Most of Lakefield had seen better days, but the dining room struck Violet as particularly dreary. The paneling was so dark it appeared nearly black, and although the built-in cupboards boasted glass in the doors, very few dishes were displayed inside. The room’s color scheme was an uninspiring mélange of browns. Everything was clean, though—the viscount had a decent housekeeper in Hilda.
“Here, Rowan,” Jewel said brightly as they entered. “Sit here.” She pulled out one of the faded tan chairs. “Right here. I put a toy here for you.”
“At the table?” Violet asked.
“Uncle Ford lets me play at the table. As long as I leave him to his thoughts.”
Violet would lay odds Jewel’s parents didn’t feel the same way. But she smiled as she watched her brother race to the chair and claim the toy, a cup and ball.
“Rowan…” she prompted.
“My thanks,” he murmured absently, making the ball fly up and catching it in the cup with a satisfying—to him, anyway—bang. He grinned and did it again. Well, his mood was improved, at least. Perhaps this visit wouldn’t go as badly as the first one.
“Oooh, you’re very good at that,” Jewel all but purred, sidling up to Rowan.
He smiled, making Violet think perhaps she could learn a thing or two from Jewel about flirting.
Jewel touched him on the arm. When he looked up at her, she fluttered her lashes. “Rowan, will you show me how to do that? I’m just a butterfingers. I miss the cup every time.”
Faith. Rose could learn a thing or two from her about flirting.
But then Jewel reached for the toy, and Rowan jerked away, his frown back in place. “Mine.”
“Rowan,” Violet scolded, silently cursing her mother for sending her here again. “Behave yourself.”
Jewel looked crestfallen. Knowing what it was like to feel awkward with boys, Violet felt for the girl. The sash on her powder blue dress was tied very crookedly in back—the viscount’s work, no doubt. Perhaps some female companionship would ease the sting of male rejection.
“Here, let me fix your bow,” Violet offered brightly, stepping up to retie it.
“Good afternoon,” came a low voice from beside her.
She turned, blinking when she saw Lord Lakefield. Silver braid gleamed on his deep gray velvet suit, rather fancy for an afternoon at home. But she had to admit he looked splendid.
Feeling underdressed in her plain russet gown, she resisted the urge to rearrange her skirts. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Please, just call me Ford,” he said with a smile.
That was so improper, she wasn’t sure what to say in return. Should she ask him to call her Violet? Would doing so invite too much familiarity? The oldest of four, she knew how to deal with children, but men remained a mystery. Especially eligible, handsome men the likes of whom usually failed to notice her existence.
She played with the end of her thick plait. Honestly, why was a tall, charming viscount with hypnotic blue eyes and hair that curled just right even talking to a girl like Violet, let alone asking her to call him Ford?
Had the world gone mad?
His smile wilted at the edges. Could he read her terror on her face? “Violet?”
Faith, he was calling her Violet already. Perhaps she should just try his name in her head. Ford. It seemed to fit. But when she opened her mouth, it felt entirely too scandalous to say aloud. She seemed to have lost her tongue.
This was ridiculous.
Evidently her silence had stretched long enough. “I’m just going to call you Violet,” he said blithely. “We’re neighbors, after all. Rowan, my man, what have you there?”
“A cup and ball.” Bang, bang. “Lady Jewel gave it to me.”
“Did she? I wonder where she got that old thing?”
Violet tore her gaze from the viscount—Ford—and glanced at the toy. “It does look rather used,” she said, finally finding her voice. “Ancient, actually.”
“Harry gave it to me,” Jewel said.
Ford nodded. “My equally ancient houseman.”
His housekeeper walked in and set a pitcher of ale on the table. “Is that what my husband was doing with you? I was wondering what you two were up to this morning. That toy once belonged to our son—did Harry tell you that?”
Jewel nodded, then her voice took on that flirtatious quality. “Isn’t Rowan good at it?”
“Very,” Ford said, sharing a smile with Violet that caught her by surprise. Clearly he was on to his niece’s ploys. He waved Violet toward a chair. “Won’t you sit down?”
“I’ll be back,” Hilda said, “after I get my tart out of the oven.”
Seating himself beside Violet, Ford reached for the ale and her cup. At Trentingham Manor, servants did the serving. For a nobleman, he didn’t seem to have very many. “How was your afternoon?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said, watching him pour. He had nice hands, long fingers and square nails. She wracked her brain for a topic of conversation. “I’m reading a book by Francis Bacon.”
He filled the children’s cups, adding water to both. “Philosophy?” he asked, his tone cool but courteous.
“Yes.” He remembered!
“And what does Francis Bacon have to say?”
She sipped while she thought of a reply, wondering why she cared so much what he thought of her. “He believes in liberty of speech.”
“That’s admirable.” He drained his cup.
“He thinks knowledge and human power are synonymous.”
He smiled vaguely as he refilled it.
“Do you agree?” she asked, feeling more awkward by the moment.
“Oh, yes. Yes, I do.”
She sighed with relief when Hilda waddled in with four plates and started setting one in front of each of them. A welcome distraction. Steam from the plain apple tart wafted to Violet’s nose, smelling sugary and delicious. She lifted her spoon.
“I don’t like apples,” Rowan said. “Do you have cherry tart?”
“Do you have manners?” Hilda retorted with a glare. Muttering to herself, she left the room.
Violet wanted to slip beneath the table. “Francis Bacon says,” she rushed out, “that if a man will begin with
