Chase Family Collection: Limited Christmas Edition

by Lauren Royal

  “Just like that?” she asked, still feeling dizzy, still suffering the effects of that kiss. And God help her, still wanting another one.

  “Just like that,” he said.

  She stared at him, longing to believe him, struggling to regain her equilibrium. Faith, how she wished she’d never heard Lady Tabitha’s name! Yet she knew the three women had been well-intentioned. Good people, loving sisters. They hadn’t meant for her to think on their words and suddenly fear that perhaps after being jilted by an heiress—an heiress he’d intended to marry even though he hadn’t loved her—Ford had come here hoping to find another.

  An irrational fear, she was sure.

  Almost.

  “I like your family,” she said at last, walking closer until he came back into focus.

  “I like your family, too. I want to live here, near your family.”

  “Ford—” She paused, drawing breath. “Tell me about Lady Tabitha.”

  “What?” The shock on his face confused her. “Where did you hear about her?”

  “Your sister. And Amy and Cait—”

  “Bloody hell.” He stepped closer still, so close the scent of patchouli overwhelmed her. “She meant nothing to me, Violet. Nothing.” His eyes burned into hers, willing her to believe.

  And perhaps she did. But she’d been too buffeted by emotions today to think straight.

  He loved her, he loved her not.

  She felt like she’d been through a war.

  He switched tactics, running a hand down her arm, and, predictably, she weakened all over. It was uncanny, this effect he had on her body. And not only was her body weak, her heart was weak as well. Slowly but surely, Ford was conquering it, conquering her, robbing her of her ability to reason.

  “Marry me, Violet,” he said in a harsh, pained whisper.

  Because too much of her wanted to blurt out yes, she took a step back and searched his eyes. After what they’d shared, she should be able to find the truth there, shouldn’t she?

  She loved him—of that she was certain. But as for the rest, she was only confused.

  “Marry me, Violet,” he repeated. “Please.”

  And before she could answer, she was back in his arms.

  When he kissed her this time, she forgot why she wasn’t sure she could marry him. She forgot she’d decided not to touch him. She forgot her own name.

  And when he finally let go of her, she ran.

  Out the door, through the garden, across the wide lawn to the portico and front door.

  “Violet!” Mum called. “Dear heavens, what has happened?”

  “He asked me to marry him again, the wretch!” she screamed before slamming the door.

  Fifty-Four

  “THE LAST OF the champagne.” Joseph handed Chrystabel half a glass before climbing into bed beside her. “How is our dear eldest doing?”

  “She’ll survive. She didn’t want to talk at first, but she was glad I returned her spectacles.” Chrystabel sipped, letting the sparkling liquid slide down her throat and soothe her frayed nerves. “He shouldn’t have proposed again so quickly. His timing couldn’t have been worse.”

  Joseph took the glass from her and drained it. “What do you mean?”

  She sighed. “Following your ill-timed announcement of her inheritance, and Rose’s subsequent comment—”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t only that. His sister also spilled past history, confusing Violet. It reinforced her fears that no man would ever want her save for her money.”

  “She has a point.” He grinned, clearly not understanding the gravity of this situation. “You married me for my money.”

  Well, he was just a man, so she shouldn’t expect him to understand. Giving in to his playfulness, she punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I did not. I married you for your flowers. How else would I make my perfume? And without my perfume, I’d have no excuse to visit and chat with all the neighbors—and find out Nancy Philpot’s son has left the army and is living with a Parisian whore.”

  “Ah, I see where that could be much more important than money.” He set down the empty glass and turned to gather her in his arms. “But are you certain that was the only reason you married me?”

  It was a long moment before she answered. “Well, I suppose I craved your yard too, you rascal. But it definitely wasn’t the money.”

  “It won’t come down to money for Violet, either,” he told her. He turned momentarily to blow out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. “Violet wants that man as much as you wanted me. As much as we still want each other.” His voice came husky in her ear, his breath warm on her skin. “I know when a woman wants a man, and I’ve seen that look in our daughter’s eyes.”

  “Are you going to tell me not to worry again?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Absolutely not. Because I’m finished talking.”

  “Thank God,” she said, and pressed her mouth to his.

  Fifty-Five

  SOME PLACES never changed. The King’s Arms, a tavern in Oxford where Ford and Rand had whiled away many a night during their university years, was one of them.

  They sat at one of the familiar long tables, sipping ale and ignoring a nearby argument about radical politics. That was nothing new, either. John Locke’s basic ideals had germinated here in Oxford as an undergraduate at Christ Church College, after all.

  Ford twisted his tankard on the table, trying to be patient while Rand complained about his father’s latest insults. The two had never done well together, which explained why a marquess’s son was still at Oxford more than ten years after arriving to study.

  Not that Rand wasn’t happy here. In this insulated, academic world, he’d managed to work his way up from student to fellow to his current position, esteemed Professor of Linguistics, all in record time. And with no help from his family.

  Finally, Rand wound down. He drained the rest of his ale and stared pensively into the empty tankard. “If you’ve come to ask about the translation, I’m afraid I have no good news for you.”

  Ford’s heart sank. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “It’s more difficult than I had anticipated. There are words—and symbols—that seem unrelated to any language I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Symbols?” Ford frowned. “I saw a few formulas, which was one of the reasons I thought it might be Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. But those were just numbers, mathematics—”

  “Not that. There were a few pages stuck together—”

  “I opened a couple and saw nothing special, and I was afraid I might tear the paper.”

  “I steamed the rest open. Most were stuck from age, I imagine. But one…one, I believe, was on purpose.”

  “On purpose.” Ford sipped, swallowed, tried to tamp down his rising hopes. “Are you thinking it might be the page that reveals—”

  “No, nothing like that. I see no indication the secret you’re searching for will be found on a single page. It’s not going to be that simple.” Rand’s words reminded Ford of his family telling him something similar. “But this page is at the end, and it seems to be a legend for part of the code—perhaps for the author’s own use. There are words—most of which I cannot read—with other words beside them, like a list, you understand?”

  Ford nodded. “Go on.”

  “Well, that’s the page that has some odd symbols.” Rand tipped his tankard, letting the dregs of his ale run onto the table. “One of them, I think, looked like this.” He used a finger to scribble in the wet, a design like a triangle with a three-branched candelabra perched on top.

  “Air,” Ford said.

  “What?”

  “That’s the alchemical symbol for air. Or one of them. There are hundreds of similar symbols, some common, some not. Many whose meanings have been lost, but I can identify a number of them.”

  Excitement lit Rand’s gray eyes. “So even though I cannot read the word beside that symbol—which is gibberish, I suspect�
��when I find it in the text, I’ll know it means air.” He smeared the puddle, then used a finger to draw another mark. “How about this one?”

  Ford frowned at the squiggle. “I don’t recognize that.”

  “And this?”

  A circle with three dots that suggested eyes and a nose. “That’s a human skull.”

  Rand grimaced. “You mean a dead person?”

  “Yes. A skull can be powdered and—”

  “Never mind. I’d rather not know.” He smoothed the liquid and sketched another design. “What’s this?”

  It looked like the letter I with an arrow curving up through it. “That’s an instruction, not an ingredient. It means to filter.”

  After four more tries, one of which Ford could identify and three which he couldn’t, Rand gave up. “I cannot remember any more. We’ll fetch the book later, and you can write down the ones you know. But, Ford…”

  His friend’s gaze looked serious. “Tell it straight, Rand.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, will you? It’s a single page of clues, and the symbols are few compared to all the other things I find undecipherable. Even with this help, the rest of it could take years.”

  Something fisted in Ford’s middle. Or rather, the fist tightened—it had been there for days already. “I don’t have years. Not if I want Violet.”

  “Ah. It’s like that, is it?” Rand signaled for another round. “Tell me about it.”

  Though Ford normally wouldn’t, his tongue was loosened by ale—and something akin to desperation. “My family approves. Her parents approve. But Violet refuses to marry for anything other than true love—”

  “Odd woman, that. Most folk would be thrilled to wed a Chase, given your family’s connections to King Charles. And most fathers would insist on it.”

  A comely serving maid plunked two more ales before them, fixing Ford with a leering grin. But he wasn’t interested. He flipped her a coin. “The Ashcrofts are different from ‘most folk.’ They’ve raised their daughters to make their own decisions. They have the most absurd family motto: Interroga Conformationem.”

  “Question Convention,” Rand translated, looking amused. “Regardless, she should choose you. For security.” He took a long swallow. “Even without the Philosopher’s Stone, you’re hardly a pauper. Take her to Cainewood if she wishes to live in luxury.”

  “I don’t want to live at Cainewood.” He was tired of living under his brother’s scrutiny. He wanted to be self-sufficient. “Anyway, it’s not luxury, per se, that concerns Violet. She’s not a frilly female, and she has her own money.”

  “Ah. I remember. Given to her by that eccentric grandfather. To ‘leave her mark on the world.’”

  “Yes. And having seen the state of Lakefield, she’s convinced herself I want her only for her inheritance. She won’t believe I love her.”

  Rand shrugged. “It would be a good start to tell her.”

  “Bloody hell, I have. 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, his friend’s features expressed sympathy. Or disbelief. Or maybe both.

  “Man, you’ve got it bad.” Rand drained the ale and signaled for yet another. “I’ve never told a woman that.”

  Ford cocked a doubting brow. “Never?”

  “Not when I meant it, anyway.”

  Fifty-Six

  SO HE WASN’T going to be making gold anytime soon. Their minds numbed 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 should be a simple enough task.

  First, they decided, he had to keep showing her how much he loved her. He’d made a good start there, Ford explained to Rand in a drunken boast. Continued sensual assaults 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 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 her snort. “Are you laughing at me?”

  “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. I’m thinking perhaps you—”

  “Think again.” 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 thought better of it. He was reasonably proficient with a sword, but the 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 the woman 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.” 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, groaning when a tangle of twigs poked into his anatomy. He swiped a hand across his brow and eyed his handiwork.

  He’d been chopping away for nigh on four hours, and the job looked bigger than when he’d started.
r />   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 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. She wanted to look into his eyes and decide if she was prepared to take the next step.