by Lauren Royal
Suddenly wondering what those legs might look like without breeches and hose, she wasn’t comfortable at all. Tucked behind her back, the pillow he’d thrown to aid her comfort didn’t seem to be helping a bit.
“Raymond Lully is the stuff of legends,” he continued blithely, apparently oblivious to their shockingly intimate position. “Any book he’d written would hold an immeasurable amount of historic and sentimental value. It would be an honor to own it, no matter what it said.”
When he fell silent again, she raised her gaze to his face, and the expression there told her he wasn’t oblivious at all.
He knew exactly how uncomfortable he was making her.
This was ridiculous.
The barge slowed and bumped against a dock, but it didn’t jar her from the spell he’d so expertly woven around them.
“A romantic?” he repeated, clearly not expecting an answer. His lips curved in a lazy smile, and he leaned forward, reaching one long arm to brush her cheek with two fingers. Her skin grew warm, and her body felt heavy on the bed.
Harry pulled open the door, and the spell was broken.
“Will this do, my lord?” He gestured toward a respectable old riverside inn that boasted tables along the bank of the Thames.
To his credit, he didn’t blink when he saw Ford’s feet in her lap. And, thank the heavens above, Ford managed to swing them off the bed and pull his boots back on before the children arrived in the doorway.
“It will do very well,” he said. “Thank you.”
TWENTY-ONE
“LOOK!” JEWEL pointed to an enormous oak by the river. “There are swings!”
The children bounded off the barge and ran shrieking along the grassy bank. Violet walked more carefully behind with Ford beside her, the book still in one hand. She teetered a bit on the unaccustomed high heels—and perhaps, she had to admit, because she felt drunk with new sensations.
Ford had put his feet in her lap. Why on earth had she found herself so affected? Although they’d been sitting on a bed, nothing scandalous had happened. They’d both been fully dressed, and they hadn’t even kissed.
The whole thing had been silly, really…as silly as a grown man physically attached to an old leather book. Wondering if he might sleep with it tonight, she smiled to herself.
He put a casual hand at her back. “What do you find so amusing?”
“Nothing.” His fingers felt warm through her thin satin gown. She chanced a look at him, feeling flushed and happy at the innocent contact.
That was silly, too. “Nothing at all,” she repeated, trying to hide another grin. When his hand dropped from her back, she could swear she still felt its imprint.
By the time the two of them caught up, the young ones had claimed the pair of rope-and-board swings that shared a heavy branch on the old tree’s right. They were pumping into the air, racing to see who could get the highest, their laughing taunts floating out over the water.
“That looks like fun,” Violet said wistfully. Oh, to be six, flying into the sky on your birthday, instead of almost twenty-one and dreading it.
One-and-twenty. According to Rose, that was the day Violet would become an official spinster. Not that she minded her fate. She’d been resigned to it for years—planning happily for it, in fact. A spinster enjoyed freedoms a wife never would.
But the word “spinster” sounded so very old and final.
Ford took her by the arm and marched her around the giant tree. A third swing there hung empty. “Sit,” he said.
She giggled, feeling sillier still. “You take it.”
“Sit.”
With a shrug, she did. It had been years since she’d been on a swing—since the last time her family had stayed at Tremayne Castle. The board felt flat and hard beneath her skirts. She wrapped her fingers around the thick, scratchy ropes on either side of her head. When she felt a hand at her back, she gave a little shriek, then laughed as Ford pushed her swinging into the air.
He came around the side to watch her, holding up the book to shade his eyes. “It’s nice to hear you laugh.”
She laughed again. “I feel like a child.”
“Is that bad?” he wondered.
Pumping her legs to go higher still, she considered. The wind rushed by, tangling her hair in the frame of her spectacles. When her peach skirts billowed, she clamped them between her legs. The sun sparkled on the water. Through her miraculous eyeglasses, the landscape looked clear and brightly beautiful all the way to the horizon.
“No,” she said at last. “Feeling like a child isn’t bad.” At nearly twenty-one, feeling like a child was wonderful.
Setting the book on the grass, Ford stepped behind her and gave her a shove. She leaned back, feeling her hair flow and flutter as she went soaring over the river.
“I can go faster than you!” Jewel cried.
“No, I can go faster!” Rowan yelled, and the two of them pumped their hearts out, racing toward the sky.
Ford’s hands on Violet’s back felt strong and warm, the pushes rhythmic and reliable. Her lids slid closed. She didn’t want to go faster than anyone; she just wanted to blank her mind and enjoy the motion.
With her eyes shut, she imagined she was flying. She imagined she was young and beautiful, and Ford was her lover, not just a flirtatious, overwhelmed uncle who wanted her help caring for his niece.
“Holy Hades,” Rowan complained, jarring her back into the real world.
Her eyes popped open. “I’ve told you not to say that.”
“No matter how high I get,” he panted, “I cannot seem to go faster than her. She swings three times and I swing only two.”
Jewel snorted. “Because you’re heavier, you goose.”
“I’m not a goose,” Rowan said, and Violet cringed, suspecting the girl had learned that insult from Rose. But Rowan seemed to consider Jewel’s analysis. “Anyway, you’re a girl, so you’ll get tired,” he decided smugly. “And then I’ll go faster.”
“No,” Ford said, giving Violet another push, “you won’t.”
“He won’t?” Violet asked. Rowan’s theory made sense to her. Well, perhaps not the part about Jewel tiring—the girl was a bundle of energy if ever she’d seen one. “If Rowan pumps harder, he won’t go faster?”
“He won’t,” Ford repeated. “The swing is a pendulum—”
“Like in your laboratory?” Jewel interrupted loudly.
“Just like that.” He pushed again. “Only you are the weight at the bottom.”
Jewel’s dark hair streamed behind her, then flew forward to hide her face. “And he’s a heavier weight, so…”
“No, the amount of weight doesn’t matter.” When Violet swung back, Ford wasn’t there to push. She slowed down to listen. “The time a pendulum takes to go back and forth is called the period,” he said, walking over to push Jewel instead. “And the period depends on the length of the string. Or in a swing’s case, the ropes.” He reached to give Rowan a shove. “Jewel’s ropes are quite a bit shorter, so Jewel swings faster.”
“Are you sure?” Rowan asked dubiously.
“Positive. But test it yourself. Switch swings with Jewel. That’s what an experiment is all about.”
The children dragged their feet on the ground to stop the swings, and Ford came back to Violet.
Soon Rowan and Jewel had switched sides and were pumping again. And Rowan was going faster. “You’re right!” he yelled.
“Of course I’m right.” Ford gave Violet another little push. “But I didn’t figure it out myself. Galileo first made the observation.”
“I know all about Galileo,” Jewel told Rowan importantly. “Uncle Ford named his horse after him.” She swung back and forth, back and forth. “I want to go faster again!”
“I’ll swing a hundred times and then you can,” Rowan offered.
“Fifty times.”
“As you wish. But we’ll switch back after another fifty.” In his loud, young voice, he began counting.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, the word sounding breathless and giddy. “Stop!”
“Why?” He pushed her again, and when she rushed back, he plucked off her other shoe. She heard that one, too, plop somewhere behind her back. “There,” he called as she swung away again, “now you’ll really feel like a child.”
Laughing, she wiggled her toes, feeling free in only stockings. And he pushed her higher. And higher. And higher. “Stop!” she screamed, meaning it this time. “Or I think I might get sick!”
He grabbed the ropes and jerked her to a halt. “Better?”
“Much.” Still holding on tight, she gave a shaky laugh. “I guess I’m too old for this, after all.”
“No one’s too old for this,” she heard him say from behind her. And then an arm curved around her waist and fingers cupped her chin.
Warm lips nuzzled her neck.
Her hands clenched the ropes as a delicious shiver rippled through her. “The children…” she murmured, attempting to turn her head. But his mouth trailed her throat, making her entire body weaken and blocking her from looking.
She heard the children’s chatter and hoped that meant they weren’t watching, and then it didn’t matter, because Ford was tilting her back, back, until his face was hovering above hers, only upside down.
And he was all she could see. All she could care about.
Slowly he drew off her spectacles and lowered his mouth to meet hers.
The kiss was gentle yet demanding, like the one yesterday, only more so. And different, like they were kissing each other’s bottom lip. Something ached deep inside her, and her hands clenched the ropes. Then, unlike yesterday, his tongue slipped out and traced the seam of her mouth. It was shocking and wild and wonderful. That single caress stole her breath, her thoughts…
And it was over all too quickly.
Slanting a furtive glance to the children, he reluctantly pulled away. She shifted upright. Walking around to face her, he handed her the spectacles with a smile. A secretive smile. A smile she hadn’t the experience to comprehend.
Her hands shaking, she took the eyeglasses and fitted them back on her face. Leaving her stunned, he moved from her sight. She struggled to catch her breath, listening to him collect the book and her shoes.
“Thirty-seven, thirty-eight,” Rowan chanted.
Ford paused for a breath behind Violet, collecting his wits. Why the devil had he risked that in front of his niece?
Someone had left one of the inn’s benches near the tree—to sit and watch their children, no doubt—and he dragged it over by Violet’s swing and sat. He set her shoes on the grass and the book on his lap.
“Forty-eight, forty-nine…” On the opposite side of the tree, Rowan reached fifty, and the children traded places.
“You’re very good with them,” Violet said quietly from her swing.
Never, in ten lifetimes, had Ford thought anyone would tell him that. Of course, he’d never thought he’d kiss a woman like Violet Ashcroft, either. An innocent country miss who spouted philosophy.
“It was only physics,” he said dismissively, gazing at her profile. Her lips were parted. They looked kissable. They were kissable. “Science. I’m good at science.”
Still motionless on the swing, she turned her head to look at him. “You’re good with your niece. And Rowan.”
He felt totally inept with them, but he didn’t want to argue. “Perhaps that’s because I never grew up myself,” he suggested instead. “My family would tell you that.”
“You’ve said something like that before,” she recalled, looking flushed and flustered and beautiful. The spectacles had slipped down her nose, and she pushed them back up. “What are they like, your family?”
“Loud,” he answered with a grin. “I have a twin sister, Kendra, and two older brothers, Jason and Colin. All married. Among the three of them, they have seven children already, and I suspect more to come. Jewel is the oldest.”
“No wonder you’re good with children, then.”
He shook his head. “It’s not like that. I’ve played with them, of course, and when I’m not in London, I live with Jason and his family at Cainewood. Two boys, he and Cait have. But before now, I’d never taken care of my nephews or nieces.” They all had nursemaids to see to that. “I’ve never taken care of anyone before.”
He’d been the baby of the family. Everyone had always taken care of him.
“Well, you’re doing a proper job.” She shifted to look over at Jewel, who was shrieking with laughter as she soared through the air beside Rowan.
His niece looked happy. Perhaps Violet was right, and he wasn’t doing such a bad job after all.
“And your parents?” she asked, turning back. “What are they like?”
“Dead.”
“Faith,” she muttered, her face going white. “I’m so sor—”
“No need to be sorry.” He turned the book over in his hands. “I was all of one year old when they left to fight for King Charles, seven when they died at Worcester. I barely even remember them. My oldest brother more or less raised me, with the help of the exiled court. It was an interesting life.”
Her fingers trailed up and down the ropes. “And a rough life, I’d wager.”
He shrugged. “Not really. Although my parents sold most everything to help finance the war, I was too young to worry about where my next meal would come from. Someone else always took care of that. The court moved from Paris, to Brussels, to Bruges and back…the world was my playground. I suppose things were tight, but a child doesn’t need much.”
When she met his gaze, something twisted in his gut. “A child needs love,” she said softly.
Soft or not, he heard a challenge in her voice.
“I had love.” Uncomfortable under that gaze, he looked at the sun sparkling off the river instead. “From my sister and two older brothers. I never wanted for anything.”
A short silence stretched between them before he finally looked back. One of her stockinged feet reached for the grass and pushed off. “And when you were no longer a child?” she asked, swaying back and forth. “A youth has more needs than a boy.”
“Mine were met.” How to explain a life in a few short sentences? Why did he care that she understood? “By the time Charles regained the throne, Jason and Colin were grown. Men with responsibilities. Cromwell had stolen their youth, and neither of them were ever afforded a chance for formal study. As a younger son, I should never have owned land. But a year following the Restoration, Charles granted all of us titles and estates…and I left mine behind and went off to university.”
“How old were you then?”
“Seventeen. And spoiled rotten.”
He’d never thought of it that way before, but it was nevertheless true. After completing his studies at Oxford, he’d returned to live with Jason. He’d never had to fend for himself. Never worried for anyone else. Never even had to chase after a female, since they always seemed to come after him.
He grinned. “I’ve led a charmed life.”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” she said quickly, and he remembered Tabitha. That part of his life wouldn’t fall under the heading charmed…but for some odd reason, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. And it certainly didn’t hurt.
Leaning back, Violet stuck her legs out straight and stared at her stockinged feet. “Nothing is that simple.”
But it had been. It had been for him.
They fell quiet, and he smiled at the charming picture she made on the swing, wearing his spectacles. He’d never talked with a female like he talked with Violet Ashcroft—never met one who seemed interested in discussing much beyond fashion and gossip. Never talked with anyone who made him reveal parts of himself he hadn’t even known.
And though he’d never suffered for lack of bed sport, he’d never wanted a wom
an like he suddenly wanted this one right here.
Right now.
He wanted to kiss her again.
And more.
But she was the Earl of Trentingham’s daughter. A sheltered country lass. “What was your childhood like?” he asked.
“Boring in comparison.” Still looking down, she turned her toes this way and that. “Grandpapa sent money for the cause, but he never went off to fight. He put family before the monarchy. We never went into exile, either. I’ve never been outside of Britain.”
“But he did support King Charles?”
She looked up. “Oh, yes. Of course he did. My family was never anything but Royalist.”
“I’m surprised Trentingham wasn’t attacked by Cromwell’s forces, then. Cainewood was.” And had the cannonball marks to prove it.
“They confiscated Trentingham and occupied it, but we weren’t there. Grandpapa had a secondary title and property that went along with it. Tremayne Castle, very near Wales. Not helpful for the Roundheads strategically, and I suspect too far away for them to bother with.” She glanced over at the children. “Rowan is Viscount Tremayne now.”
“So your family stayed there for all the years of the war?”
“And after. All through the Commonwealth, until the Restoration. Besides having an odd penchant for studying languages, Grandpapa was a stickler for family security.” She pushed off again, gliding up and then down, slowing immediately when she did nothing to sustain the momentum. “My parents were wed at Tremayne, and I was born there. As were Rose and Lily. I was eight before I ever stepped foot on Trentingham soil.”
“Eight?” he said, surprised. “How old are you now?”
“Twenty.”
From the tone of her voice one would guess she thought twenty was a doddering old maid. But he’d thought she was older. Not that she looked older, but Tabitha was twenty-one, and except in matters of the bedchamber, Violet seemed so much more mature.
“I’m twenty-eight,” he told her.
“I figured that,” she said, “when I heard you went off to university at seventeen, a year after Charles returned from the Continent.”