Brenda Joyce (45 page)

Read Brenda Joyce Online

Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
6.93Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
He stared, wanting to agree, knowing he could not—yet terribly torn.
THE
Hotel St. James had a renowned restaurant filled with polished mahogany and gleaming brass, as popular with London’s elite as it was with visiting Europeans. Violette had made plans to take supper there with Robert. But she was consumed with her grief. She did not have the strength or the will to lift herself up from her bed, much less dress for the occasion. How she missed Susan—as if her tiny daughter was dead.
But she kept telling herself that Susan was not dead, and that she had made the right decision, the only decision, offering Susan a life that she herself could never provide for her. Violette was wracked with anguish. She never did send Robert a message canceling their supper.
So at the first sound of a knock upon the door of her suite, she thought it was a hotel maid. She wanted to shout, “Go away, leave me alone, goddammit!” but instead, she forced herself upright. “Please. I do not wish to be disturbed,” she called from the bedroom.
“Violette, it is I, Robert,” Robert said loudly from the other side of the door to the sitting room.
Violette was briefly stricken—and she glanced at the clock on the mantel in the bedroom. He had been waiting for over three-quarters of an hour for her. She stumbled to her feet and across the sitting room, opening the door.
Robert stood there in his tuxedo, staring grimly at her. “I was afraid of this. You are distraught, terribly so. May I come in?” he inquired.
Violette nodded, realizing she must appear disastrous, with her hair coming loose, her face blotchy from weeping, her eyes swollen and red. She allowed Robert to enter. “I am sorry. I meant to send you a note canceling our supper but … ,” she trailed off, unable to continue, stabbed with a heartbreaking pain.
He immediately turned, arms open, and embraced her. He-had kissed her on several occasions, before her pregnancy had become obvious, but he had never embraced her, and certainly not like this, with the intention of comforting her. And Violette desperately needed comfort. She allowed him to hold her and stroke her back. She had no more tears left or she would have sobbed wildly in his arms.
Finally she knew their position was unseemly, for many minutes had passed, and she broke away from him. Knowing he watched her, she crossed the suite and sat down on a plush moss-green chair. “I am sorry,” she said flatly. God, she was sorry, sorry for everything in her life.
He came over, pulling up an ottoman, sitting facing her. He reached for one of her hands and caressed it. “You have done a noble, selfless thing, and the Hardings can do far more for your daughter than you ever could.” He smiled slightly. “A child does belong with its father, Violette, that is an accepted fact.”
Violette wanted to protest. A child belonged with its mother, always and forever.
Oh, God
. “It feels like she is dead, even though I know she is not.”
“No. She is not dead. And she will grow up being one of the most sought after debutantes in the land, perhaps one of the most sought after heiresses,” Robert stated firmly.
“She will be respectable. A real lady,” Violette said in a monotone. “She will have anything and everything a real lady should have.”
“Yes,” Robert agreed.
“I miss her so much!” Violette cried.
Robert did not reply.
A part of Violette’s decision had been to never see her daughter again. How could she? Seeing her but not being able to be a mother to her was far too painful, and Blake’s pull on her too potent, too dangerous, too damaging. “I have never felt so alone in my life,” Violette whispered.
“You are not alone.” Robert hesitated. Suddenly he had a small jeweler’s box, one royal blue and velvet, in his hand. He held it out to her. “Violette?”
She stared at the box. Her mind was oddly numb. She watched him study her, then flick it open. A huge ruby ring sat there, surrounded by dozens of small diamonds. She did not move.
She had known that this was coming, of course. And she
would refuse, of course. Her heart belonged to one man, and one man only.
“Violette?” Robert cleared his throat, as if he was nervous. “I have wanted to do this for a long time, but then I learned of your condition, and there was no opportunity. I know that now is probably a bad time as well, but you need me and I am aware of it. My dear, I can comfort you, take you away from all of this, make you happy—I am so certain of it.” His brown gaze was penetrating.
Violette stared at him, clawing the arms of her chair. She did not want to be alone. And she had never felt so alone, so miserable, or so frightened, before. She was tired of being alone. She wanted to be held, to be cherished, to have someone take all the pain away. She wanted to be loved.
“Violette. I am deeply in love with you. Please, do not refuse me. At least consider my offer.”
Violette stirred. Her life at this point was over, in spite of the shop she was opening after the new year in Paris. But Robert Farrow was offering her a chance to begin a new life, and somewhere deep in her soul she was a warrior, a survivor who did not want to give up, give in, quit and die. A child as tough as she was fragile, who did not want to be alone, not ever again. Farrow, in many ways, was so much like Blake. Dashing, noble, and strong.
“I will marry you,” she whispered thickly, Blake’s image searing her mind. One day, she prayed, he would stop haunting her. One day he would leave her mind and her heart alone.
Farrow’s eyes widened. And then he beamed, pulling her into the circle of his arms, holding her tightly. Violette closed her eyes, thinking that at last she was loved.
Thinking,
Oh, Blake
.
 
Blake paused, watching Jon who sat at the earl’s desk in the study at Harding House, apparently balancing estate accounts. He had realized that he could not keep silent on the subject of Catherine’s feelings for his brother, in spite of what he had promised her. He cleared his throat.
Jon looked up. “Running late today, Blake?” It was already midmorning, a time Blake should be ensconced in his offices at the bank.
“Actually, I have some errands I wish to do before going to work,” Blake replied, immediately thinking of Violette. His thoughts made him begin to perspire. “Am I interrupting?”
“Yes, but happily so.” Jon closed one huge, leather-bound ledger. “What is on your mind?” He folded his arms.
Blake entered the room and sat down in a chair facing Jon from across the massive desk. “I wanted to tell you first, before I tell Father and Mother. Catherine and I came to a mutual agreement last night.”
Jon’s grim expression became oddly implacable. “And?”
“We have broken off the engagement.”
Jon stared, his countenance unreadable. He finally leaned forward. “Why? Why would the two of you, so perfectly suited for one another, call it off? Blake, has it not occurred to you that you need Catherine now more than ever? She would make a perfect stepmother.” He seemed angry. His blue eyes were dark. His face was hard.
“I love her, but as a sister and a dear friend. And she feels the same way about me,” Blake said.
“Christ,” was Jon’s only reply. He ran his hand through his tousled golden hair. Blake thought his palm was shaking ever so slightly.
“She told me that you rejected her,” Blake said.
Jon froze. He had paled. “Good God! You don’t think that she and I were up to something behind your back? That was well before you proposed to her, Blake. I believe you were married to Violette at the time, or on the verge of marrying her.”
“She is in love with you,” Blake said flatly.
Jon was motionless. He finally smiled, unnaturally. “That is absurd. I am half a man. She needs you—or someone like you.”
Blake stood, furious. “Dammit! Damn you with your self-pity! You are not half a man, Jon, and your life is not over—it has hardly begun!”
Jon leaned forward, gripping the desk. “Damn me? Damn
you
! Who are you to tell me about my life!” He was shouting. “
You
can walk,
you
can make love to a woman,
you
can sire children. Do not tell me about my life, Blake!”
“You are a coward,” Blake shot back. “And to think that my entire life I admired you, wishing, secretly, to be more like you! A small accident and you have given up all your dreams, becoming content to do nothing. You fool!”
Jon’s fist hit the desk. “Do not throw my dreams in my face. Dammit!
I have no dreams!”
“So what will you do then? Spend the rest of your days in this study, your nose in estate ledgers? Spend the rest of your life in the company of your valet? Slowly grow old, without joy, without children and grandchildren, without love? Why not just call it the end right now? Commit suicide? After all, you have practically done so as it is. Have you not already sentenced yourself to death?”
Jon’s hand swept out. He sent every item on the desk crashing to the floor. Books, ledgers, files, folders, inkwells, and paperweights. “Get out! Get out of here, dammit, before I do something I will regret.”
Blake did not know what possessed him, because he had never seen his brother angrier, and he himself had never been angrier—or had he ever loved Jon more. He strode closer to the desk instead of leaving, leaning down upon it until his face almost touched his brother’s. They were eye to eye, nose to nose. “You are a coward,” he said.
Suddenly Jon, who could not use his legs much less stand, levered himself upright, onto his feet. And for one split instant he was balanced that way. His fist shot out, landing hard in Blake’s face, on his jaw. The impact of the blow sent Blake reeling backwards and crashing against the chair. Jon himself tottered over and collapsed to the floor.
Blake rose and rushed around the desk to help his brother.
“Do not touch me,” Jon warned, already pushing himself up and into a sitting position. The muscles in his shoulders, back, and arms bulged.
Blake, about to reach for Jon, froze.
Growling, panting, Jon grabbed the legs of the chair and pulled himself closer. Then he seized the two arms. Still making animal-like sounds, fiercely determined, he began to pull himself upwards. Blake watched, wanting so badly to help, yet witnessing a miracle, and silently shouting encouragement. Using only his upper body, his white poplin shirt beginning to stick to his chest with sweat, Jon hauled himself upward slowly, inch by agonizing inch. When he was halfway into the chair, his hips level with the seat, he paused, sweat pouring down his face. Blake did not move. Jon grunted and pushed himself up higher, high enough to collapse into the chair. Blake exhaled.
The brothers’ eyes met, Blake’s shining, Jon’s flashing. “Get out,” Jon said.
Blake turned and left.
 
 
He would tell the earl and the countess about the broken engagement last. Before Violette left London, as she must soon do, before she heard the news as gossip, he would tell her himself, while thanking her for Susan, and reassuring her that she could see their daughter anytime. He stood outside of her hotel suite, loosening his cravat and collar. His pulse raced wildly.
But why was he so nervous, so afraid?
Blake closed his eyes. The last time he had seen her she had been covered with perspiration, in a cotton gown in a hospital bed, holding their newborn baby to her breast. The memory no longer caused him untold anguish. It was a memory he was beginning to cherish.
He expected a servant to open the door when he knocked. Instead, Violette opened it herself.
And even though he had known how great a sacrifice she was making in giving up her daughter to him, he was not prepared for the sight of her, so small and thin, her face bony, huge circles beneath her puffy eyes. Her appearance was devastating to him. He was so stricken he could not even bow and say good morning. He forgot to remove his hat.
Her eyes were huge. “Blake?” And then she looked behind him, eagerly, as if expecting him to be accompanied by someone. Disappointment covered her features.
He suddenly realized that she was looking for Susan. He hadn’t thought to bring the child, how stupid he had been. “Good morning.” He took off his hat.
She inhaled, met his gaze again, then quickly looked away. “Do come in,” she whispered.
He entered the suite and waited for her to close the door. She faced him, arms folded tightly across.her body. Why was she so thin? Most new mothers were lush and plump. He wet his lips. “Violette, what you have done is more than wonderful, it is generous and noble and selfless. I came to thank you, to tell you that Susan will lack for nothing, that one day she will be a reigning woman in this land. There is nothing I will not do for her.”
Violette nodded, her eyes huge and luminous.
He was ready to give the child back. But Susan was no ball, to be tossed around at whim. “I also came to tell you that you may see Susan, or have her brought to you in Paris, anytime.”
She stared at him, appearing ready to weep, not saying anything.

Other books

Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre
The Dragons of Decay by J.J. Thompson
The Lie and the Lady by Kate Noble
Scorpio Sons 1: Colton by Nhys Glover
Lucky's Charm by Kassanna
Más allá del hielo by Lincoln Child Douglas Preston