Emory leaned in.

  “Lord Ferrard, what are you doing?”

  “I was going to kissy you.”

  “You are also drunk.”

  “I am not,” he defended. Though, perhaps he was, slightly.

  “Ours is a courtship of convenience, remember.”

  “I’ve not forgotten.”

  “Then I see no cause for you to kiss me.”

  He frowned. “What if I wish to.”

  “Unfortunately, we are not always granted our wishes.” She opened the door. “Good night, Lord Ferrard, and please return to your brother’s home without injury.” Then she was gone, the door shut in his face, and he heard the click of the lock.

  Tonight was not well done of him.

  Emory turned for home and kicked imagined stones out of his path. Who said there could be no kissing? That hadn’t been part of the agreement because if it had been, he’d remember. Violet had not once said there was to be no kissing, therefore, he’d simply need to remind her of that fact.

  Chapter 15

  “Good afternoon, Lord Ferrard!” Violet called loudly. “How are you feeling today?”

  She grinned at him, as she would her brothers after a night of overindulgence.

  “You need not yell, Lady Violet. My head does not pain me.”

  It didn’t? Then again, it was afternoon, so he’d had time to recover.

  “I take it that is how you greeted your poor brothers in the morning after they’d been in their cups.”

  “Of course. It is what sisters do, is it not?”

  He stared at her for a moment. “You didn’t strike me as having the least bit of meanness within your being.”

  “I don’t consider it mean. I always thought of it as repayment for the teasing I suffered as a child.” Though, why did she delight in their discomfort? It certainly wasn’t kind. And, they hadn’t been horrible brothers.

  She gave them grief simply because first Blythe, her oldest sister, had done so. Then Lucinda as well. There was just something enjoyable about being able to torment a sibling when it wasn’t being truly harmful.

  “All sisters must be the same. Mine delight in my misery,” he grumbled. “These are from my brother,” Lord Ferrard presented a lovely bouquet of flowers to her. “He apologizes for disturbing you last evening.”

  “Thank him for me.” She took the fragrant flowers and sniffed. It was the middle of the winter, which meant that Dr. Talbot must have visited the home of Baron Fanshawe, a botanist who managed to have all manner of flowers growing in his greenhouse year-round.

  “I did not bring you flowers.”

  “It wasn’t necessary that you do, nor for Dr. Talbot to send any.”

  “Do you want to know why?” he asked.

  “If you wish to tell me.” Goodness he was acting rather strange this afternoon. Then again, she’d not known Lord Ferrard long and there were many aspects of his personality that she was certain that she’d not yet discovered, as it was with everyone in the early stages of friendship.

  “Because I’m not sorry.”

  Nor was she, not that she’d admit as much.

  “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Where are you going?” His voice rose as if alarmed.

  What was wrong with him today? Lord Ferrard was certainly acting strangely.

  “To give these to the maid so that she might put them in water.”

  “Yes.” Lord Ferrard cleared his throat. “Of course.”

  It didn’t take long for Violet to give Mrs. Buckley the flowers with instructions to have them placed in her chamber. It was sweet of Dr. Talbot, and the polite thing to do, but not necessary. However, she’d still enjoy them. Further, she was rather glad that Lord Ferrard wasn’t sorry.

  What had gotten into her? He was a rake, and their courtship was temporary. Yet, it did not alter the fact that when she awoke each morning, her first thoughts were of him and wondering what the afternoon would bring. He was also in her last thoughts when she drifted off to sleep.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Ferrard and Lady Violet,” Lady Priscilla greeted as Violet once again stepped out on the walk. “My sisters have enjoyed chaperoning, and today I shall enjoy it as well.”

  Lady Priscilla was the oldest of the three Tilson sisters.

  “We are off to the tearoom,” Lady Priscilla announced.

  “Piquet’s Tea Room?” Violet asked.

  “Yes. Your grandmother, knowing that you would not be at home, had already arranged for Madame Piquet to prepare a box of macarons for you.”

  Her mouth began watering at the mere mention of the delicacies.

  “What are macarons?” Lord Ferrard asked.

  “You’ve not had macarons?” Violet asked in surprise. She thought everyone had.

  “No.”

  “They are the most delicious French delicacy that melts in your mouth.” Without further urging, Violet turned in the direction of Piquet’s Tea Room.

  “They are like a biscuit?” he asked.

  Violet frowned. “They are much better than a simple biscuit. A sweet delicacy.”

  “Then that explains my ignorance.”

  Violet frowned at him.

  “I do not care for biscuits, or cakes, if you must know. I’m not fond of anything that is sweet.”

  “Then I suppose we won’t be long in Piquet’s Tea Room.” Most of the items they sold were sweet delicacies.

  “It is a Tea Room correct?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I do like tea.”

  “We can remain if you wish, Lord Ferrard.” He was the strangest gentleman this afternoon. Though, she really couldn’t judge as it isn’t as if she’d known him long.

  “Is there a reason your grandmother arranged for these French biscuits today?” he asked.

  “It’s the first day of the year,” Violet answered, which was not a completely accurate statement.

  “Lady Violet,” Lady Priscilla chastised. “That is not the only reason and you know it is not.”

  Violet nearly groaned.

  “Why is today special?” Lord Ferrard asked.

  “It is her twenty-first birthday,” Lady Priscilla announced. “Even though birthdays aren’t usually celebrated at Forester Hall, Her Grace always arranges a small gift for the children, such as macarons for Violet.”

  “I wish you joy on your birthday, Lady Violet,” Lord Ferrard offered.

  “Thank you, but I’ve never understood why a person should celebrate. I didn’t do anything on this day. My mother, however, labored to bring me into the world, therefore, shouldn’t she be acknowledged?”

  Lord Ferrard simply stared at her, and Violet stifled a sigh. Everyone thought her odd. Yes, she was a year older, but she hadn’t done anything miraculous to account for any honor being bestowed on her one day of the year. However, neither would she reject a box a macarons, and she’d enjoy every single morsal.

  Emory paused on the walk across the street and glanced up at the sign—Piquet’s Tea Room.

  “Monsieur and Madame Piquet fled France during the Revolution, bringing with them a favorite chef and maid, and were delivered to the shores of Laswell,” Lady Violet began to explain as if she were offering a lecture. “Newly married and they’d lost everything, including their families. Once here, they decided to remain instead of traveling on to London. Monsieur Piquet is a baron, but he no longer had a home, as his estate was destroyed and the land reclaimed by others.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you engage in gossip, Lady Violet.” In truth, he was rather shocked, as by all observance in London, she hadn’t participated in such.

  “I suppose it did sound as if I were gossiping, but I assure you, Lord Ferrard, that was not my intention.” Violet glanced each direction before crossing the cobbled road. “There is a sign just inside their door that explains their journey and how they came to be in Laswell, and it proclaims they provide the most delicious pastries outside of France.”

  In other words, she was simply relaying information that he’d shortly be able to read for himself.

  “This is delightful,” Lady Priscilla announced as she entered the tea shop.

  Emory had been in tearooms before, both in London and in Bath, and this was similar to those, though not as loud or as crowded with a dozen tables, only half of which were occupied with patrons. However, as this was teatime, each had a pot of tea, cups, and a tray of delicacies to enjoy. The atmosphere was warm and bright. Perhaps it was the pale pink walls with dark green trim that gave the room a cheery feel, along with the heavy aroma of freshly baked breads.

  “Lady Violet,” an older woman greeted. “I have your macarons, right here.” The woman handed over a white box tied with a yellow bow.

  “Thank you, Madame Piquet.”

  “Will you be staying for tea today?”

  She glanced up to Emory, as if to ask if he’d like to stay.

  “We most certainly will,” Lady Priscilla announced. “I’d much prefer to remain indoors as opposed to the outings my sisters have enjoyed.”

  Madame Piquet smiled. “Let me show you to a table.”

  “I’ll have my own, if available,” Lady Priscilla insisted, then leaned into the proprietor. “They are courting.” She nodded knowingly. “We should give them privacy.”

  As if they could discuss anything in private in a tearoom, let alone do anything that should be done privately. Emory glanced down at Lady Violet’s full lips. He would gain a kiss from her. In that he was determined.

  “I’ll place them at the corner table where they are least likely to be disturbed,” Madame Piquet quickly agreed to the further matchmaking efforts.

  “And I’ll take this one.” Lady Priscilla stopped at a small, wooden table near the entry while Madame Piquet led Emory and Violet to the far corner, away from everyone else, as promised.

  Emory held the chair for Lady Violet, then took the only other chair at the small table. It was barely large enough for two people and unless he turned completely away from Lady Violet, their knees would touch. Therefore, he became more comfortable facing her, and if their knees or feet brushed, so be it. They were courting and physical awareness did eventually lead to kissing.

  Why was he so obsessed with kissing her?

  Was it simply because one opportunity had been stolen from him and the second time he’d been rejected?

  No woman had ever declined his advances before. Then again, none of the women he’d wished to kiss, or anything else, had been ladies, unless they were also a widow.

  “I’ll bring tea and a selection of sandwiches, scones, cakes and biscuits,” Madame Piquet offered as she quit their presence, and Emory’s stomach rumbled. He’d not eaten since this morning, and though he’d not admit such to Lady Violet, his stomach had threatened to reject any meal that he would have wanted to partake so he had settled for tea and dry toast.

  “I do not understand the purpose of alcohol consumption,” Lady Violet observed, and for a moment Emory wondered if she could have read his mind about the ill-effects of ale.

  “Not only does it affect a person’s emotions, but more importantly, alters their control. I do not understand the willingness to give up such in that you can no longer make clear and concise decisions.” She leaned back as the tea service was set on the table and Madame Piquet poured. Once she was gone, Violet leaned in again.

  “Perhaps it is because gentlemen only relinquish power for a short time and it’s quickly regained the following morning, unlike when a woman marries. Once relinquished, it’s never regained, unless she were to become a widow, but even then, it is dependent on how much control she has over any funds or if her husband left someone else in control of finances on which she must depend.”

  Emory frowned as her words sank in. “You equate marriage with alcohol?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “At least for a woman, as both have the possibility of being dominated by that which she cannot command.”

  Madame Piquet returned and placed a tiered tray on the table with enough selections for two people to enjoy with their tea. Lady Violet chose a small, lemon cake and placed it on her plate, and Emory weighed his decision over the scone or finger sandwich and opted for the sandwich, as it was least likely to be upsetting.

  His stomach hadn’t completely recovered from the night before.

  “I am one of eleven children, as you may be aware,” she began as if to explain. “My oldest brother, Wesley, is soon to be a father and if it is a son, Father will have little concern, especially since he has four other sons. My fear is that Father will then turn all his attention to his unwed daughters, such as the house party he arranged to see Lucinda wed.”

  Emory blinked. He knew her family was large, he just hadn’t realized exactly how large, though it was something he could have easily looked up in Debrett’s. He’d just never had cause to do so.

  “I can only hope that my assumption is incorrect and that my father will be more focused on the fact that he has a new grandson, the next heir, as lords tend to do, and not give much attention to seeing me married. Until that time, I have control over my own destiny.”

  Then she grinned at him. “Therefore, Lord Ferrard, I thank you for the opportunity to enter into this courtship, thus allowing me to maintain the freedom I hold dear. And hopefully my father will view this as my attempt at matrimony and no longer chastise me for avoiding Society.”

  “You’ve no intention to wed?” he asked. To hear her speak, it was almost as if she were putting off a sentence of death, though perhaps, not so dramatic.

  “I’m certain I’ll eventually wed, as I have little choice in the matter,” she answered. “However, I will avoid it as long as possible since there is far too much that I enjoy that may be refused to me in the future.”

  Perhaps not a death sentence, but Lady Violet certainly saw marriage no differently than a jail cell.

  Chapter 16

  It wasn’t that Violet didn’t wish to be married, eventually, but she was not yet ready to become a wife, mistress of the manor, and mother, which would require that she relinquish all freedoms she currently enjoyed. As Ferrard was clear that when he did seek a bride that it would not be her, it was easier to enjoy her freedom for as long as she were allowed.

  Though, it still bothered her that he’d talked about finding the perfect woman, while talking to her, without indicating once that he might consider her. It was a conundrum, because Violet longed to retain her freedom, yet it bothered her that he didn’t want her.

  It was simply attraction, that was all, and she mustn’t read further into her reaction to his presence even if she still grew warm when she gazed into his sapphire eyes, which was why she mustn’t do so any more than necessary. Further, she avoided his touch because even something so simple as her hand on his sleeve caused her to want to touch him further, bring him close, as if her hand on his arm was not enough.

  He, however, had no objection to touching, given his knee had brushed hers several times beneath this small table and his boots had encountered the inside of her kid boot as well, which caused her to become acutely aware of his physical presence. That quiver she so often experienced in her belly had spread further into her nether regions, and at times, her bodice seemed to become tight. It was almost all she could do to maintain polite conversation and keep to the topic at hand.

  Thank goodness theirs wasn’t a true courtship and that there would be no marriage in the end, or she might have forgotten herself. Then where would she be? In love with a rake who would return to Sussex following Epiphany and she’d be left alone and wounded. She simply would not allow it. She’d not leave herself vulnerable.

  “Do you have no wish for children either, Lady Violet?” he asked, though his tone was more of a curious nature, not the damning tone as she’d heard from at least one older brother when she’d voiced her intentions.

  “Yes, eventually, I suppose,” she answered honestly. As much as she wished to put off the inevitable, Violet had never truly given thought to what it would be like to be a mother.

  “Children are usually the result of love and desire.” He shifted and his knee brushed the inside of hers. Was he doing so on purpose?

  Yes, of course he was. Lord Ferrard was a rake, after all and probably knew all manner of ways to make a woman forget herself.

  “I understand that poets wax on about love and gentlemen must feel desire in order to procreate,” she offered. “For a female however, neither is necessary if the goal of an heir is the desired outcome.”

  He simply blinked at her. It was a rather bold and shocking statement, especially made to a gentleman.

  “You do not believe a woman feels desire as well?” he asked as he reached for a biscuit, the very one she was going to pick up, his fingers brushing hers. Not only did her stomach quiver again, but so did her heart.

  Violet pulled back her hand as if she’d been burned, though she hoped that it wasn’t so obvious to alert him to her discomfort. Why was he reaching for a biscuit anyway? He didn’t even like them.

  Goodness, was that a heart palpitation that she’d been warned of?

  Though, in truth, it wasn’t discomfort but quite the opposite. However, Violet had no desire for Lord Ferrard to know that he had any effect on her sensibilities.

  “Lord Ferrard, women are simply vessels for a gentleman’s pleasure, such as your widows.”

  He’d had many lovers and she must remember that fact. Further she was just as certain that he knew most everything there was to know about desire and the act of procreating without the actual procreation.

  Then again, he could have bastards somewhere, as some lords did, not that she’d be so rude as to ask.

  “I certainly hope your future husband does not share your views, Lady Violet, as there is much pleasure to be had for the woman. On that you have my word.”

  She settled back and studied him. How was he so certain? “Because they tell you.” Violet scoffed. “They are your lovers, Lord Ferrard, and must stay in your good graces. Of course they’d claim to desire you.”

 

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