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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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He shoved open the doors and they stepped outside. “Pale blue suits you,” he said somewhat tersely. “It is a shame you do not have sapphires and diamonds to go with the gown.”
Violette laughed hoarsely. “Me? Gawd!”
“God,” he said, stepping away from her. “Never
gawd
. And a lady does not use that kind of language in any case.” He had moved to a stone bench, his back to her, facing the gardens, the moon, and the gazebo. Violette devoured his back openly. But before she could go to him, he turned slowly around.
His eyes were so intense that Violette, about to follow him, froze. “God,” he said, almost to himself.
“God,” she whispered breathlessly. “Wot language can a lady use?” Not that she cared. Not in that moment.
“Oh dear,” he said, his jaw flexed, no, ground down.
Neither one of them laughed. A few feet separated them. Moonlight drenched them. Blake stared. Violette’s pulse raced with alarming speed. It seemed difficult, even unnatural, to breathe. But perhaps that was because of the rioting fragrances they were immersed in. The gardens were almost suffocating. Roses, lilies, amber, freesia, and tuberose mingled together, at once overpowering and erotic, exciting. It was another onslaught on their already overburdened senses.
Violette thought about his kiss on the terrace outside Harding Hall. Every fiber of her being quivered with anticipation, with need. She met his brilliant gaze. “Wot?” she finally managed in another whisper.
His temples were throbbing. “I think that taking air is not a good idea. Let us return to the ball. I shall introduce you around some more.”
“I don’t want to meet any more guests,” she said bluntly. Why didn’t he come closer to her? Surely, surely, he would kiss her. Violette knew he could see her trembling. “Blake?” It was only half of a question. It was also an invitation.
But Blake did not step closer, nor did he pull her into his embrace. Instead, he turned his back abruptly on her, and stared up at the moon.
VIOLETTE
had the awful feeling that if she did not do something, Blake would leave her standing there alone in the gardens. She summoned up all her courage, took a deep breath, and walked over to him. He turned slightly but did not move.
She could not smile. She failed to think of a single intelligent thing to say. She could only speak from the heart. “Blake,” she said huskily. “I’ve yet t’ thank you fer your gift an’ … for everything you’ve done fer me since we met.” She wet her lips. “And fer tonight. Fer this lovely night.”
His gaze, holding her eyes, dipped to her mouth. “It has been my pleasure,” he said slowly.
“Do you know,” she continued shakily, “the first time I ever saw you I really thought you were a prince?”
He started. “Come, Violette,” he began, mildly amused.
“No, it’s the truth.” She felt herself drowning in his long-lashed, turquoise-blue eyes. “Eight years ago. There was a ball. Here. At Harding House.” Perspiration trickled down between her breasts. “I wanted something to eat. We were going to steal plum puddin’ an’ lamb from your kitchens. But I couldn’t help sneakin’ up to the window to look inside the house at the ball an’ the dancers. I saw you. I remember it as clear as if it were yesterday.”
His gaze roamed over her face, his expression not merely strained, but somber. “You are probably mistaken.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You were with a woman, older than you, a golden lady. I remember you took her onto the terrace an’ danced with her.”
Blake’s chest seemed to heave under his snowy white shirtfront and black tailcoat. “I do not remember. I was a boy eight years ago.”
“Not to me.” Her smile was shy, tremulous. “I was eight years old.”
They stared. Blake finally lifted his hand and touched her cheek with his fingertips. He did not say a word.
But his eyes spoke volumes. And Violette’s heart sang, and she trembled, swaying toward him.
And suddenly he had her shoulders in his palms and she was pressed against the entire length of his body. Before Violette’s lids closed she caught a glimpse of the wild brilliance in his eyes, and something explosive crested inside her. Blake slid his powerful arms around her, bent her backwards, his mouth taking hers.
Violette had never even dreamed a kiss could be so powerful and earth-shattering, so overwhelming. His mouth was hard, hungry, yet hardly hurtful, and his strong, large hands roamed her bare shoulders and upper back, only to press down hard on her waist. His grip tightened. His mouth opened hers. His tongue sought out and flicked hers. The pressure of their lips continued, increasing.
A soft, wild sound escaped Violette as she clung to his broad shoulders. He ripped his mouth from hers, only to cover her throat and jaw with hot, hungry kisses. Violette moaned, shivering with pleasure.
His grip tightened yet again and he claimed her mouth another time, even more forcefully than before. Violette tried to kiss him back with all of the passion inside her body, inside
her soul. He was so beautiful; being with him this way was so beautiful. Her palms slid from his shoulders to his face. She wanted more. So much more.
And then Blake stopped kissing her. His harsh breathing sounded loudly as he slowly straightened. “God,” he said, their gazes meeting. “God,” he whispered again.
Violette smiled at him. Tears of happiness filled her eyes, tears of happiness, of wonder, of joy. How she loved him. How she loved turn with all her heart and all her soul. She had never known she could feel this way for anyone—man, woman, or child—before.
But his expression changed as he stared back at her. He dropped his hands, stepped away from her. His eyes had darkened with dismay.
Violette did not understand. “Blake?”
“I apologize. Once again. That should not have happened.” He was harsh. Rigid. Tense.
She gasped. “Why not?!”
He raised a hand, as if to forestall her denial. “I lost my head. Your beauty is uncommon.”
“No,” Violette whispered. Even she knew that this was about far more than beauty. “Wot can you be saying? Wot can you be thinking? That was wonderful, the best thing I ever—”
“No,” he snapped, his tone like a whiplash. “Don’t you understand?” he cried.
“No,” Violette panted. “I do not understand. But don’t tell me we are just friends!” .
He stared at her.
“I think you love me,” she heard herself say, “just like I love you.” And then she wished, desperately, that she had not stepped so far out on such a shaky limb.
He blanched. A huge, monumental silence had settled over the gardens, around them. “No.” His voice rang out “I am sorry you do not understand. But a man does not have to love a woman in order to want her the way that I want you. I am sorry, Violette.” .
She wanted to clap her hands over her ears. “’Ow can you say such a thing to me?! ’Ow can you be so cruel?!”
“We had better go back inside,” he said heavily. And without waiting for her to reply, he gripped her arm and led her to the house.
 
 
He did not look at her as they rapidly traversed the corridor. Violette refused to cry. Her heart was broken, thoroughly, but she would not shed a single tear in front of him.
She was stunned.
His strides faltered as the sounds of the guests became louder, coming from the library where the gentlemen smoked cigars, drank scotch whisky and French brandy, and played billiards and whist. He glanced at her. “Are you going to weep?” he asked.
Violette shook her head, unable to speak.
He could not have meant what he had said, he could not
.
“Violette,” he said, his tone harsh, “this is all my fault. We should not have gone outside. I should not have danced attendance upon you. I am sorry.”
“But I do not want yew to be sorry,” she whispered, forgetting all about her you’s.
He froze, his gaze scanning her face. “I cannot,” he began, and hesitated. “I cannot give you what you want.”
She felt her face crumble even as she saw his regret and she shoved the back of her hand to her mouth. Something welled inside of her, but she was bloody well damned if she would let it out.
Oh, gawd. A fool. An utter, stupid, idiotic fool-that was what she was.
“You cannot go back to the ball in the state you are in,” he said flatly, taking her arm. Violette did not protest as he turned her around. She ducked her head because a lady in a pale gold dress was coming toward them. Blake was gripping Violette’s elbow and she felt his tension increase.
“Hello, Blake,” the woman said politely, her voice low and soft.
Violette immediately looked up, staring at the woman who was breathtakingly beautiful, her features strong and arresting, her gaze green and direct. She had honey blond hair pulled back tightly into a simple chignon, and she was older than either Violette or Blake. She wore a spectacular diamond and emerald choker but no other jewelry.
“Hello, Lady Cantwell. How are you?” Blake asked.
His tone was odd. Violette’s gaze flew from the lady’s gown-one of the most exquisitely beaded lace creations she had ever seen—to Blake’s face. She could not decipher the look in his eyes.
“Very well, thank you.” Lady Cantwell smiled into Blake’s eyes then regarded Violette. “Hello. I am Gabriella Cantwell.”
Violette could not smile back. She had glimpsed something wistful in her smile and sorrowful in her eyes when she had been speaking to Blake. Did he mean something to this woman?
“This is Lady Goodwin, from York,” Blake interjected. “She has but recently come to town.”
“I do hope you are enjoying our wonderful city,” Lady Cantwell said. She turned to Blake. “Once again, your mother has outdone herself. The ball is an outstanding success.”
“Thank you,” Blake said.
“Lady Goodwin, it was a pleasure meeting you, and it was good to see you again, Blake.” With one final warm smile that somehow encompassed them both, Gabriella Cantwell moved past them and down the corridor.
Blake regarded her back for an instant and then took Violette’s arm. He did not look at her and a few moments later they were in an unlit room. Violette did not move as Blake struck a match and turned up the wick on a gaslamp. They were in a beautifully furnished parlor, one opulent with fabrics and rugs from the Orient. Violette sank down on a tufted beige ottoman, her elbows on her thighs. She refused to meet his eyes.
“I am going to get Catherine,” he said.
Violette did not answer. Blake left, closing the door behind him. Violette finally looked at her taffeta-draped knees. She did not understand what had happened. The evening had been perfect, like a fairy tale in which she was Cinderella. She was afraid to understand. Was it as simple as Blake claimed? He lusted for her in a common, sordid way? Or was it that she wasn’t good enough for him?
Was that it?
And who was that woman? Lady Cantwell had somehow seemed familiar. Violette felt more miserable than before. Lady Cantwell might be close to forty, which was what Violette suspected, but she was one of those women who only became more intriguing with time, and Violette knew that she could not compete with her if she wanted Blake, too.
The door opened and closed. Catherine stared, then hurried over. “My dear! Violette, Blake said you are distraught and in need of female company. What has happened?” Catherine pulled up a bergère and managed to sink into it in spite of the fullness of her skirts. “I saw you earlier and thought you were having a wonderful evening!”
“I was. It was perfect. A dream come true.” Violette shook
her head. “I wish I could ’ate him, but I can’t.”
Catherine regarded her with concern. “What has he done? Why are you so close to weeping?”
“I won’t cry,” Violette said thickly. She raised her eyes, her mouth firmed. “Niver. I ain’t cried since they locked me up in the union when I was a little girl.”
“The union?” Catherine whispered, her eyes wide.
Violette stood abruptly. “The union. The workhouse. The poorhouse. It’s where they put orphans, feeding ’em gruel an’ making ’em tread steps that go nowhere.” She wasn’t in the mood to make the effort to speak like a real lady. After all, she wasn’t genuine, she was a fraud, and Blake knew it. She rubbed her gloved fist over her eyes.
Catherine gasped. “You were in the poorhouse? You poor dear!”
“Don’t feel sorry fer me.” Violette walked away. She stared blindly out of the window at the gardens where Blake had just kissed her. Her heart was filled with pain.
Why didn’t he love her back? Why was she born Violet Cooper? Why couldn’t she be a real lady?
Catherine also rose to her feet. “What has Blake done?”
Violette turned. “’E kissed me. I didn’t know a kiss could be so wild an’ grand.”
Catherine pinkened. “Oh, dear.”
“Bloody ’ell,” Violette said savagely, almost spitting. “’E kissed me, then said ’e’s sorry, so sorry, but it’s just lust.”
Catherine gasped. “Blake said
that
?”
Violette stared at Catherine. “’As ’e ever kissed yew?” Her chin was tilted up.
Catherine started, and shook her head. “No. Not in the manner I believe you are speaking about.”
“An’ ’e won’t. Not unless yer ’is wife. Because yer a lady, an’ I’m dirt.”
“My dear, you mustn’t think that way,” Catherine cried, rushing to her. She took Violette’s hands and smiled, but it was forced, her eyes filled with worry. “I am sure that he does care for you.”
“No.” Violette rubbed her eyes again. “One day ’e’s gonna marry a lady just like yew. Me ’e’d niver consider.”
Catherine hesitated, touching the diamond-and-pearl choker on her throat. “Violette, dear. You mustn’t think of Blake that way. He doesn’t wish to marry at all, at least not for a very long time.”
Her nostrils flared. She felt choked up again. “I’d wait.”
Catherine did not respond.
“But I guess I’d ’ave to wait forever, now wouldn’t I?” she asked bitterly.
Catherine was frozen, her color fading. “This is all my fault,” she whispered.
“’Ow could this be yer fault?” Violette asked glumly. “Yew ain’t t’ blame.”
Now Catherine blushed.
“Wot? Wot’s goin’ on?”
“I am sorry,” Catherine said with apparent guilt. “I was worried about how you would make do during this evening. I asked Blake to help, perhaps to court you, so that everyone would accept you.”
“Yew wot?” Violette gasped. “Yew told ’im to court me? Yew mean, ’e was just playin’ a game?”
“No! We were trying to protect you because we are both so fond of you,” Catherine said quickly.
“Did yew tell ’im to kiss me, too?” Violette asked harshly.
“Of course not.”
Violette turned her back on Catherine abruptly. She placed her palm over her thundering chest. It was hard to breathe. “Why did I come ’ere tonight? ’Ow stupid I am!”

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