by Lauren Royal
“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-Seven
“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 took her hand. Father’s gaze focused on their linked fingers, and a smile flirted on his lips. Apparently he wanted her to marry Ford, too.
Egad, 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 arm a squeeze, knowing he hadn’t heard her low comments. “I’ll see you later, Father.”
“What?”
“I’ll see you later!” she shouted with a smile. “Sorry about that,” she said to Ford as they walked away. “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.” Still holding her hand, Ford led her around the corner.
And there was that silly, old-fashioned barge.
She stopped in her tracks. “Where is your carriage?”
“It’s a beautiful evening,” he said, pulling her along. “I thought to spend it on the river.”
His sudden smile was disarming. She was speechless as they crossed the lawn, and although she hadn’t tripped in weeks, she nearly did as she stepped onto the barge. Nodding to Harry and the stable hands to cast off, Ford drew her into the unsuitable cabin that had nothing but a bed.
Only it wasn’t quite so unsuitable now. A little table and two chairs were also crammed into the cozy space. And the whole of it 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 by a soft pink cloth, and silver domes hid various dishes. While she stood gaping, he leaned forward and swept one off.
“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 hope it hasn’t all gone cold.”
Butterflies erupted in Violet’s middle. She laid a hand on her blue moiré stomacher. At this moment, more than any other, she wished she were a conventional beauty. Sure of herself, confident the man in front of her could have feelings for her that were real.
Because what she was feeling now was becoming rather overwhelming.
“Are you all right?” he asked, looking concerned.
“I’m fine.”
This was ridiculous. She’d been alone with him on the way to Gresham College, not to mention in the piazza while they were there, and nothing much had happened. Kisses, that was all.
But there had also been that moment in the passageway at Gresham. And that day in the woods. And snatches of the Master-piece kept running through her head.
And her entire family wanted her to marry him.
Two goblets sat on the table, the red wine in them gently swaying in rhythm with the barge’s movements. She reached to raise one to her lips and took a gulp for courage. “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, yet it and the chairs filled every inch of available space. “Don’t you think this is more romantic?”
She wasn’t certain she wanted romantic. His knees felt warm against hers, even through her skirts. Her gaze kept straying to the bed, so close she could easily touch it.
“Where are we going?” she asked. 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 grin.
She shifted uneasily. “Nowhere?”
“Just you and me and the river, food, heady drink, candlelight…is it not enough?” In the flickering light, his eyes looked dark and earnest. He leaned across the table and took her hands, white lace falling away from his wrists. “I love you, Violet. I’m out to persuade you to love me back.”
There it was. I love you.
“Violet, did you hear me?”
Of course she’d heard him, and she wanted so much to believe him. She’d dreamed of someday hearing those three words—especially from someone as handsome and intelligent as Ford Chase.
But she remembered too many balls where she’d hid in corners and no man had ever tried to coax her out. And before that, when she was younger, those torturous Sundays after church, when boys would huddle around her little sisters while she sat nearby with a book, pretending not to care. Faith, even when she was just five, and Rose and Lily still babies, strangers would coo over them while she stood by unnoticed.
When she failed to respond, Ford rose and turned to stick his head out the window. “Johnnie, my lady is not yet persuaded. We need music.”
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?”
“Almost 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 a smile.
He was smooth, too smooth for her to handle. Her senses were spinning already, and he hadn’t even really touched her. And she knew what would happen the moment he did that.
She would want him. Her mind would be stirred up to venery.
No, more than that. Because she loved him. Because she so desperately wanted to be loved in return.
He was a study in contradictions. Part logical scientist, part romantic rake, part responsible uncle, part irresponsible boy. And she loved every confusing facet.
He dressed like a prince and lived like a pauper. He was the most generous man she’d ever known. He’d made her spectacles; he’d made her mother a distillery.
He was out to persuade her to love him back, but God help her, she already did.
And yet…before he’d managed to close the shutters, she’d glimpsed Lakefield House as they glided by. In the shadows of the waning day, it had looked even more shabby than she remembered, reinforcing her fears. She couldn’t help but wonder if his ever-more-frequent kisses—and his declarations of love—were only because of…
She didn’t want to think about that now. Thanks to her mother’s meddling, she was alone in a cabin with a man who claimed to love her. A man who could make the heat pool deep inside her with no more than a look.
Tomorrow she would turn twenty-one. Tomorrow she’d become a spinster. Tonight she intended to enjoy herself.
“Will you eat?” he asked, uncovering the rest of the platters.
As she’d expect from a country cookshop, the supper was simple. A lamb pie and a sweet potato pudding. And parsnips and asparagus.
Erection is chiefly caused by parsnips, artichokes, asparagus…
Violet thanked her lucky stars that artichokes, at least, weren’t on the table. Enjoyment was one thing, unbridled lust quite another. She piled parsnips and asparagus on her plate, determined to make sure Ford didn’t eat more than his share.
She raised her cup to her lips, then froze.
…all strong wines, especially those made of the grapes of Italy.
“Is this wine Italian?”
He blinked. “No. It’s French.”
“Oh, good,” she said, gulping a swallow. Flowing down her throat
, it felt warm and seemed to relax her.
The sweet potato pudding was smooth and tasty, swimming in butter with eggs, nutmeg, and dark sugar. The lamb pie was flaky and delicious. As they dined, they discussed the books they’d recently read—excluding the Master-piece—and the latest discoveries in science.
No other man had really listened to her, or spoken to her as though she were his mental equal. Violet slowly came to realize that those weeks when Ford was gone, working on one project or another, it wasn’t just his kisses she’d missed. Even more so, she’d missed their conversations.
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 into her eyes in a way that had her heart beating erratically, a way that said he’d rather be kissing her than making pleasant conversation.
In the face of that banked passion, she found it hard to eat, but she finished all her parsnips and asparagus.
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 pulled off her spectacles. “May I kiss you now?”
He’d never asked before, and she didn’t know what to say. In the flickering candlelight, he looked blurry. But he must have seen her answer in her eyes, because he rose from his chair, taking her hands to bring her up with him. He leaned across the table, and she caught her breath as his lips met hers—
And a pewter platter crashed to the floor.
“Everything all right in there?” came Harry’s voice through the shutters.
Violet jerked back.
“We’re fine,” Ford called to Harry, looking a bit shaken as he bent to retrieve the platter. He set it back on the table, then ran a hand through his hair. Raggedly.
“This won’t work,” he told her, softly enough that Harry couldn’t hear. “Do you suppose I can coax you into joining me on the bed?”
She gasped.
“On it, not in it.” She couldn’t see him very well, but she thought he raised a devilish brow. “There’s a difference.”
“Of course there is.” And there was nothing for it, really. There were men outside on the deck and no room in the cabin save for that broad expanse of bed. If she didn’t join him there, they might as well sail for home.
And she did want another kiss. She’d been waiting all through supper for a kiss, and the one he’d just pressed to her lips hadn’t been satisfying in the least.
Her gaze locked on his, and they moved as one toward the bed. The table was shoved up against it. She sat primly on one side of it, he sat heavily on the other.
The barge rocked gently, a soothing motion. Violin music drifted through the shutters. Ford’s gaze trailed over the bodice of her new blue moiré gown, which she suddenly realized was cut much lower than it had seemed at her last fitting. Again. She made a mental note to have a talk with that seamstress.
All at once there was a flurry of movement, and the next thing she knew, she was flat on her back.
Shocked, she tried to struggle up, but Ford hovered over her, his hands gently pressing her shoulders to the mattress. The look in his eyes made her heart leap. “I just want to kiss you, Violet. May I?”
Swallowing hard, she nodded.
And when his mouth met hers, everything changed.
He had kissed her before, but never like this. This was wild, primal, a meeting of lips and teeth and tongue the likes of which she’d never even imagined. And she’d never imagined the effect such a kiss would have on her, either.
Desire shot through her, stole her breath, her thoughts, her will to resist. Her spirits became brisk and inflamed, and her blood was most surely stirred to venery.
She threw her arms around him, her hands frantically wandering his back, and he broke the kiss long enough to rise and tear off his surcoat. And then his cravat. He leaned closer, his fingers working at the laces at his collar until they loosened, exposing a neat V of bare chest.
Skin. Her heart racing, she reached to touch it. Her fingertips first, and then her whole hand flat against him. Warm, impossibly warm. Her thumb felt the pulse in his neck. Strong and fast.
His blue gaze darkened. With a groan, he lowered himself, his lips meeting the sensitive hollow of her throat. She tilted her head to allow him access. Deprived again of his skin, her hands moved to tug at his shirt, pulling and pulling until the whole long thing finally slipped free of his breeches and she was able to slide her hands up underneath.
He gasped at her touch, as though he’d been unaware of what she’d been doing. Her fingers skimmed his back, his sides, his shoulders, feeling his strength, the softness of his skin over the hardness of sinew and bone. He smelled of soap and patchouli, the warmth of his flesh emitting a fragrance uniquely his. His muscles twitched beneath her questing hands, and his mouth trailed lower, tracing a warm, damp pattern down to her cleavage.
Thank goodness scandalous necklines were in fashion. She revised her mental note about talking to the seamstress—the lower the better.
“Violet,” he breathed, one of his hands following his lips. He slipped a finger beneath her bodice and rubbed the tip of her breast, and she gasped so loud she was sure Harry had heard it.
“Faith.” She’d never dreamed her body was so sensitive. She was feeling those short breathings she’d read of, and tremblings of the heart, and—
Suddenly his fingers were fumbling with the tabs on her stomacher.
She knew she should stop him. But oh, she burned to feel the things the Master-piece had promised. She burned to feel them with Ford. Before she could even think it through, he’d dropped her stomacher to the floor and loosened her laces. He spread her bodice wide.
Instinctively, she arched, as though she were a wanton offering herself for plunder. But she felt no shame. And when he fastened his lips on one peak, tasting her through the gossamer fabric of her chemise, her short breath got even shorter, her heart trembled even more, and—
He tugged down on the chemise, and suddenly his mouth was on her bare breast. Hot, wild, wonderful, he licked and nibbled and suckled until she was certain she’d go out of her mind. Her arms clenched around him, her body straining for something she couldn’t put a name to.
Pleasure, delight…extreme lust.
Even the Master-piece’s words failed to describe it.
Thrilling at the new sensations, she shifted restlessly against him. Oh my, she could feel…well, apparently when she hadn’t been watching he’d eaten quite a lot of parsnips and asparagus.
And part of her—that part of her that would receive him like a sheath—wanted him. There. Now.
“I want you,” she whispered.
His head shot up, his eyes hazy and disbelieving. “Are you sure?” he asked in a broken whisper.
She was sure. She was breaking through her modesty to satisfy herself in unlawful embraces, but she couldn’t have cared less. Tomorrow she’d become a spinster, but at least she wouldn’t be a lifelong virgin. She’d experience the Master-piece’s mysteries before she resigned herself to lonely years studying philosophy.
Oh, forget all those rationalizations. She wanted him.
“I’m sure,” she said. “I want you.”
Forty-Eight
I WANT YOU. The one phrase Ford had despaired of ever hearing from Violet’s lips, whispered in a tone so fierce, he had no doubt she meant it with every fiber of her being.
He thought—he hoped—her parents approved, regardless of his dismal financial situation. He was positive her mother liked him, at least, and her father had smiled when he’d seen them holding hands. He knew he was taking an enormous chance, but if Violet herself wanted him…
His heart soared as though it glided above the Earth on da Vinci’s flying machine. He’d brought Violet here hoping to convince her he loved her, but this was more, much more than he’d dared hope for. She would be his. His wife. Mother of his children. And if they joined together tonight in anticipation of their weddin
g, it couldn’t be wrong. Nothing that felt as perfect as this could be wrong. She was already his wife in his heart.
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.
He gazed into her brandy-wine eyes, which were glazed with passion. For him. The thought made something squeeze painfully in his chest.
“My love, are you very, very sure?” Though the ladies at court thought nothing of sharing their bodies for sport, he knew Violet had been raised differently. And he knew, too, that was one of the things he loved about her. Her differences.
Besides, this wasn’t sport. Not even close. This was something that transcended sport to a degree he’d never imagined back in the days he’d considered bedding women a pleasant diversion.
This was a melding of hearts.
He buried his nose in her hair. She smelled of flowers, sweet Violet flowers…
“Are you sure?”
She arched toward him. “Oh, yes!”
He crushed his mouth to hers as his hand made its way down to her shoes. He wanted to make this first time slow and special for her.
He feared he couldn’t.
Like in her dream, Violet seemed to be floating. But this was so much better than the dream. Slowly, slowly, Ford drew off her shoes and rolled down her stockings, his fingers leaving fiery trails along the length of her legs. She clenched his shoulders to keep from crying out.
He raised her skirts, and his hand skimmed her calves, her knees, her thighs, raising goose bumps in its wake. She slid her fingers into his hair, kissing his temple, his cheek, his nose. Frantic. And then his mouth covered hers, and his fingers were there.
At her seat of womanly pleasure.
They teased her, so gently she wondered she could even feel it. But feel it she did. The most exquisite sensation ever. The rocking of the barge added to her dizziness as he stroked her until a whimper escaped her throat and her hips shot off the bed.