Brenda Joyce (37 page)

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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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He reached for the letter again and read every single word. This time he noticed her excellent script, her grammar and verbiage. Had she written this herself? Dammit!
He did not care
.
Blake abruptly, violently, ripped the letter in half, and then in half again. He reached for a file of papers, began scanning the profit-and-loss statement in front of him. Suddenly angry, he tossed the file aside and stood, swiftly crossing the room. He poured himself a double scotch whisky, and, drinking, he stared at the small fire in the hearth.
All he could think was,
Damn her
.
 
His head was killing him. Blake strode up the steps to Harding House, angry with himself for once again drinking away half the night. Although he did not want to admit it to himself, he had been drinking heavily since fall. It was Saturday morning, and a ritual had long since been established of his taking an early breakfast with his family. These days, he also forced Jon to drive with him about town. It had not been easy to get his brother out of the house, just as it had not been easy to get him out of his bed in the first days following the accident.
Jon had shown no signs of recovering. By now, even Blake had given up hope.
“Good morning, Mother,” Blake said, kissing the countess’s cheek as he entered the dining room. His father, he saw, was not yet present. Too late, Blake recalled that they had had an early morning riding date which he had forgotten. Blast it.
“You have missed your father,” Suzannah said, but without accusation.
“I will apologize. I overslept,” Blake confessed. “Good morning, Catherine.” She had become a fixture at Harding House since the accident, not that she hadn’t been about frequently before that.
Catherine pulled back from him after he kissed her cheek, studying him. “How tired you appear, Blake.”
He forced a smile. “It was a long night.” As he moved to the sideboard Tulley appeared, spoke with the countess, who was told she was needed in the kitchen. Suzannah left. Blake put a single piece of toast on his plate and returned to the table, only to find Catherine regarding him with open worry. He sighed. “No lectures, please.”
“You know me so well,” Catherine said. “Blake, I am worried about you.”
“We had this conversation a few weeks ago.” He poured himself a cup of black cofee and took a sip, which was almost scalding.
“You do not look well. Were you drinking last night?”
Blake set his cup down. He hesitated. “Yes.”
Catherine suddenly rose, came around the table, and sat down beside him. She put her arm around him. “You have been drinking a lot. I am not the only one who has noticed. Your parents are worried. Jon is worried. Why are you doing this to yourself?”
Blake rubbed his temples, which throbbed. “I do not know.”
“I think we should talk about Violette,” Catherine said.
Blake tensed, about to protest. But he looked into Catherine’s compassionate green eyes, and the protest died before he could verbalize it. Violette’s image was always there, in his mind, haunting him. “I have finally received a letter from her,” he said harshly.
Catherine stiffened expectantly.
“No, not a letter, a two-line note.” His jaw ground down.
“Oh, Blake, I can see that you still love her … ,” Catherine began.
“I do not!” Blake shifted to face her, furious with her words. “We are divorced. I do not know why she had to write me at all, especially as she had nothing to say.”
“Perhaps you should go to Paris and visit her,” Catherine said after a moment.
His eyes widened. “Are you mad? Why would I do that?”
Catherine bit her lip and shrugged. Her eyes had become sheened. She finally smiled, sadly, and cupped his cheek with her palm. “Blake, I don’t like seeing you like this,” she said. “I do love you so.”
Blake finally, grudgingly, smiled.
A cough on the threshold of the dining room made them both turn. Jon stared at them from where he stood, supported by two footmen.
Catherine dropped her palm. “Good morning,” she began brightly. Too brightly.
Jon was flushed. “I can see that I am interrupting.” His eyes flashed. “I will take breakfast alone in the library,” he told the servants.
Catherine was on her feet, the color draining from her face. “Jon!” she cried. And not even looking at Blake, she ran after him as he was carried away.
 
Catherine found Jon in the library, regarding the gardens, which were dusted with frost. He did not glance at her as she walked in front of him. She wrung her hands. “Jon? You did not see what you think you saw,” she said in a rush.
“Catherine.” He smiled, but stiffly. “I am truly sorry that I interrupted a tender moment between you and my brother.”
“Jon, you did not interrupt. You could never be an interruption.”
He eyed her from where he sat in a heavy chair, then glanced away. Outside, the sun was shining through the bare branches of the oaks and elms. Acorns littered the bare, frosty lawns. “How kind you are,” he muttered. “As always.”
“Your tone is disparaging.” Catherine sat down on an adjacent chair. “What do you think you saw?” She was a bit angry now.
He smiled at her, his beautiful mouth twisted cynically. “I know what I saw, my dear. You are a beautiful woman, and Blake is a man, one hardly blind.”
Catherine blinked at him. “You are mad! Blake is in love with Violette.”
Jon waved dismissively at her. “All the more reason for him to seek comfort from you.”
“I will gladly comfort him,” Catherine snapped, “but not in the manner which you are suggesting.”
“Why not?” Jon’s tone was dry, but his blue eyes flashed. “You are twenty-three years old, Catherine, and at the end of this month you will be twenty-four. Isn’t it time for you to wed?”
“Wed?” Her eyes widened and she gasped. “Wed … Blake?”
“Why not?” Jon’s gaze narrowed. “My brother is a bloody good catch. Rich, handsome, a heart of gold. And his son will be the heir to the earldom.”
Catherine stared. Her nostrils, flaring, were pink now. “I don’t understand, or even like, this conversation.”
“But it makes sense, does it not? Why else would you have refused a dozen marriage offers these past few years—if you were not waiting for Blake?”
She could not respond immediately. Is this what he had thought all these years? When she spoke, her breasts heaved. “You are a fool.”
“Really?” His tone was mocking, a tone she hated, had never heard before the accident.
“Really!” she cried, a shout. “Jon, I …” She faltered, aware of the immensity of what she wanted to say, was about to say. Inherent gentility made her stop. A lady did not declare herself to a man.
“You what?”
She wet her lips. But this was Jon. “I am in love with you. Not Blake. It has always been you,” she said softly. Her heart was hammering so hard with expectation that she felt faint.
He stared. His expression did not change. He did not say a word.
And Catherine suddenly realized that all her dreams might go up in smoke, something she had never before even considered, for she had always known, since that first time upon the Yorkshire heath when she had met the brothers, that one day Jon would be her lover, her husband, her friend, her partner and helpmate in all things.
But Jon stared. “This is amazing,” he said, after a very long and awkward silence.
Catherine knew she was going to weep. It was suddenly crystal clear. She was in a living nightmare. He did not feel for her as she felt for him. Oh, God.
He did not love her
.
“Catherine.” He spoke flatly, his face impassive. “I am not ever marrying. I do not need, or want, a wife. Blake, on the other hand, needs you.”
She wanted to tell Jon that she loved Blake like a brother. But her heart was splintering even as she had the thought, making it impossible to speak.
Jon smiled briefly at her. “Besides, I think of you as a sister, if you must know the truth.”
Catherine heard a horrible sound, half a moan, half a sob. It had come from her. She turned raggedly away from him.
“Catherine!” he cried in alarm.
But she shook her head, incapable of replying, incapable of halting herself as she fled the room. Her life, it seemed, was over, before it had even begun.
 
 
Violette stood by the window, peering out from behind the cotton draperies, wishing he would leave. She also wished that Ralph were home.
But Ralph had quit his job months ago, or so he’d said (Violette suspected he had been dismissed), and while he was not working now, he was never home. He slept late in the mornings, then took off, only to return to the flat while Violette slept. He was strangely close-mouthed about what he was doing. Violette guessed that he spent his time on the streets with several Frenchmen she had recently seen him with, surly vagrant types she did not like, or in cafés, overindulging in red wine and brandy. She did not know what was bothering him, but she knew he was very unhappy. Their relationship had somehow become strained.
Below her flat, outside on the street, where the first green buds of spring were opening, Farrow paced, gazing around expectantly. Violette knew that he was waiting for her to come home. When he had knocked on her door ten minutes ago, she had not answered. He must have gone to Maison Langdoc first. He must have been surprised to find out that she was on a leave of absence. But Madame Langdoc would have never told him the truth, even though she seemed to like him very much.
She could not let him see her. Yet in a way, Violette was torn. In February and March he had courted her assiduously, taking her to supper, the theater, to the opera, and even to museums. In fact, Violette had become very fond of art and antiquities, just as she had become quite fond of him.
For, frightened and feeling very much alone, but acutely aware of the new life growing inside of her, Violette had come to look forward to his company. And why wouldn’t she? He was handsome, intelligent, and while also, she suspected, bold, he had thus far been the perfect gentleman, treating her as if she were a real lady, which they both knew she was not.
But last week she had decided she could not see him anymore. Last week, she and Madame had agreed that she should rest at home until after the baby was born at the end of the summer. Madame did not think it correct for her patrons to witness Violette’s condition. Especially as Violette was no longer wearing her wedding ring.
And her gowns were being let out for the second time. It was too obvious that she had put on weight—or that she was quite pregnant.
A knifelike pain stabbed through Violette’s chest. Its source
was not physical. Whenever she thought about the baby, due in four months, she thought about Blake. She wondered if it would always be this way—joy accompanied by anguish.
Suddenly Violette tensed. Farrow had turned abruptly to gaze up at the window where she stood. Violette ducked back behind the drapery, uncertain if he had seen her or not. But now her pulse raced.
How she needed a friend, but Farrow frequently crossed the Channel, and she must not let anyone in England know her secret. She was afraid Blake might learn the truth.
This time, he banged on her door. “Violette,” he said sharply from the other side of the closed door. “I saw you standing in the window. Are you unwell? Please, let me in.”
She was frozen, breathless.
“Violette?” he demanded again.
She wanted to let him in. She did not want to be alone. Of course, if he saw her pregnant, not only would he have discovered her secret, he also would never want to be friends with her again—or anything else. She hesitated; he banged again, shouting her name loudly enough to annoy her neighbor.
Quickly Violette pulled a large wool shawl off of a hook and draped it around her. She glanced in the mirror over the side table in the salon, checking her reflection both from the front and the profile. She breathed easier. She could deceive him if she did not let him in, if they spoke very briefly.
“Coming.” She crossed the room and unlocked the door. As she opened it, he pushed it wide, and before she could speak, Farrow had marched right past her and inside of her flat. Violette’s heart sank with dread.
He stared at her piercingly, fists on his hips. “Why did you pretend not to be home before? Were you sleeping? Are you ill?”
Violette nodded. “Yes, I was alseep, I have a slight flu.”
He continued to stare. “I have not seen you in two weeks. You have avoided me. Why?”
Violette’s eyes widened. She had not expected him to be this way. She clutched the shawl tightly. “I have been busy … ,” she trailed off.
“No. I think you no longer want to see me. Is that true?”
She should tell him, Yes. She could not get the words out, because he was her last link to home, because she was unbearably lonely.

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