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Jon hesitated, using every ounce of willpower and iron control he had. He too had loved this woman from the moment they had first met. She deserved more, didn’t she?
“If you reject my suit,” Catherine said firmly, “then I shall remain a spinster until I die.”
“Your suit?” His eyes widened.
“My suit. I wish to marry you. Be your wife. Be the mother of our adopted children. Be your partner in all deeds, great and small. Be your mate. In every way.” Her cheeks had turned pink. “Even to your soul.”
“You are asking me to marry you?” he whispered, in disbelief. His pulse was roaring in his ears, slamming against the bone of his breast. Genteel Catherine, tendering a proposal?
She nodded, cheeks aflame. “And you cannot say no,” she said.
He started to laugh. And he hugged her, hard, his cheek pressed to hers, his eyes wet. And the laughter would not stop. And God, how good it felt to laugh again—to laugh with her. How good she felt, dear, sweet, genteel Catherine who had just proposed marriage to him.
“Is that a yes?” she whispered against his jaw.
“Yes,” he said, looking down at her. His heart stopped. “Yes, it is a yes, and Catherine, I may never allow you to forget how bold you have been this day.”
She laughed up at him. “You gave me no choice.”
His laughter died. His smile faded. His gaze went from her almond-shaped green eyes to her small nose and bow-shaped mouth. There was no mistaking his racing pulse now. And as sorry as he was that he could not feel the desire rising in his loins, the desire was there, in his heart and in his mind. He leaned forward, touched her lips with his. And then he had her in an iron grasp, crushed against his chest, his mouth hot on hers. He could not get enough of her, how clear it was—not now, not ever.
And Catherine whispered, in the midst of the endless kiss, “Maybe now you can believe in miracles.”
“I do,” he whispered back. And he did.
 
“We have to speak,” Violette said.
Robert faced her in the sitting room of her hotel suite. His expression was twisted. “I do not want to hear what you are going to say.”
She looked at his handsome face, his anguished eyes, and it struck her for the first time how much this man truly loved her. But she did not love him back in the same way. And she would never be able to. “I am so sorry,” Violette said, walking slowly toward him. She pulled off her magnificent engagement ring while he watched her. “Robert, you have become a great friend. I love you. But not the way I should. Not if we were to be man and wife.”
He did not accept the ring. “It is Blake, isn’t it? You are still mad for him.”
Violette did not hesitate. “If I could change my feelings, I would. This is not a pleasant situation, to miss a man so desperately, one who does not care in return. But I cannot change my feelings. I am so sorry, Robert.” She moved forward and embraced him.
He regarded her, appearing devastated. “Violette, you have
been through a terrible ordeal. Perhaps you need some time, time in which to recover. Perhaps you will feel differently in a few days, or even a few weeks.”
She regarded him sadly, shaking her head.
His chest heaved. “I have never felt this way before. I love you. I do not want to lose you.”
“I’m sorry. It would not be fair to either of us, Robert,” Violette said softly.
“Why do you not let me be the judge of that?” He was suddenly angry.
“Because it is my life, my destiny,” she said, lifting her chin.
He stared. A silence reigned. His eyes glistened. “Very well.” He took the ring from her hand. “But my own feelings will not change. I think, though, that I knew this was coming. How I envy Blake.” He wet his lips. “If you ever need me, I will be there for you. For anything.”
She clasped her hands to her breasts. “Thank you,” she said. “You are a dear friend.”
He grimaced. Violette watched him quickly cross the room. He did not pause at the door. And a moment later he was gone.
She stared at the threshold, feeling drained and empty, feeling so very numb. Slowly she walked over to a window and stared down at the gaslit street. From the high floor where she was a guest, she could see beyond the square to Hyde Park. The trees formed a mass of darker shadows amidst the swirling snow.
Why should she not be exhausted, drained, numb? She had given up her daughter, been imprisoned in horrific conditions, had discovered that her lifelong friend had murdered a kind old man, and she had lost the single love of her life—all in a very short span of time. How could she survive? Violette gripped the windowsill, closing her eyes.
So much had happened. Too much. She was still stunned about Ralph. Yet perhaps she had begun to suspect the truth a few days ago in Paris. How sad she was. She would visit him when she was a little bit stronger; she would hold him and cry when she had more tears to shed. But she was also angry. He had changed so much, becoming bitter and ugly. He was not the boy she had grown up with. How could he have killed dear old Sir Thomas? How? She still loved him, but the action was unforgivable.
Violette sank down into a chair. She would miss Ralph. How
could she not? He had been like a brother to her since she was a very small child. And one day, she might stop missing Blake, how she prayed that was so, but she would never stop missing Susan. Violette covered her face with her hands. She intended to go back to Paris immediately, but she desperately wanted to see her daughter one final time.
Survival was going to be so very difficult, but she had no choice. She had come too far in this life. She would return to Paris, open up her ladies’ shop. She would put all of her desire, her energy, her hopes and dreams, into that one maison. And maybe, one day, she would feel strong enough to be able to return to London to visit her daughter. Maybe, by then, she would be able to look at Blake without loving him so deeply, so impossibly.
“Violette?” Blake said.
She whirled. He stood a few paces behind her. She hadn’t heard him enter the room. And in his arms was Susan.
She met his gaze, saw the anguish in his eyes, and that he held her daughter in outstretched arms. Violette rushed across the room to take her, cuddling Susan to her bosom, crying all over her. Susan laughed and cooed; Violette laughed through her hot tears back at her. It was the single most wondrous moment of her life—holding her infant daughter again. And then she looked up at Blake.
“I love you too much,” he said solemnly, “to take your child from you.”
She was frozen, in disbelief. Had she really heard him correctly?
“Besides,” he said thickly, “a child needs a mother, and I shall never remarry. After you, and because of my feelings for you, I cannot wed another woman.”
Violette clutched Susan tightly. Her heart was skipping numerous beats. “I … what are you saying?”
He raised one hand. “I know you are marrying Farrow. I did not come here to beg, or to create an awkward moment for you. I will support Susan, of course. But you and Robert can raise her together, giving her the home—and love—she needs.”
Violette was incapable of speech.
Blake stared at her. She realized that his blue eyes were filled with tears. And then he turned abruptly away, about to leave.
“Blake!” She set Susan down on the couch carefully and flew after him, reaching him at the door. She ran around him, barred the door with her body, arms outstretched as well. “You
cannot leave! What have you just said to me? Did I hear correctly?”
“Please, this is difficult enough as it is. Please, let me pass, Violette,” he said, his shining gaze holding hers.
“I am not marrying Robert,” she said.
He stiffened. “What?”
“I love you. How can I marry Robert, when it is you I think of every moment of every day?”
He stared at her.
Violette trembled.
“But you left me,” he finally said.
“Because I loved you—and you did not love me.”
“But I did love you,” he whispered, reaching up to touch her face. And then he was cradling her face in his rough palms, the gesture impossibly tender, and Violette had never seen such a look in anyone’s eyes before, such a look of devotion and love. “I fell in love with you the moment you knocked the lamp off of the table in the salon at Harding Hall,” he said.
“You did?” she whispered incredulously.
“Yes,” he whispered. “But being a very stupid man, it was a long time before I allowed myself to understand and even accept my own feelings.”
Violette smiled at him through her tears. “But how could you really love me, Blake? I am not Lady Neville. I am Violet Cooper.”
He laughed a little; he was crying too. “I love you because you were Violet Cooper, and now you are Lady Neville, and I would not have it any other way.” He caught a tear on the pad of his thumb. “I would not change a single thing about you, not one single thing, not even how we met. My God, Violette, you are an extraordinary woman.”
She could not reply because he was finally kissing her, his mouth feathering across her lips, a kiss at once tender but hungry, a kiss filled with pent-up yearning, with so much love. The kiss deepened.
Violette broke it. With her fingers, she touched his mouth. “Blake, it is you who is extraordinary, not I. It is you who is amazing. I admire you so.”
“Then we are both vastly admiring of one another,” he said gravely, and he laughed, kissed her again, then crushed her in his powerful embrace. Violette crushed him back. She had almost forgotten what this felt like—to be held like this.
And never had she understood what it felt like to be loved
and cherished like this. Warmth and trust flowed along with the love and desire and joy right down to her very toes.
Blake caught her chin. He was incredibly grave. “Violette, I did not think I could ever love again. But I have never loved this way before. Never.”
And she smiled at him, a smile that came from her heart. “And I, Blake, have also never loved this way before—and will never love this way again.”
Their gazes locked. Recognition and understanding flared between them. “Yes,” he said, his hand on her cheek. “Yes.” His gaze was brilliant. “Dear God, Violette, we have an entire lifetime to spend together.”
Violette suddenly realized that too, and, filled with joy and excitement, she laughed.
His gaze darkened, holding hers, and he bent to claim her mouth.
And Violette thought that it was true. In love and dreams there were no impossibilities.
“Holds you enthralled with its magnificence. Put this one at the top of your list … blissful reading!”
—
Rendezvous
on CAPTIVE
 
“Brenda Joyce delivers a unique romance destined to captivate readers.”
—
Romantic
Times on CAPTIVE
 
“The passion between Anne and Dominick practically sets the pages on fire. Ms. Joyce delivers—as always”
—Affaire de Coeur
on BEYOND SCANDAL
 
“brilliant Brenda Joyce delivers another tremendous historical romance that will clearly land on all the bestseller lists. THE GAME is a fast-paced, action-packed novel that includes two great lead protagonists and a stupendous support cast. All in all, this is reading at its finest.”
—Affaire de Coeur
on THE GAME
 
 
More …
 
 
“SMOLDERING!”
—Publishers Weekly
on THE GAME
 
“A masterpiece!”
—
Romantic Times
on THE GAME.
 
“A stunning tale of power and passion.”
—Virginia Henley on THE GAME.
 
“A sensational reading adventure.”
—Rendez vous
on PROMISE OF THE ROSE
 
“One of the best books of the year.”
—Affaire de Coeur
on PROMISE OF THE ROSE
 
“Probably the best mistaken-identity book since Sandra Brown’s MIRROR IMAGE.”
—B. Dalton’s
Heart to Heart
on SECRETS
Don’t miss Brenda Joyce’s
extraordinary new novel
 
 
Splendor
 
 
… a novel of passion, divided loyalties
and scandalous secrets in the glittering
world of Regency society.
 
 
 
A December 1997 Bestseller
From St. Martin’s Paperbacks

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