The Viscount's Wallflower Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “You’re sure that’s a distillery?” she couldn’t help asking.

  He stroked the thing, very much like Lily petted her beloved stray animals. “I’m certain. I assure you there’s nothing radical about the design.”

  “He has a much bigger one in his laboratory,” Violet said.

  Ford nodded. “And at Cainewood, yet another that dwarfs that one. But they all work on the same principles.” He smiled at Chrystabel. “I hope you’ll enjoy using it.”

  “Enjoy using it?” Her head swam with confusion, an unusual state of mind for Chrystabel. “Do you mean…can you mean to give it to me?”

  He blinked. “Of course. I made it for you. Why else would I bring it here?”

  “Why…” She felt speechless, another atypical condition. “That’s so generous, I…I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “No thanks are necessary. I saw a need, I filled it. One does that for friends.”

  Unsure which she appreciated more, his declaration or his gift, she came forward to take both his hands. “Then I’m fortunate to be counted among your friends,” she said warmly, her gaze drifting to Violet.

  Chrystabel hoped to be more than the young man’s friend; she hoped to be his mother-in-law. But she was clever enough to keep her mouth shut lest she thwart her plans. One wrong word from her lips, and her skittish daughter would go running the other direction.

  Her best bet was to keep throwing the two of them together until Mother Nature did her work. Chemistry…she’d wager that was how the viscount thought of it. And she knew it was only a matter of time before those feelings—those insuperable feelings, as the Master-piece put it—overcame her daughter’s stubborn and over-particular nature.

  Hopefully Violet was still studying the marriage manual—minus those few unsuitable passages which had had to be removed, of course. Chrystabel meant only to open her daughter’s eyes to the institution of marriage, not to give her ideas.

  She squeezed the viscount’s hands before dropping them. “I do thank you, whether you feel that’s required or not.”

  Violet circled the large table, ostensibly examining the distillery. “Will you show us how to use it?”

  “Of course,” he said, following her.

  A courtship dance, Chrystabel thought with an inward smile.

  “This container down here is for oil.” He lifted a lid. “Not your essential oils, but fuel, if you will. I’ve filled it for now, but you’ll need to add more as you use the still.”

  “That makes sense,” Chrystabel said, watching her daughter move away again.

  Lord Lakefield shifted closer to replace the lid, which had a hole in the middle. “Make sure the wick is thick and long at the top,” he instructed, inserting one he pulled from his pocket. “You’ll want the flame high enough to boil the water. At home, this part of my still is brick—a proper oven. But for your purposes, this should do fine.”

  Violet’s next tactic was to cross back to Chrystabel’s side of the table. “It looks very complicated.”

  A large glass bulb sat in a frame, and a second glass bulb was attached by a tube. Smaller, it was designed to rest on the tabletop.

  “Put your petals in here,” Ford said, coming halfway around again to indicate the larger bulb. “Then fill it with water. There’s room here beneath the cover for the steam to collect, you see, but not too much room. Soon it will be forced down the tube, and on the long way down, away from the heat, the essential oil will condense and collect in this second receptacle.” He showed them how to remove it. “Does that make sense?”

  Still overwhelmed by his gift, Chrystabel nodded. “It does!”

  “It will take a bit longer than your original method, but you won’t be losing any steam. Your oil will be purer and stronger.”

  “It will,” Violet said with a smile. “That’s quite obvious, and quite brilliant.”

  “I simply can’t begin to express my thanks,” Chrystabel said, shaking her head in wonder. Impulsively, she rounded the table to wrap Lord Lakefield in a hug. “You’re a genius!” she exclaimed. “And so generous.”

  And so perfect for her Violet.

  His face was pink when she released him. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “It’s everything,” Violet disagreed from across the table, leaning forward on both hands, though she still wouldn’t meet the viscount’s eyes. “Few men would take a woman’s hobby seriously, let alone devise ways to improve it. Most would be like John Evelyn with his ‘kitchen scientist’ wife Mary.”

  Chrystabel hadn’t the slightest idea who John Evelyn was, but Violet’s voice was filled with admiration. Her daughter was falling for Ford, she was sure of it. However, things weren’t progressing as quickly as she’d like. The fellow had a disconcerting habit of disappearing for days at a time while he invented one thing or another.

  “Violet’s birthday is tomorrow,” she told him. “We’re having a family celebration. I’d be pleased if you would join us.”

  “Mum—”

  “I’m delighted to accept.” He hesitated, then added all in a rush, “But I was planning to ask if Violet might take supper in my company tonight.”

  A little gasp came across the table. “Alone?” Violet asked.

  “Well, Harry will be there, and—”

  Violet opened her mouth.

  “I’m sure she’d be pleased,” Chrystabel rushed to say before her daughter could decline the invitation. She just managed to suppress a grin.

  “Shall I come for her at six, then?”

  “Wait.” Violet raised both hands, palms forward, looking thoroughly indignant. “Have I no say in this?”

  “Of course you do, dear.” Chrystabel fixed her with a steady gaze. “I just couldn’t imagine you refusing such a request after Lord Lakefield went out of his way to make this new distillery.”

  Ford walked around the table, stopping nose to nose with her daughter. Or they would have been nose to nose, if he wasn’t so much taller. The dance had ended. When their gazes finally met, Chrystabel’s heart sang to see her daughter’s eyes softening.

  Surrender.

  “Would you rather not come?” he asked quietly.

  “I…”

  “Please say you will.”

  Silence for a heartbeat. “All right.”

  A less than enthusiastic response, but Ford looked as happy to receive it as Chrystabel was to hear it. If she hoped to speed up this courtship, a supper alone together would be just the thing.

  “I’m looking forward to it.” He bowed to both ladies. “Until six, then.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  NO SOONER had Ford cleared the door than Violet’s sisters rushed in to see what he’d brought.

  “He made this?” Rose dumped an armful of flowers on the table. “He really and truly made this without you even asking?”

  Mum laughed. “How could I ask? I had no idea such a thing even existed.”

  “That was nice.” Lily ran a finger down the gleaming copper tube. “Very nice.” She turned to Violet. “You should marry him.”

  Violet’s mouth gaped. Though she’d discussed the subject with her sisters, she had trusted them to be more discreet. Especially in front of Mum. What of their pact to maintain a united front against any matchmaking?

  “Has he asked you to marry him?” her mother asked with widened eyes.

  “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 it was very nice of him to make this. I cannot wait to see you use it.”

  “And she should marry him,” Rose put in.

  “Oh, do 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? It was 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 wi
th 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.”

  That made sense. Maybe. “Then what is your explanation for encouraging me to join him for supper? Alone, Mum? Harry and Hilda don’t count.”

  “You’re eighteen years old now, a woman grown. I’m certain I can trust you.”

  Violet wasn’t sure she could trust herself. Not around Ford Chase, anyway.

  “Besides, it was very much like I said, dear. He’d just done me an enormous favor, and I didn’t feel it would be right to refuse him a boon. It’s 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 rounded on her. “Why, so you can start your own husband hunt?”

  “No.” Rose actually looked hurt, which made Violet feel badly for lashing out. “You just seem perfect together. Mum, don’t you agree?”

  Their mother’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’s your opinion?”

  Violet didn’t want to hear anyone else’s opinion. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d have slunk from the room.

  Mum lifted the lid off the new still and began plucking jasmine petals, tossing them in as she talked. “I think he is brilliant.”

  Rose began collecting carnations, doubtless planning another floral arrangement. “Which makes him perfect for our Violet, doesn’t it?”

  “I didn’t say that, Rose.”

  “But you thought it.”

  Violet gritted her teeth. “Rose, would you hush up?”

  “Girls. Stop bickering. It’s up to Violet to choose her own husband. I said from the first I thought Lord Lakefield was too much of an 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 gentleman like him,” Lily protested. “I’m looking for a gentleman 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.”

  Violet snorted. ”We all know that by now.”

  “Viscount Lakefield is nice to look at.”

  “Despite his horrifying lankiness?” Violet said dryly.

  Rose tossed her gleaming chestnut ringlets. “Indeed. But I want a gentleman who appreciates my femininity. Lord Lakefield 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 pestered. “It’s 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’s so perfect for Violet.”

  Violet wanted to press her hands over her ears. Instead she massaged her temples. 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 was certain she would scream.

  She rose and headed for the door. “I need to go get ready.”

  Lily came to block her way, her blue eyes concerned. “Don’t you want to see the distillery work?”

  “Perhaps tomorrow,” she said, skirting around her sister. “Today I have no time.”

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

  FORTY-EIGHT

  “VIOLET!” HER father called from over by a border of pink candytuft. “Where are you going?”

  Walking through the garden with Ford, she cast him an apologetic glance. “I’m off to Lakefield House for supper!” she shouted. “Did Mum not tell you?”

  As they drew close, Ford tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. Father’s gaze landed on their linked arms, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Apparently he wanted her to marry Ford, too.

  Faith, 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 at the table.” She gave her father’s hand a squeeze, knowing he hadn’t heard her low comments. “I’ll see you later, Father.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll see you later!” she shouted and drew Ford away. “Sorry about that,” she said to him once Father had turned back to his gardening. “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.” Ford led her around the corner of the house.

  And there was that silly, old-fashioned barge.

  She stopped in her tracks. “Where is your carriage?”

  “It’s a beautiful evening,” he said, coaxing her along. “I thought to spend it on the river.”

  He unleashed that brilliant smile of his, rendering her speechless as they crossed the lawn. And although she hadn’t tripped in weeks, she nearly did as he handed her onto the barge. Nodding to Harry and the stable hands to cast off, Ford drew her into the cramped, unsuitable cabin that contained nothing but a bed.

  Only it wasn’t quite so unsuitable now. The bed had been removed, and in its place sat a little table and two chairs. The entire space 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 with a soft pink cloth, and silver domes covered two plates. While she stood gaping, he leaned forward and swept off one of the domes.

  “Supper,” he said. “Since Hilda’s culinary skills are a mite lacking, I had Harry fetch it from the cookshop in the village. I only pray it hasn’t all gone cold.”

  Overwhelmed by the unsettling trembling in her heart, Violet laid a hand on her blue moiré stomacher. Her other fingers toyed with the end of her thick plait. Countless cheerful little flames warded off the approaching evening chill. And Ford’s expression of nervous hope warmed her as well, in an entirely different way.

  But suddenly she felt small and silly, like a schoolgirl playing dress-up. This couldn’t be her life. These sorts of things weren’t supposed to happen to plain, sensible girls—they were supposed to happen to irresistible wood nymphs!

  Something was wrong.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, looking concerned.

  “No!”

  She chewed her lip. Each time she and Ford met she only grew more confused. She knew now that she wanted him, and she sometimes felt that he wanted her. But she couldn’t be sure he wanted her in the way she wanted him to want her, if she even wanted that, considering where it might lead.

  What if marriage wasn’t all that the Master-piece claimed? What if she traded her grand aspirations for a life full of heart tremblings and short breathings, only to discover it was all a horrible mistake—

  Oh, hang it! This was ridiculous. For heaven’s sake, how could she hope to ever call herself a philosopher when she couldn’t even puzzle out her own feelings?

  Two goblets sat on the ta
ble, the red wine in them gently swaying in rhythm with the barge’s movements. She raised one to her lips and took a long, unhurried sip, trying to slow her whirling thoughts. “Nothing’s wrong,” she finally said. “It’s only that I…I thought we were dining at Lakefield.”

  He drew out a chair and waited for her to sit, then pulled the door shut. “I never said that. I only asked if you might take supper in my company tonight.” He seated himself across from her. The table was so small their knees touched. “Don’t you think this is more romantic?”

  She wasn’t used to being romanced. She didn’t know how to react. “Where are we going?” she asked to change the subject. 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 smile.

  She shifted uneasily. “Nowhere?”

  “Just you and me and the river, food, wine, candlelight…is it not enough?” In the flickering light, his eyes looked dark and earnest. He reached across the table and took one of her hands, his lace cuff spilling over their joined fingers. “I want to apologize for the other day, for how our conversation went in the woods. And especially for how it ended.” He took a deep breath. “I care deeply for you, Violet.”

  He cared deeply for her. Did that mean…?

  “But I understand if you don’t care for me—yet,” he added quickly. “We’ve only been acquainted a scant few months. All I’m asking for is a chance to change your mind. To court you properly.”

  She raised a brow. “You call this”—her gesture took in the intimate quarters and the two of them crammed together at their tiny table—“a proper courtship?”

  He grinned. “Well, not too proper. But if you don’t like it—”

  “No, I like it.”

  He chuckled. “I’m glad. Does that mean you’ll give me another chance?”

  She looked away, considering.

  A proper courtship.

  Other gentlemen had tried to court her as her eighteenth birthday approached—the same gentlemen who’d ignored her at every ball she’d ever attended, letting her hide in the corners without ever trying to coax her out. The same boys who, when she was younger, had huddled around her little sisters after church on Sunday, while she sat nearby with a book and pretended not to care. Faith, even when she was just five and Rose and Lily still babies, those same boys’ parents cooed over them while Violet stood by unnoticed.