Philosophy. Truth be told, he loathed the discipline—if one could even call the study of unprovable and oft indecipherable prattle a discipline. But at least this Violet seemed to have a keen brain in her head, which was uncommon, in his experience. Not that the ladies he knew were simpleminded, but he tended to gravitate toward girls of the fun and frilly variety. To be perfectly honest, after a long day at his studies or in his laboratory, he was seeking a diversion, not a fellow academic.
Tabitha, for instance, had been a lovely diversion. But a diversion was the last thing Ford needed just now, and as he’d come to realize he couldn’t avoid all of womankind entirely, he’d decided to limit his female contacts to those who proved practical. Hilda, for example—his housekeeper—was a useful woman to have around.
And as for Lady Violet…
With her thick, chocolate-brown plait and eyes the color of his favorite brandy, Violet was nice-looking, although not the sort of beauty who would turn heads. Which was fine with him, since he wanted his head right where it was, thank you: square on his shoulders, where he could use it to concentrate on his work.
If he could convince Lady Violet to stay a while and maybe even come back with Rowan tomorrow, perhaps he could finally sneak away to his laboratory. In which case he’d have to admit that his twin, Kendra, was right—ladies were good for more than just flirting and adorning one’s arm.
Though not to her face, of course.
As he barged into the kitchen, his housekeeper looked up from polishing the silver, one gray eyebrow raised in query. “Yes, my lord?”
“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, Hilda’s husband, had gone off to this time. The two of them might be servants, but their marriage mimicked most of the aristocracy’s—which was to say they stayed as far from each other as possible.
“Lady Trentingham is at home,” he told her. “The countess’s daughter came instead. Lady Violet.”
“The sensible one?”
“Come again?” Spotting a tray of biscuits on the kitchen’s scarred wooden worktable, he inched his way over.
“The oldest, yes? Lady Trentingham calls her ‘the sensible one.’ The middle girl—Rose, I believe—is ‘the wild one,’ and the youngest, Lily, is ‘the sweet one.’”
“She has three daughters? All named for flowers?” How absurd.
“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. Mmm, cinnamon. Dusting crumbs off his fingers, he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. ”How do you come to know all this?”
Hilda frowned. “Why shouldn’t I know my neighbors?” She shoved at a 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 paused to reach 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 a wrinkled cheek and sniffed. “It’s lovely.” In truth, she smelled like one of her cinnamon biscuits. But whatever made her happy.
“When Lady Trentingham brings the perfume, 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?”
“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. It seemed Lady Trentingham was well-nigh as eccentric as the earl.
“Here comes Harry,” Hilda said, watching out the window. “Don’t you think it’s time to serve 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’d 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 bottom jutting into the air beneath its layers of petticoats and sturdy, serviceable skirts. Which weren’t frilly in the least. A fitting gown for The Sensible One.
Even through all that fabric, Ford could tell she had a rather nice bottom. Especially compared to his housekeeper’s.
He frowned, mentally clamping down on his thoughts. He wasn’t supposed to be noticing any female’s bottom. He was supposed to be appreciating women for their practical uses only.
Lady Violet’s 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.”
“C’mon, Rowan,” Jewel cooed, getting down on her knees herself. “Come out and play. I’ve always wanted to play with a boy.”
Knowing Jewel had two brothers at home, Ford choked back laughter. And she wasn’t pronouncing boy at all the same way she had yesterday in the garden.
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?”
Ford grinned. Little boys were so much easier than girls. ”Cinnamon,” he said.
“I’m still not coming out,” Rowan said.
“Would you like a drink of chocolate?” Hilda coaxed, taking the warm pitcher from Ford’s hands.
“Chocolate?” The boy inched forward. “Real chocolate?”
“He cannot have it,” his sister said firmly. “Chocolate gives him hives.”
Rowan crawled closer and
