‘‘Oh.’’ She knew he was waiting for her to say they would. But she was shocked beyond any more speech.
A simple ‘‘Oh’’ was all she could muster.
How could she, levelheaded Violet Ashcroft, have done such an irresponsible thing?
He’d pulled out this time but, faith, they could have conceived a child that night on the barge. She’d been so carried away, she hadn’t thought about the consequences, never mind that the
Masterpiece
had been quite clear in that department. Thinking about it now brought a chill to her heated flesh.
She lay a while beside him, waiting for her heart to calm and her head to focus. Thank heavens he loved her; thank heavens she’d seen it in his eyes. The Ashcrofts might be unconventional, but a child born out of wedlock might strain even their family motto a bit too far.
‘‘Ford?’’ she called softly, but there was no answer.
He’d collapsed for real this time.
He was sound asleep.
Her arms tightened around him, and her heart squeezed to match. She pressed a kiss to his warm, dear temple. She’d let him sleep a few minutes before she woke him and told him she’d be honored to become his wife.
‘‘Joseph?’’ Chrystabel called softly.
‘‘Hmm?’’
‘‘Do you think our baby is still an innocent now?’’
He rolled to face her. ‘‘She’s been alone with him before, my love.’’
‘‘You don’t think . . . no . . .’’
‘‘Yes.’’ He struggled up on his elbows, peering at her through the darkness. ‘‘Who, after all, brought home
Aristotle’s Masterpiece
?’’
‘‘I’m sure she thought it was a philosophy book.’’
He snorted and fell back to the pillows. ‘‘You just go on believing that, Chrysanthemum. Whatever makes you happy.’’
But she couldn’t believe. No matter that she’d plotted to allow Ford to seduce her daughter, she would have known had it actually happened. ‘‘If she’d been with him before, I would have seen it in her face.’’
This snort was even louder than the first. ‘‘One cannot tell from a woman’s face whether she has made love. If so, you’d be going about wearing a veil all your days.’’ She blushed, and he touched her cheek, then his eyes drifted closed. ‘‘But you believe whatever makes you happy, Chrysanthemum my love, so long as you let me sleep.’’
‘‘Ford, wake up!’’ Sitting beside him on the bed, Violet shook his shoulder. ‘‘I must get home!’’
With a groan, he rolled against her, and for a moment all she could think was she wanted to crawl back into bed with him. Even through her skirts he felt impossibly warm and wonderful.
But
impossible
was the operative word. She finished attaching her stomacher and shook him again. ‘‘ ’Tis morning already!’’
He cracked open one eye and, seeing naught but the single flame of a candle to break the darkness, promptly closed it. ‘‘It is not morning.’’
‘‘Well, it will be soon. I cannot believe I fell asleep!’’ She grabbed the candle and hurried next door to fetch her spectacles.
When the tiny chamber came into focus, her gaze fell on the single chair. Last night, she’d been entwined with Ford on that chair in a shockingly wanton conjugal embrace.
Her blood heated at the memory. In the soft glow of the candlelight, the room didn’t appear nearly as shabby as she’d thought. Besides, he’d told her he was fixing up Lakefield. He hadn’t done it before because he hadn’t planned to live here, but now he was going to fix it up. He’d hired laborers already.
Just like that
, he’d said in the summerhouse. And last night he’d said he was determined to see the estate earned a profit. It was going to be his home.
Home. She had to get home. She rushed back into the bedchamber. ‘‘Get up, will you? Or should I go home alone?’’
‘‘No.’’ He struggled to sit and ran a hand through his hair, leaving parts of it sticking straight up. Sleepy like this, he looked charmingly boyish, and the thought made her smile. Especially because she knew now how much a man he really was.
‘‘I’ll get dressed,’’ he muttered. ‘‘Just give me a moment.’’ He blinked, shook his head, and started to rise from the bed. Stark naked.
She wasn’t ready for this. This morning-after business was more than she could take. ‘‘I’ll wait for you downstairs,’’ she told him. ‘‘Hurry.’’ But she sneaked a sideways glance at him while she lit a second candle before rushing out the door.
My, he was magnificent.
She wanted him. God help her, she wanted him for good.
On her way down the stairs, she smiled at the worn boards that creaked under her feet, at the paneling on the walls that so badly needed refinishing, at the peeling paint on the beams overhead. None of it bothered her. The truth was, the condition of her home didn’t overly concern her . . . She just needed to know, deep in her bones, that the man she wed truly loved her.
Her
, Violet, not the monetary bounty that would come along with her.
And now she did know that, all the way down to her marrow. Love, true and honest—she’d seen it in Ford’s eyes. And though he hadn’t said it in so many words, he’d made it clear he didn’t need her inheritance. She could marry him now, knowing it was for all the right reasons. Knowing it was for love, not money.
Her entire body seemed to sing with happiness. As soon as Ford came downstairs, she would tell him she would be honored—no, thrilled—to become his wife.
’Twas not as late as she’d feared. To her great relief, Hilda and Harry were nowhere in sight. She set the candle on a small marble table that could use a serious buffing, then paced Lakefield’s entrance hall while she waited for Ford and thought about her new life—her wonderful new life with him.
Her dowry should cover the costs of renovation, leaving more of his funds available to improve the estate, which in turn would allow it to run more profitably. She was anxious to go over his plans. Since she wouldn’t be publishing her book for many years, perhaps she should suggest they use her inheritance to accelerate the improvements. The investment would surely come back to her long before she needed it.
Now that she knew Ford wasn’t marrying her for her inheritance, she wouldn’t mind him making use of it. In fact, it made little sense to let all that money sit idle for years.
Her gaze went up the empty staircase. What was taking him so long? Wondering if the sun were rising already, she jerked open the front door.
A shocked face was on the other side. Violet squealed, and the young boy turned tail and started running.
‘‘Wait!’’ she called.
He stopped and pivoted back. ‘‘I have a letter, madam.’’
Madam.
Was her loss of innocence so obvious to a stranger, then? Or was it only that she’d reached the advanced old age of one-and-twenty?
Rather cautiously, he approached the door, holding forth a rectangle of sealed parchment. ‘‘Will you give this to the lord?’’
‘‘Of course. Let me just . . . wait.’’ She’d noticed a bowl with a few coins on the table in the entrance, and she went inside to fetch one, pressing it into the boy’s hand on her return. ‘‘Thank you.’’
He touched his cap and took off.
She slowly closed the door, turning the letter in her hands. It looked long and very official. There was no return address, but she hoped . . . could it be from Daniel Quare, the watchmaker? Her heart pounded at the thought. She sent a furtive glance up the stairs and then slipped her fingernail under the seal.
My dearest Lord Lakefield
, she read.
It is my sad
duty to inform you that I have received a foreclosure
notice on your estate. You have thirty days . . .
The letter fluttered to the floor, her heart sinking with it.
’Twas not in response to her query, and she had no business reading Ford’s private mail. But the parchment mocked her from where it sat on the dull wood planks. She took a deep breath before stooping to retrieve it, then set it on the table beside the bowl of coins. Ford would find it later. After he’d taken her home, after she’d told him she saw no reason to see each other anymore.
Foreclosure.
She would have to pray she wasn’t with child. Because he’d tried to fool her, and she’d done her best to fool herself . . . but she no longer had any illusions about why Ford Chase had been pursuing her so avidly.
Two men were working on Lakefield’s roof. Three were painting the exterior of the house, two the interior. Another man was busy stripping the dark Tudor paneling for refinishing, and in the gardens, two more toiled, making order out of the disarray Ford had left.
In the meantime, he paced his laboratory, the letter in his hand.
Foreclosure.
The word was like a fist to his gut. He’d had no idea his situation was this bad. Never again would he allow himself to stay ignorant of his finances.
He’d thought if he put his mind to the task—and the funds he usually spent on his science into the estate—he could make Lakefield profitable and dig himself out of debt. And he could, according to his solicitor. But it would be much more difficult than he’d imagined.
Foreclosure.
All these people he’d hired yesterday he’d have to dismiss this afternoon. In lieu of selling the estate, his solicitor had outlined an emergency plan to save it, but it certainly didn’t include funds for cosmetic restorations. His income would have to go into the fields, purchasing livestock, fixing the stables, and repairing crofters’ cottages so new tenants would have a place to live.
But that wasn’t the worst of his troubles.
He’d been sure the tactics he’d plotted with Rand were working, but for some reason he couldn’t fathom, after what he’d considered a night of shared bliss, Violet had awakened this morning and seen him in a different light. A light so dim and dreary, she’d made it clear she had no interest in seeing him ever again.
And now his dreams of repairing Lakefield so she’d view him in a brighter light were finished. Gone. His hopes of winning her were gone as well. Along with his spirits.
The disappointment was a physical ache. Empty years yawned ahead. He knew, with a sureness that crushed him, that he’d never find satisfaction in his scientific accomplishments again. Not without Violet here to share them.
Unless . . .
The letter fluttered to the floor as, determined, he set his jaw. He had one last chance to win her, one final opportunity to convince her, once and for all, that he loved her, not her inheritance. One way to fill his coffers with the kind of money that would make hers superfluous.
’Twould be the hardest thing he’d ever done . . . but with his only other option losing Violet, he had no choice.
No other choice he could live with.
Violet looked up from her philosophy book, muttering under her breath. She’d read the same page four times and still didn’t understand it. It had been three days since she’d seen Ford—three days during which she couldn’t concentrate on anything and snapped at everyone within earshot.
‘‘Violet?’’
Exasperated, she swung toward the door. ‘‘Yes?’’
she bit out, then bit her lip. Her mother didn’t deserve her misplaced ire. ’Twas not Mum’s fault that Violet was too plain and odd for any man to love except for her money.
She closed her eyes momentarily, then opened them, drawing on her last reserve of patience. ‘‘What is it, Mum?’’
‘‘There’s a man here to see you. Not Ford,’’ she added in a rush, and Violet was chagrined, knowing the leap of hope must have shown in her eyes. ‘‘His friend,’’ Mum said gently. ‘‘Lord Randal Nesbitt.’’
Rand? Why would Rand want to see
her
? ‘‘Are you sure he isn’t here to see Rose, Mum? She’s the one who likes languages.’’
‘‘He asked for you. He’s waiting in the drawing room.’’
Sighing, she reached for her spectacles. In a fit of melancholy that terrible morning, she’d tried to put them away in a drawer, because they’d reminded her too much of Ford. Of her dreams, dashed and broken.
But after three or four hours walking around half blind, she’d decided that was ridiculous. She wasn’t going to forget him anyway, and there was no point in bumping into things for the rest of her life.
She slid them on and made her way downstairs to the drawing room.
When Violet entered the chamber, Rand stood.
‘‘Ford knows not that I’m here, my lady, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.’’
‘‘As you wish.’’ She waved him back into the cream-colored chair and took the matching one for herself.
‘‘What is this all about?’’
Chrystabel had served him tea, and he raised the cup and sipped. ‘‘Ford wrote to me two days ago, and I thought you should know.’’
‘‘Know what?’’ She took a biscuit from a tray and nervously broke off a piece. ‘‘You’re confusing me, my lord.’’
‘‘Rand,’’ he reminded her. ‘‘And my apologies. I’m just so shocked, I wasn’t sure . . . well . . . he asked me to sell
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet
. To take bids on it and then contact Mr. Isaac Newton.’’
‘‘Sell
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet
?’’ Unheeded, the crumbs dropped into her lap. She remembered Ford clutching the book the day he found it. His eyes glittering with excitement every time another bit was deciphered. ‘‘ ’Tis his favorite thing in the world, his chance to discover the Philosopher’s Stone and bring it to all of humanity. You must be mistaken.’’
‘‘I assure you, I’m not. According to Ford, Newton has offered to double anyone’s bid, and he wishes to collect.’’ Rand sipped again, watching her over the rim. ‘‘ ’Tis the only path he can see clear to winning your heart.’’
That heart skipped a beat. Involuntarily, Violet raised a hand to her chest. ‘‘I don’t understand . . .’’
He set down the cup and leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees. ‘‘I’ve known Ford since we were lads together at Oxford, but never have I known him in love. Until now.’’
She shook her head. ‘‘You’re mistaken, my lord—’’
‘‘Rand.’’
‘‘Rand, then. You’re mistaken. Look at me, Rand.
Really look. I am not a woman who inspires love—’’
‘‘What are you talking about?’’ he interrupted.
She sat straighter in her chair. ‘‘I have a mirror, and two good eyes.’’ Her hands went to her beloved spectacles. ‘‘Well, bad eyes, actually, until Ford made me these, but—’’