He was smooth, too smooth for her to handle. And he’d gone to so much trouble to make this evening special. As if he honestly believed he was the one who needed to impress her.
For such a brilliant fellow, he was oblivious when it came to women. He was wasting his time trying to persuade her to care for him.
Because she already did.
Ford Chase was a study in contradictions. Part serious academic, part dashing romantic, part responsible uncle, part irresponsible adolescent. And she adored every confusing facet.
He dressed like a prince and lived like a pauper. He was the most generous person she’d ever known. He’d made her spectacles; he’d made her mother a distillery.
He’d made her fall in love with him.
She loved him.
She loved him! Dear heavens, when had she come to love him?
But she did.
And yet…
Just before he’d closed the shutters, she’d glimpsed Lakefield House as they’d sailed by, twilight’s shadows throwing its crumbling facade into stark relief. Now, the image of Ford’s neglected estate lodged itself in her mind. Despite her love for him, despite all the good she saw in him, she couldn’t help wondering if his sudden wish to court her was only because…
She didn’t want to think about that now. She didn’t want to ruin this night, her last night before she turned eighteen. Tomorrow, according to Rose, she would officially become a spinster.
But tomorrow could wait until tomorrow.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, reaching to uncover her plate. His knees moved away from hers and didn’t return, to her vast disappointment.
As she’d expect from a country cookshop, the supper was simple and hearty. A wedge of lamb pie, sweet potato pudding, parsnips, and asparagus.
“It’s all quite good,” Violet said after sampling each dish. The sweet potato pudding was smooth and fluffy, swimming in butter with eggs, nutmeg, and dark sugar. The lamb pie was flaky and rich. As they dined, they discussed the books they’d recently read—excluding the Master-piece—and the latest news from Ford’s friends at the Royal Society.
Violet savored both the food and the still-novel experience of conversing with a gentleman who spoke to her as an intellectual equal. It dawned on her that those weeks without Ford, when he’d gone off working on one project or another, it wasn’t just kissing him that she’d missed. Even more so, she’d missed talking with him.
He didn’t touch her during supper, didn’t so much as nudge her foot with his. But all the time he talked, he gazed straight into her eyes in a way that set her heart to trembling just the same.
When his plate was empty and she was only picking at hers, he refilled her wine cup. “Violet?” He reached across the tiny table and gently removed her spectacles. “May I kiss you?”
He’d never asked before, and she didn’t know what to say. In the guttering candlelight, he looked blurry. But he must have seen her answer in her eyes, because his face came into focus as he leaned across the table, and she sucked in a breath as his lips met hers—
And his pewter plate crashed to the floor.
“Everything all right in there?” came Harry’s voice through the shutters.
Violet jerked away.
“We’re fine,” Ford called to Harry, looking a bit startled as he bent to retrieve the plate. He set it back on the table, then ran a hand through his hair. Raggedly.
“This won’t work,” he told her, gesturing to the table between them. “Do you suppose you might…would you like to dance?”
“What, in here? Wouldn’t we need, um, music?”
He raised a single brow. “Is that not what Johnnie is currently providing?”
“Oh. Right.” She cocked her head, listening. “I don’t recognize the tune. It doesn’t sound like a minuet, or a—”
“Oh, it’s not any of the usual dances.” Unconcerned, Ford took Violet’s hands and drew her up and away from the table. “We’ll just make up a dance of our own.”
Violet cocked her head in bewilderment. “Make it up?” They now stood at the exact center of the bed’s former position, the thought of which made her cheeks heat.
“Why not? No one’s watching.” Placing his hands at her waist, he began to sway in time to the music.
“Um…what should I…?” Violet stood stock still. Dancing made her nervous even when she knew exactly what she was supposed to do, having had every motion drilled into her by the dancing master. Now she was expected to both devise the dance and perform it? Simultaneously? And in front of the man she’d just realized she loved?
Was he mad?
“Just follow me,” he said, his hands nudging her body to and fro. After a few clumsy beats, she was swaying along with him.
All right, this wasn’t so difficult.
Still, it was a very odd sort of dance.
And she had no idea what to do with her arms. She let them hang stiffly in front of her, then clasped her hands together, then crossed her arms over her chest. No matter which position they were in, she knew she looked ridiculous. She was thankful Ford hadn’t returned her spectacles, so she didn’t have to observe the amused expression he surely wore.
Her hands came up to cover her flaming cheeks. “I don’t know what to do with my—”
Her sentence ended in a squeal as the boat made a sudden sharp pivot and she pitched forward.
“Turn, ho!” Harry’s voice carried into the cabin.
“We could have used a little more warning!” Violet shrieked in reply.
“Apologies, m’lady!”
Violet huffed. Luckily she’d managed to avoid taking a tumble, her fall having been broken by Ford’s body. Her right hand had been caught by his left, while her left hand had landed on his shoulder. She couldn’t help noticing the solid muscle beneath her fingers.
Now, incredibly, he resumed swaying—“dancing”—once again, taking her along with him.
“Are you enjoying yourself, my lord?” she asked tightly.
“Very much so.” He pulled her closer. “Are you not?”
“I…” All at once, she noticed their bodies were a
