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Authors: The Finer Things

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Violette did not move. She did not want him to be kind. She could suffer his cruelty far more than his kindness. “Do you like me at all?” she heard herself ask bitterly.
He did not answer.
Violette turned slowly around, dreading what she would see. But she could not read the emotions, if there were any, lurking behind the mask he wore.
“Of course I do,” he finally said.
“But you only married me to rescue me,” Violette said, holding his gaze.
His jaw flexed. He opened his mouth but no words came out.
“You don’t have to answer. I know the truth. We both know the truth. I am not a real lady. I am a fraud. A beggar, a thief—possibly now even a murderess.”
“Don’t speak that way,” he said sharply.
“Why not?” She walked away. “Or should I say, ‘Wot not, guv’nor?’” She allowed herself to slip into the strongest Cockney possible.
He winced. “Why do we not try to make the best of what circumstance has handed us?”
Violette almost wept. She crossed her arms and hugged herself, unable to answer.
“In any case,” Blake said into the tense silence of the room, “we are wed now, and that is a fact. Especially after last night.”
Violette recalled his devastating words of that morning. “But not for very long, hopefully.”
He stiffened.
She met his gaze. “I really do have a terrible headache, Blake. Please, allow me to beg off this evening’s supper.”
He stared. His face was now utterly, starkly devoid of emotion. “Very well. I shall also cancel. But plan to dine with my family tomorrow, Violette,” he said. And there was a warning in his tone.
 
Violette finally crawled into bed a short while later. She could not sleep. She was too anguished, and dammit, her feelings for Blake would not turn into pure hatred. If only she could stop loving him. If only she could stop clinging to the most fragile thread of hope that somehow, one day, her impossible dreams would ripen into reality.
Violette covered her head with her pillow, wishing that she could stop her mind from thinking and her heart from feeling. But that was as impossible as stopping the blood from flowing through her veins, the air from flowing into her lungs. She loved Blake desperately. She had never loved this way before,
would never love this way again. It was a rude, cruel comprehension.
His lovemaking haunted her. It was inexplicable. When he lay with her, it felt as if he cared, far more than a little. It was only an illusion, but it was a beautiful illusion, one Violette would gladly embrace again.
It was so tempting. To go to him, and find that illusion of love in the dark of the night.
Violette was a woman now, aware of her power. She knew Blake would not reject her if she crept into his bed. Yet in the light of the next day, Violette was afraid of the anguish, for she had not a doubt it would be far worse than what she was consumed with now.
 
Blake ate his supper alone. His dining room had never seemed so empty before. His oval table, which could seat twenty-four with added wings, had never seemed so vast. Before he had pushed away his second course he had finished an entire bottle of vintage Bordeaux. Yet he hardly tasted either the wine or his cook’s meal, and it was clear that Cook was outdoing himself for the newlyweds. As he ate the glazed venison mechanically, he thought about the woman who had become his wife.
He did not understand her, not at all. Had he wounded her so badly that she now wanted the divorce he had decided against? That thought made Blake positively ill. What was happening to him? Was he in love? Who had ever thought that life could become so complicated so quickly and so effortlessly?
His life had not been the same since the moment he had first laid eyes upon Violette—and that was only two months ago.
He pushed his plate away, having taken merely a few bites, but asked Chamberlain to open another bottle of wine. He told himself that he did not care if she divorced him after the trial. It would be for the best. It was what he had originally wanted himself.
He did not feel very convinced.
“My lord”—Chamberlain appeared carrying an entire lemon tart—“Cook has made your favorite dessert. Shall I serve you?”
Blake stood abruptly. “I am in no mood for dessert, although you may tell Cook it appears lovely, and that supper was, as always, superb.” Blake picked up both the wine bottle and his wineglass, but Chamberlain did not show the slightest degree
of surprise. Blake was not an excessive drinker and his staff knew his habits exactly, as well they should. He was also aware that tonight he was not quite sober. He did not care. “Good night. And thank you, Chamberlain.”
Chamberlain bowed. “My lord, may I say one thing?”
Blake turned, surprised. “Of course.”
“Her Ladyship also refused her supper tray.”
Blake was aware that he tensed. He kept his tone casual. “Then I imagine she shall need a very large breakfast in the morning.”
Chamberlain nodded and left.
Blake walked slowly upstairs. Was Violette trying to make herself ill? He was upset that she was not eating. And he was positive that she did not have a migraine, that it was an excuse to avoid his company.
At his doorway he paused, glancing at Violette’s adjacent door. He could not help but strain to hear, listening for God only knew what. Her bedroom was silent, and he saw by peering at the crack where the door met the floor, that it was cast in absolute darkness. She was asleep.
Oddly, he was disappointed.
He had no right to that disappointment.
Blake turned away and entered his own rooms. A fire blazed in the hearth of his sitting room. He was wearing a smoking jacket over his trousers, and now he kicked off his slippers, setting both the wine and glass down on the side table by the mint green sofa. He stared at the flames.
He thought about last night and that morning. If only he could forget.
A noise made Blake turn. His eyes widened. Light was spilling out from under the door which adjoined their rooms. She was not asleep, and clearly she had just lit a lamp. His pulse raced.
He watched the door, sipping his wine, waiting for the light to go out. But it did not. A new tension pervaded his body.
And then he made a decision. He quickly went downstairs, down the halls, into the back of the town house—into the kitchen. Cook, a short, plump Frenchman, was sitting at the kitchen table as two maids finished cleaning up. The maids stopped scrubbing the counters and Cook leapt to his feet as Blake appeared in the kitchen—a place he had never, ever entered before.
“My lord,” the Frenchman cried, wide-eyed.
“Monsieur Dupuis. I am sorry to disturb you. I wish to bring a tray up to my wife.”
The cook turned and snapped out orders. Feeling somewhat foolish, aware that he was a little drunker than he had thought, and definitely aware of being an outsider in this particular domain, Blake watched a tray being filled with a delicate salad of field greens, cold poached salmon, the glazed venison, string beans and beets, potatoes, and finally, a generous serving of lemon tart.
The cook brought the tray to Blake himself. “My lord, shall this suffice?”
“Yes, thank you,” Blake said. “Good night.” He left the kitchen and returned upstairs. At Violette’s door he noticed that the light was still on inside of her bedroom, and he was relieved. Balancing the silver platter carefully, he knocked on her door.
Without even asking who it was, she opened it immediately. Their gazes met.
Blake managed a smile. She was wearing the rose satin wrapper, tightly belted, and he knew damn well what was underneath it. He tried not to think about it. “I saw that you were still awake. Chamberlain told me you did not eat. Supper was wonderful. I thought you might be hungry now.” His words came out in a rush in spite of his inebriation.
She stared at him. “Actually,” she finally said, her tone somewhat hoarse, “I am hungry. Please, come in.” She stepped aside.
Blake regarded her without moving. He had never seen a more beautiful, enticing woman, and suddenly the night, and his house, seemed achingly silent and terribly still around them. He could not lie to himself. He had never wanted any woman more. It was going to be very difficult to merely bring her the tray and leave. In fact, he did not want to leave, even though he knew he must.
And he imagined how empty his home would feel if Violette divorced him. It was a dreadful, stunning realization.
He managed a small smile and entered her room, acutely aware of her, placing the tray on the small table where she could dine. As he did so, he heard her closing the door. The satin wrapper swished slightly against her legs as she walked over to the table.
Their gazes locked again.
“Please,” Blake said, gesturing to a chair.
She hesitated. “Will you keep me company?”
He froze, his eyes searching hers. She glanced away, purposefully avoiding his scrutiny, he knew. “Thank you,” he said softly.
Violette sat, as did Blake. He watched her eating—and there was no question about it, she was very hungry. He smiled a little as he watched her. Suddenly she looked up.
His smile faded.
“Am I embarrassing myself?” she asked huskily.
“No,” he said. “Not at all. Why didn’t you accept a tray earlier?”
She dug into the tart. “I wasn’t hungry then.”
He had to smile because immediately after the tart she returned to the venison. He thought about her being a child in St. Giles, sweeping streets for gentlemen like himself to cross, holding horses for him and his friends for a penny or two, sleeping at night, in the rain and the snow, on open stoops. He no longer smiled. A fierce protective instinct he could not deny overcame him again.
She laid down her fork halfway through the tart. “You’re staring at me.”
“That,” he said slowly, “is because your beauty takes my breath away.”
She did not move. Her eyes held his.
And Blake no more meant to kiss her than he had meant to speak his thoughts aloud, but he leaned forward, wrapping his palm around the back of her neck. She remained motionless. His heart suddenly banging against his chest, Blake feathered her mouth with his.
He paused, pulling back so he could look at her. “Do you want me to return to my rooms?” he asked in a murmur.
Violette stared, her face flushed. “No,” she whispered.
Blake moved. He stood, pulling her up and into his arms. She clung, their mouths fused.
 
Violette awoke at dawn.
She lay in Blake’s arms. Her face was on his chest, one of her thighs hooked over and between his. He had his arm around her. Their faces were turned toward one another.
She blinked back sudden, burning tears. Recalling every moment of last night—he had made love to her twice. At first he had been wild, almost savage, but her passion had matched his. Had Violette not been so sad, she would have blushed, recalling
her loud cries—and his. Afterward it had been tender, gentle, as if they were two lovers enamored of one another, destined to be together, and both fully knowing it; two lovers in a timeless, eternal dance of joy and love.
Violette shifted so she was even closer to Blake, an impossibility. She was in the throes of anguish.
Being loved by him physically one moment, and rejected coldly the next, was not a cycle she could bear. This marriage was killing her. Her hopes and dreams were killing her.
Because logic told her there was no hope.
Violette squeezed her eyes shut. There were only two options. To remain with him, hoping for what would never be, loving him so intensely that her soul was filled with pain, or to leave. To leave him now, before she was incapable of ever doing so.
To leave him now, while she was still free to do so—still alive to do so.
Violette looked at Blake, and slipped out of his arms. Nude, she sat up on the edge of the bed. She began to cry.
Running away was going to be the most difficult thing she had ever done in her life. Even though she was terrified of facing the House of Lords, if she had his love, Violette knew she could withstand the murder trial, a guilty verdict, and the hangman. But she did not have his love. Her life was over even if she did not actually hang.
She wiped her eyes and got to her feet, the decision made.
The Divorce
SHE
had left that morning while he overslept, something he never did, a failure caused by the excessive quantity of wine he had consumed the previous night. It was teatime. She had been gone all day.
He did not understand. He was impatient, even somewhat worried. Blake had already questioned the servants, hours ago, but no one had the slightest idea of where she had been off to. And to make matters more confusing, she had left in a hired hansom, instead of in one of his vehicles. But she would certainly be home at any moment, and he intended to give her a good setdown for her thoughtless behavior.
Yet Violette, he knew, was not a thoughtless woman.
The day wore on. Blake worked from his home. He found it hard to concentrate. Simple sums refused to add up correctly, to multiply or divide. Violette did not return. Where was she? And why in God’s name hadn’t she taken one of his coaches? It made no sense.
Blake gave up trying to work. He paced and stared out of the windows and glimpsed a hired hansom approaching from down the street. He swiftly moved closer to the window, straining to see. He was certain it was Violette, finally returning home. He glanced at the clock over the mantel—it was half-past five. He intended to berate her for disappearing without a word to anyone about where she was going and when she would return.
The hansom stopped in front of his house. Blake felt himself smile. His heart skipped a beat. He was relieved.
The door swung open and Ralph Horn alighted. Blake froze, seared with disappointment, as Horn came up the block. The hansom, apparently instructed to wait, did not move away.
Blake strode into the foyer and flung open the front door before Horn could even use the knocker. He bit back his first choice of words, which were, “Where is Violette,” saying instead, “Good afternoon, Horn.” But he wanted to know what the hell Horn was doing there at his front door, and where the hell his wife was.
Horn’s smile was insolent. “Guv’nor.”
The two men faced one another on the stoop. Blake had no intention of allowing him inside. When Horn did not speak, but merely grinned, Blake said coldly, “Where is Lady Neville?”
Horn’s smile broadened. “Aggtually, she asked me to bring yew this.” Ralph handed him a folded piece of parchment. “I come fer ’er things.”
Blake did not really hear him. Very puzzled, he opened the vellum, and quickly realized it was a letter. He knew she had been learning to write and he could see that the letter had been constructed carefully. It also appeared as if someone had helped her write it.
Turning his back on Horn, not going inside, Blake quickly read—and stiffened with shock.
Dear Blake,
You were right. A marriage between us is impossible, and I, too, want a divorce. I do not want you to think that I am ungrateful for everything you have done for me. I am very grateful. I only ask you now to start divorce proceedings so we may both get on with our lives. I will contact you with my new address when I am settled. I wish you great happiness, always.
Your friend, Violette.
Blake crushed the paper in his fist. For one instant he was blinded by feelings of utter treachery. Utter betrayal. Profound deception. Then he looked up, saw Ralph grinning at him. “Get out,” he snarled, and an instant later he smashed his fist into Horn’s nose.
 
She had left him, she wanted a divorce. If it weren’t so unbelievable, so painful, he might have laughed at the utter irony of it all. But he was incapable of laughter.
He sat at his desk in his nearly dark library, his head in his hands. He was incapable of doing much more than feeling at the moment.
Violette had left him
. He did not know what time
it was, or how much time had passed since the insolent, smug Horn had left the premises. He did not care. He had left orders with Tulley that he did not wish to be disturbed.
So when there eventually was a knock on the study door Blake was furious. He lifted his head and stared.
The knocking continued. And then he heard his brother’s voice. “Blake, I know you are inside.” The door swung open.
Blake was glaring as Jon appeared on the library’s threshold, standing with the aid of two footmen. Jon was the last person he wished to see. And had he not been sitting in almost absolute darkness, he would have told him that he was working, and not available for any interruptions then. But such an excuse was obviously false now.
“Good God,” Jon said. “Put on some lights, Blake.”
Exasperated, Blake stood and lit the gaslamp on his desk. The single light gave the library an eerie, almost unholy glow. “This is a strange time for you to call, Jon,” Blake said unpleasantly. He sat back down.
Jon was settled in a chair. The servants left, leaving the door open. “I heard what happened. Is it true? Your wife has left you?”
Blake was in disbelief. “How in bloody hell did you learn that?”
Jon stared, unsmiling. “I refuse to say.”
The staff. He was going to dismiss them all, especially Tulley, Blake decided savagely. He was on his feet again. He gave Jon a cold smile and walked over to the sideboard, pouring two scotch whiskys. He handed one to Jon, who regarded him searchingly. Blake raised his glass in a toast. “To my freedom. Which is all I ever wanted anyway.” He tossed down half the scotch, realizing that he should have had a drink hours ago.
“Crap,” Jon said. “Violette was good for you, and you were in love with her. What happened?”
“I am not in love, nor was I in love,” Blake said, his eye ticking. “Christ! What a romantic you are!”
Jon smiled grimly. “You are avoiding the question.”
Blake shrugged. “She left. With Horn. She wants a divorce, as I do. We are in accord.” He finished the scotch. “Completely.”
“Like hell you are,” Jon said. “Are you giving her a divorce?”
“Of course I am.” Blake refilled his glass. “After the trial, of course.” His temples throbbed. “What a stupid time for her
to leave,” he muttered. “She has no sense, none.”
“Bring her back,” Jon suggested. “You can’t go to trial, Blake, while separated. This weakens her case.”
It did. Terribly. But Blake told himself that he did not care. “I am not bringing her back. Dodge can coach her this week on what she must say at the trial, and how she must answer any questions. I am not bringing her back, and I am not speaking with her, period.” Blake was firm.
“Oh? You are never speaking with her again?”
Blake felt like answering yes. Instead, he glared yet again. “Of course we shall have to speak. To discuss the divorce.”
“You are a fool,” Jon said. “Why are you letting her go?”
Blake slammed his glass down. “Are you trying to provoke me? Have you forgotten? I only married her to save her from a guilty verdict in the Queen’s Bench. And that,” he gritted, “is the truth.”
Jon studied him. It was a moment before he spoke. “Perhaps I should go speak with her. Encourage her to return. I am certain this can be worked out if the two of you talk to one another frankly.”
“Don’t you dare!” Blake cried. But inwardly, a part of himself almost wanted Jon to do just that. To go to Violette, make her come home. “There is nothing,” he managed harshly, “to talk about.”
Jon sighed. “Except for the trial.”
“Except for the trial.” Blake drank. “And the divorce.”
 
Dodge brought the worst possible news that next morning. Their meeting was prearranged. They had exchanged messages the day before. The solicitor had been unhappy to learn that Blake and his wife were currently living apart. He had insisted that they reconcile immediately; when Blake had told him that was not possible, he had insisted that they dissemble at the trial—Dodge did not want anyone to know about the separation. Blake was not pleased with the prospect of perjuring himself in the House of Lords. He almost cursed Violette for her utterly appalling sense of timing.
Blake was drinking extremely strong black coffee and trying to recover from another night of heavy drinking—sleep had been impossible. Finally Tulley appeared, Dodge behind him. “My lord, Mr. Dodge to see you.”
Blake stood to shake Dodge’s hand but faltered when he realized that the solicitor was frowning and disturbed.
“Blake, I have bad news.”
“I can see that,” Blake said.
“I went to Lady Neville’s flat yesterday to urge her to make amends with you, at least for the time being,” Dodge said. “No one was home, so I left. But this morning, just half an hour ago, I returned to Knightsbridge. Again, the flat was deserted—and it was not half-past nine.”
Blake had become motionless.
“Blake.” Dodge was grim. “She is gone.”
It was a moment before Blake actually could grasp Dodge’s meaning. “Gone,” he repeated.
“Lady Neville is gone. The flat has been vacated and locked up.”
Blake stared, stunned and disbelieving.
“This time I interviewed her neighbors. She and Horn left yesterday in a hansom, with half a dozen trunks.” Dodge stared. “She is taking a trip, Blake—and it doesn’t seem to me that she intends to come back.”
He felt the comprehension slamming over him like a full-fledged blow from a battering ram, pushing him backwards, back and still further back, and finally ripping apart everything in its path, ripping him apart. One line from her note flashed through Blake’s mind.
I will contact you with my new address when I am settled.
“I was so very concerned that I interviewed, as quickly as possible, a series of her neighbors. One young boy told me he heard her and Horn talking about Paris, Blake.”
Blake was speechless.
“She has, it seems, run away,” Dodge said flatly.
Blake stared, not seeing Dodge. Left the country. Fled. To France.
“My lord,” Dodge said, “I am afraid this is very serious. The trial is in five days, and we have no defendant.”
Blake closed his eyes, trembling. He finally said, “There can not be a trial without a defendant, can there, Mr. Dodge?”
“No. And unless Lady Neville returns, or is found and forced to return, there will not be a trial,” Dodge said. “But that is not a favorable turn of events.”
Blake understood only too well.
“We had better find Lady Neville immediately—and make sure she is at the trial before anyone ever knows that she was gone,” Dodge said.
Blake inhaled, hard. The rush of air into his lungs was actually
painful.
She had run away.
Why? But did it even matter? She was gone. And she was not, he knew, coming back.
“Blake,” Dodge said sternly. “We all know that she is innocent of murdering Sir Thomas, but no one else does. And if it becomes common knowledge that she has run away, it will be almost impossible to ever convince anyone that she is not guilty—making Lady Neville’s future return disastrous.”
Blake turned away. He did not have to be told the consequences of Violette’s behavior. She had run away, and no act could be more damning.
And he cared, no matter that he told himself otherwise. Because he knew she had run away, not from the trial, but from their marriage, from him.

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