“No, they’re not,” she said, hiding a grin. “Read it.”
He focused on the page. “‘Several observables,’” he enunciated slowly, “‘in the six-branched figures form’d on the surface of urine by freezing.’”
“Ewww.” Jewel made a face.
But Rowan was unruffled. “Can we buy one of these books, Violet? Please?”
“I have no idea where to get one.”
“London,” Ford said, polishing a small rectangle of mirror on his breeches. “Check the title page.”
She turned to it and read. “‘Printed by Joseph Martyn and James Allestry, Printers to the Royal Society, and sold at their shop at the Bell in St. Paul’s Churchyard.’ Hmm.” She looked up at Rowan. “I’ll talk to Father about it when next we go to the City.”
Ford ripped a piece of white paper from a page of scribbled notes. “When will that be?”
“When Parliament is in session.”
“I’ll see if we can get one for him sooner.” He turned to his niece. “Would you and Rowan do me a favor? Run downstairs, will you, and ask Hilda for a pitcher of water.”
While Jewel hurried Rowan from the room, sending a pendulum swinging as they went, Ford walked to the single window and threw the wooden shutters open wide. “Three o’clock on a clear and sunny day,” he said. “The sun should be just about right.”
“For what?”
“Our demonstration. I promised you a rainbow, remember?”
Baffled, she decided to take a wait-and-see attitude. “I’m sorry Rose couldn’t help you,” she said.
“But she did. Without her observations, I may never have realized the book might be in code. Or in a language so old it’s obsolete.” He set the paper by the mirror and pan. “I have a friend from my Oxford days, now an expert in ancient linguistics. And codes.” He laughed at some reminiscence. “Rand used to infuriate his brother by deciphering his secret journals. I’m going to send for him tomorrow.”
“So you do have a friend.”
A faint glint of humor lit his eyes. “I have many friends.”
“I’m sure you do.” More than she had, she’d wager. “I just meant I’d thought you’d invented that friend as a story to tell Mr. Young. The bookseller.”
“Well, I didn’t buy the book for Rand, so that much was a falsity. But he does exist. And I’d trust him with my life, although I’ll admit I hesitate to let that book out of my sight.” His half-smile was one of self-amusement. “I expect that’s why I didn’t think to call on Rand in the first place. Foolish of me—if I’d summoned him yesterday, I might know what I have already. But it never even occurred to me until Rose brought up the inconsistencies.”
“You’re just focused,” she said. “On other things.”
“You’re right, you know.” He moved closer. “I’ve always had that unfortunate trait. When I concentrate on one thing, I cannot think of another.”
Finding herself backed against a table, she put her hands behind her and knocked over a flask. She whirled to right it. “My father is like that,” she said while still turned away. “He thinks only of his flowers.”
“My problem is,” Ford whispered in her ear, “I’ve been thinking of you.”
Violet’s stomach did that odd flip-flop as his hands on her shoulders gently maneuvered her to face him.
“Thank you,” he said, his face inscrutable as usual.
“F-for what?” Even through her gown, her skin tingled under his fingers. Her own thoughts whirled and skidded—she couldn’t think at all when he was so close. When he was touching her, when she could smell patchouli, when she could feel his warmth.
This wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. He was acting like he wanted her. But if he truly did want her, it was for all the wrong reasons.
And yet…she was beginning to think she might want him anyway.
His bright, bold gaze captured hers. “Thank you for forgiving me for whatever thickheaded thing I said yesterday.”
Yesterday rushed back, those exhilarating moments by the river when she’d thought he’d understood, and then his words: It is the rare fellow who’d let his wife use her fortune for such a project.
Most husbands would expect to use a wife’s inheritance for their own purposes.
She swallowed hard, hurt anew at the reminder that he thought her aspirations foolish. That she wasn’t pretty enough or interesting enough to be wanted—despite her quirks—for herself.
Only for her money.
But as his hands drifted up her neck until they held the sides of her face, all those disturbing thoughts fled her mind. Her heartbeat suddenly seemed louder than the dozens of ticking clocks.
With his index fingers, he drew her spectacles forward and off. A little click sounded when he set them on the table behind her. Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.
A sudden rush of feeling made the blood race through her veins. Her head swam and a little thrill ran through her. He deepened the kiss, and her knees weakened, but his arms slipped around her waist to hold her up. By magic, it seemed, her own arms went around his neck in return, and she threaded her fingers into his hair.
When loud, childish voices came drifting down the corridor, Ford and Violet pulled away simultaneously. Her cheeks burning, Violet smoothed her skirts as Rowan and Jewel bounded in, chatting happily. She blinked at their blurry faces, then spun around to the table and snatched up her spectacles, shoving them back onto her face.
“Here, Uncle Ford.” Jewel held out the pitcher.
Ford took it and filled the pan with water. Nonchalantly. Like nothing at all had happened.
Well, she told herself sternly, to him a kiss probably was nothing. Especially a kiss with her. He was obviously proceeding with the demonstration in a state of perfect calm. She shook her head to clear it, determined to pay attention.
And to appear as unruffled as he.
With a forearm, he swept aside springs and gears to set the pan on his work surface. Bright sunlight streamed through the window and glinted off the water.
He handed Jewel the small rectangle of mirror. “Put this in,” he instructed,
