His brow furrowed in confusion. “Whatever makes you think that?”
“He said living here is convenient, because when he falls down stumbling drunk, he’s close to his bed.”
His face cleared. “Don’t let his dry humor fool you. Far from being a drunkard, I think he and Wren are addicted to coffee, if anything at all. Best of friends they are, too.”
The faint music from the quadrangle stopped. Another burst of laughter sounded. “Their wives must be proud of them,” Violet said.
“Wren’s wife is very kind.” With one finger, he began idly tracing circles on the back of her hand where it rested on the table. “Hooke has yet to marry, though.”
She hid a delicious shiver. “Well, then, with whom was he dancing?”
“Why did you assume she was his spouse? You’re here with me, and we aren’t husband and wife.”
“Of course we aren’t,” she said quickly, and if his tone seemed to imply he wanted them to be, she had to remind herself why she didn’t. Still, her cheeks heated at the thought, and she leaned away from the candles to hide her face in shadow.
“The Gresham professors are required to be bachelors,” he explained, turning her hand over to draw circles on her palm. “Hooke calls that woman his housekeeper.”
“She lives with him?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You don’t dance with Hilda.” Picturing it, she grinned.
He raised his hand and brushed a curl behind her ear. “Hilda is a real housekeeper.”
“Oh.” Her skin tingled wherever he touched. “Oh. You mean she’s really a—oh.”
“Yes. Oh,” he repeated, raising a single brow.
All at once, the door was flung open and the sounds of laughter grew louder. A few couples spilled out into the piazza.
“We’ve been found,” Ford said with a groan.
“There he is,” one of the women cried, drawing a man to where Violet sat with Ford.
“Ah, yes.” The middle-aged man shot the woman a rather impatient look before he addressed Ford more neutrally. “We’ve heard you found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.”
“I have.” Ford reluctantly rose, bringing Violet up with him and curling an arm around her waist. “John Evelyn,” he said by way of introduction. “May I present Lady Violet Ashcroft.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” Evelyn had a lean, thoughtful face, shadowed by his graying hair. “My wife, Mary.”
Much younger, Mary had a round, pretty face and curly hair that brushed shoulders left bare by a wide, low neckline. She smiled and curtsied, her large pearl earbobs bobbing along with her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Violet said.
Introductions concluded, the woman turned to Ford. “Would Secrets of the Emerald Tablet be for sale, my lord?”
“I’m afraid not.” His words sounded genial enough, but Violet felt him tense. “And you’d have to fight Mr. Newton for it, anyway.”
“It’s just as well, my dear,” Mr. Evelyn said.
The tone of his voice confused Violet. She turned to look up at Ford.
“I think,” he said, “that we’d best be on our way.” And he drew her out of the lovely piazza he’d created, leaving the others to enjoy it.
“What was that all about?” Violet asked as they walked back through the building. “I would think he’d be pleased she wanted to buy him the book.”
He dropped his hand from her waist, linking his fingers with hers instead. “She wants it for herself. Her husband calls her a ‘kitchen scientist.’ Not fondly, I might add.”
“I could tell.” The quadrangle was quickly emptying, the musicians packing up. “Does he not approve of her interests, then?”
“Mr. Evelyn believes housekeeping should be his wife’s priority. His wedding gift to Mrs. Evelyn was a calligraphy copy of his own treatise on marital duties. The ladies at court think she must be the unhappiest woman in the world.”
“I cannot blame her,” Violet said, stepping carefully in her heeled shoes as they crossed the dew-damp grass.
“Her husband would say she has her children to console her.”
“And you would say?”
He shrugged, squeezing her hand. “I know only that were I to be deprived of my scientific interests, I would be unhappy, too.”
“Then let us hope your wife is more indulgent than Mary Evelyn’s husband,” she heard herself say.
Faith, how could she bring up his future wife?
But he only laughed, drawing her through the passage that led back to the Reading Hall and entrance. In the arched tunnel, he stopped and turned to face her. “I’m hoping my wife will be very indulgent, indeed,” he said in a tone full of meaning.
“She’d have to be.” A nervous giggle escaped her lips. “Are we leaving now?”
“In a minute.” He stepped closer, backing her against the wall. “There will be a long line for the carriage at this time of night.”
The evening had flown. “What time is it?” she asked.
He shrugged. ”Not too late, in my estimation. Your mother mentioned no particular curfew. I think she must approve of me.” Her heart raced as he slowly drew off her spectacles and slipped them into his pocket. “The church bells rang midnight a while ago.”
“Oh. I wasn’t listening.”
“I wonder why,” he mused with a smile, his hands moving to span her waist. She was finding it hard to listen now. Everywhere he touched felt so warm, so tingly, so aware. She glanced about, but there was no one in sight.
He lowered his head, his mouth inching toward hers, and she closed her eyes and waited, waited, her breath catching when he finally found her lips. His were soft but insistent, and despite all her reservations, she kissed him back with the same intensity.
“Violet,” he murmured, and she was sure now—she heard it in his voice, sensed it in her very bones—that he felt something for her. Right or wrong, whatever his reasons, Ford Chase had feelings for her, Violet Ashcroft. It seemed miraculous and absurd and sublime all at once. On impulse, she pulled away, needing to see it on his face.
“Violet?” He blinked, dreamy-eyed, his lips curving in a slow
