“I love you,” she said quietly, “for what you said. About my inheritance. But it’s not necessary.”
I love you, she’d said. That had to be a very, very good sign. He smoothed back some hair that had escaped her plait. “What do you mean by it’s not necessary?”
“When we marry—”
“When?” A fist seized his heart. Had he heard correctly? He struggled up on an elbow. “Does that mean you’ll agree to marry me?”
Her well-kissed lips spread into that wide, infectious smile that had first made Ford notice her all those weeks ago. She nodded.
Then he could’ve sworn he died, because his heart exploded with joy. But he didn’t care. He was too busy kissing Violet all over again. She felt soft and incredible in his arms, and she smelled like flowers, and she was all his.
“I love you so much,” he whispered fiercely, pressing his forehead to hers. Because it was true, and because he wanted to hear her say it again.
“I love you, too,” she whispered back, and those three little words warmed him from the inside out, like the strongest, richest brandy imaginable.
They shared one more extraordinarily gentle kiss. “Marry me tomorrow,” he said against her lips. “I’ll ride to get a special license as soon as the sun comes up—I’ll be back with it by nightfall, and we can wed the next morning.”
He felt her smile. “I can tell you my mother won’t consent to that. She loves weddings—she’ll want to invite everyone she knows.”
“If she makes us wait, she may not get a wedding at all. I shall expire from anticipation.”
She laughed giddily. “Is that so?”
“Quite so. It must be tomorrow. Do you think you can convince her?”
“I doubt it.” Pulling back, Violet shrugged. “Why such a hurry? What will happen if we don’t get married tomorrow?”
“Nothing will happen—except I’ll miss you every single second we’re not together.”
Her laugh was muffled by the pillow. “I won’t be far. Just next door.”
“Next door is much too far.” Sighing, he rolled onto his back, taking one of her hands with him. His thumb slowly stroked her palm. “Will you try talking to your mother?”
“I’ll do my best.”
He hoped her best would be enough. How long did it take to plan a large wedding? A month? Two? Even one more night alone in this bed sounded like torture, let alone a few dozen.
“Violet?” he called softly, but there was no answer.
She was sound asleep.
SIXTY-ONE
“JOSEPH?” CHRYSTABEL called softly, shaking her husband’s shoulder. Outside their window, the pre-dawn sky was just beginning to turn pink.
He grunted.
“Did you hear Violet come back?”
Another grunt.
Chrystabel’s stomach lurched. “Neither did I.”
When she climbed out of bed, he cracked one eyelid. “What are you doing?”
“Getting dressed.”
Sleep-addled and blinking, he finally sat up. “You don’t think…?”
“That she’s still at Lakefield?” Pulling a pair of stockings from the clothespress, Chrystabel looked to Joseph with a tight nod.
His jaw slackened. “Oh, Chrysanthemum…”
She realized her hands were shaking. “Darling, I think we’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“FORD, WAKE UP!” Violet shrieked, shaking his shoulder. “I must get home!”
His glorious blue eyes fluttered open, and for a moment all she could think was she wanted to stay in this ancient bed with him. Somehow they’d got under the covers, and he felt impossibly warm and wonderful curled around her.
But impossible was the operative word. “It’s morning already!” Rolling out of bed, she was relieved to find herself still fully dressed. She had only to step into her shoes and hook her spectacles over her ears.
Groaning, he pulled the covers over his head. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” She yanked the counterpane from his grasp and threw it back. “I cannot believe we both fell asleep.”
Heaving on his arm, she eventually managed to maneuver him into a sitting position. He looked boyish and adorable, with his hair all rumpled and the imprint of one of the counterpane’s tassels on a cheek—
Faith, there was no time to notice how he looked!
“Ford,” she said between gritted teeth, “if I don’t get home before my parents wake, there’s no telling what they will do. You must take me home! So get up!”
“Criminy, I’m up!” Rubbing his eyes, he staggered to his feet. “Just let me…um, get dressed—”
“You are dressed,” she protested. “I know you’re fastidious about your appearance, but this is no time to fret about fashion—”
“But I have to—well…” His voice trailing off, his gaze strayed toward the chamber pot.
“Oh.” Violet blinked. “Oh!” She looked to the window to gauge the time. “We’ve less than an hour before my parents rise. I’ll wait for you downstairs in the entrance hall. Please hurry!”
On her way down the stairs, she smiled at the worn boards that creaked under her feet, at the paneling on the walls that so badly needed refinishing, at the peeling paint on the beams overhead. None of it bothered her. The truth was, the condition of Ford’s home didn’t overly concern her. She’d just needed to know, deep in her bones, that the man she chose to wed truly loved her. Her, Violet, not the financial boon that would come along with her.
And now she did know that, all the way down to her marrow. Though Ford’s love had always appeared sincere, she hadn’t been able to trust that appearance when it seemed to contradict all reason. But now that she’d realized Ford was incapable of committing selfish or evil-intentioned acts—and deceiving her into marriage to get his hands on her inheritance would certainly be a selfish, evil act—she was forced to conclude that Ford was not deceiving her, and therefore his love must be real.
It was deductive reasoning, pure and simple—as practiced by Aristotle himself.
Of course, the conclusion would invalidate one of her other premises: if Ford loved her, the premise that she
