The Viscount's Wallflower Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Was Ford just a more convincing version of those boys?

  When she failed to respond, he rose and turned to stick his head out the window. “Johnnie, my lady requires a bit of persuading. Music, please.”

  Almost at once, the strains of a violin reached her ears.

  Despite her distress, a laugh bubbled out of her. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

  “Nearly everything. I forgot about the cold night air. Wouldn’t want you to be chilled.” He closed the window’s shutters and reseated himself with an innocent smile.

  He was smooth, too smooth for her to handle. And he’d gone to so much trouble to make this evening special. As if he honestly believed he was the one who needed to impress her.

  For such a brilliant fellow, he was oblivious when it came to women. He was wasting his time trying to persuade her to care for him.

  Because she already did.

  Ford Chase was a study in contradictions. Part serious academic, part dashing romantic, part responsible uncle, part irresponsible adolescent. And she adored every confusing facet.

  He dressed like a prince and lived like a pauper. He was the most generous person she’d ever known. He’d made her spectacles; he’d made her mother a distillery.

  He’d made her fall in love with him.

  She loved him.

  She loved him! Dear heavens, when had she come to love him?

  But she did.

  And yet…

  Just before he’d closed the shutters, she’d glimpsed Lakefield House as they’d sailed by, twilight’s shadows throwing its crumbling facade into stark relief. Now, the image of Ford’s neglected estate lodged itself in her mind. Despite her love for him, despite all the good she saw in him, she couldn’t help wondering if his sudden wish to court her was only because…

  She didn’t want to think about that now. She didn’t want to ruin this night, her last night before she turned eighteen. Tomorrow, according to Rose, she would officially become a spinster.

  But tomorrow could wait until tomorrow.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, reaching to uncover her plate. His knees moved away from hers and didn’t return, to her vast disappointment.

  As she’d expect from a country cookshop, the supper was simple and hearty. A wedge of lamb pie, sweet potato pudding, parsnips, and asparagus.

  “It’s all quite good,” Violet said after sampling each dish. The sweet potato pudding was smooth and fluffy, swimming in butter with eggs, nutmeg, and dark sugar. The lamb pie was flaky and rich. As they dined, they discussed the books they’d recently read—excluding the Master-piece—and the latest news from Ford’s friends at the Royal Society.

  Violet savored both the food and the still-novel experience of conversing with a gentleman who spoke to her as an intellectual equal. It dawned on her that those weeks without Ford, when he’d gone off working on one project or another, it wasn’t just kissing him that she’d missed. Even more so, she’d missed talking with him.

  He didn’t touch her during supper, didn’t so much as nudge her foot with his. But all the time he talked, he gazed straight into her eyes in a way that set her heart to trembling just the same.

  When his plate was empty and she was only picking at hers, he refilled her wine cup. “Violet?” He reached across the tiny table and gently removed her spectacles. “May I kiss you?”

  He’d never asked before, and she didn’t know what to say. In the guttering candlelight, he looked blurry. But he must have seen her answer in her eyes, because his face came into focus as he leaned across the table, and she sucked in a breath as his lips met hers—

  And his pewter plate crashed to the floor.

  “Everything all right in there?” came Harry’s voice through the shutters.

  Violet jerked away.

  “We’re fine,” Ford called to Harry, looking a bit startled as he bent to retrieve the plate. He set it back on the table, then ran a hand through his hair. Raggedly.

  “This won’t work,” he told her, gesturing to the table between them. “Do you suppose you might…would you like to dance?”

  “What, in here? Wouldn’t we need, um, music?”

  He raised a single brow. “Is that not what Johnnie is currently providing?”

  “Oh. Right.” She cocked her head, listening. “I don’t recognize the tune. It doesn’t sound like a minuet, or a—”

  “Oh, it’s not any of the usual dances.” Unconcerned, Ford took Violet’s hands and drew her up and away from the table. “We’ll just make up a dance of our own.”

  Violet cocked her head in bewilderment. “Make it up?” They now stood at the exact center of the bed’s former position, the thought of which made her cheeks heat.

  “Why not? No one’s watching.” Placing his hands at her waist, he began to sway in time to the music.

  “Um…what should I…?” Violet stood stock still. Dancing made her nervous even when she knew exactly what she was supposed to do, having had every motion drilled into her by the dancing master. Now she was expected to both devise the dance and perform it? Simultaneously? And in front of the man she’d just realized she loved?

  Was he mad?

  “Just follow me,” he said, his hands nudging her body to and fro. After a few clumsy beats, she was swaying along with him.

  All right, this wasn’t so difficult.

  Still, it was a very odd sort of dance.

  And she had no idea what to do with her arms. She let them hang stiffly in front of her, then clasped her hands together, then crossed her arms over her chest. No matter which position they were in, she knew she looked ridiculous. She was thankful Ford hadn’t returned her spectacles, so she didn’t have to observe the amused expression he surely wore.

  Her hands came up to cover her flaming cheeks. “I don’t know what to do with my—”

  Her sentence ended in a squeal as the boat made a sudden sharp pivot and she pitched forward.

  “Turn, ho!” Harry’s voice carried into the cabin.

  “We could have used a little more warning!” Violet shrieked in reply.

  “Apologies, m’lady!”

  Violet huffed. Luckily she’d managed to avoid taking a tumble, her fall having been broken by Ford’s body. Her right hand had been caught by his left, while her left hand had landed on his shoulder. She couldn’t help noticing the solid muscle beneath her fingers.

  Now, incredibly, he resumed swaying—“dancing”—once again, taking her along with him.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, my lord?” she asked tightly.

  “Very much so.” He pulled her closer. “Are you not?”

  “I…” All at once, she noticed their bodies were a hair’s breadth apart. She could feel the heat of his skin, smell his patchouli scent, see his clear blue eyes in sharp focus. His right hand slid around her waist, settling gently, deliciously on the small of her back.

  Lanky, she scoffed, thinking of Rose’s foolishness. If he’s lanky, then I’m Socrates.

  “I suppose I don’t mind,” she admitted, surprised to realize she truly was enjoying the dance. Ford’s left hand was doing an admirable job of steering her around the tiny cabin, relieving her of any responsibility for her own coordination. And the swaying motion was rather soothing.

  “Yet another brilliant invention,” Ford said with a lopsided grin. “Shall I patent this one, as you once recommended?”

  “Of course,” she quipped. “The patented ‘hold hands and sway’ technique will revolutionize the art of dance, becoming popular the world over.”

  “Undoubtedly.” Ford drew her even closer, until her head lay against his shoulder.

  Mmm, she thought.

  And that was the only thought she had for a good long while.

  Enfolded in Ford’s arms, lulled by soft music, surrounded by dwindling candle flames…something about that combination seemed to make her melt in his embrace.

  “Violet?”

  She glanced up. The look
in his eyes made her heart leap.

  “May I kiss you now?”

  Swallowing hard, she nodded.

  Their dance ground to a halt. And when his mouth met hers, everything changed.

  He had kissed her before, but never like this. This kiss was wild. It stole her breath, her thoughts, her will to resist. Her heart racing, she threw her arms around him, holding tight. And the kiss led to more kisses, so many frantic kisses.

  Earlier tonight, when she stepped foot on the barge, she’d known exactly how many kisses they’d shared, could remember and relive and savor each and every one of them. But within minutes she knew she would never be able to keep count again.

  “Violet,” he breathed.

  “Faith.” She was feeling those short breathings she’d read of again, and tremblings of the heart, and— “Ford?”

  “Mmhm?” he said through another kiss.

  “I love you.”

  FORTY-NINE

  “I LOVE YOU.”

  With Violet pressed against him, Ford had felt the words reverberate in his chest. But he couldn’t have heard them correctly.

  He kept kissing her, although more absentmindedly than he’d ever thought possible. Her words kept buzzing through his brain.

  I love you.

  It was the exact phrase he’d resolved not to utter, fearing he’d startle Violet even worse than he had with his boldness that day in the woods. This time, he’d been determined to proceed with caution, knowing he needed to win her over—needed to convince her they belonged together—before venturing anywhere near that word again.

  I care deeply for you, Violet, he’d said instead. A sentence carefully planned in advance, because he’d been so afraid to say anything that included the word love.

  Love. Love led to marriage, and he hadn’t wanted to risk reminding sensible Violet of all the reasons she shouldn’t marry him.

  But now everything had changed. Violet loved him back.

  She loved him!

  His heart soared. He’d brought Violet here hoping to start their courtship anew, but this was more, so much more than he’d dared hope for. She would be his wife, and, someday, the mother of his children. They would be together all their days. Somehow, despite his woeful financial circumstances, beautiful, brilliant, extraordinary Violet had found it in her heart to love him back.

  When had that happened? He didn’t know. He knew only that, slowly but surely, she’d woven her way into his life, until she was as much a part of him as his hands and his feet and his analytic brain. Until he found himself building distilleries as an excuse not to leave her side.

  His arms tightening around her, he broke the kiss and buried his nose in her hair. She smelled of flowers, sweet Violet flowers…

  “I love you, too, Violet,” he said.

  When he heard her happy sigh and felt her face turn toward him, her warm breath on his neck, nothing had ever been so perfect.

  He thought—he hoped—her parents would approve. He was positive Lady Trentingham liked him, at least, and the earl had smiled when he’d seen them walking arm in arm. But in truth, whether or not they objected didn’t matter now. Ford would convince them, whatever it took. He simply had to.

  “Violet?”

  “Hmm?” Keeping her eyes closed, she rubbed her nose in his neck.

  Criminy, she was adorable. A grin stole over his face. She was everything he hadn’t known he wanted. And needed. And she loved him. He was the luckiest fellow in the world. ”I cannot wait to get married,” he whispered in her ear.

  Quite suddenly, he felt her stiffen in his embrace.

  “Pray pardon?” Her eyes snapping open, she raised her head. “I never said I would marry you. You haven’t even asked me.”

  “Oh.” Of course. She wanted to be romanced. He took her face in both his hands, brushing his thumbs gently over her soft cheeks. Then he gave her his famous smile. ”Will you do me the greatest honor I can imagine and become my wife, Violet Ashcroft?”

  Her eyes looking bare without her spectacles, she blinked. “No.”

  “What?” Taken aback, he jerked away from her. “I…I thought you said you loved me.” It had never occurred to him that she wouldn’t wed him after admitting her feelings. No matter what she claimed, she was a romantic at heart. And the only girl he’d ever met who didn’t make him feel thickheaded.

  Until now.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” He saw her jaw set and felt a pit of blackness opening somewhere in his gut. “Was that tonight’s true objective, then?” she asked. “Not a courtship, but a betrothal?”

  “No!” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I intended to begin a courtship, but you said you loved me, Violet, and I thought that meant we would marry—because I love you, too. Isn’t that what two people in love ought to do? Get married?”

  “If they’re a suitable match,” she said.

  The blackness expanded to engulf his heart. “It’s my estate, isn’t it? I know things look bad just now, but—”

  “That’s not it, Ford.”

  The words were said much too calmly. If she truly loved him, shouldn’t her heart be breaking? Just as his was?

  “I’m a bit more enlightened than you give me credit for,” she went on. “Money has nothing to do with this. And before you ask, I wasn’t lying about my feelings for you. But my feelings alone aren’t enough. I don’t want to marry for the wrong reasons.”

  At least I don’t want to marry for the wrong reasons wasn’t an outright refusal. And though he knew what she meant, he would never understand how she could love him and yet not agree to marry him now. Not if love felt the same to her as it did to him.

  “Question Convention,” he quoted woodenly.

  He was beginning to understand what she’d meant when she said the Ashcrofts weren’t a conventional family…but he wasn’t at all sure anymore that he liked it.

  FIFTY

  FORD WAS SITTING at his desk the next morning, struggling to make sense out of a mound of Lakefield’s neglected paperwork, when his family showed up.

  And showed up, and showed up—three carriages worth of them.

  He’d known, of course, when he’d ordered Colin and Amy not to visit or bring the rest of the family, they were going to ignore him. But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. Especially on a day like this.

  Lucky for him, most of them stayed outside while his twin, Kendra, came into the study, wearing an all-too-cheerful yellow gown.

  “We’re here!” she announced, as though they’d sent notice ahead.

  “I deduced as much when I heard the children shrieking.” All seven of the precious angels. For the first time in weeks, he was pleased with the sorry state of his garden—at least there was little they could do to harm it.

  Kendra stopped beside his chair, her dark red hair glimmering in the too-bright sun that streamed through the window at his back.

  He scowled up at her. “Who invited you?”

  She leaned down to give him a hug. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  “Right,” he grunted without rising.

  Backing off, she went to find a seat. He’d piled ledgers on the only extra chair, so she perched on the old iron chest he’d never managed to open.

  “How was Scotland?” he asked her grudgingly.

  “Beautiful. Hamish is in good health, and Niall has done wonders with Duncraven.” He’d never met these people—her husband’s family—but felt he knew them from her lively descriptions over the years. “And Cait’s family is well, too. Cameron and Clarice had another baby.”

  “That’s good.” And no surprise. Everyone connected to the Chases seemed to have plenty of babies. Assuming it would be the same for him, he thought amidst another round of shrieks that perhaps Violet’s refusal had been for the best.

  “Well.” Kendra crossed her legs, the foot on top swinging up and down with its red-heeled shoe. “We’ve come to meet Violet, so enough of the pleasantries.”

&nbs
p; “Have I been pleasant?” Ford wondered.

  Her green eyes flashed with all-too-familiar annoyance. “What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

  “Besides the fact that the woman I love won’t agree to marry me?”

  “Colin said you were over Tabitha,” she said, frowning, and then, “Oh. Oh! It’s this Violet, then, isn’t it? Od’s fish, I cannot believe you admitted that. Ford Chase in love, and ready to marry?” The annoyance faded from her eyes as they filled with compassion instead. “Why on earth won’t she have you?”

  “Look around,” he said, gesturing toward the peeling walls. “I believe you’ll begin to get the picture.”

  “Well.” Now her eyes filled with outrage. “If she values gold above love, then she doesn’t deserve you, anyway.”

  “It’s not like that,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. “She’s more interested in books than material comforts. But she has money of her own, and she’s convinced herself no man would want her save to have it. I’m afraid the condition of this place has done nothing to reassure her my motives are otherwise.”

  When Kendra came to hug him this time, he rose and let her wrap him in her arms.

  “Poor Ford. You’ve always managed to get everything you’ve wanted before, haven’t you?”

  Torn between taking comfort and bristling at his sister’s patronizing view of him, he opted for the comfort. “I guess so,” he mumbled into her flower-scented hair.

  “Where is she?” Kendra demanded, pulling back. “I’ll talk to her and explain that your intentions are sterling. The sort of fellow you are—”

  “She’s busy today,” he said quickly. The last thing he needed was his family poking their noses in—which was exactly why he hadn’t wanted them here. Violet’s family might be unconventional, but his was mad as a cell full of Bedlam inmates.

  Violet was already dubious about the prospect of marrying him. One glimpse of the family she’d be marrying into, and her answer would change to an unequivocal no.