The Viscount's Wallflower Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “Repeatedly. In every way I know how.” Closing his eyes, Ford lowered his head and raked both hands through his hair.

  When he looked up, Rand wore an expression of sympathy. Or disbelief. Or maybe both.

  “Man, you’ve got it bad.” Rand drained the rest of his ale. “I’ve never told a girl that.”

  Ford eyed his young friend with skepticism. “When would you have had occasion to?”

  “Pah!” Rand lobbed a bit of pie crust in Ford’s direction. “I’ve been involved with many women, I’ll have you know.”

  “Oh? In the few months since I left here?” Dusting pie crust off his cravat, Ford raised a brow. “Do any of these women have names?”

  “Of course they do,” Rand said, his face going slightly pink. He jutted out his chin. “But a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

  Ford snorted. “That’s what I thought.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  SO HE WASN’T going to be making gold anytime soon. Their minds muddled by several more ales, Ford and Rand had concluded that didn’t mean he had to give up on marrying Violet. All he had to do was convince her he loved her, not her money, which shouldn’t be an impossible task.

  First, they decided, he had to keep showing her how he felt. He’d made a good start there, Ford declared in a drunken boast. Enough stolen kisses ought to eventually wear her down. It was only a matter of time before he became part of her the same way she had become part of him.

  Rand groaned at that sentimental slop and ordered another round.

  Second, Ford would change his priorities, put managing the estate first and relegate his science to a hobby. He’d already decided he was willing to do that and told both Violet and her mother as much. And it was infinitely more palatable than the alternative, which was losing Violet.

  Love changed a man.

  Of course, it would be a good while before the estate earned an income sufficient to pay off all the debts, but in the meantime, Ford and Rand had reasoned, if he fixed up Lakefield, it wouldn’t keep reminding Violet of his temporary lack of finances.

  Which was why he was now outside, hacking away at his garden.

  Hilda approached, bearing a tankard of fresh lemonade.

  “A gift from heaven.” He thunked his ax into the ground and held the cold drink against his forehead.

  Hilda settled her hands on her wide hips. “Just what do you think you’re doing out here?”

  “Cleaning up.” He gulped greedily. “Then I’ll plant.”

  “Plant what?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll think about that when I get there.” He knew zero about plants, other than what some of them looked like extremely close up, thanks to Micrographia.

  She eyed a ladder propped against the wall. “Are you planning to plant vines?”

  “Excellent idea.” He sipped again, letting the sweet coolness flow down his throat. “That would save me from painting, wouldn’t it?”

  “You’re going to paint, too?”

  “That’s the plan. I sent Harry off for paint. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “Since when does Harry tell me anything?” She took the empty tankard from his hand. “What was the ladder for, then?”

  “I tried to fix the roof.” Turning away, he lifted the ax. “If you wouldn’t mind going into the laboratory—”

  “Into your private domain?” She laid a hand on her pillowy bosom. “Be still my heart.”

  “—you may find some foreign matter has fallen from above.” He whacked at an overgrown bush. Or vine. He wasn’t sure which, but he was fairly certain the thing wouldn’t be termed a tree. “I’m going to have to ask Harry to find a roofer.” He whacked again, then turned sharply when he heard a chortle. “Are you laughing at me, Hilda?”

  “Of course not, milord. That would be terribly disrespectful, wouldn’t it?” She cleared her throat. “You know, some of that may be salvageable if you prune it instead of killing it.”

  He ran a grubby hand back through his hair. “Is that so? I had no idea you were knowledgeable about vegetation. Perhaps you could—”

  “I most certainly could not.” She drew herself up to her full height of five feet. “I’m a housekeeper, not a gardener. It’s dirty work, that is.”

  It certainly was, if the state of his clothing was any indication. Deciding he’d done as much to destroy that plant as possible, he moved to the next one.

  “Why are you limping?” Hilda’s eyes narrowed. “Your breeches are torn.”

  He started to wave the ax in a dismissive gesture, then changed his mind and lowered it. He was reasonably proficient with a sword, but an ax was another matter. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just scratched myself a bit up on the roof.”

  “Fell through, you mean, do you not?”

  On second thought, if his housekeeper failed to curb her tongue, the ax could come in handy. His hand tightened on the hilt. Or the grip. Or whatever one called the wooden part of an ax. “Perhaps my foot did slip. I told you there might be foreign matter in the laboratory that needs to be cleared away.”

  “Well, I hope your blood isn’t mixed with it. That’ll stain the floor.” Shaking her head, she walked away, leaving him in peace at last.

  As soon as she disappeared around the corner, he plopped onto a stone bench, swiping a hand across his brow. He eyed his handiwork.

  He’d been chopping away for nigh on four hours, and the job looked bigger than when he’d started.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  “VERY INTERESTING,” Violet said, staring at the dried top of a pineapple.

  Lily smiled sweetly at their father. “What an exciting project.”

  “It’s an ugly thing,” Rose said.

  Father gave her an indulgent smile—or perhaps he hadn’t quite heard her. All plants were beautiful to him, and he’d been known to take offense on their behalf. “I’m going to plant it in a big pot and keep it here in the Stone Gallery at nights and all winter.”

  Violet didn’t find the plan surprising, since he was already trying to grow oranges indoors. The long, narrow chamber, which was lined with windows and occupied the entire ground floor of the west wing, had been used in Tudor times to take exercise in inclement weather. But now one could hardly walk two steps without bumping into a plant.

  Rowan’s foot tapped on the black-and-white marble floor. “How many pineapples will it grow?”

  “I’m not sure.” Father frowned. “Maybe only one.”

  “One? We’ll eat it in a trice!”

  “But then I’ll have another top, and I can grow more—”

  “And by the time Rowan is married with children,” Rose finished for him, “we ought to have a decent crop. Anyone want to go riding?”

  It seemed a long time since Violet had exercised anything but her heart. “I’m game,” she said.

  “Me, too,” Lily added.

  “Me three.” Rowan scratched his head. “No, make that four.”

  They all laughed.

  “Be back in time to dress for supper!” Father called after his children as they trooped outside.

  A few minutes later they were mounted on their horses and riding along the river. Violet took the lead and automatically headed toward Lakefield, hoping Ford was back from Oxford. She wanted to see him, to talk things through now that she’d had time to think. She hoped she could get him alone somehow, away from her siblings where they could speak in private.

  The sun felt warm on her skin, and Socrates’s white hide was tickly against her legs. She leaned into a turn, loving the wind in her hair, the effortless movements of the animal beneath her. Suddenly she felt like she’d been cooped up in the house entirely too long. The fresh air was marvelous. She decided she should leave her books behind and go out more often.

  “We should ride the other way,” Rowan said.

  Lily pulled up alongside him. “Why is that?”

  He shook his head ruefully. “I don’t want to see Jewel.”

  Three days had pas
sed since he’d drunk the chocolate, and he was still scratching. And doubtless still hearing Jewel’s laughter in his ears.

  Rose laughed now. “Jewel went home with her parents, you goose.”

  “Rose!” Seeing their brother flinch at the word goose, Violet sent her a warning look. “But she’s right, Rowan, Jewel is nowhere near…”

  Her words trailed off as Lakefield House came within sight.

  “Oh my,” she said, staring at the decimated garden. “What do you think happened?”

  “A storm,” Rowan guessed. “With lots of blowing.”

  Lily’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I expect we would have felt the effects of that at Trentingham.”

  Rose shaded her eyes with a hand. “Is that a hole in the roof?”

  They drew nearer. “Oh my,” Violet said. “Is that—oh my.”

  “On the ladder there.” Lily cocked her head. “Is that the viscount?”

  Rose drew breath and released a very unladylike holler. “Lord Lakefield! Is that you?”

  Her voice carried so well, even their father would have turned his head. Which the fellow on the ladder did, to reveal a face splattered with paint. His clothing wasn’t faring any better. As they rode closer and came to a stop near the house, Violet watched a white blob roll down Ford’s hair and land on one of his boots.

  She burst out laughing.

  He backed awkwardly down the ladder and limped over to gaze up at her on her horse. He crossed his arms, then dropped them, grimacing at the white handprints he’d just made on his clothing. “What’s so funny?”

  At that, her sisters burst out laughing, too.

  With a supreme effort, Violet got herself under control. “What on earth,” she asked, “do you think you’re doing?”

  “I told you I was going to fix this place up.”

  Another little giggle escaped. “I didn’t think you meant to do it yourself.”

  But her heart melted a little. Was he doing this for her?

  Clasping her sides, Rose gasped, “It looks worse than when you started!”

  Ford’s jaw tightened, but he ignored her and addressed Violet. ”May I speak with you for a moment? In private?”

  She looked to her sisters, but this, after all, was what she had come for. So she shrugged and handed her reins to Lily, slid off Socrates, and followed Ford around the corner of the house.

  The moment they were out of sight, he pinned her against the stone wall.

  Her gasp of surprise was covered by his lips. The familiar weakness stole over her, and her muscles went limp as his mouth slanted over hers. He smelled of Ford and paint, and his body pressing her against the house reminded her of that day in the woods, and how he’d felt crushed against her…

  Breathless, nearly senseless, she pulled back, then looked down at her gown and let out another gasp.

  ”Sorry,” he said. “I’ll buy you another.”

  “I’m more concerned with what my family will think.”

  He ran a paint-stained finger down her arm. “They’ll think I couldn’t help myself, because I’m in love with you. Which is true.”

  She heaved a frustrated sigh. “It’s not that I don’t want to believe you. But I need to feel certain, and I can’t seem to do that because every time we’re together, you make me feel so…”

  “In love?” he suggested.

  “Confused. I can’t think straight when…when you touch me,” she finished in a whisper, her cheeks heating. “And I—”

  “Oh, Violet!” Rose’s voice called sweetly from the front of the house. “Are the two of you all right back there?” Lily’s and Rowan’s giggles drifted around the corner.

  Violet’s flush deepened. It was bad enough having to admit such personal things aloud to Ford. She couldn’t bear the humiliation if her siblings overheard.

  “It seems,” Ford said dryly, “that we can’t talk in private here. Will you take supper with me tonight?”

  “I can’t tonight. We’re having my favorite, chicken and artichoke pie, to celebrate…” She trailed off, realizing she’d almost revealed to Ford that she’d spent the last few days pleading illness and hiding out in her bedchamber, so her special birthday supper had had to be postponed until tonight. “Um, never mind. At any rate, I’m having supper with my family tonight.”

  “Will you come after supper, then? Once your family is abed?”

  Her mouth fell open. “Are you…you can’t be suggesting I sneak out of my house and come to you? Alone? In the middle of the night?”

  “Not alone, no. I’ll wait below your window.”

  “You want me to climb out a window? That would be highly impro—”

  “Yes, highly improper. But nothing will happen, I promise. I won’t even touch you.” To demonstrate, he retreated a step and clasped his hands behind his back. “I want you to be able to think clearly—clear enough to realize the truth.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Can’t I just call on you tomorrow? With my parents’ permission? Or can you call on me?”

  He shrugged. “Wouldn’t you rather talk in private—truly in private? We’re always getting interrupted by your family, or mine, or my nosy servants. Wouldn’t it be nice to have just one conversation without anyone else getting in the way?”

  As if to prove Ford’s point, Harry suddenly appeared out of nowhere. “Is this the right color, milord?”

  Violet jumped.

  “Beg pardon, milady.” With a heavy grunt, Harry set down two buckets of what looked like paint. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Am I interrupting something?” His gaze flicked between Ford and Violet with interest.

  The two exchanged a look. Silently, she nodded her assent.

  “Not at all, Harry. The color’s perfect.” Ford clapped his houseman on the shoulder. “Will this do for all the trim?”

  Harry laughed. “Not hardly. There’s more in the cart.” He left, presumably to retrieve the rest.

  As Ford walked Violet back to her siblings, she noticed he took care not to touch her. “I’ll be there, waiting, at midnight,” he said quietly. “Beneath your window.”

  Under her breath, she muttered, “I am not climbing out a window.”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  IN THE END, she didn’t climb out a window.

  Instead she sneaked out a back door.

  Thanks to the state of her gown, Rose and Lily had teased Violet mercilessly all the way home from Lakefield. No matter that she had a reputation for tripping, they’d refused to believe her excuse about stumbling and falling against wet paint.

  After bathing and donning a fresh gown, she endured yet more teasing through three courses of supper. Even Father and Mum had joined in. Violet had stared daggers at her siblings, wondering which of them had told their parents about the paint.

  By the time she retired to her bedchamber, she was in a stormy mood. This was all Ford’s fault, the scoundrel. He’d sent her off in her paint-stained gown with nary a second thought. He’d fed her to the wolves.

  Well, he’d pay the price, she vowed, diving into bed and yanking the covers up to her chin.

  On no account would she go along with his scheme. Not after what he’d put her through. She was taking the sensible course of action and staying right here. Why should she risk her parents’ wrath, not to mention her reputation, for him?

  When the first faint tap of a pebble hitting her window startled her from her vengeful thoughts, she rolled over and closed her eyes. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  At the second tap, her eyes popped open.

  When a third pebble hit, she leapt out of bed, fully clothed except for her shoes. Odd, that—she’d honestly meant to go to sleep. But this incessant tapping was keeping her wakeful. She’d just slip back into her shoes, go downstairs, and tell him to leave.

  On her way out into the corridor, she snatched up a cloak. Just in case she had to go outside in order to give him a piece of her mind.

  It wasn’t until she was tiptoei
ng past Father and Mum’s chamber that she admitted the truth: She was going with him.

  She was in love. Hopelessly, tragically, insensibly in love. And though she suspected all that would come of it was one more night in Ford’s company before her heart broke forever, well, she supposed she’d take what she could get.

  Faith, did love make everyone pathetic? Or only her?

  Had she not seen, just this afternoon, the very proof of his desperate need for her money? Ford Chase, who’d refused to sell his watch because aristocrats didn’t go into trade, was reduced to painting his own house, tending his own gardens. If that wasn’t dire straits, she didn’t know what was.

  Yet some gullible part of her still held out hope that his circumstances were coincidental to—and not the cause of—his suit. Knowing how unlikely that was, dread coursed through her even as she trembled with anticipation.

  They had a whole night ahead of them.

  Whatever happened, Violet was determined to make her decision by the end of the night. If she couldn’t convince herself of his sincerity by then, she never would. And if she remained unconvinced…she would walk away. She could never pledge herself wholeheartedly to a man she didn’t trust.

  Better to spend the rest of her days lonely in the arms of her family than lonely in a tarnished dream.

  She’d only just slipped out the door when she found herself caught up and swung in a wide circle. “I feared you weren’t coming!”

  “Hush!” she admonished in a sharp whisper. “We’ll be caught.”

  “Then you’ll be forced to marry me.” Sounding not at all displeased with that possibility, he set her on her feet. “Apologies, my love—I promised not to touch you. It won’t happen again.”

  “Um, right.” She cleared her throat. “I appreciate that.”

  “Do you?” His smile let her know her disappointment was obvious.

  She decided not to dignify that with a response.

  “I’m cold,” she said instead, hoping he’d mistake her trembling for shivering. “Let’s go.”