HALF AN HOUR later, Violet entered the quadrangle and nearly bumped into Ford. His hands went to her shoulders to steady her, which was entirely unnecessary—these days, with her spectacles, her balance was much improved.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she quipped.
He didn’t smile. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“We had to escape that room.”
“We?” he asked pointedly, his gaze flitting over her gown again.
She folded her arms over her chest. “Mr. Locke and I. Whatever was happening in there drew everyone’s attention, and suddenly I found myself alone with him.”
His eyes filled with an odd mixture of relief and concern. “But I hadn’t made an introduction.”
“None was needed.” Locke had introduced himself without even making mention of her spectacles, simply accepting her as she was. “It seems he recognized a kindred soul. We wandered off and talked and talked…” She frowned suddenly. “Where were you all that time?”
“Word got out about me finding Secrets—”
A bewigged gentleman approached them with an outstretched hand. “Heard of your astounding luck, Lakefield. Congratulations. If ever you want to sell it—”
“I don’t.” Ford pumped his hand. “But I thank you.”
“Just let me know.”
When the man was out of earshot, Ford sighed. “It seems everyone has to congratulate me—or make an offer to buy it. And Newton has offered to double anyone’s bid. Can you imagine?”
What she couldn’t imagine was him passing that up when he so obviously needed money. She measured his clear blue eyes. “You were serious, then, when you claimed you wouldn’t sell at any price.”
“I meant it. Considering the book went missing for so many years, it seems magical that it should end up in my hands. No matter that I don’t believe in such things, it feels like fate.”
She did understand how he felt. If ever she should find an ancient philosophy book, handwritten by one of the masters, she’d be reluctant to sell it as well. And she supposed it would feel like fate, too.
“Maybe it was fate,” she said softly. “Do you believe that sometimes things are meant to be ours?”
He only smiled, a mysterious smile that for some reason made her uneasy.
She reached up to adjust her spectacles. “Well, I’m happy your announcement provided a distraction,” she said by way of changing the subject. “I expect without that I’d never have spoken privately with Mr. Locke, and oh, we had the most fascinating conversation.”
“Tell me about it.” When another well-wisher approached, Ford impatiently took Violet’s arm. “I know a place where I can listen without interruption.”
He led her across the quadrangle, where the dance floor seemed to be filling now that men and women were filtering out of the buildings and meeting up with one another. She noticed Wren with an apple-cheeked, brown-haired lady. Hooke, ungainly and awkward, danced with a beautiful, redheaded woman quite a bit taller than himself.
Ford took Violet through a building and pushed open a door.
And they stepped into a veritable wonderland.
Candles sparkled everywhere—perched on the sills of the windows surrounding them, sitting on the benches around the perimeter, scattered on the patterned brick paving. Their flickering flames warded off the night, bathing the small piazza in a warm glow. In the center sat two chairs and one of the small round tables from the refreshment room, offering a selection of sweets and savories. A pair of goblets rested side by side, an open wine bottle nearby.
Gasping, she turned to Ford. “How did you know all this was here?”
“It wasn’t.” The door shut behind them with a soft thud. “I arranged it.”
Though there were buildings all around, their windows were completely black. They were alone. She and her brilliant, bewildering neighbor were alone in a candlelit piazza in London. A piazza he’d had prepared especially for her.
Stunned, she shifted her gaze to meet his. “This isn’t like you.”
He gestured at her gown. “This isn’t like you, either.”
Heat rose into her cheeks as he gently removed her spectacles. She felt an arm curve around her waist, drawing her close. “Perhaps,” he continued, “we bring out the best in each other.” And she saw a hundred tiny lights flickering in his eyes as he bent his head.
This wasn’t a stolen kiss, impulsive and rushed while their charges’ heads were turned. This was deliberate and unhurried. His lips touched hers, then brushed over her cheek and across her forehead and down to her chin. He took her face in his hands and ran a thumb over her lower lip before finally covering it with his own.
Her heart trembled, then began pounding in her chest. She felt indescribably…wanted. Unbelievably special. The feeling was warm and comforting, yet somehow shocking and exhilarating, all at the same time. She was dizzy with emotion, and with his exotic patchouli scent, and with the taste of wine on his lips, and with the heat of his body. She could have happily stayed like that forever, drowning in pure sensation with his mouth locked on hers.
When he pulled away, she just stood there, swaying for a moment, before opening her eyes. All around them, the flames glittered, gilding his features in a golden light.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
As he slid the spectacles back on her face, the beginnings of a smile curved his lips. “You’re entirely welcome,” he said.
He sounded sincere. Was she wrong, then, about his intentions? He’d claimed to have invited her expressly to introduce her to someone who could help make her dream come true. Then he’d gone to great trouble to whisk her off to this romantic hideaway when they could be with his friends instead, showing off her spectacles and celebrating his miraculous book discovery.
And now here he was, looking at her—and kissing her—like he wanted her. Her, not just her money. Was he simply a good actor?
Could anyone be that good an actor?
She shouldn’t allow herself to forget his words in the excitement of a kiss. To forget his beliefs about wives and inheritances. To forget that he was no different from all the other men where it counted.
But for this one magical night, a night of dreams come true, she would let herself live a fantasy. For just this night…
She fluffed her heavy skirts, gazing at him while she willed herself to believe she was a beautiful maiden, and he, a gentleman in love with her.
For just this one night.
“I’m famished,” he said, and she laughed, breaking the tension. He led her to one of the chairs, then poured two goblets of wine. While she sipped, he moved the other chair close to hers and sat, taking a strawberry for himself.
“What did he talk about?” Ford asked, licking strawberry juice off his lips.
“Who?”
“King Charles.”
For a moment, she looked around in confusion.
Then he laughed. “I meant John Locke, of course.”
“Oh.” A little giggle threatened to escape, so she sipped more wine. “He’s brilliant.”
He swiped a spear of asparagus off a plate piled high. “More brilliant than I?”
She cocked her head, making a show of considering. “In a different way.” Sipping again, she warmed to her subject. “Do you know what he told me? He said all mankind should be equal and independent, and no one should have the right to harm another in his life, health, liberty, or possessions.”
He bit the end off his third asparagus. “Not even the king?”
“No one.” It was so radical a thought as to be startling, but so clear the way Locke had explained it. “There should be a standing rule to live by, common to everyone, and made by legislative power—a liberty to follow one’s own will in all things where one does not harm another, and not to be subject to the arbitrary will of another. Arbitrary power, he said, becomes tyranny, whether those that use it are one or many.”
“I wouldn’t discuss this with Charles,” Ford said, passing her a marchpane.
She bit into the sweet almond confection. “I’ve never discussed anything with the king, but if I ever get a chance, I just might.”
“Criminy, what have I started?” he said with a good-natured roll of his eyes.
“Locke says every man has property in his own person, and no one has any right to that but himself. The labor of his body, the work of his hands, are his, and the only reason for men to unite and put themselves under government is the preservation of their property.”
“You’re excited by these ideas.” Having finished the asparagus, he lifted a spoon and dug into the cheesecake blanketed in rich puff pastry. “I can hear it in your voice.” He chewed and swallowed, closing his eyes, his face a mask of bliss. “Here, you have to try this.”
He spooned up another bite and held it before her lips.
Though the night was crisp, she suddenly felt overwarm. But there was nothing for it. She opened her mouth and let him feed her the spoonful.
“It’s heavenly,” she said after she’d swallowed, though in truth, she hadn’t really tasted it. She’d been too overwhelmed by the intimacy of his gesture. But she did her best to recover. “Um, yes, I am excited. I’ve never heard anything like Locke’s ideas. It’s a new way to look at our world.” She drained her goblet, feeling woozy from both the wine and the thoughts spinning in her brain. “Thank you so much for bringing me.”
“Thank you for coming.” He reached to refill her cup, then leaned even closer, pressing a short, sweet kiss to her lips. “You enjoyed hearing about the scientific discoveries, too, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Very much.” Her lips tingled. “I surprised myself.”
“I’m surprised to find the philosophy interesting as well. So we’re even this night.”
“This night.” Just this one night. She sighed, trying to savor the wine and the company, the candlelight, the music that drifted through the air, the stars in the clear summer sky. Knowing it had to end. “Can you hear the laughter from the quadrangle? I think everyone must be out there now.” But she didn’t want to join them. She didn’t want to leave this magical, private place.
Afraid he might assume she wished to rejoin the party, she changed the subject. “Is Hooke really a drunkard?”
His brow furrowed in confusion. “Whatever makes you think that?”
“He said living here is convenient, because when he falls down stumbling drunk, he’s close to his bed.”
His face cleared. “Don’t let his dry humor fool you. Far from being a drunkard, I think he and Wren are addicted to coffee, if anything at all. Best of friends they are, too.”
The faint music from the quadrangle stopped. Another burst of laughter sounded. “Their wives must be proud of them,” Violet said.
“Wren’s wife is very kind.” With one finger, he began idly tracing circles on the back of her hand where it rested on the table. “Hooke has yet to marry, though.”
She hid a delicious shiver. “Well, then, with whom was he dancing?”
“Why did you assume she was his spouse? You’re here with me, and we aren’t husband and wife.”
“Of course we aren’t,” she said quickly, and if his tone seemed to imply he wanted them to be, she had to remind herself why she didn’t. Still, her cheeks heated at the thought, and she leaned away from the candles to hide her face in shadow.
“The Gresham professors are required to be bachelors,” he explained, turning her hand over to draw circles on her palm. “Hooke calls that woman his housekeeper.”
“She lives with him?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You don’t dance with Hilda.” Picturing it, she grinned.
He raised his hand and brushed a curl behind her ear. “Hilda is a real housekeeper.”
“Oh.” Her skin tingled wherever he touched. “Oh. You mean she’s really a—oh.”
“Yes. Oh,” he repeated, raising a single brow.
All at once, the door was flung open and the sounds of laughter grew louder. A few couples spilled out into the piazza.
“We’ve been found,” Ford said with a groan.
“There he is,” one of the women cried, drawing a man to where Violet sat with Ford.
“Ah, yes.” The middle-aged man shot the woman a rather impatient look before he addressed Ford more neutrally. “We’ve heard you found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.”
“I have.” Ford reluctantly rose, bringing Violet up with him and curling an arm around her waist. “John Evelyn,” he said by way of introduction. “May I present Lady Violet Ashcroft.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” Evelyn had a lean, thoughtful face, shadowed by his graying hair. “My wife, Mary.”
Much younger, Mary had a round, pretty face and curly hair that brushed shoulders left bare by a wide, low neckline. She smiled and curtsied, her large pearl earbobs bobbing along with her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Violet said.
Introductions concluded, the woman turned to Ford. “Would Secrets of the Emerald Tablet be for sale, my lord?”
“I’m afraid not.” His words sounded genial enough, but Violet felt him tense. “And you’d have to fight Mr. Newton for it, anyway.”
“It’s just as well, my dear,” Mr. Evelyn said.
The tone of his voice confused Violet. She turned to look up at Ford.
“I think,” he said, “that we’d best be on our way.” And he drew her out of the lovely piazza he’d created, leaving the others to enjoy it.
“What was that all about?” Violet asked as they walked back through the building. “I would think he’d be pleased she wanted to buy him the book.”
He dropped his hand from her waist, linking his fingers with hers instead. “She wants it for herself. Her husband calls her a ‘kitchen scientist.’ Not fondly, I might add.”
“I could tell.” The quadrangle was quickly emptying, the musicians packing up. “Does he not approve of her interests, then?”
“Mr. Evelyn believes housekeeping should be his wife’s priority. His wedding gift to Mrs. Evelyn was a calligraphy copy of his own treatise on marital duties. The ladies at court think she must be the unhappiest woman in the world.”
“I cannot blame her,” Violet said, stepping carefully in her heeled shoes as they crossed the dew-damp grass.
“Her husband would say she has her children to console her.”
“And you would say?”
He shrugged, squeezing her hand. “I know only that were I to be deprived of my scientific interests, I would be unhappy, too.”
“Then let us hope your wife is more indulgent than Mary Evelyn’s husband,” she heard herself say.
Faith, how could she bring up his future wife?
But he only laughed, drawing her through the passage that led back to the Reading Hall and entrance. In the arched tunnel, he stopped and turned to face her. “I’m hoping my wife will be very indulgent, indeed,” he said in a tone full of meaning.
“She’d have to be.” A nervous giggle escaped her lips. “Are we leaving now?”
“In a minute.” He stepped closer, backing her against the wall. “There will be a long line for the carriage at this time of night.”
The evening had flown. “What time is it?” she asked.
He shrugged. ”Not too late, in my estimation. Your mother mentioned no particular curfew. I think she must approve of me.” Her heart raced as he slowly drew off her spectacles and slipped them into his pocket. “The church bells rang midnight a while ago.”
“Oh. I wasn’t listening.”
“I wonder why,” he mused with a smile, his hands moving to span her waist. She was finding it hard to listen now. Everywhere he touched felt so warm, so tingly, so aware. She glanced about, but there was no one in sight.
He lowered his head, his mouth inching toward hers, and she closed her eyes and waited, waited, her breath catching when he finally found her lips. His were soft but insistent, and despite all her reservations, she kissed him back with the same intensity.
“Violet,” he murmured, and she was sure now—she heard it in his voice, sensed it in her very bones—that he felt something for her. Right or wrong, whatever his reasons, Ford Chase had feelings for her, Violet Ashcroft. It seemed miraculous and absurd and sublime all at once. On impulse, she pulled away, needing to see it on his face.
“Violet?” He blinked, dreamy-eyed, his lips curving in a slow smile. He looked at her as though he could look at her forever—as though he wanted to.
It was a miracle.
But what did this mean? She had to know. When he tried to kiss her again, she laid a hand on his cheek. “Ford, I—”
Laughter filled the tunnel as two other couples entered the passageway, clearly in their cups.
“‘Night, Lakefield,” one of the men called facetiously. “Sweet dreams.”
Violet and Ford sprang apart. “‘Night, Hartwell,” he mumbled. His shallow breathing seemed to echo in the tunnel as he waited for the intruders to clear the other end.
When the two of them were alone again, he smiled at her, another slow, lazy smile that made her heart lurch. He leaned close, angling his head. Their lips met—
And three more men stumbled into the tunnel.
“‘Night, Lakefield,” they called in drunken unison.
“Let’s line up for the carriage,” Ford said with a sigh.