Brenda Joyce (18 page)
Authors: The Finer Things
She beamed in relief, for he felt like a dear old friend. He saw her, starting, then quickly recovered. His expression became benign. He bowed. “The ballroom, Lady Goodwin,” he intoned, gesturing.
Swallowing, Violette said, very carefully, “Thank you, Tulley.”
He shot her a brief smile, a twinkle in his eyes.
Violette’s pulse was rioting. But at least she had one ally in the house. She followed the two couples down the three steps into the massive ballroom. But once inside, she was frozen, incapable of movement.
It was larger than she had remembered, more majestic. White pillars lined each long side of the rectangular room. The mint green ceiling was domed and beautifully wainscoted in white plaster and gold. A half-dozen huge crystal chandeliers were lit with hundreds of flaming candles. The floors were wood parquet and polished so highly that they gleamed. Dozens and dozens of assorted small chairs lined the room’s gold-clothed walls, beneath marble busts set upon pedestals and numerous works of art. Violette would have been happy just to wander around the room looking at the sculptures and the landscapes, but she did not dare.
And there were so many people present that Violette could not hazard a guess as to whether the guests numbered two or five hundred. Along the edges of the ballroom the beautifully gowned, bejeweled women and gentlemen in evening dress gathered in groups, chatting and sipping champagne. In the center of the room dozens of couples were performing a quadrillen. The orchestra, Violette realized, was skillfully hidden from view at the far end of the room behind a thick arrangement of flowering shrubbery decorated with papier-mâché figures of men and women waltzing.
And past the dancers and the band, wide doors led into another room, where Violette glimpsed more guests and buffet after buffet of refreshments.
Violette hesitated, unsure of what to do. Three other couples were passing by her as they entered the ballroom. Violette looked around, realizing that she did not see anyone she knew. But the Hardings, of course, had to be present. The Hardings—and Blake.
Then she recognized Catherine Dearfield as one of the ladies on the dance floor performing the quadrillen. She was stunning in a bright pink moirée gown, and she moved so gracefully that Violette was filled with yearning. Her partner was a handsome, swarthy gentleman. They looked wonderful together, Catherine ethereal and fair, her partner dark and attractive.
Violette turned away. She could not remain by the steps like
a statue. She would look for the countess, Jon, or Blake.
a statue. She would look for the countess, Jon, or Blake.
And as she walked alone through the ballroom, she was aware of men and women turning to regard her somewhat quizzically. One or two gentlemen who appeared to be unescorted studied her and smiled. Then Violette faltered, espying Lord Farrow, who had seen her and was coming purposefully her way.
“Lady Goodwin,” he said, his eyes gleaming. He took her hand and kissed it. “I am so delighted to see you.”
“G’d evening, me Lord,” Violette said nervously, aware that they were being watched by several guests. She did not want his attention. He had been stopping by the shop far too frequently. Lady Allister had actually given Violette the same lecture about his character as the countess. And he had given her the beautiful scarf, insisting that she accept it.
“You look ravishing tonight, as always,” he said. He tucked her arm in his. “Shall we go and have a glass of champagne?”
Violette hesitated. She still saw no one else that she knew. “I … er … I guess so.” She stole another glance at the party watching her encounter with Lord Farrow. And she heard one gentleman murmur, “Who is that?”
A woman said loudly, “I have no idea! Did you hear that Cockney accent? Good God--do you think she has crashed the Hardings’ ball?”
Violette stiffened. And if Farrow heard, he gave no sign. He began pulling Violette away. But Violette heard another man remark, “What a shame, a woman like that with those looks. So she is Farrow’s newest, eh?”
Violette stumbled alongside Farrow, refusing to look at him, barely aware of where they were going. She no longer wished for his company; in fact, she wished to disappear entirely. And she had thought her speech was improving.
As they crossed the ballroom Violette did not look at anyone, but now she felt as if everyone were watching her. She tripped as she and Farrow crossed into the dining room.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
Violette finally met his dark gaze. It was very hard to keep a rein on all of her emotions, and she did not trust herself to speak. But somewhat miraculously, a voice behind her said in response, “I think Lady Goodwin wishes to decline.”
Violette whirled, facing Blake.
His eyes held a dangerous light, a muscle flexed in his jaw. His gaze helds hers only for an instant, and then it skewered
Farrow. Farrow eyed him coldly in return. The two men stared with undisguised hostility at one another. And it took Violette a moment to realize the. extent of the tension between them. It was almost as if she had caused it. Had she?
Farrow. Farrow eyed him coldly in return. The two men stared with undisguised hostility at one another. And it took Violette a moment to realize the. extent of the tension between them. It was almost as if she had caused it. Had she?
Could Blake be jealous?
“Good evening to you, Blake,” Farrow said without any warmth.
Blake nodded, then faced Violette. His eyes softened, and a moment later he bowed, taking her hand. “I am so pleased that you are here, Lady Goodwin.”
He sounded as if he meant it. She melted inside, forgetting the humiliation of the past few moments. “Yew are? I mean, you are?”
“Of course.” He tucked her arm in his. “I hate to be rude, my friend, but Lady Goodwin and I have several urgent matters to discuss. I am her financial advisor.”
Farrow stared, his lips curling. “Right.” But he recovered, bowed stiffly at Violette and said, “Will you mark a waltz for me on your card?”
Violette blinked. She had not yet recovered from the amazing fact that Blake had not just sought her out, but that he was pleased to see her. Perhaps her dreams would come true tonight. She crossed her fingers.
“Do you have a card, Lady Goodwin?” Blake asked softly. “A dance card?”
Violette did not dare ask what a dance card was. “No.”
“We shall get you one,” Blake said, his gaze unwavering on her face.
Farrow bowed again. “A waltz,” he reminded her.
Violette smiled. “That’s fine, me lord.”
Farrow turned and disappeared into the crowd. Violette smiled shyly at Blake.
“You look lovely tonight,” he said. Blake led her toward a buffet. “Farrow is up to no good, as I have told you before.”
Violette nodded. “I … I am beginning to think you are right.”
He glanced at her. “Are you hungry?”
“No.” How could she think of eating when she was arm in arm with Blake, the most stunning, noble, intelligent, kind man she had ever known in her life?
They paused. “Shall we dance?” he asked.
Violette felt herself blushing. With Blake, she was not afraid to confess the truth. “I don’t know how to dance.”
“Ahh, I see.” He regarded her. “Then perhaps you should stay off of the dance floor tonight, Lady Goodwin.” He smiled at her.
“I think you are right,” Violette said, smiling back at him.
“Let me introduce you to some of my friends,” Blake said.
Violette allowed Blake to lead her over to a group of guests. A mixed group, both in gender and age, they all became quiet when Violette and Blake approached. Violette was pinching herself to make sure that she was not dreaming.
Blake bowed at the oldest gentleman present. “Your Grace, good evening. Might I present a friend of mine? Lady Goodwin of York has recently come to town. Lady Goodwin, the duke of Rutherford.”
For one moment, Violette was frozen. She almost gaped. She had never laid eyes on a duke before, much less been oh-so-casually introduced to one. Blake squeezed her elbow and Violette came to life. Aware that her cheeks were burning, Violette curtsied—a curtsy she had been practicing on numerous customers. “Yer Grace, good evening. It’s wonderful to meet you.” Her pulse was racing.
And if the duke heard her “awful Cockney,” or noticed that her manners were far less graceful than those of the class he belonged to, he gave no sign. He bowed over her hand. “A pleasure, Lady Goodwin. Is it not a magnificent ball?” His eyes twinkled, surprising Violette. She immediately sensed that here was another kind, compassionate man.
“Yes, sir … I mean, me lord.”
Someone coughed behind Rutherford.
“And how are you, young man?” Rutherford asked Blake.
Blake smiled. “On a night like this one, with such a woman at my side, need I even answer the question?” Blake asked.
It took Violette a moment to realize what Blake had meant. She gawked at him. Was this the same man who had been furious with her outside of Lady Allister’s—who had told her he wished to be mere friends?
“Lady Goodwin, I do believe that you have met the duke’s son, the marquis of Waverly. And this is the marchioness,” Blake continued.
Violette was now recognizing the very handsome, golden-haired, amber-eyed gentleman who had been standing beside the duke. She began to flush. He had been present in Blake’s club with Blake when she had forced her way inside quite inelegantly and uproariously.
But Dom St. Georges grinned at her, his eyes containing the very same twinkle as the duke’s. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lady Goodwin.” ,
Before Violette could respond, the lovely, petite woman by Waverly’s side was smiling at her and introducing herself as the marquis’s wife. “You are in town now?” Anne St. Georges queried. Her manner was open and friendly, her accent American.
Violette nodded, at a loss because this exalted family was being so gracious toward her.
“Oh, then you must call upon me at Rutherford House.” Anne St. Georges smiled. “And soon. We will take breakfast together and you shall tell me all about how you first met Blake.” Her blue eyes sparkled. “I do adore gossip,” she added.
“Yes,” was all that Violette could manage. She was dazed.
Blake performed introductions amongst the rest of the group, and then everyone began to chat animatedly. Violette remained silent, listening as the opera was discussed, her eyes constantly glued upon Blake’s face. After a few moments, Blake excused them and led her away. “There are many more people here that I wish for you to meet,’.’ he told her.
Violette met his brilliant blue eyes. “Yes,” she managed, as he maneuvered them toward another cluster of conversing guests. Arm in arm with him, she had once coherent thought. God had answered her prayers.
“You seem somewhat tired, Lady Goodwin,” Blake said, about an hour later.
He had just handed her a glass of champagne. Violette nodded at him. “Meeting so many people is eggssaucting.”
“Exhausting,” he said, his gaze on hers. “E-X-H. Ex-hausting.”
“Exhausting,” Violette whispered, taking a sip of the champagne. She had never tasted champagne before and her eyes widened. “This is delicious,” she exclaimed.
He laughed, the sound rich. “Dom Perignon; 1849 was a premier year.”
Violette took another’sip. She had been so tired, but the bubbly champagne was rapidly restoring her spirits. “I do like this.”
“Be careful,” he said. “It can go right to your head.”
“I niver been drunk in me life,” she said flatly. “Eggsept
when you gave me that brandy after Sir Thomas died.” She sombered. “Except,” she amended. She did not want to recall that day now.
when you gave me that brandy after Sir Thomas died.” She sombered. “Except,” she amended. She did not want to recall that day now.
“Well, at the rate you are finishing that glass, I imagine that this shall be the second time.” Blake seemed amused.
Violette stared at him, hardly having heard him. Thus far they had been so busy meeting so many people, and now she had time to think—and to yearn. Blake was, so handsome. She could look at his face forever, never getting enough. She wondered if he would always make her heart stop, always take her breath away.
Blake tore his gaze from hers. He sipped his own flute of champagne.
Violette couldn’t help gazing at his mouth and recalling the kiss they had shared. Her body tightened with the recollection. She thought about the gardens outside of the house. “Will you take some air with me?” she asked impulsively. “It’s so hot in here.”
He stared at her, unsmiling.
Violette wasn’t warm, and she was afraid he could read her thoughts. But she ducked her eyes and fanned herself with one hand. “I was so nervous tonight,” she murmured, a kind of explanation.
“It’s cool out. You would need a wrap.”
“No. I don’t want a wrap.” Violette kept her gaze downcast.
A brief silence greeted her words. “Very well. For a moment, then.” Blake took her elbow and they left the dining salon. They passed several guests as they walked down a hall. He halted before a pair of French doors. Outside was a flagstone terrace and moonlit gardens, a pretty gazebo in its center. “Are you sure you are warm?” he asked, glancing at her.
Violette was actually on fire. “Yes.”
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