Brenda Joyce (39 page)

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Authors: The Finer Things

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A silence ensued. “Not even me?” he finally said.
She gaped, eyes wide.
He managed a smile. “I botched that, I guess. How should
I begin? Catherine, I must marry. It has struck me that you and I would do very well together. We are already very good friends. I respect you, care for you deeply. Could I do better in choosing a wife? In choosing the mother of my children?”
Catherine stood up. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “I cannot believe this. You want to marry
me
?”
He also stood. Fighting Violette’s image. “Yes, I do. I have given it great thought.” He had thought of little else all week. Jon and his father were, he had realized, right.
But she shook her head, staring at him as if he had grown horns. “I cannot marry you, Blake.” She wet her lips. “Besides, you are in love with Violette.”
“That is absurd,” he snapped.
“Well, I still cannot marry you—it would not be right.”
“I do not understand.”
“I think of you as a brother.”
He smiled. “My dear, I am not your brother.”
It was a moment before she could speak. “Blake, it would not be right.”
“Why not?”
She did not answer. She was distraught. “I can’t,” she finally said. “And what about Violette? She was—is—my friend!”
“Violette and I are divorced. Violette has nothing to do with this,” he said harshly.
“But she loves you,” Catherine said, hushed.
It was as if she had dealt him a physical blow. When he could respond, he said, “That is absolutely absurd—and irrelevant, too.”
Catherine stared.
He stared back. Finally he said, “Catherine, is your rejection final?”
Her eyes widened. “I … I am not rejecting you, Blake.”
He cut her off. “Good. Will you think about this? Carefully? As carefully as I have? You have said you do not want to be alone, that you want children, a home, a family. I am offering you those things, Catherine, and we are dear friends. My proposal merits serious consideration.”
She was ashen. “Oh, God,” she whispered again. “Very well. You are fright. I will think about it carefully.”
“Good.” He smiled, but oddly enough, he was very shaken. He took her hand and kissed it, then quickly departed, wondering if, after all, he had done the right thing.
CATHERINE
knew that she could not marry Blake. It was impossible, immoral. For no matter how hard she had tried to cut her feelings for Jon out of her heart, she had not been able to stop loving him. Marrying Blake would be unfair to them both, even though she knew that he had not asked for her hand out of love.
She watched Blake striding away from the house, toward his waiting phaeton. Her heart hammered. There was no question about it. He was an impressive, wonderful man. If only she had never met Jon, had never fallen in love with him, then she would be the utmost fool to refuse Blake.
Blake’s phaeton rolled away from the curb. Catherine walked away from the window, her hand skimming the back of a chair. Why did she feel so anguished?
The answer was suddenly crystal clear. Her entire being hurt her because the wrong man wanted to marry her for the wrong reasons. And because she hadn’t lied to Blake. She had matured to womanhood believing that she would be a mother and wife—believing, deep in her heart and with all of her soul, that she would one day become Jon’s wife, and the mother of Jon’s children. Now, of course, it was obvious that she would grow old alone, but Catherine did not want to grow old alone.
Dammit.
Catherine could not believe that she would curse, even inwardly in her own thoughts, and was appalled at herself. But she could not dwell on the breakdown of her morals and conduct now. She rushed out of the salon. “Thompson!”
The tall, thin butler appeared. “My lady?”
Her pulse raced. “I need a carriage.” Before he could nod she had dashed upstairs, skirts lifted above her ankles, well aware that her behavior was not genteel and that it was, indeed, remarkably odd. But she did not care what the staff—or anyone else—might think. She ran down the hall and into her bedroom, where she donned the first hat she grabbed, one black and feathered. White kid gloves followed. Catherine flew back downstairs.
Thompson was wide-eyed. “My lady, er … is there an emergency?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know!” Catherine cried. “But I am going to Harding House.” Her heart leapt. She had not seen Jon in a month. She had stopped visiting the Hardings at home after his cool rejection of her and her feelings. She was a fool, to both dread and anticipate seeing him now.
The carriage ride across the neighborhood was endless. Catherine did not dare think too closely about what she was doing. She intended to refuse Blake. She had no choice in that matter. But she absolutely had to speak with Jon about this. Her every instinct told her that.
Tulley beamed when he greeted her in the foyer. “Lady Dearfield! It is so good to see you, my lady.”
Catherine managed a smile, wet her lips. “Lord Farleigh?”
“He is in the gardens, my lady, taking a bit of air and some sun.”
Catherine nodded and hurried through the house. She saw him through the open french doors as she crossed the huge, silent ballroom, knowing from habit just where he would be. Her steps faltered. Seated under a tree on a blanket, clad in dark trousers and a fine white shirt, he was engrossed in a book. It did not matter to her that he could not walk. He was by far the most stunning man she had ever laid eyes upon, and, more importantly, in spite of his feelings for her, seeing him brought a wave of joyous anticipation cresting up inside of her. She had missed him. Terribly.
She paused on the threshold of the terrace. “Jon?”
He glanced up. For one blazing instant, his expression was animated—as if he were as glad to see her. But then his face changed, becoming impassive, impossible to read. Casually he closed the book.
Catherine crossed the terrace, coming down the three flagstone steps to the lawns where he sat. “Hello.”
“Forgive me for not getting up,” he drawled.
“Oh, please,” she said.
He shrugged, staring.
“We have not chatted in a very long time,” she began hesitantly. “May I join you?” Over their heads, sparrows pecked at insects and leapt about, twittering.
“You are always welcome,” he said stiffly, gesturing.
She sat down on the plaid blanket, by his feet. She smiled at him. He did not smile back. “How are you?”
“As well as can be expected. I am going to Europe next
week. To mud baths near Geneva. They are supposed to do miracles.”
Catherine wanted to tell him that if they did not perform miracles, it would not matter to her. Instead, she was silent, smoothing the folds of her green print skirt.
“And you?” he finally asked. “How are you?” His gaze skimmed over her, lingering on her hat. “Is black now fashionable in the summertime?”
She glanced up, mesmerized by his penetrating blue eyes. And suddenly realized that her black hat did not complete her green and white ensemble. “Oh.” She began to remove the hat.
And he finally smiled, slightly, at her.
The hat beside her, she blurted, “Your brother has asked me to marry him.”
Jon did not blink. “Will you accept?”
Catherine was riddled with tension. “Are you not surprised?”
“Why would I be surprised? Blake must marry. You are the perfect choice.”
Her tension grew worse instantly. “He is in love with Violette and we both know it. He has been terribly hurt by her.”
“She left him. They are divorced. He is a proud man, and he will never take her back. He will recover, Catherine; all men do.” Jon suddenly fell silent, his mouth twisted. “In any case,” he added, “you can help him forget her.”
“I cannot marry him,” she said.
His regard was piercing. “Whyever not?”
She was in disbelief. Didn’t he recall a conversation they’d recently had, in which she had declared her feelings for him? “It is not … appropriate.”
Jon’s upper body straightened. “It is very appropriate. You will not receive a better offer, Catherine, if that is what you are thinking.”
“That is not what I am thinking.”
“You are twenty-three. It is time for you to marry, and to marry well. Surely you will accept?”
“You
want
me to marry Blake?” Her tone was high, sounding to her own ears like a shrill screech.
“Of course I do. I should enjoy being the uncle to your and Blake’s children.” His smile was stiff. “You are practically a Harding already anyway, Catherine.”
Catherine was frozen.
Jon was bland. “In fact, I have encouraged Blake in this matter. We discussed it recently.”
She found it difficult to breathe, to move, but she could not remain in the gardens with Jon now. She had been a stupid idiot to come.
“Catherine? Do not be a fool. Blake would make a wonderful husband, and you would be the perfect wife.”
She was standing. How she had managed to do so was beyond her comprehension. She was incapable of speech.
“Have I upset you? I am sorry,” he said, his gaze hard, steely even, and very unfamiliar now, “but I am in favor of this match. Everyone is. You must accept.”
Catherine could not speak, because the very last shreds of hope had just been unraveled, and were disintegrating as if before her very eyes. All her dreams, up in smoke. Numbly, she shook her head.
And then she turned and fled.
 
“Yer goin’ to the thee-at-er like that?” Ralph was disbelieving. He was also drunk.
Violette was very pregnant now, and the lavender silk gown she wore had been let out three times already. But oddly enough, she had never looked better. Her skin had taken on an incandescent glow, and her eyes were very bright and very blue, but she was obviously with child. Most ladies, she knew, stayed home in such an advanced condition. “If Lord Farrow does not mind, then why should I?”
“But it is scandalous.” Ralph mimicked her very words to Farrow many weeks ago.
She had just picked up her small beaded reticule, and now she flung it back down. “What did you do today, Ralph?”
His gaze narrowed. “Wot yew mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” Her hands found her now ample hips.
He glowered. “Did a bit of walkin’.”
“I think you spent the day in some gin mill!”
“An’ wot’s it to yew, luv?”
Violette stared. Ralph had become a stranger to her. He had become bitter in his unhappiness. She hardly ever saw him, and when she did, he was with his new friends, whom she despised. They were rough and gruff and menacing in appearance. “Is it Paris? Is that it?” she asked. “Are you yearning for home?”
“I ain’t fond of the Frenchies, but this town’s all right,” he said, jamming his hands in his pockets. They both ignored the knock on the front door, which would be Farrow coming to escort her out for the evening.
“Is it the baby?” she asked quietly, but her hands had begun to tremble.
He stared. “Yeah. It’s the baby, an’ it’s ’im.” He jerked his head at the door.
Violette hesitated. “I’m sorry you do not want me to have a life,” she said. She moved toward the door.
“We ’ad a life. Yew an’ me. Until yew decided to become some fancy lady,” Ralph said grimly.
Violette did not answer him.
“’E’s like the other one. Like ’Is Lordship, Blake. ’E’ll cut yew in two, Violette,” Ralph warned. “Use yew an’ throw yew away like some old, leftover mutton bone.”
Violette stiffened and opened the door. But Farrow was there, smiling at her, pleased to see her, and she smiled back. He kissed her cheek as he came inside. “You are so beautiful tonight,” he said.
She knew, by now, that he meant it. “Thank you.”
He nodded indifferently at Ralph, who did not leave the parlor. “Ready?” he asked.
Violette was about to nod when Ralph came forward, extracting a letter from his breast pocket. “This came earlier,” he said coolly.
Violette immediately realized that the letter had been posted in England, and as she turned it over, she saw that it was from Catherine. Her pulse raced. “It’s from Catherine Dearfield.” She smiled eagerly. Then, “You’ve opened this! You had someone read it to you!” she cried to Ralph.
“It was a mistake,” he said. They both knew that he lied.
Violette decided that Ralph had gone too far, but she could not worry about the miserable state of their relationship now, or what to do about it. She asked Farrow if he minded if she quickly read the letter, and when he said that he did not, she began to do so. It was easy for her to read letters and even newspapers now, but as she scanned the page, her smile vanished. An incredible knifelike pain pierced her breast. Suddenly she was lightheaded, short of breath.
“What is it?” Farrow exclaimed, reaching for her elbow, steadying her.
Violette blinked at him. “Catherine is marrying Blake.”
Farrow hesitated. “I know. I heard. I …” He stopped. “Violette?!”
The blackness that swept over her was a relief. She sank into it, embracing unconsciousness, and nothingness. She hoped she was embracing death.
 
When Blake entered the library of his club, heads turned. He espied Dom St. Georges immediately, seated by the vacant hearth, the
London Times
in his hands, which he was reading. As Blake crossed the room, he was stopped constantly as his friends and acquaintances offered him congratulations on his recent engagement to Catherine Dearfield, which had been published in the papers. He finally took the chair opposite Dom.
St. Georges laid his journal aside. He had just returned with his wife and the twins from the Continent. He immediately gripped Blake’s shoulder. “What news.” He smiled, but his gaze was searching. “I suppose I should not be surprised. I suppose your marriage to Catherine was inevitable. Congratulations, Blake.”
Blake avoided Dom’s eyes and smiled slightly. “Inevitable. A good choice of words.”
“Was it?”
Blake glanced up and was again made uneasy by his best friend’s probing regard. “I know Catherine almost as well as I know myself, perhaps even better than I know you.”
Dom nodded. “I am aware of that. And how is Jon?”
Blake’s expression tightened. “He is not going to recover, Dom. Numerous doctors have confirmed that.”
“I am so sorry,” Dom said.
“He is unhappy. Bitter. God, how he has changed. I do not know my brother anymore. He rarely comes to the club, or drives in the park. He does not attend any fêtes. He is talking now about retiring to Harding Hall, and spending most of his time in the country. He is turning himself into a recluse, purposefully, and it hurts me very much.”
“Don’t let him do that,” Dom said quickly. “He may have lost the use of his legs, but his life is not over, not by a longshot. He is an intelligent, warm-hearted, charming man. He must be encouraged to live life as fully as possible again.”
“I am in complete agreement with you,” Blake said grimly. And he thought,
I want my brother back.

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