Violet (Flower Trilogy) (36 page)

But, Ford—’’

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

‘‘Don’t get your hopes up, will you? ’Tis one 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. ’Tis 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 insists on marrying for love—’’

‘‘Odd woman, that. Most folk would be thrilled to marry a daughter to a Chase, given your connections to King Charles.’’

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, ’tis not luxury, per se, that concerns Violet. She is not a frilly female, and she has her own money.’’

‘‘Ah. I remember. Given 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 will not believe I love her.’’

Rand shrugged. ‘‘ ’Twould 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.’’

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, he explained to Rand in a drunken boast. Continued sensual assaults ought to eventually wear her down. ’Twas only a matter of time, Ford told Rand, 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, he would change his priorities, put managing the estate first and relegate his science to a hobby.

He’d already decided to do that and told both Violet and her mother as much.

’Twas infinitely more palatable than the alternative, which was losing Violet.

Love changed a man.

Of course, it would be some time before the estate earned an income sufficient to pay all the debts, but in the meantime, he and Rand 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 glass 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. ‘‘ ’Twould save me from painting, would it not?’’

‘‘You’re going to paint, too?’’

‘‘That’s the plan. I sent Harry off for paint. Did he not tell you?’’

‘‘Since when does Harry tell me anything?’’ She took the empty glass 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 really 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?’’

‘‘No, milord. That would be terribly disrespectful, would it not?’’ 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’d 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. ’Tis 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. ‘‘ ’Tis 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 house 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.

‘‘Very interesting,’’ Violet said, staring at the dried top of a pineapple.

Lily smiled sweetly at their father. ‘‘What an exciting project.’’

‘‘ ’Tis 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 am going to plant it in a big pot and keep it here in the Stone Gallery at nights and all winter.’’

Violet wasn’t surprised at the plan, 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.

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 fluid movement of herself and the animal together. Suddenly she felt like she’d been cooped up in the house entirely too long.

The fresh air felt marvelous. She should leave her books behind and get 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.’’

It had been three days 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.’’

‘‘Oh.’’

‘‘And anyway,’’ Violet soothed, ‘‘I’m sure she won’t . . .’’

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 it Ford?’’

Rose drew breath and let out a very unladylike shout. ‘‘Lord Lakefield! Is that you?’’ Her voice carried so well, even their father would have turned his head.

Which the man on the ladder did, to reveal a face splattered with paint. His clothing wasn’t faring much better, either. As they rode closer and came to a stop near the house, Violet watched a white blob roll down his hair and land on one of his boots.

She burst out laughing.

Ford backed awkwardly down the ladder and limped over to look up at her on her horse. He crossed his arms, then dropped them, grimacing at the white handprints he’d just made on his clothes. ‘‘What is so funny?’’

At that, her sisters burst out laughing, too.

With a supreme effort, Violet controlled herself.

‘‘What,’’ she asked, ‘‘do you think you are 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.’’

Rose snorted. ‘‘It looks worse than when you started.’’

He stared at her a moment, then his lips twitched before he broke into a full-fledged grin. ‘‘My lady, I reckon you’re right.’’ He turned to address 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 dragged her into his arms.

Her gasp of surprise was covered by his mouth. The familiar weakness stole over her once more, and her body went limp as her whole being focused on his kiss. His lips opened hers, and his tongue swept her mouth, gentle and demanding at the same time. He smelled of Ford and paint, of forbidden lust. She ached for the pleasure she now knew he could give her.

Breathless, almost senseless, she pulled back, then looked down at her gown and gasped again.

‘‘Sorry,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll buy you another.’’

‘‘I am 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 shivered. ‘‘Ford—’’

‘‘Will you come over tonight? Will you let me show you how much I love you?’’

‘‘I cannot do that!’’ ’Twas one thing to go to supper and inadvertently end up in a bed. ’Twas quite another to plan such an assignation from the outset.

This was not what she had come for. She’d come to look into his eyes.

She did that now, and all she saw was temptation.

He grinned, his teeth white as the paint. ‘‘How about if I scrub up first?’’

‘‘That—that has nothing to do with it. I cannot come here at night, Ford.’’ She brushed at her hopelessly stained skirts. ‘‘What would my family think?’’

she added, knowing well what they would think. They would most likely think it was perfectly all right. And they would definitely think she should marry him.

‘‘You came once for supper with your mother’s blessing,’’ he reminded her—as though she hadn’t spent half her waking hours replaying that night in her head. ‘‘Besides, your family has no need to know.’’

She was shocked speechless for a moment. ‘‘You mean I should . . . sneak out? I couldn’t!’’

‘‘Why not?’’ While she stood there with her mouth open, he elaborated, reaching to twirl a lock of her hair. ‘‘I’ll come and get you—I’d never ask you to travel here alone.’’ Her scalp tingled. ‘‘Or if you’d prefer, I’ll sneak into
your
chamber instead.’’

‘‘No!’’ She’d be mortified if they were caught. ‘‘For one thing, from what I’ve seen here today, you can barely climb a ladder.’’

‘‘True.’’ Dropping the curl, he gestured at the house. ‘‘I think this project is finished. At least until I can hire some competent laborers.’’

‘‘That’s the first sane thing you’ve said this afternoon.’’

He curved an arm around her waist and pulled her close again, nipping softly at her bottom lip with his teeth. ‘‘Wait until you hear what I have to say to you this evening . . .’’