“LOOK!” JEWEL pointed to an enormous oak by the river. “There are swings!”
The children bounded off the barge and ran shrieking along the grassy bank. Violet walked more carefully behind, teetering a bit on the unaccustomed high heels. She felt rather lightheaded.
Was it her imagination, or had Ford nearly kissed her again? She wished she could ask him what had happened in the cabin—and why. But the thought of actually voicing such questions aloud made her face burn hotter than the afternoon sun.
She sneaked a sidelong glance at him strolling casually beside her, still clutching his precious book. Struck by the silly thought that he might sleep with it tonight, she smiled to herself.
He put a hand at her back. “What do you find so amusing?”
“Nothing.” She could feel the pressure of his fingers through her thin satin gown. “Nothing at all.” When his hand dropped from her back, she could swear she still felt its imprint.
By the time the two of them caught up, the young ones had claimed the pair of rope-and-board swings that shared a thick branch on one side of the old tree. They were pumping into the air, racing to see who could get the highest, their laughing taunts floating out over the water.
“That looks like fun,” Violet said wistfully. Oh, to be six, flying into the sky on your birthday, instead of almost eighteen and dreading it.
Eighteen. Though plenty of girls remained unmarried by eighteen, to Violet it felt like the official start of her spinsterhood. Perhaps because Rose had been hinting as much for the past several months. Or because Mum had married at sixteen—after being caught in a compromising position with Father, as Grandpapa had always told it.
Not that Violet minded her fate as a spinster. She’d been resigned to it for years—planning happily for it, in fact. An unmarried woman enjoyed freedoms a wife never would.
But the word “spinster” sounded so very old and final.
Ford took her by the arm and marched her around the giant tree. A third swing there hung empty. “Sit,” he said.
She giggled, feeling silly. “You take it.”
“Sit.”
With a shrug, she did. It had been years since she’d been on a swing—since the last time her family had stayed at Tremayne Castle. The board was flat and hard beneath her skirts. She wrapped her fingers around the thick, scratchy ropes on either side of her head. When she felt a hand at her back, she gave a little shriek, then whooped as Ford pushed her swinging into the air.
He came around the side to watch her, holding up the book to shade his eyes. “It’s nice to hear you laugh.”
She laughed again. “I feel like a child.”
“Is that bad?” he wondered.
Pumping her legs to go higher still, she considered. The wind rushed by, freeing a fleet of unruly curls from their plait to tangle in the frames of her spectacles. When her peach skirts billowed, she clamped them between her legs. The sun sparkled on the water. Through her miraculous eyeglasses, the landscape looked clear and bright and beautiful all the way to the horizon.
“No,” she said at last. “Feeling like a child isn’t bad.” At nearly eighteen, feeling like a child was a wonderful respite.
Placing the book delicately on a clump of grass, Ford stepped behind her and gave her a shove. She leaned back, listening to the wind whistle through her ears as she went soaring into the air.
“I can go faster than you!” Jewel cried from the other side of the tree.
“No, I can go faster!” Rowan yelled, and the two of them pumped their hearts out, racing toward the sky.
Ford’s hands on Violet’s back felt solid and warm, his pushes rhythmic and reliable. Her lids slid closed. She didn’t want to go faster than anyone; she preferred to blank her mind and enjoy the motion.
With her eyes shut, she imagined she was flying. She imagined she was beautiful, and Ford was her handsome husband, not just an irredeemably flirtatious young uncle who wanted her help caring for his niece.
“Holy Hades,” Rowan complained, jarring her back into the real world.
Her eyes popped open. “I’ve told you not to say that!” she called toward the children’s side of the tree.
“No matter how high I get,” he panted, “I cannot seem to go faster than her. She swings three times and I swing only two.”
Jewel snorted. “Because you’re bigger, you goose.”
“I’m not a goose,” Rowan said, and Violet cringed, suspecting Jewel had learned that insult from Rose. But Rowan seemed to consider Jewel’s analysis. “Anyway, you’re a girl, so you’ll get tired,” he decided smugly. “And then I’ll go faster!”
“No,” Ford said, giving Violet another push, “you won’t.”
“He won’t?” Violet asked. Rowan’s theory made sense to her. Well, perhaps not the part about Jewel tiring—the girl was a bundle of energy if ever she’d seen one. “If Rowan pumps harder, he won’t go faster?”
“He won’t,” Ford repeated. “The swing is a pendulum—”
“Like in your laboratory?” Jewel interrupted loudly.
“Just like that.” He pushed again. “Only you are the weight at the bottom.”
Jewel’s dark hair streamed behind her, then flew forward to hide her face. “And he’s a heavier weight, so…”
“No, the amount of weight doesn’t matter.” When Violet swung back, Ford wasn’t there to push. She slowed down to listen. “The time a pendulum takes to go back and forth is called the period,” he said, walking over to push Jewel instead. “And the period depends on the length of the string. Or in a swing’s case, the ropes.” He reached to give Rowan a shove. “Jewel’s ropes are quite a bit shorter, so Jewel swings faster.”
“Are you sure?” Rowan asked dubiously.
“Positive. But test it yourself. Switch swings with Jewel. That’s what an experiment is all about.”
The children dragged their feet on the ground to stop the swings, and Ford came back to Violet.
Soon Rowan and Jewel had switched sides and were pumping again. And Rowan was going faster. “You’re right!” he yelled.
“Of course I’m right.” Ford gave Violet another little push. “But I didn’t figure it out myself. Galileo first made the observation.”
“I know all about Galileo,” Jewel told Rowan importantly. “Uncle Ford named his horse after him.” She swung back and forth, back and forth. “I want to go faster again!”
“I’ll swing a hundred times and then you can,” Rowan offered.
“Fifty times.”
“As you wish. But we’ll switch back after another fifty.” In his high young voice, he began counting.
Ford gave Violet a huge shove, and she soared out over the landscape, swinging back so hard one of her shoes flew off and landed on the grass with a plop.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, the word sounding breathless and giddy. “Stop!”
“Why?” He pushed her again, and when she rushed back, he plucked off her other shoe. She heard that one, too, plop somewhere behind her back. “There,” he called as she swung away again, “now you’ll really feel like a child.”
Laughing, she wiggled her toes, feeling free in only stockings. And he pushed her higher. And higher. And higher. “Stop!” she screamed, meaning it this time. “Or I think I might get sick!”
He grabbed the ropes and jerked her to a halt. “Better?”
“Much.” Still holding on tight, she gave a shaky laugh. “I guess I’m too old for this, after all.”
“No one’s too old for this,” she heard him say from behind her. And then she felt his warmth at her back, and an armed curved around her waist. He came around to her side.
Her hands clenched the ropes as a delicate shiver rippled through her. “Rowan and Jewel…” she whispered, turning her head, but as soon as her lips were in reach he covered them with his own. She heard the children’s chatter and hoped that meant they weren’t watching—and then promptly forgot all about them, along with everything else but for one hazy thought…
She was being kissed again!
And it felt just as strange and wonderful and exciting as she remembered. He kept one arm securely around her middle, and when he raised his other hand to her face, skimming his thumb along her cheekbone, she thought she might expire from the incredible niceness of it all.
He drew away slightly, and she felt his fingers moving over her ears, unhooking the spectacles. He slid them off. When she opened her eyes, his face was so close she could see every detail with perfect clarity.
Without her spectacles, he was all she could see. He was all she wanted to see.
She kept her eyes open this time as he slowly lowered his mouth toward hers. But before their lips touched again, a girlish squeal pierced the air, and both their heads whirled toward the sound.
Jewel was fine. But the spell was broken.
Pulling a face, Ford straightened and made sure Violet was steady on the swing before handing over her spectacles. Her hands shaking, she put them back on. As his face swam into view, he flashed her a smile. A secretive smile. A smile she didn’t think she had the experience to comprehend.
She leaned her forehead against the swing’s rough rope, trying to catch her breath. She could hear Ford rummaging about, gathering the book and her shoes.
“Thirty-seven, thirty-eight,” Rowan chanted.
Once he’d collected their belongings, Ford paused for a moment to collect his wits. What on earth had possessed him to risk that in front of his young niece? He seemed to be growing more impulsive by the day.
Someone had left one of the inn’s benches near the tree—to sit and watch their children, no doubt—and he dragged it over by Violet’s swing and sat. He set her shoes on the grass and the book on his lap.
“Forty-eight, forty-nine…” On the opposite side of the tree, Rowan reached fifty, and the children traded places.
“You’re very good with them,” Violet said quietly from her swing.
Never, in ten lifetimes, had Ford thought anyone would tell him that. Of course, he’d never thought he’d kiss a girl like Violet Ashcroft, either. A shy country miss who spouted philosophy.
“It was only physics,” he said dismissively, gazing at her profile. Her lips were slightly parted. He remembered how they’d felt on his, silky and delicate as a flower petal. How appropriate. ”Science. I’m good at science.”
Still motionless on the swing, she turned her head to look at him. “You’re good with your niece. And Rowan.”
He felt totally inept with them, but he didn’t want to argue. “Perhaps that’s because I never grew up myself,” he suggested instead. “My family would tell you that.”
“You’ve said something like that before,” she recalled, looking flushed and flustered and beautiful, her eyes large and liquid behind her lenses. The spectacles had slipped down her nose, and she pushed them back up. “What are they like, your family?”
“Loud,” he answered with a grin. “I have a twin sister, Kendra, and two older brothers, Jason and Colin. All married. Among the three of them, they have seven children already, and I suspect more to come. Jewel is the oldest.”
“No wonder you’re good with children, then.”
He shook his head. “It’s not like that. I’ve played with them, of course, and when I’m not in London, I live with Jason and his family at Cainewood. Two boys, he and Cait have. But before now, I’d never taken care of my nephews or nieces.” They all had nursemaids to see to that. “I’ve never taken care of anyone before.”
He'd been the baby of the family. Everyone had always taken care of him.
“Well, you’re doing a proper job.” She shifted to look over at Jewel, who was shrieking with laughter as she soared through the air beside Rowan.
His niece looked happy. Perhaps Violet was right, and he wasn’t doing such a bad job after all.
“And your parents?” she asked, turning back. “What are they like?”
“Dead.”
“Faith,” she muttered, her face going white. “I’m so sor—”
“No need to be sorry.” He turned the book over in his hands. “I was all of one year old when they died at Worcester, fighting for King Charles. I don’t even remember them. My oldest brother more or less raised me, with the help of the exiled court. It was an interesting life.”
Her fingers trailed up and down the ropes. “And a rough life, I’d wager.”
He shrugged. “Not for me. Our parents sold most everything to help finance the war, but I was too young to worry about where my next meal would come from. Someone else always took care of that. The court moved from Paris, to Brussels, to Bruges and back…the world was my playground. I suppose things were tight, but a child doesn’t need much.”
When she met his gaze, the expression in them made something twist in his gut. “A child needs love,” she said softly.
Soft or not, he heard a challenge in her voice.
“I had love.” Uncomfortable under that gaze, he looked at the sun shining off the river instead. “From my sister and two older brothers. I never wanted for anything.”
A short silence stretched between them before he finally looked back. One of her stockinged feet reached for the grass and pushed off. “And after you returned to England?” she asked, swaying back and forth.
How to sum up the last decade in a few short sentences? Why did he care that she understood his past? “By the time Charles regained the throne, Jason and Colin were nearly of age. Cromwell had stolen their childhoods, and both of them had too many responsibilities to attend formal schooling. I should never have owned land—being a younger son—but as thanks for our parents’ service to the crown, Charles granted all of us titles and estates…and as soon as I could, I left mine behind and went off to university.”
“How old were you then?”
“Seventeen. And spoiled rotten.”
He’d never thought of it that way before, but it was true. Between term times during his six years at Oxford, and after completing his studies earlier this year, he’d returned to live with Jason. He’d never had to fend for himself. Never worried for anyone else. Never even had to chase a girl, since he’d always had Tabitha waiting in London.
He gave a rueful smile. “I’ve led a charmed life, haven’t I?“
“I’m sure you haven’t,” she said quickly, and he remembered how things had ended with Tabitha. That part of his life wouldn’t fall under the definition of charmed…but already, he realized, it didn’t seem to hurt anymore. And it certainly didn’t matter.
Odd, that.
Leaning back, Violet stuck her legs out straight and stared at her stockinged feet. “Nothing is that simple.”
But it had been. It had always been simple for him.
They fell quiet, and he smiled at the quaint picture she made on the swing, shoeless and wearing his spectacles. He’d never talked with a girl like he talked with Violet Ashcroft—never met one who seemed interested in discussing much beyond fashion and gossip. Never talked with anyone who made him reveal parts of himself he hadn’t even known.
“What was your childhood like?” he asked.
“Boring in comparison.” Still looking down, she turned her toes this way and that. “Grandpapa sent money for the cause, but he never went off to fight. He put family before the monarchy. We never went into exile, either. I’ve never been outside of Britain.”
“But he did support King Charles?”
She looked up. “Oh, yes. Of course he did. My family was never anything but Royalist.”
“I’m surprised Trentingham wasn’t attacked by Cromwell’s forces, then. Cainewood was.” And had the cannonball marks to prove it.
“They confiscated Trentingham and occupied it, but we weren’t there. Grandpapa had a secondary title and property that went along with it. Tremayne Castle, very near Wales. Not helpful for the Roundheads strategically, and I suspect too far away for them to bother with.” She glanced over at the children. “Rowan is Viscount Tremayne now.”
“So your family stayed there for all the years of the war?”
“And after. All through the Commonwealth, until the Restoration. Besides having an odd penchant for studying languages, Grandpapa was a stickler for safety.” She pushed off again, gliding up and then down, slowing immediately when she did nothing to sustain the momentum. “My parents were wed at Tremayne, and I was born there. As were Rose and Lily. I was six before I ever laid eyes on Trentingham.”
“Six?” he said, surprised. “How old are you now?”
“Almost eighteen.”
From the tone of her voice one would guess she thought eighteen was a doddering old maid. But he’d thought she was older. Not that she looked older, but Tabitha was twenty-one, yet Violet seemed so much more mature.
“I’m twenty-three,” he told her.
“I figured that,” she said, “when I heard you were one year old during the Battle of Worcester.”
“Unlike Rowan, you’re good at mathematics.” He smiled, thinking she was good at a lot of things. “Does your family sometimes live at Tremayne Castle now?”
“Not anymore. We retreated there to wait out the Great Plague—Rowan was born there during that time. But then Grandpapa died, and we haven’t been back since.” Seeming deep in thought, she gazed out over the Thames, swaying gently to and fro in the swing. “The castle was only ever half built. Mum says it’s too far from London, and Father prefers Trentingham’s gardens. It’s a quiet sort of place, Tremayne…” She met his gaze again with a smile. “See, I told you my childhood was boring.”
To his great embarrassment, his stomach growled. Loudly.
“Oh!” she said. “It’s been at least two hours since you said you were starving! Before we even bought the books!”
“I haven’t perished.” He stood and handed her the shoes. “But I wouldn’t mind wandering over and taking a table.”
While she put them on, he went to fetch the children.
“Not yet!” Jewel yelled, swinging higher. “Another minute!”
“Two minutes!” Rowan countered.
“Three!”
“Five!”
“Ten!”
“Ten,” Ford agreed, giving Jewel one final push. “But only because it’s your birthday, mind you.”
Violet followed Ford to an empty table. As she slid onto the bench, she kept a vigilant eye on the two young ones, who faced away as they soared over the scenic river.
“Relax,” he told her. “They’ll be safe. If they fail to join us, they can eat their portions on the barge on our way home. And the two of us can dine in peace.”
A nice thought, Violet decided. Even more nice after he went inside to order a light dinner, then returned to sit beside her.
He couldn’t actually have feelings for her…could he? Everything she knew about men told her no—but then again, she didn’t know much about them at all. And his actions seemed to paint a different picture. It was confusing, to say the least. Especially when her hands drifted up to her face and she remembered her unsightly spectacles. For a while there, she’d forgotten all about them.
“No one’s staring,” he said gently. He lowered her hands and laced his fingers with one of them. It felt intimate, and her heart gave a stutter. “You look fine, Violet. You look lovely.”
Through the lenses, he appeared sincere. She surveyed the few patrons seated at the other tables. The buzz of their conversation sounded pleasant to her ears, and he was right: no one was staring.
Besides Ford, no one was looking at her at all.
His gaze dropped to the book, his face brightening at the sight. “I still cannot believe I may have found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.”
“I’m so happy for you.”
“It might not be the right book,” he reminded her, although she suspected he was actually reminding himself. He squeezed her hand. “But I thank you for sharing my excitement.”
“It’s contagious,” she told him. Her fingers tingled every place they touched his; she’d never realized her hand was so sensitive.
A serving maid came out and put two tankards on the table, along with a pewter platter piled with fat slices of cream toast. She set down two empty plates, and Ford dropped Violet’s hand to take one of them.
Her spectacles seemed to be fogging. She pulled them off, wiped them on her skirt, and put them back on. “Thank you for sharing your dream,” she said, lifting a tankard. A bracing swallow of ale seemed just the thing. “I very much hope it comes true.”
“It would be incredible, wouldn’t it?” He also sipped, regarding her over his tankard’s rim. “And what are your dreams, Violet?”
“You’d laugh.” She’d never told anyone outside her own family. Ever. Avoiding his eyes, she busied herself sprinkling sweet brown sugar on a slice of the egg-battered bread.
“I won’t laugh. I promise.” He sprinkled extra cinnamon on his. “Tell me,” he said, cutting a piece.
“Well, one day…” As a delaying tactic, she swallowed a bite of cream toast, then washed it down with some ale.
“Yes?” he prompted, looking amused.
“I’d like to publish a philosophy book,” she blurted out. “Not now, of course, but when I’m older. I still have much to learn first.”
“A lady authoring a philosophy tome.” Chewing, he considered. “It’s an ambitious dream.”
He was listening, and he wasn’t laughing. “I would publish it under a man’s name. Otherwise no one would read it.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so.” She sipped, then rushed on. “I have an inheritance coming, you see, enough to print and distribute the book far and wide.”
He finished his slice and took another. “What is it you’re so burning to say?”
“I don’t know yet.” Perhaps that sounded rather foolish, but it felt so good to finally tell someone—someone who really listened. “I’m still learning, still changing my opinions. But I believe these things are important. Ideas can change the world. And…I dream of leaving my mark.”
“So do I.”
“But with science, am I right?” Ford was different, like her. She’d never expected to meet anybody like her. “You want to leave your mark with science. Science can change the world, too.”
“Exactly.”
He smiled, reaching to touch the back of her hand. She thrilled at the contact—until he opened his mouth again.
“I reckon it’s a rare fellow who’d let his wife’s fortune go to such a project.”
His words cut her to the core.
She’d thought he understood.
Disappointment swamped her short-lived giddiness. He was poking fun at her. Raising her tankard to hide her flaming face, she ordered herself to shrug it off. She focused on Rowan and Jewel still swinging in the distance, their lighthearted laughter floating to her on the breeze. Of course he would think like that, she reasoned—she should expect nothing else.
Ford was different, but not as different as she’d hoped. Men that different simply didn’t exist.
With a sigh, she lowered the tankard. “I realize most gentlemen marry for money.” And Ford would be no exception, especially given his obvious lack of the same. “But as far as I’m concerned, that isn’t a good reason to shackle oneself for life.”
She watched him rake his fingers through his hair. “That’s not what I said—”
“I knew what you were thinking.”
“Did you?“ he murmured, lifting his own tankard. A series of emotions crossed his face, but Violet couldn’t make them out. He took a slow sip of ale. ”Are you never planning to marry, then?”
Perhaps she’d dreamed of it for a minute—one brief, insensible minute. “My family isn’t a conventional one.”
“Question Convention.”
“Yes. I feel no compulsion to lead a typical woman’s life.”
He just gazed at her for a while. A long while, while she tried and failed to figure out what he was thinking.
“No,” he said at last, and paused for another sip. “Nobody would ever call Violet Ashcroft typical.”
That hurt, but she only stiffened her spine. “I’m aware of my eccentricities, my lord. And I realize they are the reason no man would want me except for my inheritance.”
He bristled. “Criminy, is it that much money?”
She couldn’t tell whether he was sarcastic or serious, and she didn’t get a chance to find out. Because in the next moment, two voices rang out from the riverbank.
“I dare you!”
“I dare you!”
And a moment after that, Jewel and Rowan flew from their swings into the water.