“Begin what?”
“The conversation.” At his blank stare, she rolled her eyes. “The one where you talk me into believing you’re in love with me?”
He looked amused. “What could I possibly say that I haven’t already said?”
“Faith, how should I know? This was all your idea.” Too irritated for manners, she took a gulp of wine and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Now he looked even more amused. “I had something other than talking in mind.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Telling you that I love you hasn’t worked. I was thinking perhaps I’d show you instead.”
It took her a moment to grasp his meaning.
Then she leapt off the couch. “Is that why you brought me here?” She’d spilled wine on herself, but she hardly noticed in her state of shock.
“What?” Looking equally shocked, Ford rose and cast about for somewhere to put down his own wine. “Violet—no, I—”
“Was your plan to ruin me so I’d have to marry you?” Her voice wobbled, but she held on tight to her outrage, determined not to cry in front of him.
Some new emotion stole over his face, though Violet couldn’t make it out until he stepped closer, into the glow from the branch of candles behind her.
White hot rage.
Never in her life had she seen such anger on a person’s face. Eyes blazing a brilliant blue, mouth set in a twisted line, he spoke in a voice of deadly quiet. “How dare you?”
She gasped, astounded at his nerve. “How dare I?”
His eyes burned into hers for a moment that felt like an eternity. Then he turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her anymore, and Violet’s heart sank to the vicinity of her stomach. She suddenly feared she’d made a dreadful mistake.
“I don’t understand how you can think these things of me,” he said toward the wall. He didn’t sound angry anymore. He sounded ill. Exhausted. “You call me a liar—yet you must be one yourself, for you once claimed to love me. And you couldn’t possibly love someone you believe capable of such cruelty and selfishness.”
She opened her mouth to defend herself, but no words came out.
Because he was right.
She did love him, of that she had no doubt. And all the things she loved most about him—his warmth, his generosity, his desire to help people—were the exact opposite of the devious motives she’d just ascribed to him.
How could Ford Chase ever hurt another for his own gain when it was in his very nature to sacrifice his own gain for others? As he’d done with the watch.
And how could she, Violet Ashcroft, aspiring philosopher and lover of reason, have failed to notice such a glaring contradiction?
Well she’d noticed it now, thank heavens. How close she’d come to turning her back on the love of her life. Unless it was already too late…
“Ford?” Cautiously she reached to touch his shoulder. Though his face was still turned away, somehow his posture radiated pain and disillusionment.
He shrugged her off. “I’ll take you home.”
Tears flooded her eyes. “Ford, I’m sorry.” She winced at the inadequacy of the words. “I didn’t mean it. I know you would never hurt me—or anyone. You’re far too good and honorable for that. And I…”
When she hesitated, his shoulders tensed. He suddenly whirled to face her, and her heart jumped into her throat.
But the fury was gone from his eyes. All she saw there was love. And desperate hope.
Answering hope rose inside her. She wanted to tell him how wrong she’d been about everything, how much she loved him, that she’d be honored to become his wife. But she couldn’t seem to find the words. After all she'd put him through, she wanted her declaration to be perfect—
Seeing the light in his eyes begin to fade, she seized his hands and said the first thing that came to mind. “What was it you wanted to show me?”
Some distant part of her observed that his palms felt rough. From the day’s renovation work?
Staring down at their joined hands, he made no response.
She looked down, too, and realized she was breaking her own no-touching rule. But she wasn’t about to let go of him, not for anything. “You said you didn’t want to talk,” she prompted him. “You wanted to show me something.”
He measured her a moment, then shrugged. “I wanted to show you my plans for the house.”
“For fixing it up?” She blinked at him, nonplussed.
“Yes. You see”—he cleared his throat—“I’ve put a lot of thought into making the place a comfortable home for us. For our family. And perhaps if I could show you how I envision our life together…” He trailed off, his eyes searching hers for a reaction. Violet thought he might be holding his breath.
Her heart melted. “Show me. Please.”
SIXTY
“IS THIS WHERE you sleep?” Violet asked.
“Yes.” Ford gave her hand a squeeze. “This will be our bedchamber. Unless, that is, you prefer your own—”
“No,” she said emphatically, making him grin. She blushed and added, by way of explanation, “My parents have always shared a bedchamber.”
Leaving her at the threshold, he took the candle around the room and lit others. “I know it doesn’t look like much now,” he said, watching her take in details as they became visible.
He was trying to see his home as she would. Dominating the chamber was a four-poster so enormous it couldn’t possibly fit through the doorway—the bed had to have been built in the room. Fashioned of heavy oak, it was dark with age and smoke from the blackened brick fireplace. Grayish bed-hangings draped from a wooden canopy overhead, looking as though they might once have been rich and possibly blue.
A very long time ago.
Violet’s gaze moved over the walls paneled in plain smoke-stained oak divided into squares with simple molding, then paused again on the bed. Another, deeper blush staining her cheeks, she averted her eyes. Ford bit back a
