The Viscount's Wallflower Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “Ford, then,” she said. He was right. And she was miserable.

  Jewel tugged on her uncle’s sleeve. “What happened yesterday?”

  “He gave me these marvelous spectacles,” Violet said before he could answer, although she knew he’d been referring to their kiss.

  She’d been thinking about that kiss the whole time she waited on the barge, replaying every little detail in her mind, over and over, until her lips tingled and she found herself unaccountably short of breath. She’d alternated between wondering if he’d kiss her again and telling herself not to be ridiculous.

  Because she knew the truth: He’d been carried away by the success of his spectacles, and it wasn’t going to happen another time. And she was far too sensible a girl to fall prey to the hopeless fantasy that someone like him—someone tall and gorgeous and brilliant and kind—could ever have feelings for someone like her.

  Only…well, she’d rather liked being kissed. It grieved her to think it might never happen again. Which led her to another truth: She’d never get another kiss from anybody if she hid herself the rest of her life. If she was going to wear the spectacles, she needed to get over this fear of appearing in public.

  Not all at once, however. “Can we dine on the way back?” she offered as a compromise. “An inn along the river. Where I won’t have to walk a street teeming with people.”

  He measured her for a moment. “If I cannot tempt you with food, I suppose a bookshop wouldn’t work, either?”

  “A bookshop?” she murmured.

  He jammed the hat back on his head. “Right there on Thames Street. You can see it from here.” Without asking for permission, he grabbed her arm and drew her off the bed and out of the cabin. She blinked in the sunlight. “There, see?” he said.

  In the distance, a sign swung in the slight breeze. The cracked wood looked a century old, but the lettering was newly painted and visible from the barge: JOHN YOUNG, BOOKSELLER.

  Thanks to her spectacles, she could read that.

  There weren’t too many people on the street. “Maybe just the bookshop,” she conceded.

  Though he didn’t lord it over her with words, his grin told her he knew he’d won.

  “I’d like to choose a foreign language book for Rose,” she added in a paltry attempt to save face.

  “And maybe a philosophy book for yourself?” It seemed he knew her all too well. Jewel and Rowan had followed them out, and he waved them off the barge. “Hurry, before she changes her mind.”

  As Violet stepped onto the dock, she took a deep breath and lifted her chin. Let people stare. Let them laugh, even. She had to get used to it, and she might as well start now.

  “Why a foreign language book for Rose?” Ford asked as they walked.

  “A peace offering. I’ve been short-tempered with her lately.”

  “Having met her, I suspect she probably deserved it.” The street was rutted and uneven, and he took her elbow to steady her in her heels. “But I meant why a foreign language?”

  “Oh.” She was acting daft again, distracted by the warmth of his hand seeping through her peach satin sleeve, and the trembling inside that wouldn’t quite go away. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mullioned glass windows of the Swan, a reflection of her walking with a gentleman. It was difficult to think straight. “My grandfather was a scholar and spoke many tongues. Of all of us, Rose spent the most time with him before he passed on—”

  “She doesn’t seem the type.”

  “She’d be pleased to hear you say that.” As they passed Bel and the Dragon, music pumped out the tavern’s open door. “Although Grandpapa is no longer with us, Rose has kept her interest in languages. She teaches herself now, and she loves new books to puzzle out for practice.”

  “I would never have guessed it. Rose seems…”

  “Empty-headed?” Violet supplied helpfully.

  “No. Well, a bit, I suppose, but I don’t mean it in a bad way.”

  “She’s constructed a good facade, our Rose.” She moved closer to him, avoiding a horse and carriage. “She is of the opinion, you see, that men aren’t interested in intelligent women.”

  “I wasn’t,” he murmured.

  “Pardon?”

  Switching sides to shield her from the traffic, he cleared his throat. “I wasn’t at all aware of Rose’s scholarly tendencies. Philosophy, languages…you Ashcroft girls are surely not the usual sort.”

  “The Ashcroft motto is Interroga Conformationem.”

  “Question Convention?” Judging from his expression, that seemed to amuse him. “What talent is Lily hiding?”

  “Only a gentle heart. She cannot stand to see any being in pain, human or animal.” She stopped before the bookshop, which looked blessedly deserted, and suddenly realized that with all the conversation, she’d forgotten to worry about strangers staring at her.

  In fact, she’d forgotten about everything but Ford, including her unsightly spectacles—and her little brother.

  Fortunately, the children were right behind them. “Do you two think you can behave in there?” she asked sternly.

  Ford crossed his arms. “No pranks in there, you hear?”

  “Gads, Uncle Ford, of course not.” Jewel pulled open the door. “Pretty,” she said, looking up. “Like Rowan’s house, and Auntie Kendra’s.”

  Entering behind her, Violet bit back a smile. The ceiling Jewel was gazing at was beautifully carved and gilded, although the rest of the shop had seen better days. Row upon row of narrow aisles were crammed with books on sagging wooden shelves. More books sat piled haphazardly on the floor, apparently waiting to be sorted. Dark and well-worn, the place smelled like leather, paper, and ink.

  Exactly the way a bookshop should.

  A man appeared, looking well-worn like the shop. “John Young, at your service.” His hair was salt-and-pepper, and his blue eyes were faded with age, yet lively as he regarded Jewel. “You like the ceiling, little one? If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you a secret about that ceiling.”

  He wove through the tall shelves and stopped in the middle of the shop. “Look up,” he said.

  They all did. A carved molding divided the elaborate ceiling, and although the sides were decorated in an identical fashion, the front half was dated 1576 and the back 1577.

  “Why are there two dates?” Rowan asked.

  “That’s the secret.” Mr. Young smiled, revealing a mouthful of teeth with only one missing. “Tell me,” he asked the children, “what happened between those two dates?” He waited a beat. “I’ll give you a hint. It wasn’t the first time it happened, nor will it be the last. It happened again about fifty years later, and yet again in 1665.”

  “I wasn’t born yet,” Jewel said. “How should I know?”

  Rowan puffed out his chest. “I wasn’t born yet, either, but I know anyway. The Black Death.”

  “Bright boy.” The bookseller ruffled Rowan’s hair. “The workmen were from Italy and sailed for home when the plague took hold. But they promised to come back and finish, and so they did, a year later. Hence the two dates.”

  “That’s funny.” Jewel stared at the ceiling a moment longer, then her gaze dropped to a table against the wall. “A draughts board!” She batted her lashes at the bookseller. “May we play?”

  “Of course.”

  “Mr. Young said I’m bright,” Rowan told her. “I wager I can beat you.”

  Ford laughed. “I wouldn’t recommend you bet money. She’s the type that goes for the throat.”

  “I can beat any old girl.”

  Jewel planted her hands on her hips. “We’ll see about that.”

  She made a beeline for the table, waving Rowan into the chair opposite as she settled herself with a fluff of her pale yellow skirts. Her face was all business as she began to set the markers.

  Mr. Young turned to Violet, peering curiously at her eyeglasses. “May I help you find something, milady?”

  “They’re spectacles. They allow me to se
e at a distance,” she explained, although he politely hadn’t asked.

  “How very fascinating.”

  He didn’t seem repulsed by her appearance, just honestly interested. “Would you like to try them?” she offered.

  “I can see at a distance fine. It’s up close where I have trouble. My arms need to be longer.” His smile reappeared. “It’s a brilliant invention, though, isn’t it?”

  “Quite.” She smiled in return. Perhaps not everyone would laugh at her, after all.

  “Have you any books in foreign languages?” Ford asked. “And my lady would like to see some philosophy titles.”

  “Philosophy I have. This way, if you please.” After directing her around the corner to a tall shelf full of books, he scratched his graying head. “Now, as for foreign languages, I’m afraid…ah, yes, perhaps I do have something in the back. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

  The instant he disappeared, Ford moved close, so close Violet could smell the warm scent of his skin. Patchouli and soap and fresh air.

  He backed her gently against the shelves. “How does it feel to be off the barge?” he whispered.

  “Liberating.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Will you look for books, too?”

  “I’ll look for Rose’s.”

  “Would you? I’m hopeless at languages.”

  “I don’t know many. French, having grown up on the Continent during Cromwell’s Protectorate.” He lifted the tail of her long, heavy plait, and Violet went still, barely breathing.

  Was he noticing it wasn’t soft and shiny like other girls’ hair? Did he think it was hideous?

  “Some Dutch,” he went on, “since the exiled court spent time at The Hague as well. And Latin, of course.” Wrapping the end around his finger, he gave it a gentle tug. “But that’s all.”

  “It’s three more than I can claim.” Watching his fingers play with her hair, her scalp went all tingly. “If you’ll choose some subjects Rose might find interesting, I’d be forever grateful.”

  “Forever grateful. I like the sound of that.” He grinned, and her insides flip-flopped.

  The proprietor ambled back, dragging a crate of books behind him, and Ford shifted away. Mr. Young nodded toward him. “I don’t know what sort of foreign book you’re looking for, milord, but you may have anything in here for a shilling.”

  “Anything?” Violet asked.

  “Take your pick. My son Thomas found these in the attic—never been up there myself. Must’ve been there since before I bought the shop—from the looks of them, before that curious ceiling even went in,” he added, his grin revealing the missing tooth. “Tom wanted to get rid of them, seeing as we don’t deal in foreign titles, but I cannot seem to find it in me to throw away books.” He dusted off his hands. “If you’re not wanting anything else, then, I shall leave you to look.”

  With a nod, he walked off. They heard him stop and talk to the children, a soft murmur followed by their high-pitched giggles. Apparently the shop had no other customers, which suited Violet perfectly. She turned to the shelves, her heart swelling as it always did when she was in the presence of books.

  Ford crouched on the floor and began absently sifting through the crate. “What would Rose like?”

  “Anything, really, except perhaps philosophy or science.” The two subjects she and Ford would want for themselves. She smiled at that thought as she peered at the titles on the shelf.

  Choosing a slim brown volume, she slipped off her spectacles, the better to see up close. She set them on a ledge and began to flip pages without really reading. She could still smell the scent of Ford’s skin, feel the slight tickle of him playing with her hair.

  “What is that called?” he asked without looking up.

  “Aristotle’s Master-piece.” It looked promising, though she was surprised to find a book about or by Aristotle that she’d never heard of before. “I think I shall inquire about the price.”

  “Here, I’ll hold it for you while you look some more.”

  She handed it to him, and he set it on the floor, on top of two volumes he’d apparently chosen for Rose. She could understand why the bookseller would let them go for a shilling. Even without her eyeglasses, the foreign editions looked like they hadn’t been opened in decades.

  Still crouching by the crate, Ford began humming a soft tune as he searched. A lullaby, if she didn’t miss her guess; she wondered if he sang to Jewel. She slipped another title off the shelf. The clicks of checkers told her the children were miraculously staying put. Though their voices were a bit louder than she would have liked, they didn’t seem to be bothering the proprietor, so she decided not to let it bother her, either.

  She’d added two more likely books to the growing pile when Ford sat down with a thud, clutching a book in both hands.

  He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

  TWENTY

  “WHAT’S WRONG?” Violet asked. Sitting on the floor, the viscount looked as pale as her father’s prized lilies. “Ford?”

  “Nothing.” He glanced around uneasily, as though he expected someone to pop up and steal the book out of his white-knuckled hands.

  She couldn’t help but notice those hands were shaking. The book was small and looked old. No, make that ancient, she decided after she’d reached for her spectacles and slipped them back on. It was handwritten, and the pages sounded brittle, crackling when he gingerly turned them.

  “Another foreign title, is it?” Even with the eyeglasses, she couldn’t read a word. “Do you expect Rose would like it?”

  “No.” Still trembling, he stood abruptly. “Not this one.”

  “Can you read it? Is it French or Dutch?”

  “It’s no language I’ve ever seen. Will you get those?” he added distractedly, gesturing to the books on the floor.

  As she knelt to collect the volumes they’d chosen, he hurried away to talk to the proprietor.

  “Yes, only a shilling,” Mr. Young was saying when she joined them a minute later. Gazing down at the book, he lazily flipped a few pages. “It’s not English or Latin, though, and difficult to decipher, handwritten as it is. Can you even read it?”

  “Well, no.” Ford raked his fingers through his hair—not the smooth, thoughtful gesture Violet had become used to seeing, or even the quicker one that indicated frustration. This motion was jerky and convulsive instead.

  What was wrong with him?

  “I have a friend, an expert in languages,” he said. “I thought he might enjoy the challenge.” He held out his hand, and she could almost hear him willing the shopkeeper to give him back the book.

  The man handed it over, gesturing dismissively. “A shilling will do, then. Truth be told, I feel guilty taking money for the thing at all.”

  “Appreciate it.” Ford turned to Violet, taking the books from her arms. “Add these to the total, please.” He passed them over to Mr. Young and started digging out his pouch.

  “I brought money,” she protested. “I cannot accept a gift from you. It wouldn’t look right.”

  “Rubbish. You’ve already accepted the spectacles, haven’t you?”

  Her hands went to her face protectively. “These were different. You made them.”

  “They’re just books, Violet.”

  Mr. Young looked at each book, scribbling their prices on a scrap of paper, preparatory to adding them up. He paused when he came to Violet’s first choice. “Are you certain you want this, my lady?”

  “Aristotle’s Master-piece? Yes. Unless…is it very expensive?”

  Frowning, he blinked his pale blue eyes. “No, not particularly.”

  “We’ll take it.” Ford selected a few coins and pressed them into the bookseller’s hand. “Jewel? Rowan? Are you done with your game?” He looked to be in a terrible rush.

  “One more minute, Uncle Ford.”

  He shifted from foot to foot while they finished playing, then took Jewel by the hand to pull her from her seat. With a distracted “Thank you” called ov
er his shoulder to Mr. Young, he waved Violet and Rowan through the door and followed them out with his niece.

  “Is something amiss, Uncle Ford?” the little girl asked.

  “No. No, not at all. I’m hoping something is very right.” He hastened them down the street, his gaze focused straight ahead to where the barge sat waiting. “Hurry. Quickly.”

  In her fashionable high heels, Violet had a hard time keeping up, and she completely forgot to worry about who might see her wearing the spectacles. In no time at all, he was ushering them aboard.

  “Straight home, Harry.” Ford hesitated, though for barely an instant. “No, stop at the first decent inn—but not until we’ve cleared the town.”

  The children joined Harry at the helm while Ford hurried Violet into the cabin, apparently forgetting it was unsuitable. He pulled the door shut behind them. When the barge began moving, he let out a long, audible breath and dropped heavily onto the bed.

  Since there wasn’t any other furniture, Violet seated herself primly at the foot of the bed. “What’s going on?” she asked, concerned by this odd behavior.

  “I just…I suppose I feared Mr. Young would come running out and take the book back.” It was still clenched in his fingers. “It’s foolish, I know,” he said, offering her a sheepish smile.

  “Is it that important, then?”

  “If it turns out to be what I’m hoping it is, yes, it’s important.” He relaxed his grip and, opening the book, turned a page and then another. If she could judge from his smile, the crackle of old paper sounded like music to his ears. “Very important.”

  “I imagine your friend will be pleased.”

  In the midst of turning another page, he looked up. “My friend?”

  “Your friend who is good with languages.”

  “Oh.” She’d never seen a gentleman blush before. “That wasn’t the whole truth, I’m afraid. I just didn’t know quite what to say. If the bookseller realized what this was…well, what it might be…but maybe I shouldn’t…” He met her gaze. “What am I saying? Of course I can trust you.” He sucked in a breath and blew it out. “This book could be extremely valuable, Violet.”