She wasn’t well. She was very unwell indeed.
She was supposed to be the sensible one! She was supposed to be immune to gentlemen! Enjoying a kiss or two didn’t change any of that—she’d thought.
But what if she was mistaken about her own feelings?
What if they were insuperable?
“Girls, are you in there?”
All three of them jumped out of their skins.
Father knocked on one of the doors. “Willets said he saw you heading this way—”
Violet quickly sat on the book, folding her hands angelically on her lap while Rose went to open the door. “We’re just talking, Father. Do you need us?”
“Do I need what?” Looking perplexed, he scratched his head. “Your mother sent me to find you.”
“Why?” Violet asked.
“Lord Lakefield has arrived for supper. With a guest. Lord something-or-other. I failed to catch the name.”
“A gentleman? A titled gentleman?” Rose practically clapped her hands. “Gemini! We’d better go change our gowns!”
TWENTY-NINE
AN HOUR LATER, Mum set down her goblet. “Violet tells me Jewel is going home tomorrow.”
“Yes.” Ford sprinkled salt on his spinach tanzy and returned the spoon to its little dish. “I hope she also told you I’ve invited her to a Royal Society event at Gresham College.”
“She has,” Mum said, “and she’ll be delighted to attend. Monday evening, is it?”
A tiny gasp escaped Violet’s lips. She’d never given Ford an answer, and she’d wanted to do that for herself.
She nudged her mother’s foot beneath the table, but Mum pretended not to notice.
“Yes, Monday.” Ford took an experimental bite of the rich spinach omelette, then displayed his irresistible smile. “I trust you’ll be in London by then? I’ll need the direction of your town house.”
“More brown sauce, did you say?” Father frowned. “I don’t see any brown sauce…”
Nobody paid him any attention.
“We’re in St. James’s Square,” Mum answered again for Violet. “In the northeast corner, the house of light gray stone.”
“Excellent. The celebration begins at ten, so I’ll be by at half past nine.”
Ignoring Rose’s chatter, Violet stabbed a stewed prawn with her fork, a bit more forcefully than necessary. If her mother and Ford kept planning her life as though she weren’t around to hear it, she feared she might scream.
Seated between her sisters across the table, Lord Randal Nesbitt gave her a sympathetic smile—a smile nearly as charming as Ford’s. Those smiles were lethal, she decided. They should be outlawed. She wondered if they’d practiced together at school. Did boys do that? Rose and Lily practiced their smiles all the time.
Perhaps noticing the glance that passed between Violet and his friend, Ford reached for her hand beneath the table.
Heavens, what if someone noticed? She struggled to breathe normally. But she didn’t move her hand away.
Feigning nonchalance, she smiled back at the viscount’s friend. He did seem nice. He hadn’t even mentioned her spectacles. She wondered if that was because Ford had already told him about them, or if he was just very polite.
Violet’s father signaled to the maid stationed against the wall. “Dinah, could you fetch more brown sauce for Lord Lakefield, please?”
His wife plucked a grain of rice from his cravat. ”No, darling, we were speaking of the town house. I told you we’re going to London, remember?”
“Yes, to order gowns for Violet, since she’s finally taking interest.” Father stirred some of the butter sauce from the prawns into his rice. “From that Madame Blowfont woman.”
“Beaumont,” Rose clarified loudly, sprinkling cinnamon on her own rice.
Faith! Did they have to shout about her lack of fashion sense in front of Ford? Out of the corner of her eye, Violet saw him stifle a grin and straighten his smart white cravat.
She wished she could slide beneath the table. And then melt into the floor.
“Gowns?” Mum said, trying to come to Violet’s rescue. “Of course she needs new gowns, but that’s not the focus of our holiday. Everyone knows my eldest daughter cares more about learning than clothing.” She looked to Ford’s friend. “You must forgive my husband. He’s a bit hard of hearing and often misunderstands.”
“What?” Father asked, proving her point.
“Nothing, my love.” Mum’s musical laughter tinkled through the room, a sound of relief. “See what I mean?”
“Violet did order a new ball gown,” Rowan said in defense of his father.
Ford squeezed Violet’s hand.
Rose flashed her most sophisticated smile at Lord Randal. “What brings you to visit, my lord?”
In midnight blue silk with spills of silver lace, tonight she resembled an enchanting water sprite. She’d been fluttering her eyelashes at the newcomer all evening, reminding Violet of Jewel. Not that she blamed her sister. Like Ford, Lord Randal wore no wig, and he had a stunning mane of long, dark blond hair. He was tall and lean, with a poet’s face and eyes of steely gray—the most intense eyes Violet had ever seen. When he looked at a person, he really looked at her, as though he could see right into her soul.
Shame about the mustache, though. Luckily, that could be fixed.
Eating single-handed, Ford used his fork to cut a bite of the tanzy rather awkwardly. “I’ve asked Rand to translate that old book for me, Lady Rose. He’s a fellow now at Oxford—he specializes in ancient languages.”
“Languages?” The cinnamon spoon slipped from Rose’s fingers and clattered to the table.
When Ford squeezed Violet’s hand again, she stuffed a prawn in her mouth to smother a giggle.
Rose sent her a brittle smile. “Violet,” she said sweetly, lifting the salt cellar, “would you care for some salt on your roast chicken?”
That stopped Violet cold. She shook her head violently.
Rose turned back to Lord Randal. ”I’m conversant in a few languages myself,” she announced. It was the first time Violet had ever heard her sister volunteer that information to a gentleman. “Perhaps we can work on the translation together?”
“Perhaps,” Lord Randal said, smoothing his mustache. “Ford tells me you’ve already examined the book.” Violet thought his voice sounded a touch too deep, as though he were trying to sound older.
He and Rose were made for
