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Authors: The Finer Things

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Blake and Jon regarded one another. “She is very young, Blake,” Jon finally said. “This is not at all like you.”
Blake sighed. “Very young. Very young and very lovely and married to a man old enough to be her grandfather.” The brothers’ gazes held.
“Blake,” Catherine protested, “I suspect your thoughts are scandalous. Can you not confine your bachelor ways to the fast lanes of the city?”
Blake did not answer. He had not come to the country for a brief liaison with a young woman of questionable antecedents. Surely he would forget a woman named Violette Goodwin had ever existed by tomorrow morning, wouldn’t he? After all, she was hardly the kind of woman he kept company with. And briefly, in spite of so many years, he thought of Gabriella.
Jon spoke, not unkindly, but frankly. “Where in God’s name
did
Goodwin find her?”
“They say she was a shopgirl in London,” Catherine explained.
“Or worse,” Blake said. Now he thought he knew what was bothering him, for he had spent enough time in the East End. “With that accent, a matchgirl is more likely.”
“Well, in spite of her past, she certainly held her own today.” Jon smiled. “And she has done admirably well for herself in marrying Sir Thomas.”
Blake thought about how she had almost knocked over his mother’s blue and white lamp and he smiled. Then he thought about her marriage and his smile faded.
“Perhaps she even loves Sir Thomas,” Catherine said pointedly.
Blake met Catherine’s green gaze. “I am not an ogre, Catherine, even if I am a bachelor. In fact, I am considered to be a very gallant man. I do not seek out women who do not wish to have the pleasure of my company, so cease your fretting.
And as Jon has pointed out, she is too young for me. Too young, obviously naive, and hardly my type.”
“I am not relieved,” Catherine said. “To the contrary, having seen the two of you together this single time, I have an extraordinarily bad feeling, perhaps even a premonition of sorts.”
Jon made a scoffing sound and put his arm around her. “How foolish you are being,” he said softly, “and that is not like you.”
“I have never had this kind of feeling before,” Catherine said. “Blake? You will stay away from her?”
Blake hesitated. And finally, more disturbed than ever, he nodded, wondering if he was being truthful.
 
She kept intruding upon his thoughts. Had he become jaded like some of his bachelor friends? Was that why he found Lady Goodwin so fascinating? Because she was young, fresh, different? He could not shake her from his mind. Yet he had not lied when he had said that she was not his type. The women he had thus far spent time with were all older than she, and far more worldly and sophisticated. They were women whom he could not hurt—and could not love. But, then, Blake did not believe in love. Not anymore.
Goodwin Manor lay ahead. Blake slowed the racy phaeton, until his black gelding was at a walk. He had not been able to concentrate on the papers he had brought with him and had felt compelled to take a drive. He squinted into the distance. Someone was outside in the small garden, which butted up against the square stone house. Blake saw that it was a man, undoubtedly a servant. He halted the phaeton. Catherine’s warning returned to his mind, but he dismissed it as overly melodramatic.
The servant turned, pushing back his cap. He was an extremely fair young man of no more than twenty with long, sandy blond hair. He laid down his hoe and strolled toward Blake, his strides awkward because his legs were so thin and long. Blake hadn’t been aware of the fact that Goodwin kept a manservant. Most country folk had a do-all maid and a cook and no one else.
“G’day,” the young man said. “Wot can I do fer yew, sir?”
Another Cockney accent. Blake stared, thinking about Lady Goodwin. “You are Sir Thomas’s gardener?”
“That an’ his coachman an’ valet an’ everything else,” the young man said, unsmiling. “Me name is ’Orn, Ralph ’Orn.”
“Ralph, you have done a wonderful job with Sir Thomas’s garden. Tell me, are those a new species of rose?”
Ralph looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “Don’t know,” he said. “I plant wot me mistress told me to buy.”
Blake had been keeping one eye on the house. He, of course, did not give a damn about this garden or any other one. He was rewarded now when the door opened and Lady Goodwin came outside to stand on the stoop. It was very hard to explain his racing heartbeat and his eagerness, as he could not fathom it himself. But one thing was clear: he was beginning to smile, so was she, and their gazes had connected instantly.
Perhaps he was wrong, he thought. She was young, she appeared naïve, but most ladies in her position would take a lover without thinking twice about it.
She came forward with a small exclamation. Blake winced. She was wearing a lime green dress. The color itself was awful, especially so for a woman with pearl white skin and sky blue eyes. Emerald would have been a much better choice. But to make matters worse, the dress had large orange appliques sewn all over the skirt. Clearly the appliqués were supposed to represent some object, but he could not begin to fathom what. In between the appliques were small embroidered green leaves. He then realized that the appliqués were replicas of oranges.
He lifted his eyes and met her gaze again. He tensed. It was impossible for him not to feel the invisible force that pushed and pulled between them, some kind of inexorable bond, invisible, compelling, but almost physical, because he could actually feel it. And Blake was afraid. In his entire lifetime there had only been one woman who had drawn him this way, so inexplicably, so strongly—and she had thoroughly rejected him in the end, ultimately marrying another man.
Blake shook himself free of his past and his thoughts, leaping down from the phaeton at once. “Lady Goodwin,” he said, smiling, bowing briefly. “How good to see you. I was on my way into the village and I had to stop and admire your garden.”
“Lord Blake,” she said, worrying her lime green satin sash. “G’day. I … this is a sorprise.”
He stood beside his horse. “Yes, I imagine it is. And how is Sir Thomas today?” He glanced briefly, dismissively, at the gardener. Ralph stared rudely back and did not disappear.
“Me ’usband is abed today,” Violette said. “’E ain’t feelin’ up to stuff.”
Blake bit back a smile. Gently, he said, “Up to ‘snuff,’ Lady Goodwin. The expression is ‘up to snuff.’”
She blushed more brightly. “Oh, er, ’scuse me, me lord.” She glanced down at the dirt road they stood upon.
And Blake wondered why Goodwin didn’t hire her a tutor. She was embarrassed. She didn’t want to make mistakes, that was plain to see. “Would you like to show me your garden?” Blake asked.
She jerked in surprise. “Yew want to see me garden?”
“You may give me a small tour,” he said, a soft command. “Perhaps you should dismiss the gardener.”
She blinked. “Oh, right. Ralph, g’on with yew. Yew got things t’ do, don’t yew?”
The gardener glowered—at Blake—and jammed his cap down more tightly. “Yeah, Lady Goodwin. I got plenty t’ do.” He turned, but not before giving Blake a dark, hostile look. Blake watched him stalk off, amazed by the servant’s display of emotion and brazen audacity. Horn stirred up a bad feeling inside him.
“Is he a friend of yours?” he asked, gesturing for Violette to precede him.
Her cheeks remained flushed. She glanced up at him and averted her eyes. “Now wot makes yew think that?” She laughed somewhat loudly, nervously.
Blake wondered what she was hiding. As they strolled to the garden, he glanced back over his shoulder one more time, and found Ralph watching them from the shade of the small carriage house, his tall, lanky frame hunched over. Blake automatically took Lady Goodwin’s elbow. Horn was close to her in age and he spoke with the same horrid accent—a dialect not common in York. Were she and Horn more than servant and mistress? But why had he thought that? It was a stunning and unpleasant thought—and a distinct possibility.
“Well,” she said quickly, “’ere’s the garden.”
Blake looked into her eyes and felt a sharp stabbing in his chest—as if kicked there by a miniature mule. “Perhaps some time I can show you the gardens at Harding Hall. They are quite spectacular.”
Her eyes widened as he spoke. She was as still as a deer. Then she said, her tone hushed, “Oh, me lord, I would luv that!”
Blake suddenly folded his arms, his smile fading. She was as much a child as a woman. And she seemed every bit as
naïve as she appeared. “You like flowers, Lady Goodwin?” he asked seriously.
She nodded, her eyes luminous. “I luv flowers. An’ trees. An’ the sun an’ the sky when it’s blue, like t’day. But I ’ate the rain,” she said with a flash of passion.
He almost told her that her eyes were the exact shade of the sky on that country day. And that would have also been the truth. “Why? Why do you hate the rain?” He had to know.
She hesitated, their gazes locked. Then she wet her lips and shrugged. “I don’t like bein’ cold-an’ wet an’ ’ungry.”
Blake stared. It took him a moment to fully comprehend her, because she had just opened the door on a world he was aware of, but had never before really entered. “What does being hungry have to do with being cold and wet?” he asked slowly.
She opened her mouth, but did not reply. She turned away from him, staring out at the purple moors. “Stupid thing t’ say.”
Blake didn’t think so. Blake thought it had been brutally honest. He was very disturbed. How vulnerable she was, misplanted in his world the way a jungle fern might be in a cultivated London hothouse. “I will show you the gardens at Harding Hall,” he said flatly. “You shall be immersed in flowers and greenery, but not on a day when it is wet and damp.”
She turned, openly eager. Her eyes were shining, her smile wide.
When had a woman ever looked at him that way? Or even a child, for that matter? He was merely offering her a tour of the gardens, he was not handing her a ten-carat diamond ring. Compassion welled up inside of him. “Perhaps Sir Thomas will feel better tonight? We are having a small dinner. At seven. Do come.”
Her blue eyes were wide. “Gawd,” she said. “Thank yew. We’ll come. Yew can count on it.” Her smile was even broader now. “Supper at ’Arding ’All,” she whispered to herself, with no small amount of awe.
Blake finally smiled. But it was forced, because he realized the extent of her naïveté. She was too innocent for him to even consider dallying with her, and, if he dared be honest with himself, that was what had brought him to Goodwin Manor that day. He was vastly disappointed, yet he was also terribly relieved.
He had made a monumental mistake a decade ago of entrusting his heart to a woman, and he had no wish to ever be
so foolish again. And he had the most unrealistic, absurd sense that Violette Goodwin could affect him the way no lady ever had, not in recent memory—and that included Gabriella. And that was to be avoided at all cost.
VIOLETTE
ran into the house, holding her skirts well above her ankles. Ralph had been in the kitchen, and he appeared in the front hallway as Violette hit the first step of the stairs. He reached out and grabbed her wrist, halting her in her tracks.
Violette turned, her face wreathed in smiles. “Did yew ’ear?” she cried. “’E’s invited me an’ Sir Thomas over fer dinner, can yew believe that?”
Ralph let her go, crossing his arms. “Oh, I can believe it all right.”
Violette continued to beam. “Dinner at ’Arding ’All!” she exclaimed. “With the earl an’ the countess! My gawd! I can not believe it meself, I must be dreamin’!”
“I don’t think so.”
Violette turned eagerly. “An’ ’e’s gonna show me the gardens. Ralph, they’ve got at least a ’undred gardens up on the ’ill, don’t yew think? It’ll be like dyin’ an’ goin’ t’ ’eaven!”
“’E’s goin’ to show yew more than the gardens,” Ralph spat.
“I got to go an’ get Sir Thomas up an’ tell ’im the news.” Violette dashed up the stairs. She ran down the hall and barged into her husband’s bedroom. It was a room she never entered except when she was caring for him when he was ill. And he had never entered her bedroom, not even once. Now she did not think to knock. And she skidded to a stop abruptly, her heart sinking.
He lay on his back, very still. His eyes were closed, he was pasty white, and he was breathing shallowly and rapidly. Almost but not quite forgetting the incredible dinner invitation, Violette walked over to the bed and carefully picked up her husband’s hand. She did not have to be a doctor herself to know that he was worse. “Sir Thomas? Yew ain’t feelin’ any better?”
His eyes opened. He smiled slightly at her. “Oh, Violette. Seeing you is enough to make me feel better, for it’s like the
sun coming out from behind dark storm clouds.”
Violette smiled at the man she had become so fond of in one short half-year. “Don’t be ridicylous. I ain’t no ball of sunshine.”
“But you are, my dear,” he said gently. “And I knew it from the moment we first met. I understood the joy you would bring me even then.”
Violette harrumphed, blushing with pleasure, and went and opened a window. “The air is so fine ’ere. It’s got to be good fer a body, if not fer a soul.” She turned and smiled brightly even though she was worried. “I’m goin’ to town to fetch Dr. Crumb.”
“Don’t go,” Sir Thomas said, his watery blue eyes upon her. His tone was thinner than usual, far more weak than normally. “I’m lonely when you leave me, dear.”
Violette quickly crossed the room and sat down on the bed besides his hip. “Yew ain’t well, are yew?” she asked worriedly.
“I’m an old man, Violette, but no, I do not think that I am well.”
Violette clenched her fists. “Not that old!”
Sir Thomas smiled, then suddenly, he gasped.
“Another pain?” Violette asked.
“It will pass,” he said, his eyes closed. “It always does. Having you here with me these last few months has made it all so much easier, Violette.”
Violette strode to the door. “Ralph!” she shouted. “Ralph! ’Urry to town an’ get the doctor, d’ yew ’ear me?”
“I ’eard,” Ralph called from downstairs. “Yew bellow to wake the dead!” The front door slammed closed.
Violette turned, her back against the wall. She forced a smile. “Doc Crumb will be ’ere soon.” She quickly, purposefully, changed the topic. “Lord Blake was ’ere. ’E invited us to sup tonight at the ’All.”
“That was very kind of Lord Blake.”
“Yeah, it was,” Violette said miserably. “But don’t yew worry. We ain’t goin’, not with yew so down the weather, an’ that’s that.” But she wanted to cry. She wasn’t a fool, she knew she was never going to receive another invitation to dine with an earl and his family and guests.
“Violette, you go. You go and enjoy yourself.”
Violette blinked. “Yew lost yer mind?”
Sir Thomas chuckled, then groaned. “No, dear, I want you
to go. I want you to enjoy an evening the likes of which you have never had before. No one deserves it more, especially for putting up so sweetly with an old goat like myself. Don’t mind me. I shall sleep.”
“But …” Violette’s hopes warred with her sense of responsibility and her genuine concern. “But …”
“No buts! I truly want you to go and enjoy yourself.” His tired eyes held hers.
Tears filled Violette’s eyes. She rushed forward, dropped to her knees, and hugged Sir Thomas so hard that his smile faded and he gasped. “Oops, sorry,” she said, sniffing and wiping her eyes.
“That’s quite all right.” He stroked her hair with one gnarled, trembling hand.
Suddenly Violette leapt to her feet. “Gawd!” she gasped. “Wot do I wear?”
 
“Yew ain’t goin’ out like that?!” Ralph said.
Violette’s hands found her hips. “Wot’s wrong with me dress?”
“Everythin’,” Ralph shouted.
Violette looked down at herself. She was wearing a pale blue satin gown, the only evening dress in her wardrobe. It was the same dress she had worn to her wedding. The neck was high, the bodice pleated with white satin, and the skirts consisted of five blue and white draped layers. “I know this ain’t as pretty as me other dresses, but …”
“Yew got skin showin’,” Ralph said tersely.
“I do?”
Ralph jabbed his finger at her throat. The collar of the bodice exposed about three inches of Violette’s throat and neck. “Yer mad,” Violette said. “An’ jealous, ’cause yew don’t get to sup with the nobs.”
“I don’t want to sup with the earl,” Ralph said. “We got to talk, Violette.”
“No, yew got to drive me over to the ’All.” Violette donned her white kid gloves and picked up a lightweight ice white cashmere shawl. It was trimmed with white ermine fur. Ralph followed her through the front door. Sir Thomas was sleeping. Dr. Crumb had given him laudanum for his stomach pains.
The victoria was waiting, the gray hitched up. Violette’s pulse, already dancing, raced. Ralph walked around the horse
and jumped up. Violette lifted her skirts and climbed inside as well.
“Yew stay away from Lord Blake,” Ralph said heatedly, picking up the reins with his freckled hands. The victoria jogged forward.
“Why? ’E’s a nice man.”
“Wot ’e’s thinkin’ ain’t so nice,” Ralph said angrily.
“’Ow d’ yew know wot ’e’s thinkin’?” Violette protested.
“I know ’cause I’m a man, same as ’im.” Ralph glanced at her. “’E wants to lift them blue skirts of yers, Violette, an’ don’t yew go forgettin’ it!”
Violette hesitated. She wanted to deny what Ralph had said, but she couldn’t. Surely Ralph was wrong? Blake was so nice, so wonderful—she was certain of it.
“I sorta seen the way ’e looks at me,” she finally said, downcast. “I ain’t stupid.” Her heart had stopped dancing. “But ’e looks at me different, not like dockworkers an’ such, Ralph.”
Ralph spat. “’E ain’t no different, luv, an’ yew make sure yew don’t go forgettin’ it.”
Violette worried now. She had never forgotten that horrid man in the top hat who had wanted her to whore for him when she was a ten-year-old child. Since then, there had been many men, all with the same lewd thoughts, all with groping hands and leering smiles. Violette was not a fool. She had learned the art of fending off unwanted letches before any advance was made years ago.
“Promise me yew’ll be careful,” Ralph said.
Violette hugged her wrap closer to her body. The reality of her life warred with her admiration for Blake. “’E’s a gennyine gent, Ralph,” she said slowly. “’E don’t want t’ use me like I’m some fancy whore.” A sadness she did not want to feel was ruining the summer evening. “I’m sure, Ralph.”
“Sure—an’ wrong,” Ralph said. “Be on yer toes tonight.”
Violette was silent. Above them, the night had turned blue-black.
 
The countess greeted Violette at the entrance to the grand drawing room. She smiled, taking both of Violette’s hands. “So good of you to come, Lady Goodwin,” she said, squeezing Violette’s palms.
For an instant Violette could not reply. Nine people had already
gathered in the room, chatting in pairs. And the first person Violette saw was Blake. He had been dashing, of course, that morning in his tweed country clothes and high boots, as he had been the first time she had met him, in his black city suit. But Violette was unprepared for her reaction to him now. Her heart slammed to a stop and she could not breathe.
And he had seen her, too, for he was smiling at her. Clad in a black tailcoat and black satin-piped evening trousers, he strolled slowly toward her and the countess.
“Thank yew fer invitin’ me,” Violette whispered, beginning to tremble.
“Is Sir Thomas not with you?” the countess asked as Blake arrived at their side.
Violette found it hard to reply, for Blake was staring directly into her eyes, no longer smiling. She felt her cheeks heating as he reached for her hand. Violette managed, “’E ain’t well. Dr. Crumb gave ’im some laudanum an’ ’e’s sleepin’ like a baby. ’E told me I should come without ’im.”
“I’m so sorry,” the countess said, worry flitting through her blue eyes.
But Violette was frozen. Blake was kissing her hand. And even through the thin lambskin, she felt the pressure of his palm, the warmth of it, the strength. The oddest thing happened to her. A jolt of liquid sensation, fierce and hot, the likes of which she had never before experienced, pierced through her entire body, her entire being.
He released her hand, unsmiling, staring back. Their gazes locked.
The countess looked from the one to the other, frowning somewhat. Then she took Violette’s arm and tucked it in hers. “Come, dear. I shall introduce you around.” She actually turned her back on her son, forcing Violette to do the same.
And that was when Violette saw Lady Joanna Feldstone, glaring at her from across the drawing room.
 
After the most wonderful dinner Violette had ever had, one including baked pheasant, roasted lamb, and sautéed Scottish salmon, not to mention lemon meringues, strawberry tarts, and plum puddings (there had been twelve courses!), Violette joined the other women in the drawing room while the men wandered off for a cognac, a cigar, and perhaps a game of billiards or whist. Violette had not spoken during dinner except when addressed.
She had spent the entire two hours eating and listening, while stealing glances at Blake, who sat directly across the table from her.
Every now and then their eyes had met and he had smiled at her from behind the silver epergne. And she had blushed.
The countess left the two mahogany doors open and she now smiled at her guests. “What a wonderful summer evening,” she remarked as the ladies sat themselves down in the closest seating area. A fire crackled in the oversized hearth. Made of pale stone, it was ceiling-high and engraved with angels, pennants, flowers, vines, and other biblical symbols.
“Our summers are very fine,” Lady Feldstone said, eyeing Violette. “Of course, only a mad person could remain in London right now.”
Silently Violette agreed. London was hot, humid, and airless in the summer, and usually the stench from the river was overwhelming.
“Come, Lady Goodwin,” Lady Catherine Dearfield said pleasantly. “Do sit down.”
Violette hesitated. Her stepdaughter had taken the middle of the red-striped sofa, Catherine on her right, while the countess was seated across from her on a beige tête-à-tête. Violette felt it would be awfully nervy to go and share the tête-à-tête with the countess, but she had no wish to sit besides Joanna, who had stared coldly at her during most of the supper. Finally Violette chose to sit on a small tufted ottoman, but she felt as if she were on the fringes of the group, and not a part of it.
Which she was. Because she was really Violet Cooper, not Lady Goodwin, and this evening was making her acutely aware of just how fragile—and precious—her world was.
Joanna ignored her. “I dearly look forward to the fox hunt this Saturday, don’t you?”
“I’m afraid I stopped riding with the hounds ages ago. Catherine, however, is quite fond of the sport,” the countess said.
Violette’s eyes popped. Lady Dearfield was not just ivory-skinned, blond, and green-eyed, she was one of the most gentle, ladylike women Violette had ever come across. She could not imagine her dashing across field and stream on some huge steed. But Catherine smiled. “Yes, I adore hunting. In fact, I adore anything to do with horses. My mornings are spent in the riding ring practicing my dressage. My father keeps one of the finest stables in the north of England.”
Joanna snickered. “Why don’t you invite
Lady
Goodwin to join you this weekend? I’m sure she would make a wonderful hunting companion.”
Violette froze. She hated horses, was terrified of them, and Joanna knew it. For one instant, she looked from her malicious stepdaughter to the somewhat confused faces of the countess and Catherine. The countess smiled, breaking the moment quite smoothly. “Do you hunt, Lady Goodwin?”

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