘‘Oh, Chrysanthemum, this was your idea in the first place. After you took such pains to explain it to me, I cannot believe you’re having second thoughts.

Besides . . .’’ His hand sneaked under her night rail and up her thigh. ‘‘Were
you
ruined?’’

She tingled. ‘‘Of course not. But that was different.’’

She met his eyes, that emerald green she’d sunk into from the first time they met. ‘‘We’d already decided to marry.’’

‘‘So has Violet. She just hasn’t figured it out yet.’’

His hand brushed her hip, and she sighed. ‘‘I suppose you’re right. I expect she needs this to push her over the edge. I know they are perfect for each other, I just think—’’

‘‘Stop thinking, Chrysanthemum. Our Violet is in trustworthy hands.’’ With fingers made agile by long years of practice, he swept the night rail up and off.

‘‘Stop thinking now. ’Tis time to feel instead.’’

Seated on the faded red couch in Ford’s drawing room, Violet watched him flip pages.

‘‘You’re right,’’ he said, his eyes widening. ‘‘This is
not
philosophy.’’

She sipped the wine he’d poured upon their arrival—white Rhenish, not red Italian. ‘‘ ’Twas supposedly by Aristotle. I thought it was philosophy when I bought it.’’

‘‘When
I
bought it, you mean. I cannot believe I bought you a bloody marriage manual!’’

‘‘Hush!’’ Violet kept picturing Hilda lurking in the corridor, and just her luck, Mum was planning to deliver more Spiced Rosewater perfume tomorrow.

She could imagine the tell-all that would ensue if they failed to modulate their voices. ‘‘I just need an explanation.’’ She opened to a page where a bit of paper stuck up; she’d marked the confusing spot before leaving to meet him. ‘‘This chapter. ‘A Word of Advice to Both Sexes: Being Several Directions Respecting . . .’ ’’

‘‘ ‘Copulation,’ ’’ he finished for her, turning redder than the draperies. ‘‘Should you not be asking your mother these things? Why the devil are you bringing this to me?’’

She would die before asking her mother. ‘‘You’re a scientist. This is physiology, is it not?’’

‘‘Not of the sort I learned at Wadham College.’’

‘‘Well, can you help me or not?’’

‘‘Let me see what it says.’’ Blowing out a breath, he looked at the book. ‘‘ ‘Since nature has implanted in every creature a mutual desire of copulation—’ ’’

‘‘Wait.’’ There was that word again. Egad. ‘‘This room has no door. What if Hilda overhears? Or Harry?’’

He grinned. ‘‘Perhaps they will get an education.’’

‘‘Ford—’’

‘‘I was fooling, my love. They sought their beds hours ago, before I even left for Trentingham. Relax, will you?’’ He reached to refill her cup. ‘‘They know not that you’re here.’’

‘‘But they could come downstairs.’’

He seemed to consider that a moment. ‘‘Then shall we go up? The rooms upstairs have doors.’’ Even as the words came out of his mouth, he rose and tucked the book beneath one arm. He handed her both cups and took the bottle and a candle to light the way. She followed him up the worn steps, wincing at every crack and creak.

Thank heavens Hilda and Harry were old and hard of hearing.

On the landing, he turned right and walked her into a chamber. A bedchamber.

‘‘D-do you sleep here?’’ she asked. No matter that she had come here expecting to share his bed, actually seeing it was a shock.

‘‘Yes, I sleep here.’’ Setting the wine on a small table, he took the candle around the room, lighting others. ‘‘I’m sorry ’tis not more elegant. It will all be repaired, though, Violet. I hired some laborers this afternoon after you left.’’

She sipped, staring at the bed, an enormous four-poster fashioned of heavy oak, darkened with age and smoke from the blackened brick fireplace. Grayish bed-hangings draped from a wooden canopy overhead, looking as though they might once have been rich and possibly blue.

A very long time ago.

The walls were paneled with plain smoke-stained oak, divided into squares with simple molding. She looked up to find a beamed ceiling coated in peeling white paint.

‘‘ ’Tis very . . . interesting,’’ she said, for lack of a better description.

‘‘I believe ’tis the roof of the original Great Hall, retained when the floor and fireplace were added some years later. Soon, it will all look good as new.’’

‘‘That will take a lot of money,’’ she said dubiously.

‘‘Not so much,’’ he assured her. ‘‘The building itself is sound. And I’m going to live here and manage the estate, see that it earns a profit.’’

She was listening with only half an ear, avoiding looking at the bed. With some relief, she noticed an open door across the chamber. In the way of older houses, a room lay beyond with no corridor to divide them. ‘‘What is that?’’

‘‘A sitting room of sorts.’’ His half-smile told her he was aware of her nervousness. ‘‘Come, I’ll show you.’’

A short, unpadded settle, a single armless chair, and a small, low table filled the tiny room. Although it was less than beautiful, like the rest of the house it was clean.

And there was no bed.

‘‘Lovely,’’ she said, setting down the wine cups and settling herself on the low-backed oak bench.

He’d carried the candle in with him, and he set that on the table, too. Instead of taking the chair as she’d expected, he squeezed onto the settle beside her.

‘‘Would you mind if I get comfortable?’’

Without waiting for an answer, he tugged off his boots. And peeled off his stockings.

Her mouth went dry, and she moistened her lips.

‘‘Will you explain
Aristotle’s Masterpiece
now?’’

‘‘Of course,’’ he said, wiggling his toes. With a flourish, he opened the book to her marked spot and tilted it to catch the candlelight. ‘‘ ‘Since nature has implanted in every creature a mutual desire of copulation, I thought it necessary to give directions to both sexes for the performing of that act.’ ’’ Frowning, he glanced up. ‘‘Did you feel directions were necessary?’’

His warmth wedged next to her made it difficult to focus on the words, but after all, she already knew what the book said. She kept staring at his toes. He had very nice toes. ‘‘Just keep reading,’’ she told him. ‘‘Please.’’

Before he did so, he shrugged out of his surcoat and laid it over the settle’s arm. ‘‘Very well, then,’’ he said. ‘‘ ‘It would be very proper to cherish the body with generous restoratives, so that it may be brisk and vigorous, and if their imaginations were charmed with sweet and melodious airs, and cares and thoughts of business drowned in a glass of racy wine, that their spirits may be raised to the highest pitch of ardor and joy, it would not be amiss.’ ’’ Leaving the book open flat in his lap, he worked the knot in his cravat. ‘‘ ‘For inspiration, creativity and resourcefulness enrich the delights of Venus.’ ’’

‘‘See?’’ she broke in, alarmed to find he was not just removing his shoes—he looked to be undressing.

‘‘This is what I do not understand.’’

He twisted on the settle to face her. ‘‘Generous restoratives, sweet and melodious airs, and a glass of racy wine—did I not provide those for you, my love?’’

Her face flushed hot. Yes, he’d provided food, music, and wine, and although she wasn’t sure what was meant by
racy
, the word seemed to fit the mood of that night. ‘‘ ’Tis the other that makes no sense.

Imagination. Inspiration, creativity, and resourcefulness.’’

‘‘Doesn’t it?’’ He drew off his cravat, setting the froth of white on the table.

‘‘Read the rest.’’

‘‘As you wish.’’ He shifted even closer to her, if that were possible. ‘‘ ‘It is also highly necessary, that in their natural embraces, they meet each other with an equal ardor and an eye to ingenuity.’ ’’ As he read, he loosened the laces at his neck. ‘‘ ‘I do advise them, before they begin their conjugal embraces, to invigorate their mutual desires with much daring and inventiveness. Freshness and originality will make their flame burn with a fierce ardor, by those endearing ways that love can better teach than I can write.’ ’’

‘‘See?’’

Apparently finished ‘‘getting comfortable’’ for now, he reached for his wine. ‘‘See what? The author is rather enamored of the word
ardor
, is he not? Three ardors in two paragraphs. And ’twould enhance readability if he broke up all those long sentences . . .

Who wrote this, do you know?’’ Sipping, he flipped back to the title page single-handedly.

‘‘ ’Tis anonymous.’’

‘‘I can see why.’’ He shut the book and set it on the table, looking relieved to be finished with the reading.

‘‘Now, what is it you do not understand?’’

‘‘All of it! What ways can love teach better than he can write?’’

‘‘Almost anything is better than he can write.’’

She ignored his sarcasm. ‘‘What does he mean by giving these directions to invigorate mutual desires with ingenuity and daring and inventiveness?’’ Although she’d never shared this chapter with her sisters, she’d read it so many times the words were burned in her brain. ‘‘And freshness and originality?’’

‘‘What do you mean, what does he mean?’’

‘‘I mean, how can one be creative in copulation?’’

She blushed at her use of the word, but went on. ‘‘I have seen the animals in the fields, and each species has only one way to go about it.’’

A grin spread on his face.

Suddenly, she felt very, very stupid.

‘‘What?’’ she asked suspiciously, trying to scoot farther away on the settle but only managing to smash herself against the hard wooden arm.

Very slowly, he ran a finger down her nose. ‘‘Let me tell you, darling, there are many, many ways to go about it.’’