by Lauren Royal
“Nobody asked.” Violet aimed a pointed look at Lily. “Did you hear anyone ask?”
“Girls.” Clucking her tongue, their mother poured a dipperful of water into the kettle over the fire. “I used to comfort myself that when you all grew up, this bickering would cease. Yet it never has.”
Lily’s wide blue eyes were all innocence. “But Mum,” she said sweetly. Their mother’s proper name was Chrystabel, but as their father called her Chrysanthemum, they’d taken to calling her Mum. “It’s loving bickering.”
“And a poor example for your little brother.” With a sigh, Mum began plucking petals from a bunch of lush pink roses. “What does it mean?” she asked Violet. “And who said it?”
“It means we should understand why we are doing things instead of blindly behaving as we’re told. Rather like our Ashcroft family motto: Interroga Conformationem, Question Convention. But said much more eloquently, don’t you think? By Francis Bacon.”
Violet snapped the book closed, its title, Advancement of Learning, winking gold from the spine in her lap. “But I’m wondering,” she teased. “When did my Mum become interested in philosophy?”
“I’m interested in all of my children’s hobbies.”
“Philosophy isn’t a hobby,” Violet protested. “It’s a way of looking at life.”
“Of course it is.” The kettle was bubbling merrily, spewing steam into the dim room. The fire and a few candles were no match for this gloomy, rainy afternoon. “Will you come and hold this for me, dear?”
Violet set down the book and made her way over to the large, utilitarian table she always thought looked out of place in what used to be a formal drawing room. “Did Father bring you those roses?”
“He did, the darling man.” Mum’s musical laughter warmed Violet to her toes. “Could you smell them from across the room? He rose early to gather them between dawn and sunrise, when their scent is at its peak.”
Violet snorted. “Why not let the poor man stay abed, and simply cut a few extra blooms? We have plenty.” But leaning in to smell the roses, she found them uncommonly fragrant. It was rather darling, the way Father indulged Mum’s strange whims. Not that he was without his own eccentricities. Her parents both seemed to be blind where the other’s peculiarities were concerned.
And so much the better, in Violet’s considered opinion. If she were ever to wed—which was to say, if one of Hal Swineherd’s pigs ever sprouted wings—her husband would have to be more than a little blind. The eldest Ashcroft daughter was no great beauty, with her square-jawed face, her heavy eyebrows, and her unfashionably tanned complexion.
And then there were her plain brown eyes, not the mysterious almost-black of Rose’s eyes or the fathomless deep-blue of Lily’s—just brown. Average. Like all of her. She was neither fat nor thin. Not tall like Rose nor petite like Lily. Medium height, medium figure, medium everything. Average.
And she preferred not to even think about her hopeless hair—a drab, weedy brown thicket that could only be contained by twisting it into an unfashionable plait. Well, unless she wanted to spend hours each morning at her dressing table, allowing a maid to laboriously coax it into something resembling a stylish coiffure. Many ladies suffered that, every morning, without complaint.
But, honestly, didn’t they have anything better to do?
In any case, she liked to that that what she lacked in lustrous curls, she made up for in prodigious good sense—for instance, the good sense not to dwell on the disadvantages of being hopelessly average. Instead, she chose to appreciate its one big benefit: average drew no attention, and above all things, Violet hated being the center of attention.
Rose thrived on it, though. “Let me help, Mum,” she cried, dropping the stem of blue sweet peas she’d been about to add to her floral arrangement. “Violet won’t get the top on straight.”
Tact had never been Rose’s forte.
But there was still time to learn—Violet believed one could learn anything, if she put her mind to it. With a tolerant sigh, she stuck a wooden block upright in the big bowl and held it in place while Mum sprinkled in all the rose petals, then turned to lift the kettle.
A slow, careful stream flowed from the kettle’s spout, just enough water to cover the sweet-smelling flowers. Quickly Rose popped another, larger bowl upside down on top of the wooden block, using it as a pedestal. The steam would collect beneath and drip down the edges to the tray below. As it cooled, it would separate into rosewater and essential rose oil. Distillation, Mum called it.
A rich, floral scent wafted up, and Violet inhaled deeply. As hobbies went, she didn’t mind her mother’s unusual one of perfume-making.
“Thank you, girls,” Mum said when Rose released the bowl. “Would one of you hand me the vial of lavender essence?”
Violet turned and squinted at the labels, then reached for the proper glass tube. “I read in the news sheet this morning that Christopher Wren is going to be knighted later this year. And he was just elected to the Council of the Royal Society.”
Mum took the vial. “An architect in the Royal Society? I thought that was for scientists.“
Violet nodded. “Scientists, yes, but there are philosophers as members, too. As well as statesmen and physicians. And, evidently, at least one architect. I so wish I could attend one of their lectures.”
“The Royal Society doesn’t allow women at their meetings.” Mum pulled the cork stopper and waved the lavender under her nose. “Besides, hardly any of the men there are eligible.”
“I don’t want them to court me, Mum.” On the whole, she didn’t want anyone to court her, much to her mother’s distress. “I only wish to cudgel their brains.”
Mum froze with a dropper halfway in the vial, taken aback. “Cudgel their—”
“Talk to them, I mean. Learn from them. They’re so brilliant.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Men aren’t interested in talking to women,” Rose told her, “and the sooner you learn that, the sooner you’ll find one of your own.”
“Faith, Rose. I’m not yet eighteen. You’d think I was in my dotage, the way you’ve become set on marrying me off.”
“You’re expected to marry before I do—and at the rate you’re moving, you’ll be yet unwed when I turn eighteen.”
“Rose!” Mum admonished.
The words stung, but Violet decided she couldn’t resent her sister for stating the facts. She truly didn’t intend to be married by Rose’s eighteenth birthday, nor by any of Rose’s subsequent birthdays. For Violet was smart enough to realize that the eccentric tendencies she’d inherited from her family, together with her plain looks, left her little likelihood of finding—let alone enticing—a compatible gentleman. The knowledge didn’t bother her; she’d long ago accepted her fated spinsterhood, with characteristic good sense, and learned to see the advantages of a life spent free to do as she pleased.
But that didn’t mean she begrudged her sisters their happiness. Bold, beautiful Rose was only fifteen and already eager for love. And fourteen-year-old Lily, sweet, nurturing, and just as lovely, was born to be a mother.
But Violet was the oldest, and convention dictated the sisters wed in order.
Still, when had the Ashcrofts ever been conventional?
“Hang what’s ‘expected,’” she said to no one in particular. “We can marry in whatever order we choose.” Or not at all, she added silently.
“Hmm,” was her mother’s noncommittal reply. She added three drops of lavender to the bottle of fragrance she was creating, then swirled it carefully.
“Is that a new blend?” Violet asked.
“For Lady Cunningham.” Mum sniffed deeply and passed the bottle to her oldest daughter. “What do you think?”
Violet smelled it and considered. “Too sweet. Lady Cunningham is anything but sweet.” The woman’s voice could curdle milk. Returning the mixture, Violet hunted for the vial of petitgrain she knew would soften it.
Nodding her approval, he
r mother added two drops, then made a note on the little recipe card she kept for each of her many friends.
“Look,” Lily said, her embroidery forgotten. She rose and settled herself in the large, green-padded window seat. “There’s a carriage about to pass by.”
Mum and Rose hurried to join her at window, while Violet returned to her chair and opened her book. “So?”
“So…” Lily brushed her fingers over one of the flower arrangements that Rose left all over the house, sending a puff of scent into the air. “Carriages hardly ever pass by here! I wonder who it could be?”
“The three of you are too nosy for your own good.” Violet flipped a page. Imagine being more interested in someone’s mundane exploits than in the sage wisdom of a great mind!
“It’s our occasional neighbor,” her mother said. “The viscount.”
Violet’s attention strayed from her book. “How do you know?”
“I recognize his carriage. A hand-me-down from his brother, the marquess.”
“How is it you know everyone’s business?” Violet wondered aloud.
“It’s not so very difficult, my dear. One need only take an interest, open her eyes and ears, and use her head. I believe the viscount is in tight straits. Not only because of the second-hand carriage, but heavens, the state of his gardens. Your father nearly chokes every time we ride past.”
“I’m surprised Father hasn’t made his way over to set the garden to rights,” Lily said.
“Don’t think he hasn’t considered it.” Mum leaned her palms on the windowsill, studying the passing coach. “Why, I do believe Lord Lakefield isn’t alone.”
Despite herself, Violet rose, one finger holding her place in the book. “And how do you know that?”
“The vehicle’s curtains aren’t drawn.” Mum gave a happy gasp of discovery. “There’s a child inside! And a woman!”
Idle curiosity brought Violet out of her chair—Francis Bacon could wait a moment, after all. She wandered toward the window to look out. But of course the carriage was only a blur.
Everything more than a few feet from Violet’s eyes always looked like a blur. It was one reason she preferred staying at home with her books and news sheets, rather than going about to socialize with her mother and two younger sisters. She was afraid she’d embarrass herself by failing to recognize a friend across the room. Or by tripping. Which she did. Frequently.
“Well, well, well,” Mum said. “I must go bring the lady a gift of perfume and welcome her to the neighborhood.”
“You mean find out who she is,” Violet said.
Her mother’s second hobby was delivering perfume and receiving gossip in exchange. Not that anyone begrudged her the information. To the contrary, Chrystabel Ashcroft never needed to pry a word out of anyone. Warm and well-loved, she barely walked in the door before women began spilling their secrets.
On the rare occasions her mother had succeeded in dragging her along, Violet had seen it happen, her bad eyes notwithstanding.
“I wonder if the viscount has married?” Rose asked.
“I expect not,” Mum said. “He’s much too intellectual for anyone I know.” As the carriage disappeared into the distance, she turned from the window. “Why, he’s a member of that Royal Society, isn’t he?”
“I believe so.” Violet watched her mother wander back to the table, wishing she’d never mentioned wanting to attend a Royal Society lecture. The last thing she needed was Mum plotting her marriage. “Perhaps he would suit Rose or Lily.”
“I think not.” Mum sniffed the perfume in progress, then chose another vial. “I cannot imagine whom he would suit, but certainly not your sisters.”
“It’s just as well,” Rose said, “since you’re forbidden from matching us.”
“You know the rules, Mum,” Lily added.
The three sisters had a pact to save one another from their mother’s matchmaking schemes. It was one thing—perhaps the only thing—they all agreed on.
“Heavens, girls. It’s not as though I arrange marriages behind my friends’ backs.” Everyone Mum knew was her friend. Literally. And they all adored her. “All of my brides and grooms are willing—”
“Victims?” Violet broke in to supply.
“Participants,” Mum countered.
Lily sat and retrieved her handiwork. “How many weddings have you arranged this year, Mum? Three? Four?”
“Five,” their mother said with not a little pride. She tapped her fingernails on the vial. “Only seven months in, and a banner year already.”
The sisters exchanged a look. “And all five of these couples,” Violet ventured, “were fully cognizant and enthusiastic participants in your plans?”
Mum cocked her head. “I’m not sure what cognizant means. But enthusiastic, yes, all of them. And now blissfully happy, I might add.”
Rose plopped back onto her own chair. “Bliss or no, you’re not matching me up, Mum. I can find my own husband.”
“Me, too,” Lily said.
“Me three,” Violet added.
“Of course you all can.” Mum’s graceful fingers stilled. “I wouldn’t dream of meddling in my own daughters’ lives.”
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LAUREN & DEVON’S NEXT SERIES STARTS WITH…
Alexandra
Regency Chase Brides
Book One
Alexandra Chase has always liked being the perfect daughter, thank you very much. Why would she bother chafing against society’s restrictions when instead she could be basking in the warm glow of its approval? But when her brother’s best friend—and secret obsession—returns from a long spell abroad, she begins losing interest in the suitable young lord she’s expected to marry. Suddenly, family duty and a flawless reputation seem less important than the chance, however slight, that her girlhood crush might notice her now that she’s all grown up…
Tristan Nesbitt has done some growing up himself over the last few years, what with moving across oceans, inheriting a title, and facing a devastating scandal. But through it all, he’s never forgotten the Chases, the closest thing he had to a family back in his school days. When his old friend Griffin Chase requests a favor, he’s happy to oblige, as long as he can maintain enough distance from the family that his infamous past won’t tarnish their good name. Unfortunately, one Chase seems intent on getting much closer to him than she should…
Read an excerpt…
Cainewood Castle, the South of England
Summer 1812
IT WAS ALMOST like touching him.
Lady Alexandra Chase usually sketched a profile in just a few minutes, but she took her time today, lingering over her work in the darkened room. Standing on one side of a large, framed pane of glass while Tristan sat sideways on the other, she traced his shadow cast by the glow of a candle. Her pencil followed his strong chin, his long, straight nose, the wide slope of his forehead, capturing his image on the sheet of paper she’d tacked to her side of the glass. Noticing a stray lock that tumbled down his brow, she hesitated, wanting to make certain she caught it just right.
Someone walked by the open door, causing Tris’s shadow to flicker as the candle wavered. “Are you finished yet?” he asked from behind the glass panel.
“Hold still,” she admonished. “Artistry requires patience.”
“It’s just a profile.”
Alexandra flushed, though she knew better than to take offense. He was simply impatient. He’d always been an admirer of her work.
As well he should be. Alexandra made excellent profile portraits.
”You promised you’d sit still,” she reminded him, injecting authority into her girlish voice. “Just this once before you leave.” She’d been asking Tris to sit for her for months, but he never seemed to have the time. This would be her only chance.
“I’m sitting,” he said, and although his profile remained immobile, she coul
d hear amusement in his tone.
She loved his good-humored forbearance, just like she loved everything about Tris Nesbitt.
She’d been eight when they first met. Her favorite brother, Griffin, had brought him home between school terms. In the six years since, as he and Griffin completed Eton and then Oxford, Tris had visited often, claiming to prefer his friend’s large family to the quiet home he shared with his father.
Alexandra couldn’t remember when she’d fallen in love, but she felt like she’d loved Tris forever.
Of course, nothing would come of it. Now, at fourteen, she was mature enough to accept that her eminent father, the Marquess of Cainewood, would never allow her to marry plain Mr. Tristan Nesbitt.
But that didn’t stop her from wishing. It didn’t stop her stomach from tingling when she heard his voice, didn’t stop her heart from skipping when he looked at her with his silver-gray eyes.
Not that he looked at her often. After all, as far as he was concerned she was little more than Griffin’s pesky younger sister.
Knowing Tris couldn’t see her now, she skimmed her fingertips over his silhouette, wishing she were touching him instead. She’d never touched him, not in real life. Such intimacy simply didn’t occur between young ladies and gentlemen. Most especially between a marquess’s daughter and a commoner.
The drawing room’s draperies were shut, and the low light seemed to enclose them together—alone!—in the room. She desperately wanted to say something clever or diverting, something he would remember after they parted. But she could think of nothing. ”Where are you going again?” she asked instead, although she knew.
Let him think she’d barely noticed he was leaving.
“Jamaica.” He sounded excited. “My uncle wishes me to look after his interests there. I’m to learn how his plantation is run.”
“Is that what you wish to do with your life?”