“VIOLET!” HER father called from over by a border of pink candytuft. “Where are you going?”
Walking through the garden with Ford, she cast him an apologetic glance. “I’m off to Lakefield House for supper!” she shouted. “Did Mum not tell you?”
As they drew close, Ford tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. Father’s gaze landed on their linked arms, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Apparently he wanted her to marry Ford, too.
Faith, just what she needed. More family pressure.
“Have a pleasant time, dear.” Father leaned to kiss her on the cheek. “Be back by supper.”
“Supper?” Ford repeated. “Lord Trentingham—”
“Forget it,” Violet told him. “We could stand here all night. Mum will explain when I’m not at the table.” She gave her father’s hand a squeeze, knowing he hadn’t heard her low comments. “I’ll see you later, Father.”
“What?”
“I’ll see you later!” she shouted and drew Ford away. “Sorry about that,” she said to him once Father had turned back to his gardening. “We yell a lot in this family, but we never mean anything by it.”
“If you’re thinking that will put me off, you’re wrong. My family yells, too. And none of us are deaf.” Ford led her around the corner of the house.
And there was that silly, old-fashioned barge.
She stopped in her tracks. “Where is your carriage?”
“It’s a beautiful evening,” he said, coaxing her along. “I thought to spend it on the river.”
He unleashed that brilliant smile of his, rendering her speechless as they crossed the lawn. And although she hadn’t tripped in weeks, she nearly did as he handed her onto the barge. Nodding to Harry and the stable hands to cast off, Ford drew her into the cramped, unsuitable cabin that contained nothing but a bed.
Only it wasn’t quite so unsuitable now. The bed had been removed, and in its place sat a little table and two chairs. The entire space was lit by dozens of flickering candles.
He’d made a wonderland for her again, this time on his elegantly decrepit barge. The table was covered with a soft pink cloth, and silver domes covered two plates. While she stood gaping, he leaned forward and swept off one of the domes.
“Supper,” he said. “Since Hilda’s culinary skills are a mite lacking, I had Harry fetch it from the cookshop in the village. I only pray it hasn’t all gone cold.”
Overwhelmed by the unsettling trembling in her heart, Violet laid a hand on her blue moiré stomacher. Her other fingers toyed with the end of her thick plait. Countless cheerful little flames warded off the approaching evening chill. And Ford’s expression of nervous hope warmed her as well, in an entirely different way.
But suddenly she felt small and silly, like a schoolgirl playing dress-up. This couldn’t be her life. These sorts of things weren’t supposed to happen to plain, sensible girls—they were supposed to happen to irresistible wood nymphs!
Something was wrong.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, looking concerned.
“No!”
She chewed her lip. Each time she and Ford met she only grew more confused. She knew now that she wanted him, and she sometimes felt that he wanted her. But she couldn’t be sure he wanted her in the way she wanted him to want her, if she even wanted that, considering where it might lead.
What if marriage wasn’t all that the Master-piece claimed? What if she traded her grand aspirations for a life full of heart tremblings and short breathings, only to discover it was all a horrible mistake—
Oh, hang it! This was ridiculous. For heaven’s sake, how could she hope to ever call herself a philosopher when she couldn’t even puzzle out her own feelings?
Two goblets sat on the table, the red wine in them gently swaying in rhythm with the barge’s movements. She raised one to her lips and took a long, unhurried sip, trying to slow her whirling thoughts. “Nothing’s wrong,” she finally said. “It’s only that I…I thought we were dining at Lakefield.”
He drew out a chair and waited for her to sit, then pulled the door shut. “I never said that. I only asked if you might take supper in my company tonight.” He seated himself across from her. The table was so small their knees touched. “Don’t you think this is more romantic?”
She wasn’t used to being romanced. She didn’t know how to react. “Where are we going?” she asked to change the subject. They were moving at a good clip already.
He shrugged one blue-velvet-clad shoulder. “Nowhere. Up, then back. We scientists call that perpetual motion,” he added with a smile.
She shifted uneasily. “Nowhere?”
“Just you and me and the river, food, wine, candlelight…is it not enough?” In the flickering light, his eyes looked dark and earnest. He reached across the table and took one of her hands, his lace cuff spilling over their joined fingers. “I want to apologize for the other day, for how our conversation went in the woods. And especially for how it ended.” He took a deep breath. “I care deeply for you, Violet.”
He cared deeply for her. Did that mean…?
“But I understand if you don’t care for me—yet,” he added quickly. “We’ve only been acquainted a scant few months. All I’m asking for is a chance to change your mind. To court you properly.”
She raised a brow. “You call this”—her gesture took in the intimate quarters and the two of them crammed together at their tiny table—“a proper courtship?”
He grinned. “Well, not too proper. But if you don’t like it—”
“No, I like it.”
He chuckled. “I’m glad. Does that mean you’ll give me another chance?”
She looked away, considering.
A proper courtship.
Other gentlemen had tried to court her as her eighteenth birthday approached—the same gentlemen who’d ignored her at every ball she’d ever attended, letting her hide in the corners without ever trying to coax her out. The same boys who, when she was younger, had huddled around her little sisters after church on Sunday, while she sat nearby with a book and pretended not to care. Faith, even when she was just five and Rose and Lily still babies, those same boys’ parents cooed over them while Violet stood by unnoticed.
Was Ford just a more convincing version of those boys?
When she failed to respond, he rose and turned to stick his head out the window. “Johnnie, my lady requires a bit of persuading. Music, please.”
Almost at once, the strains of a violin reached her ears.
Despite her distress, a laugh bubbled out of her. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“Nearly everything. I forgot about the cold night air. Wouldn’t want you to be chilled.” He closed the window’s shutters and reseated himself with an innocent smile.
He was smooth, too smooth for her to handle. And he’d gone to so much trouble to make this evening special. As if he honestly believed he was the one who needed to impress her.
For such a brilliant fellow, he was oblivious when it came to women. He was wasting his time trying to persuade her to care for him.
Because she already did.
Ford Chase was a study in contradictions. Part serious academic, part dashing romantic, part responsible uncle, part irresponsible adolescent. And she adored every confusing facet.
He dressed like a prince and lived like a pauper. He was the most generous person she’d ever known. He’d made her spectacles; he’d made her mother a distillery.
He’d made her fall in love with him.
She loved him.
She loved him! Dear heavens, when had she come to love him?
But she did.
And yet…
Just before he’d closed the shutters, she’d glimpsed Lakefield House as they’d sailed by, twilight’s shadows throwing its crumbling facade into stark relief. Now, the image of Ford’s neglected estate lodged itself in her mind. Despite her love for him, despite all the good she saw in him, she couldn’t help wondering if his sudden wish to court her was only because…
She didn’t want to think about that now. She didn’t want to ruin this night, her last night before she turned eighteen. Tomorrow, according to Rose, she would officially become a spinster.
But tomorrow could wait until tomorrow.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, reaching to uncover her plate. His knees moved away from hers and didn’t return, to her vast disappointment.
As she’d expect from a country cookshop, the supper was simple and hearty. A wedge of lamb pie, sweet potato pudding, parsnips, and asparagus.
“It’s all quite good,” Violet said after sampling each dish. The sweet potato pudding was smooth and fluffy, swimming in butter with eggs, nutmeg, and dark sugar. The lamb pie was flaky and rich. As they dined, they discussed the books they’d recently read—excluding the Master-piece—and the latest news from Ford’s friends at the Royal Society.
Violet savored both the food and the still-novel experience of conversing with a gentleman who spoke to her as an intellectual equal. It dawned on her that those weeks without Ford, when he’d gone off working on one project or another, it wasn’t just kissing him that she’d missed. Even more so, she’d missed talking with him.
He didn’t touch her during supper, didn’t so much as nudge her foot with his. But all the time he talked, he gazed straight into her eyes in a way that set her heart to trembling just the same.
When his plate was empty and she was only picking at hers, he refilled her wine cup. “Violet?” He reached across the tiny table and gently removed her spectacles. “May I kiss you?”
He’d never asked before, and she didn’t know what to say. In the guttering candlelight, he looked blurry. But he must have seen her answer in her eyes, because his face came into focus as he leaned across the table, and she sucked in a breath as his lips met hers—
And his pewter plate crashed to the floor.
“Everything all right in there?” came Harry’s voice through the shutters.
Violet jerked away.
“We’re fine,” Ford called to Harry, looking a bit startled as he bent to retrieve the plate. He set it back on the table, then ran a hand through his hair. Raggedly.
“This won’t work,” he told her, gesturing to the table between them. “Do you suppose you might…would you like to dance?”
“What, in here? Wouldn’t we need, um, music?”
He raised a single brow. “Is that not what Johnnie is currently providing?”
“Oh. Right.” She cocked her head, listening. “I don’t recognize the tune. It doesn’t sound like a minuet, or a—”
“Oh, it’s not any of the usual dances.” Unconcerned, Ford took Violet’s hands and drew her up and away from the table. “We’ll just make up a dance of our own.”
Violet cocked her head in bewilderment. “Make it up?” They now stood at the exact center of the bed’s former position, the thought of which made her cheeks heat.
“Why not? No one’s watching.” Placing his hands at her waist, he began to sway in time to the music.
“Um…what should I…?” Violet stood stock still. Dancing made her nervous even when she knew exactly what she was supposed to do, having had every motion drilled into her by the dancing master. Now she was expected to both devise the dance and perform it? Simultaneously? And in front of the man she’d just realized she loved?
Was he mad?
“Just follow me,” he said, his hands nudging her body to and fro. After a few clumsy beats, she was swaying along with him.
All right, this wasn’t so difficult.
Still, it was a very odd sort of dance.
And she had no idea what to do with her arms. She let them hang stiffly in front of her, then clasped her hands together, then crossed her arms over her chest. No matter which position they were in, she knew she looked ridiculous. She was thankful Ford hadn’t returned her spectacles, so she didn’t have to observe the amused expression he surely wore.
Her hands came up to cover her flaming cheeks. “I don’t know what to do with my—”
Her sentence ended in a squeal as the boat made a sudden sharp pivot and she pitched forward.
“Turn, ho!” Harry’s voice carried into the cabin.
“We could have used a little more warning!” Violet shrieked in reply.
“Apologies, m’lady!”
Violet huffed. Luckily she’d managed to avoid taking a tumble, her fall having been broken by Ford’s body. Her right hand had been caught by his left, while her left hand had landed on his shoulder. She couldn’t help noticing the solid muscle beneath her fingers.
Now, incredibly, he resumed swaying—“dancing”—once again, taking her along with him.
“Are you enjoying yourself, my lord?” she asked tightly.
“Very much so.” He pulled her closer. “Are you not?”
“I…” All at once, she noticed their bodies were a hair’s breadth apart. She could feel the heat of his skin, smell his patchouli scent, see his clear blue eyes in sharp focus. His right hand slid around her waist, settling gently, deliciously on the small of her back.
Lanky, she scoffed, thinking of Rose’s foolishness. If he’s lanky, then I’m Socrates.
“I suppose I don’t mind,” she admitted, surprised to realize she truly was enjoying the dance. Ford’s left hand was doing an admirable job of steering her around the tiny cabin, relieving her of any responsibility for her own coordination. And the swaying motion was rather soothing.
“Yet another brilliant invention,” Ford said with a lopsided grin. “Shall I patent this one, as you once recommended?”
“Of course,” she quipped. “The patented ‘hold hands and sway’ technique will revolutionize the art of dance, becoming popular the world over.”
“Undoubtedly.” Ford drew her even closer, until her head lay against his shoulder.
Mmm, she thought.
And that was the only thought she had for a good long while.
Enfolded in Ford’s arms, lulled by soft music, surrounded by dwindling candle flames…something about that combination seemed to make her melt in his embrace.
“Violet?”
She glanced up. The look in his eyes made her heart leap.
“May I kiss you now?”
Swallowing hard, she nodded.
Their dance ground to a halt. And when his mouth met hers, everything changed.
He had kissed her before, but never like this. This kiss was wild. It stole her breath, her thoughts, her will to resist. Her heart racing, she threw her arms around him, holding tight. And the kiss led to more kisses, so many frantic kisses.
Earlier tonight, when she stepped foot on the barge, she’d known exactly how many kisses they’d shared, could remember and relive and savor each and every one of them. But within minutes she knew she would never be able to keep count again.
“Violet,” he breathed.
“Faith.” She was feeling those short breathings she’d read of again, and tremblings of the heart, and— “Ford?”
“Mmhm?” he said through another kiss.
“I love you.”