The Viscount's Wallflower Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “I’m interested in all of my children’s hobbies.”

  “Philosophy isn’t a hobby,” Violet protested. “It’s a way of looking at life.”

  “Of course it is.” The kettle was bubbling merrily, spewing steam into the dim room. The fire and a few candles were no match for this gloomy, rainy afternoon. “Will you come and hold this for me, dear?”

  Violet set down the book and made her way over to the large, utilitarian table she always thought looked out of place in what used to be a formal drawing room. “Did Father bring you those roses?”

  “He did, the darling man.” Mum’s musical laughter warmed Violet to her toes. “Could you smell them from across the room? He rose early to gather them between dawn and sunrise, when their scent is at its peak.”

  Violet snorted. “Why not let the poor man stay abed, and simply cut a few extra blooms? We have plenty.” But leaning in to smell the roses, she found them uncommonly fragrant. It was rather darling, the way Father indulged Mum’s strange whims. Not that he was without his own eccentricities. Her parents both seemed to be blind where the other’s peculiarities were concerned.

  And so much the better, in Violet’s considered opinion. If she were ever to wed—which was to say, if one of Hal Swineherd’s pigs ever sprouted wings—her husband would have to be more than a little blind. The eldest Ashcroft daughter was no great beauty, with her square-jawed face, her heavy eyebrows, and her unfashionably tanned complexion.

  And then there were her plain brown eyes, not the mysterious almost-black of Rose’s eyes or the fathomless deep-blue of Lily’s—just brown. Average. Like all of her. She was neither fat nor thin. Not tall like Rose nor petite like Lily. Medium height, medium figure, medium everything. Average.

  And she preferred not to even think about her hopeless hair—a drab, weedy brown thicket that could only be contained by twisting it into an unfashionable plait. Well, unless she wanted to spend hours each morning at her dressing table, allowing a maid to laboriously coax it into something resembling a stylish coiffure. Many ladies suffered that, every morning, without complaint.

  But, honestly, didn’t they have anything better to do?

  In any case, she liked to think that what she lacked in lustrous curls, she made up for in prodigious good sense—for instance, the good sense not to dwell on the disadvantages of being hopelessly average. Instead, she chose to appreciate its one big benefit: average drew no attention, and above all things, Violet hated being the center of attention.

  Rose thrived on it, though. “Let me help, Mum,” she cried, dropping the stem of blue sweet peas she’d been about to add to her floral arrangement. “Violet won’t get the top on straight.”

  Tact had never been Rose’s forte.

  But there was still time to learn—Violet believed one could learn anything, if she put her mind to it. With a tolerant sigh, she stuck a wooden block upright in the big bowl and held it in place while Mum sprinkled in all the rose petals, then turned to lift the kettle.

  A slow, careful stream flowed from the kettle’s spout, just enough water to cover the sweet-smelling flowers. Quickly Rose popped another, larger bowl upside down on top of the wooden block, using it as a pedestal. The steam would collect beneath and drip down the edges to the tray below. As it cooled, it would separate into rosewater and essential rose oil. Distillation, Mum called it.

  A rich, floral scent wafted up, and Violet inhaled deeply. As hobbies went, she didn’t mind her mother’s unusual one of perfume-making.

  “Thank you, girls,” Mum said when Rose released the bowl. “Would one of you hand me the vial of lavender essence?”

  Violet turned and squinted at the labels, then reached for the proper glass tube. “I read in the news sheet this morning that Christopher Wren is going to be knighted later this year. And he was just elected to the Council of the Royal Society.”

  Mum took the vial. “An architect in the Royal Society? I thought that was for scientists.“

  Violet nodded. “Scientists, yes, but there are philosophers as members, too. As well as statesmen and physicians. And, evidently, at least one architect. I so wish I could attend one of their lectures.”

  “The Royal Society doesn’t allow women at their meetings.” Mum pulled the cork stopper and waved the lavender under her nose. “Besides, hardly any of the men there are eligible.”

  “I don’t want them to court me, Mum.” On the whole, she didn’t want anyone to court her, much to her mother’s distress. “I only wish to cudgel their brains.”

  Mum froze with a dropper halfway in the vial, taken aback. “Cudgel their—”

  “Talk to them, I mean. Learn from them. They’re so brilliant.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Men aren’t interested in talking to women,” Rose told her, “and the sooner you learn that, the sooner you’ll find one of your own.”

  “Faith, Rose. I’m not yet eighteen. You’d think I was in my dotage, the way you’ve become set on marrying me off.”

  “You’re expected to marry before I do—and at the rate you’re moving, you’ll be yet unwed when I turn eighteen.”

  “Rose!” Mum admonished.

  The words stung, but Violet decided she couldn’t resent her sister for stating the facts. She truly didn’t intend to be married by Rose’s eighteenth birthday, nor by any of Rose’s subsequent birthdays. For Violet was smart enough to realize that the eccentric tendencies she’d inherited from her family, together with her plain looks, left her little likelihood of finding—let alone enticing—a compatible gentleman. The knowledge didn’t bother her; she’d long ago accepted her fated spinsterhood, with characteristic good sense, and learned to see the advantages of a life spent free to do as she pleased.

  But that didn’t mean she begrudged her sisters their happiness. Bold, beautiful Rose was only fifteen and already eager for love. And fourteen-year-old Lily, sweet, nurturing, and just as lovely, was born to be a mother.

  But Violet was the oldest, and convention dictated the sisters wed in order.

  Still, when had the Ashcrofts ever been conventional?

  “Hang what’s ‘expected,’” she said to no one in particular. “We can marry in whatever order we choose.” Or not at all, she added silently.

  “Hmm,” was her mother’s noncommittal reply. She added three drops of lavender to the bottle of fragrance she was creating, then swirled it carefully.

  “Is that a new blend?” Violet asked.

  “For Lady Cunningham.” Mum sniffed deeply and passed the bottle to her oldest daughter. “What do you think?”

  Violet smelled it and considered. “Too sweet. Lady Cunningham is anything but sweet.” The woman’s voice could curdle milk. Returning the mixture, Violet hunted for the vial of petitgrain she knew would soften it.

  Nodding her approval, her mother added two drops, then made a note on the little recipe card she kept for each of her many friends.

  “Look,” Lily said, her embroidery forgotten. She rose and settled herself in the large, green-padded window seat. “There’s a carriage about to pass by.”

  Mum and Rose hurried to join her at window, while Violet returned to her chair and opened her book. “So?”

  “So…” Lily brushed her fingers over one of the flower arrangements that Rose left all over the house, sending a puff of scent into the air. “Carriages hardly ever pass by here! I wonder who it could be?”

  “The three of you are too nosy for your own good.” Violet flipped a page. Imagine being more interested in someone’s mundane exploits than in the sage wisdom of a great mind!

  “It’s our occasional neighbor,” her mother said. “The viscount.”

  Violet’s attention strayed from her book. “How do you know?”

  “I recognize his carriage. A hand-me-down from his brother, the marquess.”

  “How is it you know everyone’s business?” Violet wondered aloud.

  “It’s not so very difficult, my dear. One need only
take an interest, open her eyes and ears, and use her head. I believe the viscount is in tight straits. Not only because of the second-hand carriage, but heavens, the state of his gardens. Your father nearly chokes every time we ride past.”

  “I’m surprised Father hasn’t made his way over to set the garden to rights,” Lily said.

  “Don’t think he hasn’t considered it.” Mum leaned her palms on the windowsill, studying the passing coach. “Why, I do believe Lord Lakefield isn’t alone.”

  Despite herself, Violet rose, one finger holding her place in the book. “And how do you know that?”

  “The vehicle’s curtains aren’t drawn.” Mum gave a happy gasp of discovery. “There’s a child inside! And a woman!”

  Idle curiosity brought Violet out of her chair—Francis Bacon could wait a moment, after all. She wandered toward the window to look out. But of course the carriage was only a blur.

  Everything more than a few feet from Violet’s eyes always looked like a blur. It was one reason she preferred staying at home with her books and news sheets, rather than going about to socialize with her mother and two younger sisters. She was afraid she’d embarrass herself by failing to recognize a friend across the room. Or by tripping. Which she did. Frequently.

  “Well, well, well,” Mum said. “I must go bring the lady a gift of perfume and welcome her to the neighborhood.”

  “You mean find out who she is,” Violet said.

  Her mother’s second hobby was delivering perfume and receiving gossip in exchange. Not that anyone begrudged her the information. To the contrary, Chrystabel Ashcroft never needed to pry a word out of anyone. Warm and well-loved, she barely walked in the door before women began spilling their secrets.

  On the rare occasions her mother had succeeded in dragging her along, Violet had seen it happen, her bad eyes notwithstanding.

  “I wonder if the viscount has married?” Rose asked.

  “I expect not,” Mum said. “He’s much too intellectual for anyone I know.” As the carriage disappeared into the distance, she turned from the window. “Why, he’s a member of that Royal Society, isn’t he?”

  “I believe so.” Violet watched her mother wander back to the table, wishing she’d never mentioned wanting to attend a Royal Society lecture. The last thing she needed was Mum plotting her marriage. “Perhaps he would suit Rose or Lily.”

  “I think not.” Mum sniffed the perfume in progress, then chose another vial. “I cannot imagine whom he would suit, but certainly not your sisters.”

  “It’s just as well,” Rose said, “since you’re forbidden from matching us.”

  “You know the rules, Mum,” Lily added.

  The three sisters had a pact to save one another from their mother’s matchmaking schemes. It was one thing—perhaps the only thing—they all agreed on.

  “Heavens, girls. It’s not as though I arrange marriages behind my friends’ backs.” Everyone Mum knew was her friend. Literally. And they all adored her. “All of my brides and grooms are willing—”

  “Victims?” Violet broke in to supply.

  “Participants,” Mum countered.

  Lily sat and retrieved her handiwork. “How many weddings have you arranged this year, Mum? Three? Four?”

  “Five,” their mother said with not a little pride. She tapped her fingernails on the vial. “Only seven months in, and a banner year already.”

  The sisters exchanged a look. “And all five of these couples,” Violet ventured, “were fully cognizant and enthusiastic participants in your plans?”

  Mum cocked her head. “I’m not sure what cognizant means. But enthusiastic, yes, all of them. And now blissfully happy, I might add.”

  Rose plopped back onto her own chair. “Bliss or no, you’re not matching me up, Mum. I can find my own husband.”

  “Me, too,” Lily said.

  “Me three,” Violet added.

  “Of course you all can.” Mum’s graceful fingers stilled. “I wouldn’t dream of meddling in my own daughters’ lives.”

  THREE

  “NURSE LYDIA SAID if it rains today, it will rain for forty days more.” In the dim cabin of the carriage, Jewel cocked her raven head. “Do you believe that, Uncle Ford?”

  “Of course not. It has no scientific basis in fact.”

  “I know a poem about it, though.”

  “Do you, now?”

  A smile gracing her heart-shaped face, Jewel nodded. “Nurse Lydia taught it to me last year. And I still remember.”

  Ford threw a glance at the woman sitting across from them, but she was leaning against the window, sound asleep. “Will you quote it for me, then?” he asked Jewel.

  She cleared her little throat.

  “St. Swithin’s Day if thou dost rain

  For forty days it will remain

  St. Swithin’s Day if thou be fair

  For forty days ’twill rain nae mair.”

  “That sounds more like something your Aunt Caithren would have taught you,” Ford observed, thinking of his brother Jason’s lively Scottish wife with all her stories, superstitions, and verses.

  “Maybe she did.” Jewel turned to her caregiver. “Nurse Lydia, did you teach me the poem, or did Auntie Cait?” When Lydia didn’t answer, the girl rose and reached across to poke her shoulder. “Nurse Lydia?” A frown creasing her forehead, Jewel sat down and looked at Ford. “She’s sleeping.”

  “I can see that.” Frowning himself, he put a finger to his lips. “Perhaps we should be quieter, then.”

  His niece surprised him by obediently settling back. He smiled. Maybe having her stay with him wouldn’t be as bad as he’d thought. She was adorable, after all. And she seemed an agreeable sort. If only all women were as agreeable as Jewel, he thought, brooding over Tabitha’s inexplicable betrayal.

  Ford rubbed his temples. Women. Baffling creatures. Perhaps he was better off without them.

  Rain pounded on the roof and streamed down the windows, an oddly comforting tattoo. Lulled by sound and motion, Ford’s lids slid closed—then flew open when the carriage bumped into a rut. The nurse pitched forward, and he leapt to set her aright.

  He jerked his hands away. She was burning up.

  Her eyes opened, looking glazed, the pupils huge black voids.

  “Nurse Lydia?” Ford raked his fingers back through his hair, his mind racing. If she was ill, what on earth would he do with Jewel? The nurse couldn’t be ill. “Are you feeling unwell?”

  “Hot,” she mumbled. “Tired.” Her eyes shut again.

  Criminy, she was ill. An all too fitting development for an all too abominable day.

  He had to get Jewel away from her.

  Trying not to panic, he reached to shake Nurse Lydia awake. “Where are you from?”

  She blinked, swayed, then managed to hold herself up by planting both hands on the bench seat. “G-Greystone, my lord.”

  “No, before that. Have you family, miss? Parents? Brothers or sisters?”

  “Mama,” she murmured. “In Woodlands Green.” A soft, prolonged snore followed, nearly drowned out by the relentless rain.

  She hadn’t gone far from home to find employment, then—Woodlands Green wasn’t more than half an hour south. Ford knocked on the roof, barely pausing for the carriage to stop before throwing open the door.

  Without waiting for the steps to be lowered, he lifted Jewel and jumped down.

  She let out a little squeal. “What are you doing, Uncle Ford?”

  “Lakefield isn’t far.” He balanced her on a hip. “We’re going to walk from here.”

  “In the rain? Mama says not to get cold and wet. You could fall ill.” Her little forehead furrowed. “We could get measles.”

  “Staying with Nurse Lydia could give you measles. Besides, it’s not cold. It’s summer.” Never mind that Jewel’s teeth were chattering. Surprised to find himself feeling protective, he held her closer. “Can you tell me Nurse Lydia’s surname?”

  “Her what?”

&
nbsp; “The part of her name that comes after Lydia.” Huge drops splotched his brown surcoat and dripped from the brim of his hat. He shifted the girl on his hip. “Like in your name, Chase comes after Jewel.”

  She only cocked her small head, which was rapidly becoming soaked.

  Taking a deep breath for patience, he tried again. “Your name is Jewel Chase. Nurse Lydia’s name is…?”

  “Nurse Lydia. Two names, just like mine.”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward before looking to his coachman. “Spalding, take the nursemaid to Woodlands Green and find her mother.” Woodlands Green was tiny—even without a surname, it probably wasn’t an onerous request. “And tell the woman to send for a physician, courtesy of the Earl of Greystone.” He set his niece on her feet. “Lady Jewel and I have decided to walk home in this fine weather.”

  Jewel promptly slipped in the mud.

  With a sigh, Ford picked her back up, wondering if things could get any worse.

  FOUR

  THE NEXT MORNING, Ford awoke with an elbow in his ribs.

  “Hey!” Blinking blurred, itchy eyes, he pushed a little arm off him for what had to be the dozenth time. He was exhausted. Jewel had wiggled the entire night. When not nestled up against him, or half on top of him, she’d been attacking him with various limbs—she seemed to have at least eight of the things. Her tiny toenails had left scratches in the vicinity of his knees. “Lie still,” he growled, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

  He heard a whimper and suppressed a groan. Not the tears again!

  Tears were what had landed Jewel in his bed in the first place. He’d breathed a sigh of relief after tucking her in last night, only to find himself awakened by heartfelt sobs. Between her hiccups and gulps, he’d gathered that last night had been the first she’d ever spent away from her mother and father.

  Ford couldn’t blame a little girl for missing her parents. But if he’d had any doubts he wasn’t ready for marriage and a family, they were gone by morning. Long gone.

  His mind was made up: he was swearing off women. Even the agreeable ones were a headache.