Violet (Flower Trilogy) by Lauren Royal Page A

work, no doubt.
    ‘‘Here, let me fix your bow,’’ Violet offered brightly, stepping up to retie it. Perhaps some female companionship would ease the sting of male rejection.
    ‘‘Good afternoon,’’ came a low voice from beside her.
    She turned, blinking when she saw Lord Lakefield.
    Silver braid trim gleamed against his deep gray velvet suit, rather fancy for an afternoon at home. But she had to admit he looked divine.
    Feeling underdressed in her plain russet gown, she licked her suddenly dry lips. ‘‘Good afternoon, my lord.’’
    He smiled. ‘‘Please, just call me Ford.’’
    That was so improper, she wasn’t sure how to react.
    Should she ask him to call her Violet in return? Would doing so invite too much familiarity? The oldest of four, she knew how to deal with children, but men remained a mystery. Especially eligible, handsome men—and Viscount Lakefield was by far the handsomest man she’d ever seen.
    The smile faded. ‘‘Violet?’’
    Egad, he was calling her Violet already. Should she do the same? Perhaps she should just try it in her head. Ford. It seemed to fit. But when she opened her mouth, it felt entirely too scandalous to say aloud. She seemed to have lost her tongue.
    This was ridiculous.
    Apparently her silence had stretched long enough.
    ‘‘I’m just going to call you Violet,’’ he said blithely.
    ‘‘We’re neighbors, after all. Rowan, my man, what have you there?’’
    ‘‘A cup and ball.’’ Bang, bang. ‘‘Lady Jewel gave it to me.’’
    ‘‘Did she? I wonder where she got that old thing?’’
    Violet tore her gaze from the viscount—Ford—and glanced at the toy. ‘‘It does look rather used,’’ she said, finally finding her voice. ‘‘Ancient, actually.’’
    ‘‘Harry gave it to me,’’ Jewel said.
    Ford nodded. ‘‘My equally ancient houseman.’’
    His housekeeper walked in and set a pitcher of ale on the table. ‘‘Is that what my husband was doing with you? I was wondering what you two were up to this morning. That toy once belonged to our son—did Harry tell you that?’’
    Jewel nodded, then her voice took on that flirting quality. ‘‘Isn’t Rowan good at it?’’
    ‘‘Very,’’ Ford said, sharing a smile with Violet that caught her by surprise. Clearly he was on to his niece’s ploys. He waved Violet toward a chair. ‘‘Will you not sit down?’’
    ‘‘I’ll be back,’’ Hilda said, ‘‘after I get my tart out of the oven.’’
    Seating himself beside Violet, Ford reached for the ale and her cup. At Trentingham Manor, servants did the serving. For a nobleman, he didn’t seem to have very many. ‘‘How was your afternoon?’’ he asked.
    ‘‘Fine,’’ she said, watching him pour. He had very nice hands, long fingers and square nails. She wracked her brain for a topic of conversation. ‘‘I am reading a book by Francis Bacon.’’
    He filled the children’s cups, adding water to both.
    ‘‘Philosophy?’’ he asked, his tone cool but courteous.
    ‘‘Yes.’’
    ‘‘Of course. You did mention you study philosophy.’’ He poured himself some ale, then drank like he needed it. ‘‘And what does Francis Bacon have to say?’’
    She sipped while she thought of a reply, wondering why she cared so much that he liked her. ‘‘He believes in liberty of speech.’’
    ‘‘That is admirable.’’ He drained his cup.
    ‘‘He thinks knowledge and human power are synonymous.’’
    He smiled vaguely as he refilled it.
    ‘‘Do you agree?’’ she asked, feeling more awkward by the moment.
    ‘‘Oh, yes. Yes.’’
    She sighed with relief when Hilda waddled in with four plates and started setting one in front of each of them. A welcome distraction. Steam from the plain apple tart wafted to Violet’s nose, and it smelled delicious. She lifted her spoon.
    ‘‘I don’t like apples,’’ Rowan said. ‘‘Have you cherries?’’
    Hilda stared at him. ‘‘Have you manners?’’