A distant part of her recalled that she ought to speak, but the rest was busy sinking into brilliant blue eyes. ”I—I’m—” Backing away a little, she cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m here to see Lord Lakefield—”
“At your service.” The stranger bowed. “Ford Chase,” he added with a wide, winning smile that made her stomach feel odd. “And you are…?”
This was the viscount?
He couldn’t be. “You’re not wearing a periwig,” she said nonsensically.
“Pardon?” He blinked. “I never wear wigs. I don’t care for them.”
She supposed her father often went wigless out here in the countryside, but—never? She squinted at the stranger, realizing he wasn’t wearing a footman’s livery, either. She’d been but twelve or thirteen the last time she’d met Lord Lakefield, and all she really remembered of the encounter was long, untidy dark hair and a distracted manner.
This fellow did seem rather distracted. He raked impatient fingers through his hair—still dark, but no longer untidy.
And those eyes. She’d never noticed Lord Lakefield’s eyes…well, she’d probably never been close enough to properly see them. Aristotle had said that beauty was the gift of God. She wondered what this man could have done to be so deserving of the Lord’s favor.
“And you are…?” he repeated.
She shook her head to clear it. “Violet Ashcroft.”
“The Earl of Trentingham’s daughter?” He looked somewhat perplexed. “I expected your mother.”
“Well, you have me.” She was regaining her equilibrium. She was, after all, a very levelheaded young woman. “And this is my brother, Rowan, who has come to claim the pleasure of meeting young Lady Jewel.”
The pleasure of meeting young Lady Jewel? Why, she was babbling like a featherbrained courtier. Drawing a deep breath, she pulled her brother from behind her skirts.
The viscount gave him a proper, grave nod. “Pleased to meet you, Lord…?”
“Tremayne,” Violet supplied, since Rowan seemed unlikely to say anything. “He’s Viscount Tremayne. But you can just call him Rowan.”
Much more stoically than normal, Rowan bowed.
“Uncle Ford!” A little girl came bounding up to the door, skidding to a stop on the dull wood floor. “Who is here?” The moment her gaze fastened on Rowan, Violet knew her brother was in trouble. “You must be that boy the pretty lady told me about.” She glanced up at her uncle, appearing both surprised and pleased. “He’s like me! I like him!”
While the two children did share similar coloring—jet-black hair and deep green eyes—the girl’s enthusiasm was enough to send Rowan skittering behind Violet again.
Following him, Lady Jewel poked him on the shoulder. “What’re you hiding for, huh? Don’t you want to play?”
“No,” Rowan muttered. His fingers clawed at Violet’s skirts. Sensing his panic, she feared it would be only a matter of seconds before he found his way underneath.
Lord Lakefield also wore a look of panic, though she couldn’t fathom why. “Do come in,” he urged, taking Violet quite improperly by the arm. Before the door shut behind her, she shot a helpless look back at the blur that was her maid Margaret in the carriage.
She hadn’t intended to go inside.
But here she was. Still gripping her arm, the viscount fairly hauled her down a passageway whose paneling was so worn that even with her bad eyes she could tell it needed refinishing. Behind her, Rowan held on like a drowning man clutching a life preserver. He was literally dragging his heels.
Evidently undeterred, Lady Jewel chattered cheerfully as she walked along beside him. “How old are you? Your mother said you were six. Are you six? I’m almost six. When’s your birthday? Mine’s next week. Mama said we would have a celebration. But now she’s ill.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Violet replied, since it was clear Rowan wouldn’t. Her heels clicked on the wood-planked floor. She could feel the warmth of the viscount’s fingers through her indigo broadcloth sleeve.
“Papa promised me she’d get well,” Lady Jewel said. “And he always keeps his promises.”
They turned into a drawing room decorated in various shades of red and pink. Or perhaps they’d once all been matching crimson, but some pieces had faded.
Lord Lakefield dropped Violet’s arm and waved her toward a couch. She pried Rowan’s hands from her skirts in order to sit, and he dropped cross-legged to the floor, his gaze on his lap.
What were they doing here? Violet wondered, nervously twirling the end of her plait. Rowan was clearly miserable, and she hadn’t planned on staying in the first place.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Lord Lakefield told her. “I’ll go ask for some refreshments. I rigged up a bell”—he gestured toward the wall where she assumed it was placed—“but I’m afraid my staff is getting on in years. They’re a bit hard of hearing.”
Dazed, Violet nodded. “So is my father.”
“Oh?”
“He’s half deaf. Although my sister sometimes claims he just doesn’t want to listen to whatever theory I’m spouting at the moment.”
Faith, she was babbling more than Lady Jewel.
“Theory?” Lord Lakefield blinked. “You’re interested in science?”
“Philosophy, actually.”
“Oh.” Something indecipherable flickered in his eyes. “I’m certain whatever you have to say must be fascinating. If you’ll excuse me.” And with that, he took his long, lanky form out the door.
She rose and wandered over to see where he’d pointed. A pull cord disappeared cleverly into a hole, attached, she assumed, to a bell. Her ears were still ringing with his words.
“Fascinating…” she murmured to no one in particular. Apparently the viscount was trying to flatter her. No man ever thought a woman discussing philosophy was fascinating.
But what could he be hoping to gain?
“Well,” she said aloud, glad she had the common sense to recognize an empty compliment, “Jean de La Fontaine has written that all flatterers live at the expense of those who listen to them.”
Lady Jewel blinked. “Huh?” She shook her head, then knelt on the floor next to Rowan. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked.
SIX
FORD HURRIED to the kitchen, not
