‘‘ ’Tis obvious you do not yet know my brother. Ask Kendra and Caithren about
their
weddings sometime.’’
‘‘I will,’’ she said, very much looking forward to that. ‘‘I like your family.’’
‘‘I was sure they’d scare you away. They’re loud, and meddlesome—’’
‘‘And they love you.’’
‘‘I know,’’ he said. ‘‘And now that I’ve married you, I’m hoping they’ll actually approve of me, too.’’
She didn’t quite understand what he meant by that, either, but it sounded like something better discussed another time.
His arm tightened around her shoulders, and his voice turned low and velvet-edged. ‘‘Have you brought the feather?’’
She’d spent the entire day thinking about that feather. Her heart suddenly pounding, she reached into her bodice and pulled it out, its satiny edges tickling between her breasts as the length of it slid free.
His eyes widened, and a grin spread on his face. He took the plume and tickled her nose, then pressed a slow kiss to the top of her head. A kiss so cherishing, she felt tears spring to her eyes.
‘‘Oh, Ford,’’ she whispered, holding him closer, breathing in his heady patchouli scent. He trailed the feather across her lips and down the length of her neck, swirling it on the skin exposed by her wedding gown’s low dećolletage.
She shivered, remembering his words.
I’m going to
save that for our wedding night.
And then she shuddered, a luxurious shudder that went clear down to her toes.
His smile now was pure male as he used the feather to tilt up her chin. ‘‘Darling, is that ardor I’m detecting?’’
Later, she wouldn’t remember how she made it into the house. She wouldn’t remember how she came to be unclothed or lying on that towering four-poster bed now hung with new blue brocade.
But she would never, in her entire life, forget the feel of the feather she’d been anticipating all the long day of her wedding.
He had that feather dancing over every inch of her body, brushing, grazing, skimming, raising gooseflesh and igniting delicious shivers. Her sensitized skin prickled with pleasure, but the physical sensations were nothing compared to the love that swelled in her heart. Captured in his intimate gaze, she became his in a way she’d never thought she’d belong to a man.
That ache was building, that hot ache that made her yearn for him to complete her. When the feather had kissed every part of her but there where the ache was centered, Ford dropped it and closed his eyes, bringing his mouth to meet hers.
This kiss was a promise, a vow, more binding than any words they had recited in the chapel. She sunk into its velvet warmth, savoring its wordless pledge.
And when it turned demanding and hungry, the thrill of it sang through her veins, making her breath catch and her heart stutter and restart, then race in response to his fervor.
Rain pattered against the window as he tore away his lips to allow his mouth to worship her body, a damp trail of kisses that touched her every place the feather had touched before.
Every place but where she most wanted him.
He kissed her shoulders, her breasts, her rib cage, rolling her over to make certain no inch of flesh went unadored. His lips traced her spine, moving lower. He nipped her toes, his tongue flicking at her arches. Her fingers clutched at the sheets, and she heard little moans and realized they were hers. Rolling her to her back once again, he kissed his way up her calves, her knees, urging open her thighs to rain their delicate skin with more kisses. So close to where she ached to have him join her.
When he paused, her eyes flew open. She looked down to find his head was raised, and he was measuring her with that deep blue gaze.
In the sudden stillness, her breath sounded harsh, her heartbeat unnaturally loud. He reached once more for the feather, and then slowly, slowly, he traced it down the cleft where she ached.
And again. The strokes were gossamer, the sensations ethereal, tantalizingly exquisite. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, squirming under the assault, throwing her head back in wild abandon. Again and again, and the heat was spreading, every nerve in her body alive, tingling, aroused almost beyond bearing.
Then he tossed the plume and replaced it with his tongue, a caress so hot and slick and intimate, she thought she might die, might simply expire from a surfeit of sensation. ’Twas building, that urgent sweetness, that raging desire. It seemed to be lifting her up toward the heavens.
A flash of lightning was followed by a rumble that matched the thundering of her pulse. Her entire world centered on where he was licking and suckling, and then, when she was certain her heart would burst from pleasure, he slipped a finger inside her, too, and she rocketed into the clouds.
’Twas a long, long fall back down. Plunging, spinning, tumbling, until finally she found herself grounded and back in his arms. For long moments she lay there, waiting for her heart to slow, her breathing to calm.
And then, starting over with the feather, she did to him all the things he’d done to her.
Ford inhaled her sweet scent, the essence of Violet.
She smelled of flowers and desire, and every touch of the plume, every brush of her fingers and lips made him more certain of the rightness of them together.
Her brandy-wine eyes were glazed, flooded with passion, and an answering passion flooded his heart. A depth of wanting he’d never even imagined.
’Twas the difference between mere lust and true love. The difference that made his blood pump when before it had only flowed. The difference that aroused him nearly to the point of pain.
The difference that made her his.
Her mouth on him was sweet and hot, and he shuddered under her, her tender onslaught robbing him of his wits and his breath. And when at last he couldn’t stand anymore, and he drew away and covered her with his body and slid into her welcoming warmth, he knew he was home. Home was wherever Violet was, and Violet was right here.
He shifted slowly within her, forcing himself to hold back, wanting to give her all the pleasure she was giving him. But her hands on his hips urged him faster.
And when he felt her peak for a second time, his heart gloried as he went with her.
For a very long time, he held her in his arms, kissing her hair and drawing in its sweet scent. Usually one to turn over and go to sleep, he decided she must have enchanted him.
‘‘I have a wedding present for you,’’ she finally said softly.
‘‘Damnation.’’ The spell broken, he kissed her again, then sat up against the headboard. ‘‘I have nothing for
you
.’’
‘‘You sent me the feather, remember?’’ she teased.
‘‘And the ring is more than enough.’’ She smiled at it in the candlelight. Like Violet, it was simple: one large, rectangular amethyst with a row of small diamonds flanking each side. ‘‘It sparkles so,’’ she said.
‘‘ ’Tis the prettiest ring I’ve ever seen.’’
‘‘Amy made it. Especially for you.’’
‘‘But she’d only met me the once!’’
‘‘I think she captured you perfectly, though.’’
‘‘She did.’’ Still smiling, she dropped her hand. ‘‘Let me get your gift.’’
She slid from the bed and walked across the room, and all he could think was that Violet without clothing was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Gorgeous breasts rose above a curvy waist his hands itched to span. Flared hips led to long, shapely legs. Who’d ever have guessed all that was hidden beneath her plain gowns?
‘‘Stop,’’ he said. ‘‘Right there.’’
‘‘What?’’ Her eyes darted furtively around. ‘‘Is there a poisonous spider?’’
‘‘No.’’ He laughed. ‘‘I just wanted to look at you.
You’re perfect.’’
‘‘I am not.’’ Self-consciously she folded her arms across her breasts. ‘‘I’m neither tall like Rose, nor petite like Lily. Neither plump nor slender.’’
‘‘Exactly. You’re perfect. Now what have you brought me?’’
‘‘Just this.’’ Slipping back into the bed, she handed him a package wrapped in fabric, gathered and tied with ribbons on both ends.
He felt its shape. ‘‘A book? For a wedding present?’’
‘‘Just open it.’’ She grinned, looking so excited he thought if he didn’t hurry, his beautiful, naked wife might actually bounce on the bed.
He pulled off the ribbons, letting the fabric fall open.
And the breath left his body.
He stared down at it a moment, then raised his gaze to meet hers. ‘‘
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.
How—
how did you get this?’’
‘‘I bought it. With my inheritance.’’
‘‘From Newton?’’
‘‘From you.’’
He pushed it into her hands. ‘‘Give it back. I won’t have you sacrificing your own dreams for this book.
I’ve already given it up, and I’m not sorry for the bargain.’’ His voice sounded rough to his own ears, and he forced himself to gentle it. ‘‘ ’Tis not that I’m ungrateful, my love. ’Tis just that—’’
‘‘No. You’re not understanding.
I
bought it, Ford.
In the first place. Rand told me you’d instructed him to sell it, and I couldn’t allow that to happen. I couldn’t let you sacrifice your prized possession just to convince me of your love.’’
His heart squeezed painfully in his chest. ’Twas a moment before words would come, and when they finally did, he had only three.
‘‘I love you.’’
’Twas not the first morning Ford had awakened with a woman in his bed, but ’twas the first time with Violet. The first time that really counted.
He just lay there a while, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, enjoying the color he’d put in her cheeks, her lips still rosy from their middle-of-the-night encounters. Unable to help himself, he reached out, brushing the side of her face with the backs of his fingers.
‘‘Ford?’’
‘‘Hush, my sweet. Sleep.’’
With a sigh, he rose so she could do so. Quietly he padded to the washbasin and splashed his face, then reached for a towel. He stared at himself in the mirror.
What kind of a man was he? He’d thought he was doing the right thing, the responsible thing, when he’d sold the book to save Lakefield. He’d been so pleased with himself when he’d managed to make his home livable and still have money leftover to last for a few months until the estate could turn a profit. ’Twas the first time in his life he hadn’t spent every shilling the moment he laid hands on it.
Last night when Violet returned the book, he’d been stunned and thrilled to discover the depth of her love and generosity. But as he studied himself this morning, reality set in.
Bloody hell, her money had paid for everything.
And would continue to pay their expenses.
He closed his eyes, guilt battering his newfound happiness. Never mind that he was accustomed to living hand to mouth, now he was a married man.
Shouldn’t he be the provider?
Society said not necessarily, but his heart told him yes. Especially because he’d been telling Violet that all along.
Straightening, he looked in the mirror again and ordered himself to come to terms with it. Like it or not, his wife had been his anonymous benefactor. At this point, all he could do was resolve to work hard, and not in his laboratory. Instead, on his land and in his study—he would do whatever it took to make sure his renovated estate was successful.
As he tossed the towel to the washstand, his gaze fell on
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet
. He would ask Rand—the scheming bastard—to resume the translation, too. But he would no longer depend on an ancient book to rescue him. Gold wasn’t waiting at the end of rainbows. Or in an alchemy crucible, either.
Someday, somehow, he would provide his new wife with the funds to publish her book. But the way it looked now, he thought with a resigned sigh, ‘‘someday’’ was far in the future.
A knock came at the door, and he hurried into his breeches and went to answer it.
‘‘Will you be wanting breakfast, milord?’’
He looked to Violet. ‘‘In an hour,’’ he whispered.
‘‘My wife is still abed.’’
My wife.
His heart swelled at hearing the words.
‘‘She’ll wake, will she not? ’Tis hot and ready now.
Eggs and cheese. This new French cook certainly is fancy.’’ Hilda shoved a heavy tray into his hands.
‘‘Your mail is there, too.’’
Openmouthed, he watched her sway down the corridor, then shut the door. ‘‘If I cannot control my servants,’’ he muttered, ‘‘how will I deal with children?’’
‘‘You never did manage to control Jewel.’’
At those true words, he turned and set the tray on the bed. ‘‘You’re awake.’’
‘‘And famished.’’ Violet struggled to sit and spooned up a bite of the rich dish, puffed from oven baking and redolent with the scent of sharp Italian cheese.
He sat beside her and sipped coffee from a steaming cup, then put it down and took the first letter, snapping open the seal. ‘‘ ‘Dear Lord Lakefield,’ ’’ he read aloud, thinking it might be a congratulatory note on their wedding. ‘‘ ‘I am writing on behalf of my client, Daniel Quare, Watchmaker, who is very interested in buying the rights to produce your patented watch.
Please find enclosed a contract—’ ’’ He looked up.
‘‘What the devil . . . ?’’
Violet’s face was pure white. ‘‘Oh my. They’ve responded. I gave them two weeks, and ’tis been way more than that, so—’’
‘‘You gave them two weeks to what?’’
‘‘To agree to buy your watch before I took my offer elsewhere. Your offer, I mean.’’ Some color rushed back into her cheeks. ‘‘I signed your name.’’
His wife was obviously confused from lack of sleep.
‘‘I haven’t patented my watch, darling. I haven’t even shown it to the Royal Society yet—’’
‘‘
I
patented it. I wrote Christopher Wren and asked for instructions. I remembered him saying he’d patented a device for writing with two pens at once.’’
‘‘You sold my watch?’’ ’Twas all beginning to click into place. Shaking his head in disbelief, he scanned farther down the page. His heart stopped. ‘‘You sold my watch for twenty thousand pounds?
Twenty
thousand pounds!’’
His heart had started again, but ’twas about to hammer right through his ribs.