The Song of Love

by Platt, Meara

  Scent. There was a rose-petal sweetness to her skin. Perhaps it was the oatmeal soap. He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that Violet did not pour odious perfume all over herself. Her scent was pure and natural, like a garden in spring. Hearing. Her voice was a mix of innocent and sultry, and hearing her sing was like listening to an angel chorus.

  That left taste.

  Yes, he wanted to taste every inch of her. A gentleman might start with her lips, but he was no gentleman when it came to Violet. He was a lusting hound. He’d start with her breasts and work his way down from there. Taste her, breathe in the scent of her arousal. Hear her soft sighs and passionate moans.

  “…which is why we ought to leave the kiss for last.” She stared at him. “Romulus, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

  “Of course. Kiss. Last.” Over his dead body. He was going to kiss this girl before the day was through. And it would be more than one kiss, to hell with Lady Withnall’s edict.

  “Poppy says the sense of taste is the most dangerous. That’s why we must leave it for last. We’re only going to test the one kiss anyway. It will have more meaning once we get to know each other better. This is the beauty of the book. It shows the reader how to connect with the mate of their heart, how to look at that person and see them for who they truly are.”

  She flipped forward a few pages. “What I find most fascinating is the book’s discussion about the male brain.”

  Romulus was intrigued. “Go on.”

  “The male brain functions on two levels, the low and the high. The female brain functions only at the higher level.”

  He leaned back and stretched his arm across the top of the bench. “Who wrote this book? A woman?”

  “I’m sure it was a man.” She rolled her eyes at him. “His description of the workings of the male brain is too perfectly detailed to have been done by one of our sex. Most of us don’t understand men.”

  “We don’t understand women either.”

  She snorted. “You just want us in your bed.”

  “Violet!”

  “It’s true, isn’t it? This is why the book is so important. I am not passing judgment, merely explaining how your brain works.”

  “I know how it works.” He stifled the wrenching groan threatening to spill from his lips. Yes, if he could take Violet up to his bedchamber right now, he would.

  “I don’t think you truly understand. You only think you do. But this is also about how the female brain works, so we will both be helped by reading this book. The author claims that a man’s lower brain function is designed purely for successful mating.”

  Romulus lolled his head back. “Oh, Lord. Do your aunt and uncle know what this book is about?”

  “It is about love, Romulus. There is nothing lewd about it. According to this book, men look for beautiful women. They may define beauty differently, but there is one thing they all agree upon. The woman must appear to be a successful vessel for their seed or they will immediately dismiss her in their minds—too old, too young, too frail, too sickly. So, all men will first look for cues that a woman can provide him healthy offspring.” She glanced up at him. “See, it is a scientific analysis.”

  He snorted. “Right.”

  She sighed but pressed on. “At this first inspection, the color of her hair and eyes is not as important as the shape and symmetry of her body.”

  Violet paused in her reading to look up at him again. “Do you understand what the author is suggesting?”

  Romulus nodded. “It means men look at a woman’s breasts first.”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly.” She cleared her throat. “Were you looking at mine when we were in your kitchen and you were rubbing vinegar all over me?”

  “I’d rather not answer that.” But of course, he was. Gaping. Gawking. Staring. Couldn’t take his eyes off her heaving chest.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. If the male likes the look of the female’s bosom, he will then move on to inspecting the rest of her. Did you inspect the rest of me?”

  He groaned.

  “I’ll take that as a yes as well. You should not feel badly about it. You can’t help yourself. This is your lower brain function at work, the one that is designed purely for successful mating.”

  “Got it. May we move on to the higher brain function now?”

  She nodded. “This is where the truly important connections are made. Your low brain will accept hundreds of women, because its purpose is only to seek out healthy females. At that point, your high brain takes over. That part of your brain is more complex, for it must select the best woman for you among these hundreds. It will sort out the peahens, the manipulators, the ill-tempered, and so on.”

  This was the oddest conversation he’d ever had in his entire life, but Violet was serious about this nonsense, so he sat back and let her take the lead.

  “Your high brain is seeking the one woman who will produce the finest heirs to secure your bloodline.”

  He grunted. “Women are not fields of wheat to plough, fertilize, and harvest.”

  “Indeed, not. This author does not suggest that is all men do. As I said, finding the right mother for your children in addition to her being the right wife for you is quite complex. And it is of vital importance to our sex that we find the right man for ourselves. We need that male to remain faithful to us in order to protect us and our young. Otherwise, if left alone and exposed to all manner of predators, we might be eaten by wolves.”

  “Eaten by wolves? In London?”

  She frowned at him. “Are you purposely being dense? When a female has just given birth to her young, she is at her most vulnerable. She needs to know her husband will remain by her side, will provide for her and their children. Life is difficult enough for a woman on her own, but with young children? She cannot leave them to fend for themselves from dawn to dusk. But how is she to feed them, clothe them, provide shelter for them if she cannot go out and work?”

  “Violet–”

  “Perhaps at the dawn of civilization we were worried about real wolves and bears and other animal predators. But our present-day wolf can be anything that puts the woman and her children in peril. This is why the female brain also assesses each male who passes before her. Will he protect me and my children? Will he provide for us? Will he love us? So, when a woman sets her cap for a duke, no matter how unremarkable he may be, she isn’t being greedy. What she is really doing is securing her future by the only means available to her since she is not permitted to work. And if she had to work, where could she go? She can’t command a ship or stand for Parliament or teach at Oxford, no matter how intelligent she may be.”

  She frowned at him and continued. “What are her choices? To run a lady’s shop, or be a governess or companion. There’s little else available to her. So why not aim for the duke? And why not assess him for his ability to protect her and her children? A duke, by his mere title, is deemed desirable.”

  “Violet, I’m sorry. It was callous of me to make fun of the book. It is quite a frank assessment of the lot women face in life. Few choices are open to them. But to hear you talking about men that way…yes, I suppose we do look at a woman first and think about her in a lustful way. But we are also civilized enough not to act upon such urges.”

  She appeared to accept his apology. “I know. I never meant to admonish you, but this is an important lesson I’ve learned from this book. We each carry our burdens and have to figure out how to best accomplish our goals. Discussing the masculine urge to mate must have sounded odd, especially coming from me.”

  “Very,” he admitted.

  “I’m almost finished reading the book. I can lend it to you if you prefer to read it on your own. These opening chapters are the most controversial ones. The rest of this book is about forming the unique bonds of love that unite our hearts and not merely our bodies.”

  She paused, as though waiting for him to contradict her, then pressed on when he did not. “My goal is to become special
to you, but I don’t know if I can accomplish it in a mere week. The author says I don’t have to be regarded as beautiful by everyone, just you. You are the only man whose opinion matters. You are the one who must look at me and think that I am beautiful. Not just my features, but all of me. The way I look, my scent, the sound of my voice, and so on. This is the importance of our five senses and why we must learn to use them properly.”

  Romulus had never once thought of marriage in this way. Yet, it made perfect sense. When Sophie looked at James, she saw beyond his scars. She loved him for his wit, intelligence, and honor. She saw him as handsome.

  He turned to Violet.

  Lord, was it possible she was the one for him? Time would tell, he supposed. “What do you see when you look at me, Violet?”

  She blushed again. “Obviously, a handsome man.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “That’s a good start.”

  “One who may know lots about ships but nothing about setting up a household,” she teased. “You like your independence. That’s why buying General Allworthy’s house was so important to you. The details of how to properly furnish it and keep it up are secondary to you, but you’ll soon have the staff to attend to that part.”

  “I don’t expect to be independent for long.”

  She nodded. “Lady Withnall. If I could bind and gag her, toss her in a travel trunk, and ship her off to the wilds of Mongolia, I would.”

  “Why, Violet. I believe you would.” He smiled in approval.

  “This is what infuriates me the most, to have our independence stolen from us. That is, you are truly independent. I’m not. But I am not willing to give up the right to choose my own husband.”

  “What is it you wish for in a husband?” Romulus wanted to kick himself for not thinking to ask her this question before. He’d been thinking mostly of himself. Yes, he’d wanted to protect Violet but hadn’t given thought to her wishes beyond that.

  “Kindness, intelligence. Someone who can make me laugh, although obviously not a witless fool. Someone who will accept me for who I am and encourage me to be the best person I can be.”

  “Ah, and here I hoped you’d be a mere appendage.” He took the book from her hands and set it beside him on the bench. “I’m jesting, of course. Violet, you need never fear that I won’t appreciate you or respect you.”

  “How can you be sure? You cringed at the mere mention of my singing. It is something I love to do.”

  He winced. “And once I’d heard you, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d feared. It was lovely.”

  “But not something you’d care to listen to at all hours of the day.”

  He tensed. “Do you sing all day?”

  She shook her head. “No, but there are times when I wish to. I give you fair warning, there will be musicales in our home, should we marry.” She stared at him. “See, you’re already feeling shackled. How will we ever work this out?”

  “We will, Violet. I’m sure there are things I will do that you won’t like. Not that I don’t like your singing. In fact, you have a lovely voice. It’s the thought of everyone else singing in my house that I detest.”

  “Detest?”

  “Well, perhaps that’s rather harsh. But a man likes to come home to peace and quiet.”

  She frowned. “So, our children will be shut up as well?”

  “No, of course not. I’ll want to see them.” How had this discussion suddenly descended into a brewing fight? “Violet, don’t leap to conclusions about me. The Braydens are a large and boisterous family. You Farthingales aren’t the only tightly knit clan. And Braydens mostly produce boys. So many boys, in fact, that we became known as the wildebeests, because when we were younger, we surely were wild as beasts. There are eight of us who are fairly close in age. Do you know what a house full of growing boys is like? Especially boys the size of Braydens?”

  Her frowned eased. “No, we are mostly girls in this family.”

  “A very different thing. We didn’t just walk to the table and take our seats. We were a thundering herd, stampeding to grab our share of food before one of the other wildebeests claimed it for his own. I am used to noise. I am used to having lots of family about. Frankly, I don’t know how my parents or my aunts and uncles put up with us. I don’t know how my sister, Gabrielle, survived trampling.”

  Now Violet was smiling.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “We’ll work it out, whatever our differences.”

  She said nothing for the longest moment, which prompted him to ask, “What are you thinking?”

  “That you managed to climb out of the hole you dug for yourself,” she teased. “That was well said. But you surprise me.”

  “How so?”

  “You seem more invested in this marriage idea than I am.”

  Gad, was it true? He wanted in while she wanted out?

  The possibility had never occurred to him. He was wealthy in his own right. Nothing like his brother, but still quite well off. He was smart. He wouldn’t have been given command of one of the finest vessels in the Royal Navy fleet if he wasn’t. Women found him handsome. He’d never had to work hard to get any female he wanted into his bed.

  Wealthy. Smart. Handsome.

  But Violet hadn’t listed wealthy or handsome as a consideration when describing her ideal husband.

  So what? He had other good qualities. Faithfulness, for one.

  There would be no more chasing women now that he was quietly betrothed to Violet. Nor would he chase skirts after they were married. Violet would be the only one to share his bed. The Brayden men were always true to their wives.

  He ran a hand across the nape of his neck in dismay. What if Violet decided she didn’t like him once they were married? What if she decided not to share his bed?

  He wanted a wife…well, not just yet. But he would marry Violet to protect her even if she seemed reluctant to protect herself.

  He never considered marriage merely as a means to breed heirs.

  He wanted to share a life with Violet. All of it, the good times and bad. Children, even when they were messy and noisy. Intimacy, because he wanted her body. Laughter and tenderness, because he wanted her heart.

  He stared at the red leather book. “Violet, let’s try this again. Tell me what you hope for in a husband. This time, I’ll really listen.”

  She glanced up at him, her beautiful eyes filled with hurt. “Do you mean you weren’t listening before?”

  Chapter Seven

  As Violet prepared for the dinner party at Lady Dayne’s neighboring townhouse, she was starting to worry this book her sister had claimed was magical, was in fact, more of a harbinger of doom.

  It saddened her to come to this conclusion, for she liked Romulus Brayden very much. But the more they found out about each other, the more incompatible they seemed. The physical part was not the problem. Goodness, he was big and handsome, and if one were to make a list of the qualities a woman would want to find in a man in order to protect her children from being eaten by wolves, Romulus had all those qualities.

  He was strong and would be fiercely protective of his offspring.

  But would he care for her?

  She did not need to rush into marriage, unless Lady Withnall flapped her big mouth and thoroughly ruined her. But otherwise, she wasn’t destitute or desperate.

  Were she to have children, and her husband could not protect them, she had her parents, a wonderful sister who was married to a kind and generous earl, and a horde of welcoming relatives to help her. She would be fine, even assuming said husband took all her wealth and left her with nothing.

  Perhaps she was overly fretting about Romulus. This was only their first full day of knowing each other. Yesterday hardly counted, it had all gone by in a blur.

  Tomorrow would be better.

  She studied herself in the mirror, disappointed the welts from the bee stings were still noticeable, especially the one on the tip of her nose. These sting marks dotted her arms, neck, and chest as we
ll. “Oh, Miss Violet, I’m sure no one will notice the spots,” her maid said. “But this powder might help hide them.”

  “No, Emily. It’s all right.” The powder would wear off quickly, and then she’d simply look blotchy as well as dotted with red spots. Her gown, a lovely tea-rose silk that draped perfectly over her body, did little to hide them.

  She grabbed a matching shawl to toss over her shoulders if people began to stare. “Well, perhaps a little powder on my nose.”

  Romulus was already at Lady Dayne’s home when Violet arrived. He was standing in the parlor beside his brother, both of them with a drink in hand. But he set his glass down on the tray of a passing servant and came over to her as soon as she’d been announced.

  “You look lovely.” He took her hand and bowed over it as any proper gentleman would. “I mean it, Violet.”

  He looked splendid, too. Quite daunting, for his shoulders were broad and his big body was quite magnificently outlined in his impeccably tailored formal attire. The black of his jacket brought out the gold of his hair and the jeweled green of his eyes.

  “I’m all spotted,” she said in a pained whisper.

  He gave her hand a light squeeze. “No one can tell under the glow of candlelight. We all look orange, don’t we?”

  She laughed. “I look orange. You look golden. But thank you for attempting to make me feel better. Truly, Romulus. You look so handsome.”

  Before he had the chance to respond, they heard the thuck, thuck, thuck of Lady Withnall’s walking stick against the polished wood floor as she entered the parlor and was announced. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, tucking her arm in his to keep her protectively close, “the wicked witch has arrived.”

  Despite the din in the room, for it was packed with guests, Lady Withnall came straight toward them. “Yes, the wicked witch is here and not about to relent.”