Odd, that.
Leaning back, Violet stuck her legs out straight and stared at her stockinged feet. “Nothing is that simple.”
But it had been. It had always been simple for him.
They fell quiet, and he smiled at the quaint picture she made on the swing, shoeless and wearing his spectacles. He’d never talked with a girl like he talked with Violet Ashcroft—never met one who seemed interested in discussing much beyond fashion and gossip. Never talked with anyone who made him reveal parts of himself he hadn’t even known.
“What was your childhood like?” he asked.
“Boring in comparison.” Still looking down, she turned her toes this way and that. “Grandpapa sent money for the cause, but he never went off to fight. He put family before the monarchy. We never went into exile, either. I’ve never been outside of Britain.”
“But he did support King Charles?”
She looked up. “Oh, yes. Of course he did. My family was never anything but Royalist.”
“I’m surprised Trentingham wasn’t attacked by Cromwell’s forces, then. Cainewood was.” And had the cannonball marks to prove it.
“They confiscated Trentingham and occupied it, but we weren’t there. Grandpapa had a secondary title and property that went along with it. Tremayne Castle, very near Wales. Not helpful for the Roundheads strategically, and I suspect too far away for them to bother with.” She glanced over at the children. “Rowan is Viscount Tremayne now.”
“So your family stayed there for all the years of the war?”
“And after. All through the Commonwealth, until the Restoration. Besides having an odd penchant for studying languages, Grandpapa was a stickler for safety.” She pushed off again, gliding up and then down, slowing immediately when she did nothing to sustain the momentum. “My parents were wed at Tremayne, and I was born there. As were Rose and Lily. I was six before I ever laid eyes on Trentingham.”
“Six?” he said, surprised. “How old are you now?”
“Almost eighteen.”
From the tone of her voice one would guess she thought eighteen was a doddering old maid. But he’d thought she was older. Not that she looked older, but Tabitha was twenty-one, yet Violet seemed so much more mature.
“I’m twenty-three,” he told her.
“I figured that,” she said, “when I heard you were one year old during the Battle of Worcester.”
“Unlike Rowan, you’re good at mathematics.” He smiled, thinking she was good at a lot of things. “Does your family sometimes live at Tremayne Castle now?”
“Not anymore. We retreated there to wait out the Great Plague—Rowan was born there during that time. But then Grandpapa died, and we haven’t been back since.” Seeming deep in thought, she gazed out over the Thames, swaying gently to and fro in the swing. “The castle was only ever half built. Mum says it’s too far from London, and Father prefers Trentingham’s gardens. It’s a quiet sort of place, Tremayne…” She met his gaze again with a smile. “See, I told you my childhood was boring.”
To his great embarrassment, his stomach growled. Loudly.
“Oh!” she said. “It’s been at least two hours since you said you were starving! Before we even bought the books!”
“I haven’t perished.” He stood and handed her the shoes. “But I wouldn’t mind wandering over and taking a table.”
While she put them on, he went to fetch the children.
“Not yet!” Jewel yelled, swinging higher. “Another minute!”
“Two minutes!” Rowan countered.
“Three!”
“Five!”
“Ten!”
“Ten,” Ford agreed, giving Jewel one final push. “But only because it’s your birthday, mind you.”
Violet followed Ford to an empty table. As she slid onto the bench, she kept a vigilant eye on the two young ones, who faced away as they soared over the scenic river.
“Relax,” he told her. “They’ll be safe. If they fail to join us, they can eat their portions on the barge on our way home. And the two of us can dine in peace.”
A nice thought, Violet decided. Even more nice after he went inside to order a light dinner, then returned to sit beside her.
He couldn’t actually have feelings for her…could he? Everything she knew about men told her no—but then again, she didn’t know much about them at all. And his actions seemed to paint a different picture. It was confusing, to say the least. Especially when her hands drifted up to her face and she remembered her unsightly spectacles. For a while there, she’d forgotten all about them.
“No one’s staring,” he said gently. He lowered her hands and laced his fingers with one of them. It felt intimate, and her heart gave a stutter. “You look fine, Violet. You look lovely.”
Through the lenses, he appeared sincere. She surveyed the few patrons seated at the other tables. The buzz of their conversation sounded pleasant to her ears, and he was right: no one was staring.
Besides Ford, no one was looking at her at all.
His gaze dropped to the book, his face brightening at the sight. “I still cannot believe I may have found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.”
“I’m so happy for you.”
“It might not be the right book,” he reminded her, although she suspected he was actually reminding himself. He squeezed her hand. “But I thank you for sharing my excitement.”
“It’s contagious,” she told him. Her fingers tingled every place they touched his; she’d never realized her hand was so sensitive.
A serving maid came out and put two tankards on the table, along with a pewter platter piled with fat slices of cream toast. She set down two empty plates, and Ford dropped Violet’s hand to take one of them.
Her spectacles seemed to be fogging. She pulled them off, wiped them on her skirt, and put them back on. “Thank you for sharing your dream,” she said, lifting a tankard. A bracing swallow of ale seemed just the thing. “I very much hope it comes true.”
“It would be incredible, wouldn’t it?” He also sipped,
