Violet (Flower Trilogy) (4 page)

‘‘He is welcome for dinner,’’ Ford offered. Breakfast and supper, too. Anything to keep his niece occupied so he could work on his watch. He was sure his new design had promise, if only he could find time to test his ideas.

He must have looked as desperate as he felt, because his neighbor released a tiny, unladylike snort.

‘‘After dinner,’’ she confirmed, hiding a smile as she pushed through the bushes and made her way back to her carriage.

‘‘How did it go, milady?’’ Anne asked Chrystabel as she climbed inside.

‘‘Fine,’’ she assured her maid.
Perfect
, she added silently.

Now she just had to make plans to keep both Rose and Lily busy tomorrow. As well as herself. Violet—

her wonderful, willful, bookish daughter Violet—

would be the one to take Rowan to visit Lady Jewel.

Picking dead vegetation off her skirts, Chrystabel smiled. She’d met Ford Chase before, but this visit had confirmed it. If ever there was a perfect man for Violet, it was the charming, slightly preoccupied, but brilliant Lord Lakefield. These two needed each other.

Her daughters were dead set against her arranging their marriages, and well Chrystabel knew it.

But a resourceful mother could always find a way.

‘‘Wait here, Margaret,’’ Violet told her lady’s maid the next afternoon. ‘‘If all goes well, I’m going to leave Rowan and come back for him later.’’

She stepped down from the carriage and grumbled all the way to the front door of the large, if somewhat shabby, Lakefield House. She couldn’t fathom how she’d ended up here, escorting her reluctant young brother to play with a strange little girl. Mum’s convoluted explanation had made sense at the time, but how was it that suddenly Rose and Lily both needed to be measured for gowns, and she didn’t? True, she hadn’t been clamoring for new clothes like they had—she’d never really cared about such things—but Mum had always been careful to treat her three girls evenly.

At the bottom of the chipped stone stairs that led to the entry, she pulled Rowan out of the bushes where he was hiding. He promptly scurried to hide behind
her
instead. With a sigh, she mounted the steps and raised the knocker.

Before she had a chance to bang it down, the door swung open, and she stumbled forward and almost fell into the house. She was saved from that indignity when a man’s hands clasped her shoulders. Very warm hands, holding her upright.

He paused before pulling away. Impertinent, this footman, but she was only inches from his face, and oh my, he was handsome up close. She’d rarely seen a man up close—close enough to clearly
see
with her poor vision—but this one looked very good indeed.

She felt herself sinking into brilliant blue eyes.

‘‘I—I’m—’’ She cleared her throat and tried again.

‘‘I’m here to see Lord Lakefield—’’

‘‘At your service.’’ He bowed. ‘‘Ford Chase,’’ he added in a deep voice. The sound of it made butterflies dance in her middle. ‘‘And you are . . . ?’’

This
was the viscount?

He couldn’t be. ‘‘You’re not wearing a wig,’’ she said nonsensically.

‘‘Pardon?’’ He blinked. ‘‘None of the men in my family ever wear wigs.’’

It was true her father often went wigless here in the country, but ever? Although, come to think of it, this man wasn’t wearing a footman’s livery either. And the last time she’d seen the viscount, she’d been a girl of only fifteen, but she remembered long, untidy brown hair and a harried expression.

He looked rather harried today, too. He raked his fingers through his still-long hair, but it didn’t seem to help.

And those eyes. She hadn’t noticed his eyes all those years ago . . . well, she’d probably never been close enough to properly see them. Aristotle had said that beauty is the gift of God. She wondered what this man could have done to be so deserving of the Lord’s favor.

‘‘And you are . . . ?’’ he repeated.

She shook her head to clear it. ‘‘Violet Ashcroft.’’

‘‘The Earl of Trentingham’s daughter?’’ He looked slightly perplexed. ‘‘I expected your mother.’’

‘‘Well, you have
me
.’’ She was regaining her equilibrium. She was, after all, a very levelheaded woman.

‘‘And this is my brother, Rowan, who has come to claim the pleasure of meeting young Lady Jewel.’’

The pleasure of meeting young Lady Jewel?
Was this really her, babbling like a featherbrained courtier? She drew a deep breath and pulled her brother from behind her skirts.

‘‘Pleased to meet you, Lord Rowan.’’ The viscount gave him a proper, grave nod.

Much more stoically than normal, Rowan bowed.

‘‘Uncle Ford!’’ A little girl came bounding up to the door, skidding to a stop on the dull wood floor. ‘‘Who is here?’’ Her gaze fastened on Rowan, and Violet knew he was in trouble. ‘‘You must be that boy the pretty lady told me about.’’ She glanced up at her uncle, appearing both surprised and pleased. ‘‘He looks like
me
! I like him!’’

While ’twas true Rowan was a handsome lad and shared Jewel’s coloring—jet-black hair and deep green eyes—the girl’s words were enough to send him skittering behind Violet again.

Jewel followed him, poking him on the shoulder.

‘‘What’re you hiding for, huh? Do you not want to play?’’

‘‘No,’’ Rowan muttered. His fingers clawed at Violet’s skirts. She figured ’twas only a matter of seconds before he found his way underneath.

Lord

Lakefield

looked

panicked,

though

she

couldn’t fathom why. ‘‘Do come in,’’ he urged, grabbing Violet quite improperly by the arm. Before the door shut behind her, she shot a helpless look back at the blur that was her maid Margaret in the carriage.

She hadn’t intended to go inside.

But here she was. Without withdrawing his hold, the viscount fairly pulled her down a hallway whose paneling was so worn, even with her bad eyes she could tell it needed refinishing. Behind her, Rowan held on like a drowning man. He was literally dragging his heels.

Apparently undeterred, Jewel chattered cheerfully as she walked along beside him. ‘‘How old are you?

Your mother said you were seven. Are you seven?

I’m almost six. When’s your birthday? Mine’s next week. Mama said we would have a celebration. But now she’s ill.’’

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Violet said to Jewel, since it was clear Rowan wouldn’t. Her heels clicked on the woodplanked floor. She could feel the warmth of the viscount’s fingers through her navy blue broadcloth sleeve.

‘‘Papa promised me she’d get well,’’ Jewel said.

‘‘And he always keeps his promises.’’ They turned into a drawing room decorated in various shades of red and pink. Or perhaps they’d once all been matching crimson, but some pieces had faded.

Lord Lakefield dropped Violet’s arm and waved her toward a couch. She pried Rowan’s hands from her skirts in order to sit, and he dropped crosslegged to the floor, his gaze on his lap.

What were they doing here? Violet wondered.

Rowan was clearly miserable, and she hadn’t planned to stay in the first place.

‘‘Make yourself comfortable,’’ Lord Lakefield told her. ‘‘I will go ask for some refreshments. I rigged up a bell’’—he gestured at the wall where she assumed it was placed—‘‘but I’m afraid my staff is getting on in years. They’re a bit hard of hearing.’’

Dazed, Violet nodded. ‘‘So is my father.’’

‘‘Pardon?’’

‘‘He’s half deaf. Although my sister sometimes claims he just doesn’t want to listen to whatever philosophy I’m spouting at the moment.’’ Egad, she was babbling just as much as Jewel.

‘‘Philosophy?’’ He blinked, or maybe he grimaced.

She wasn’t sure which. ‘‘I’m certain whatever you have to say must be fascinating. If you’ll excuse me.’’ And with that, he took his long, lanky form out the door.

She rose and wandered over to see where he’d pointed. A pull cord disappeared cleverly into a hole, attached, she assumed, to a bell. Her ears were still ringing with his words.

‘‘Fascinating . . .’’ she murmured to no one in particular. Apparently the man was trying to flatter her. No man ever thought a woman talking philosophy was fascinating.

‘‘Well,’’ she said aloud, glad she had the common sense to recognize an empty compliment, ‘‘Jean de La Fontaine has written that all flatterers live at the expense of those who listen to them.’’

Jewel blinked. ‘‘Huh?’’ She blinked again, then knelt on the floor next to Rowan. ‘‘Do you think I’m pretty?’’ she asked.

Ford hurried to the kitchen, not least because he had a feeling Violet Ashcroft was poised to bolt. And he couldn’t allow that to happen.

Philosophy. Truth be told, he abhorred the stuff—

he wasn’t drawn to anything that couldn’t be proven.

But it seemed the woman might have a brain in her head—uncommon, in his experience. He’d always gravitated toward the frilly and fun in female companionship, and sought his male colleagues for intellectual stimulation. When it came to women, he was looking for a diversion, not a meaningful conversation.

Tabitha had been quite a gorgeous diversion. Yet not particularly useful, and he’d decided his only interest in women from now on would be for reasons of practicality. For instance, Hilda—his housekeeper—

was a useful woman to have around.

And Lady Violet . . . With her shining light brown hair and eyes the color of his favorite brandy, Violet was pleasant looking, although not the sort of beauty who would turn men’s heads. Which was fine with him, since the last thing he wanted was his head turned. He wanted it right here, thank you, square on his shoulders, where he could use it to concentrate on his experiments and inventions.

He’d sworn off women, but if he could convince this Violet to stay a while—and maybe even come back with Rowan tomorrow—he could finally find time for his work.

Now,
that
was his idea of a useful woman.

He barged into the kitchen.

‘‘Yes, my lord?’’ His housekeeper looked up from polishing the silver, one gray eyebrow raised in query.

‘‘Are the refreshments ready?’’

Hilda never answered a question—she always had one of her own. ‘‘Is Lady Trentingham here?’’

‘‘No,’’ he said, wondering where Harry, her husband, had gone off to this time. The two of them might be servants, but their marriage mimicked most of the nobility’s—which was to say they stayed as far from each other as possible.

‘‘Lady Trentingham is at home,’’ he told her. ‘‘The woman’s daughter came instead. Lady Violet Ashcroft.’’

‘‘The practical one?’’

Spotting a tray of biscuits on the kitchen’s scarred wooden worktable, he inched his way over. ‘‘Come again?’’

‘‘The oldest, right? Lady Trentingham calls her ‘the practical one.’ The middle girl—Rose, I believe—is

‘the wild one,’ and the youngest, dear Lily, ‘the sweet one.’ ’’

‘‘She has three daughters? All named for bloody flowers?’’ What sentimental frivolity. The mere thought gave him a headache.

‘‘Are you not aware that her husband enjoys gardening?’’

‘‘Yes. I am.’’ He slid one of the small, round biscuits off the tray and popped it into his mouth. ‘‘How do you come to know all this?’’

Hilda frowned. ‘‘Why should I not know my neighbors?’’ She shoved at the gray hair that had escaped her cap, then went back to polishing the silver. ‘‘Lady Trentingham, she’s a perfumer, you know. Every once in a while, she drops by with a new bottle. Spiced Rosewater, I prefer.’’

‘‘Spiced Rosewater?’’ He reached for another biscuit.

She slapped at his hand. ‘‘Leave it, will you? I laid them out in a pattern.’’

He scrutinized the tray, but his mathematical mind could discern no regular design.

‘‘Do you not like Spiced Rosewater?’’ she asked.

He leaned close to one wrinkled cheek and sniffed.

‘‘ ’Tis lovely.’’ In truth, she smelled like a cinnamon bun. But whatever made her happy.

‘‘When Lady Trentingham brings it by, she likes to sit a spell and chat. I’ve heard all the stories of her girls as they’ve grown.’’

‘‘Lady Trentingham sits and talks to the household help?’’ Now he was the one reduced to asking questions.

‘‘And why not? We’re people too, you know.’’

Of course they were—he just didn’t think about it much. And he was woefully ill informed about his neighbors. Apparently Lady Trentingham was well-nigh as eccentric as the earl.

‘‘Here comes Harry,’’ Hilda said, watching out the window. ‘‘Do you not think it’s time to take in these refreshments?’’ She shoved a steaming pitcher into Ford’s hands and, taking the tray of biscuits, hurried out of the kitchen before her husband could make his way in.

Hilda came up to Ford’s shoulder and seemed as wide as she was tall. Obediently carrying the hot beverage she had prepared, he followed her ample behind down the corridor to the drawing room. They stepped inside to see Violet Ashcroft on her hands and knees, her backside jutting into the air.

A very nice backside, Ford observed, most especially compared to his housekeeper’s. He could tell that, even through her layers of petticoats and sturdy, serviceable skirts. Not frilly at all. A fitting gown for The Practical One.

Her brother was under the low, square table that sat before the couch. ‘‘Rowan,’’ she said. ‘‘You come out here this minute.’’

‘‘No.’’ The boy crossed his arms, not a simple feat given he was lying on his belly. ‘‘Not until
she
leaves.’’

Rowan pronounced ‘‘she’’ much like Jewel had pronounced ‘‘boy’’ yesterday in the garden.

‘‘C’mon, Rowan,’’ Jewel cooed, getting down on her knees herself. ‘‘Come out and play. I’ve always wanted to play with a boy.’’

Considering she had two brothers at home, Ford had to choke back laughter. And Jewel wasn’t pronouncing ‘‘boy’’ that way now.

His niece was clearly in love.

And Rowan was having none of it.

‘‘We’ve brought biscuits,’’ Ford declared, announcing his presence. Lady Violet gave a little embarrassed squeal and jumped to her feet. Her pinkened cheeks matched his faded upholstery.

‘‘Biscuits?’’ Rowan asked. ‘‘What kind?’’

The way to a Chase male was through his stomach, and Ford was gratified to see Rowan was no different.