Authors: The Finer Things

Brenda Joyce (23 page)

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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Violette turned to watch Blake. He was speaking with two older gentlemen whom she did not know. She searched the crowd for Gabriella Cantwell and found her instantly, for she was outstanding in her bronze brocade gown.

Violette had never felt less confident, but she said, “I shall do it.”

Blake sipped a glass of champagne, eyeing Violette over the flute’s rim, retaining his calm and his cool. She had been dancing for over an hour now; she’d had at least a dozen different partners, and not only had she been dancing, and gracefully, but she had laughed and smiled and flirted quite outrageously the entire time. Even with Lord Paxton, who was over eighty, and with Lord Lofton, who was twenty, and with everyone in between.

It was almost impossible to believe that she was the same woman he had met at Goodwin Manor just a month or so ago. Blake felt like truly setting Catherine down for her wild, crazy scheme.

For Violette was stunning in her silver ball gown, stunning and elegant, more so, Blake thought, than any other woman present that evening. And he knew he was not the only male to think so. She had been surrounded by admirers almost from the first moment Blake had arrived at the ball.

But did she really think he would become jealous by this ploy?

But before Blake could answer his own question, he stiffened. It was one thing to watch Violette dancing with Paxton or Lofton, or those other sots, but now Farrow was leading her onto the dance floor. Blake stared. Violette appeared mesmerized by whatever he was saying. But perhaps she
was
mesmerized. Farrow was handsome and gallant, women flocked to his side—and into his bed.

As they began to dance, Blake swigged down the rest of his champagne, then took another flute from a waiter passing by
with a silver tray. Farrow did not have honorable intentions toward Violette, but it was not his business. He had already warned her twice.

“I approve,” a soft voice he would never forget said from behind him.

Blake turned and met Gabriella’s direct green gaze.

“Not that it is my place to approve of anything that you do,” she said with a smile, “but I did like Lady Goodwin from the very moment that we met at your mother’s ball.”

It was odd, but Blake realized that his pulse was not racing with unnatural speed as it had been wont to do whenever he happened across Gabriella. “There is nothing to approve of,” he said automatically.

Her smile faded. “Oh, Blake. Your feelings are so obvious—at least to me.”

He stared at her, recalling the past—the warmth and friendship, the passion, the conversation, the love. He smiled. “You always knew me better than anyone,” he finally said.

“Yes, I did,” she admitted frankly. “Lady Goodwin suits you, Blake. She is strong, honest, and real.”

He stared, not at Gabriella, but at Violette, who was still waltzing in Farrow’s arms. His heart turned over as he watched them. “I have no wish for any entanglements,” he heard himself say.

“Than you shall lose her to someone else, and it is all my fault,” Gabriella said poignantly.

His gaze flew to her face. He was about to deny the truth of her last statement, but she cut him off.

“I still regret how much I hurt you, Blake, and I always will. I still regret being so afraid.”

Blake looked at her, knowing her well enough to understand that she was being honest, nothing more. “I know,” he said, and he touched her bare arm briefly.

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Life is for the brave; I was a coward. But look at her.” Her gaze found Violette, who was craning her neck now in order to regard Blake and Gabriella. “She is as brave as a woman can be.”

Blake also regarded Violette, his gaze connecting with hers across the room. Oddly enough, Gabriella’s words stirred up a sense of pride in him. “Yes, she is very brave.”

And when he tore his gaze away, Gabriella was gone.

Eighteen

AS
Violette finished a waltz with a baron old enough to be her father, she glimpsed Blake leaving the ballroom. He was alone—not that it mattered. She was devastated from having seen him converse with Gabriella.

She had not made him jealous. And she could not compete with the other woman, that was so very clear. Violette wanted nothing more than to go home.

The baron smiled at her. “You are a wonderful dancer, Lady Goodwin.”

Violette managed to smile back, as the baron bowed and left her. Suddenly she was standing alone on the fringes of the dancers, for the very first time that night. Did Blake still love Gabriella? Violette was sick inside.

She glanced across the crowded ballroom, wondering if she could work her way unnoticed to the other side and then out of it. But before she could do so, one of her many admirers came quickly forward. He was her own age, wearing wire spectacles. He smiled eagerly. “Lady G-Goodwin, m-may I h-have the pl-pleasure of this d-dance?”

Violette scrambled to recall his name. “Lord Lofton, if you do not mind, I am exhausted.” She could not even smile. “And my feet do hurt so. Might we dance a little later after I take a short rest?”

“Of-of c-course,” Lofton stammered. “C-can I g-get you s-some re-refreshments?”

Violette knew from Catherine’s lessons that she could not refuse. “That would be wonderful,” she said.

Lofton dashed off toward the dining room. Violette pretended to watch the dancers, feeling as if she were on the verge of shattering into pieces. She did not want Lofton’s, or anyone’s, attentions now. And then she saw Baron Feldstone on the fringes of the crowd. Joanna was beside him.

Her heart sank. Violette darted out of a pair of doors that led into the main corridor. A few guests were ambling toward her from the foyer. Violette hesitated, then abruptly reversed direction. She fled down the corridor, not certain where she was going, wanting only to escape the noise, the gaiety, the crowd. She passed the salon where billiards and whist were in play,
spying a pair of french doors. Immediately she opened them and stepped outside onto a terrace. She was relieved to find it vacant and she hurried to the far side where she sank down on a stone bench.

She had been a fool. To think that she could pretend to be a lady when she had been born in London’s slums, to think that she might turn Blake’s head when he was not interested in her, not at all. He had not looked at her even once that entire evening, but he had spent at least ten minutes speaking with Gabriella—and any fool could see how well acquainted they were. Violette now knew that they had once been lovers.

She did not want to love him, not anymore, not when it meant that she had to sufffer with this immense aching in her heart.

And Violette did not want to be a part of his world anymore. Especially not tonight. Her mind had been so full of dreams, her heart so full of hope. No longer. She wanted to go home to her flat in Knightsbridge, to seek the comfort of her bed, to pull the covers high up over her head.

But Ralph would be there in the barely furnished parlor, drinking a mug of ale, waiting for her. He would take one look at her and demand to know what was wrong. He would guess that a fiasco had occurred, as he had constantly predicted that it would. She would want to be comforted and consoled by him. Instead, he would say I told you so.

Violette wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Her future was clear. She would continue to work for Lady Allister, harder than ever before. She would save every penny that she made. In two years, perhaps even sooner, she would open up her own shop in some exclusive West End neighborhood. Her life would be the ladies she clothed and served.

And eventually she would forget all about Blake. He could have Gabriella, or any other woman that he chose.

Her eyes were moist and Violette rubbed them with her gloved fingertips, only to hear a cough behind her. She glanced up, dismayed, meeting Charles Lofton’s concerned gaze.

He shifted ueasily. “Lady G-Goodwin? Are you all r-right?” He held two glasses of champagne. “I l-looked everywhere f-for you.”

She could not smile. “I fear I am not well. I think I shall have to go home.”

“Let m-me t-take you b-back inside.”

“Thank you,” Violette said simply.

They left the terrace, the beauty of the evening gone; a fairy tale shattered as easily as a crystal vase. Violette was acutely aware of Charles now, acutely aware of how her heart ached with wanting what she could never have.

Charles took her elbow as they entered the house. Violette fought for self-control, aware that his gaze kept returning to her face. It was searching.

In the foyer they paused. Other guests were going up the stairs, to where the men’s and ladies’ cloakrooms were, or coming downstairs, returning to the ball.

Charles gazed into her eyes. “I am so so-sorry th-that you are not w-well, Lady G-Goodwin,” he said earnestly.

“It is just a touch of the flu,” Violette said. She felt as if her fragile facade would soon crack, especially because Charles was being so kind. “I think I shall go upstairs for a moment.” She needed, desperately, to compose herself, before returning home and facing Ralph.

“I see.” He hesitated. “When w-will I s-see you again? C-can I take you for a drive in the p-park when you are b-better?”

Violette did not hesitate. “I do not think so, but thank you so very much,” she said.

On the second landing Violette paused, one hand on the oak banister, the foyer directly below her. Charles Lofton had returned to the ballroom, but a few couples were beneath her, conversing amiably. She did not see Blake.

She did not know where the women’s cloakroom was, but a door opened and several men came out of their cloakroom. Violette turned to the opposite door and swung it open. Several women were inside. Two ladies stood in front of mirrors, powdering their faces. An elderly redhead and a faded blonde were resting on settees with unslippered feet. The cloakroom became silent the moment Violette entered it.

Violette knew that no one wanted her there, but what had she done? Her own gender had treated her with suspicion ever since her marriage to Sir Thomas. Perhaps she was growing used to such treatment, because she felt numb now, and did not really care if she were somehow offending someone. Ignoring them all, she walked over to an ottoman and sat down hard in front of the mirror. She stared at her face. She looked extraordinarily pale, brittle, about to break.

She told herself not to think about Blake. For every time his image appeared in her thoughts, she wanted to cry.

Suddenly one of the women sitting in her stockings stood with a huff. “I think I shall leave. There are some things I refuse to accept, and an impostor from the slums is one of them.”

Violette jerked, stunned.

“I will leave with you.” The redhead slid on her slippers and the two women marched out without giving Violette a backwards glance.

Violette did not move.

The other two women ignored Violette as they finished their toilettes, as if they had not heard a word, but they also quickly left. And then Violette was alone.

She covered her face with her hands. She was worse than a fool, to think she could enter the Hardings’ world. She had not fooled Blake, she had not fooled anyone. She was not an aristocrat, she was an impostor; she did not belong at Rutherford House or anywhere else in the West End. She was going home. Without Blake, there was no point in pretending anymore.

She stood and left the cloakroom. As she entered the landing, two gentlemen were emerging from the opposite withdrawing room. Violette intended to ignore them, but one of them whistled loudly and blocked her way. His breath smelled strongly of whiskey.

“Lady Goodwin, isn’t it?” He grinned at her. He was a young, handsome rake. “I haven’t yet had the pleasure, although I’ve heard all about you.”

“We have not been introduced,” Violette managed stiffly. He was standing so close to her that his knees brushed her skirts. Such a posture was rude. She started to move past him but he raised his arm, planting his hand on the wall by Violette’s shoulder, barring her escape. Violette gasped.

“Oh, come. I do not think, in your case, we need stand on formality?” He grinned again. His grin was pleasant. His eyes were not. They gleamed and frightened Violette. “Stanhope. Name’s Fred Stanhope.”

“I beg your pardon,” Violette said stiffly. “Please let me pass.”

Stanhope did not remove his arm. “Maybe you should leave her alone, Freddie,” the other man said. He was also young, but obesely fat.

Stanhope made a dismissive noise. “Why? Let’s take a walk, sweetheart, just you and me,” he said to Violette. “Or better yet, let’s take a ride in my carriage. I know a quiet place. We
can share supper together. I shall make it worth your while.” His smile flashed.

Her pulse pounded. She was far more than alarmed. “Let me pass—please.”

“I don’t think so.”

Violette wet her lips. She darted a glance behind her and saw two women coming up the stairs. She did not want to cause a scene. “Please,” she said again, with growing desperation.

The men’s cloakroom door opened. Violette saw Jon emerge and cried out. He immediately halted, his pleasant smile fading. “What is going on here?” he asked.

Fred Stanhope reluctantly turned, dropping his arm as he did so. But he did not move further away from Violette, keeping her hemmed in with his body. “Hullo, Farleigh. I am making the acquaintance of a beautiful woman.”

“We have not been properly introduced,” Violette said hoarsely. “He will not let me go by.”

Jon’s expression tightened. “What in blazes are you doing, Stanhope? Let the lady by.”

“If she were a lady, I would have to agree,” Fred said easily. “But in this instance, I suggest you mind your own affairs and leave me to woo where I choose.”

Jon did not move. His blue eyes had darkened.

Violette wanted to die.

“Last chance, my friend,” Jon said softly. Dangerously.

Stanhope made a dismissive noise.

And Jon reached out, grabbing Fred by the shoulder and spinning him away from Violette, so hard that Fred crashed into the opposite wall. Violette cried out. Fred recovered, regaining his balance, while Jon faced Violette. “Lady Goodwin, let me escort you downstairs.” His tone was gentle, kind.

Violette was about to nod when she saw Fred rushing Jon from behind. She screamed in warning.

But before Jon could turn Fred had barreled into him with all of his weight and at full speed. The momentum of his rampage sent Jon flying across the landing—toward the banister. Violette froze. Her heart stopped. All she could think about was that the railing could not possibly withstand the force of the two men.

Both men crashed into the banister. To Violette’s relief, it did not break. They nearly toppled over it, however. Below them was the foyer on the first floor.

Instead, they fell to the carpeted landing, and quickly rose
to their feet, wrestling. The heavy man shouted at them to stop, but neither Jon nor Fred appeared willing to listen. They grappled back and forth, the banister inches behind them.

Violette was terrified.

And suddenly Jon had Stanhope pressed backwards against the railing, and then their positions were reversed. Jon’s hips were pressed to the railing, his back bent over it at an impossible angle—with Fred’s expression so savage that it seemed as if he wished to push Jon over it and to the floor below. Jon’s expression changed, becoming a mask of fear.

“No!” Violette screamed.

The crack was loud. Splintering wood. The railing gave way. And with a cry, both men fell to the floor below.

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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