Without her spectacles, he was all she could see. He was all she wanted to see.
She kept her eyes open this time as he slowly lowered his mouth toward hers. But before their lips touched again, a girlish squeal pierced the air, and both their heads whirled toward the sound.
Jewel was fine. But the spell was broken.
Pulling a face, Ford straightened and made sure Violet was steady on the swing before handing over her spectacles. Her hands shaking, she put them back on. As his face swam into view, he flashed her a smile. A secretive smile. A smile she didn’t think she had the experience to comprehend.
She leaned her forehead against the swing’s rough rope, trying to catch her breath. She could hear Ford rummaging about, gathering the book and her shoes.
“Thirty-seven, thirty-eight,” Rowan chanted.
Once he’d collected their belongings, Ford paused for a moment to collect his wits. What on earth had possessed him to risk that in front of his young niece? He seemed to be growing more impulsive by the day.
Someone had left one of the inn’s benches near the tree—to sit and watch their children, no doubt—and he dragged it over by Violet’s swing and sat. He set her shoes on the grass and the book on his lap.
“Forty-eight, forty-nine…” On the opposite side of the tree, Rowan reached fifty, and the children traded places.
“You’re very good with them,” Violet said quietly from her swing.
Never, in ten lifetimes, had Ford thought anyone would tell him that. Of course, he’d never thought he’d kiss a girl like Violet Ashcroft, either. A shy country miss who spouted philosophy.
“It was only physics,” he said dismissively, gazing at her profile. Her lips were slightly parted. He remembered how they’d felt on his, silky and delicate as a flower petal. How appropriate. ”Science. I’m good at science.”
Still motionless on the swing, she turned her head to look at him. “You’re good with your niece. And Rowan.”
He felt totally inept with them, but he didn’t want to argue. “Perhaps that’s because I never grew up myself,” he suggested instead. “My family would tell you that.”
“You’ve said something like that before,” she recalled, looking flushed and flustered and beautiful, her eyes large and liquid behind her lenses. The spectacles had slipped down her nose, and she pushed them back up. “What are they like, your family?”
“Loud,” he answered with a grin. “I have a twin sister, Kendra, and two older brothers, Jason and Colin. All married. Among the three of them, they have seven children already, and I suspect more to come. Jewel is the oldest.”
“No wonder you’re good with children, then.”
He shook his head. “It’s not like that. I’ve played with them, of course, and when I’m not in London, I live with Jason and his family at Cainewood. Two boys, he and Cait have. But before now, I’d never taken care of my nephews or nieces.” They all had nursemaids to see to that. “I’ve never taken care of anyone before.”
He'd been the baby of the family. Everyone had always taken care of him.
“Well, you’re doing a proper job.” She shifted to look over at Jewel, who was shrieking with laughter as she soared through the air beside Rowan.
His niece looked happy. Perhaps Violet was right, and he wasn’t doing such a bad job after all.
“And your parents?” she asked, turning back. “What are they like?”
“Dead.”
“Faith,” she muttered, her face going white. “I’m so sor—”
“No need to be sorry.” He turned the book over in his hands. “I was all of one year old when they died at Worcester, fighting for King Charles. I don’t even remember them. My oldest brother more or less raised me, with the help of the exiled court. It was an interesting life.”
Her fingers trailed up and down the ropes. “And a rough life, I’d wager.”
He shrugged. “Not for me. Our parents sold most everything to help finance the war, but I was too young to worry about where my next meal would come from. Someone else always took care of that. The court moved from Paris, to Brussels, to Bruges and back…the world was my playground. I suppose things were tight, but a child doesn’t need much.”
When she met his gaze, the expression in them made something twist in his gut. “A child needs love,” she said softly.
Soft or not, he heard a challenge in her voice.
“I had love.” Uncomfortable under that gaze, he looked at the sun shining off the river instead. “From my sister and two older brothers. I never wanted for anything.”
A short silence stretched between them before he finally looked back. One of her stockinged feet reached for the grass and pushed off. “And after you returned to England?” she asked, swaying back and forth.
How to sum up the last decade in a few short sentences? Why did he care that she understood his past? “By the time Charles regained the throne, Jason and Colin were nearly of age. Cromwell had stolen their childhoods, and both of them had too many responsibilities to attend formal schooling. I should never have owned land—being a younger son—but as thanks for our parents’ service to the crown, Charles granted all of us titles and estates…and as soon as I could, I left mine behind and went off to university.”
“How old were you then?”
“Seventeen. And spoiled rotten.”
He’d never thought of it that way before, but it was true. Between term times during his six years at Oxford, and after completing his studies earlier this year, he’d returned to live with Jason. He’d never had to fend for himself. Never worried for anyone else. Never even had to chase a girl, since he’d always had Tabitha waiting in London.
He gave a rueful smile. “I’ve led a charmed life, haven’t I?“
“I’m sure you haven’t,” she
