Brenda Joyce (33 page)

Read Brenda Joyce Online

Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
2.21Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Blake turned to stare down at her again. He ached to touch her, hold her, kiss her, be inside of her. So much so that he wasn’t sure he could refrain from making love to her again. But then what? He had intended a divorce or an annulment after a verdict of not guilty. But now their marriage was consummated, and Violette had been innocent of men.
He studied her perfect features, each one so fine and delicate, torn. Who would ever guess that she was from the streets of
the East End? Perhaps, like in the romance novels he had caught Catherine reading, it would one day be discovered that her father was a duke. But Blake knew better than to believe that.
He returned his gaze to the molded ceiling. What was he going to do? He was so drawn to Violette. Worse, not only did he want to make love to her again, but he wanted to protect her from all harm. He could not recall when he had last experienced such protective instincts for anyone, man, woman, or child.
And then he wanted to explore every facet of her utterly original character, and watch her explore her life.
But dammit, he was
not
in love with her.
In any case, it was his duty, the honorable choice, he knew, the only choice, to remain married to her now.
Blake had to face his deepest fear. After all these years, he had to face the fact that he had allowed himself to love deeply, completely, once, and had suffered vastly for that mistake. Yet Violette was already his wife. Gabriella had refused him, marrying Cantwell instead. Violette already had his name, and she could neither refuse him or run away from him.
He was not comforted. Staring at the ceiling, he had the strongest feeling of walking way out onto a shaky tree limb. One more inch and the limb would break—and he would crash to the ground.
Blake slipped from the bed. He stared down at Violette—his bride. Could he not control his fear? Was it not time now to take another chance, to risk himself and his feelings again?
One thing was clear. Violette needed him, and he could not let her hang. And he needed her.
Blake suddenly bent over her, pushing aside the mass of her hair. Very gently, he kissed her nape. When Violette’s eyes fluttered slightly, he pressed another kiss to the corner of her mouth. She sighed, smiling ever so slightly.
And Blake sank onto the bed, pulling her into his arms.
VIOLETTE
lay in bed, cuddling her pillow, as Blake got to his feet. She watched him step into his drawers. She was smiling, enjoying the sight of his hard, muscular body, her own body gloriously sated, and joyously alive. She was deliriously in love.
Blake glanced at her. “I will be taking breakfast in half an hour.” His gaze warmed as it slid over her; the covers were only pulled up past her hips, exposing her supple back, shoulders, and arms. “Do not rush on my account. Go back to sleep if you wish.”
Violette smiled widely at him. “I am not in the mood to sleep.”
He smiled slightly in return, inclined his head, and strode from the bedroom. Violette’s happiness faded a bit. Surely there was not still conflict, questions, anxiety lingering between them? Not after last night!
Violette sat up, clutching the covers to her neck. All that had thus far happened hit her then. She stared across the room, at Blake’s just-closed door. Now that they had made love, would they not have a real marriage? Didn’t he love her, too? He had certainly made love to her as if he did. There was no possible way, she decided, that he would ask her for a divorce now.
But then she thought about the trial. It was next week. Blake’s intentions might not even matter. Her heart lurched with dread at the thought.
But it did matter, she realized as she got up and walked into the bathing room, somber now. It mattered very much. Even if she were convicted for a murder she did not commit, she wanted Blake to love her the way she loved him.
Violette rang the bellpull for Margie. Worry had displaced her joy. She did not know what to do, what to think.
The little freckle-faced maid appeared instantly. “Mum?”
“I wish to bathe and dress and be downstairs in thirty minutes,” Violette said.
The maid’s eyes widened; she said, “Oh!” and rushed into the bathing room to pipe water into the bath. Violette watched her, and then she was suddenly seized with a memory of Ralph.
She did not have to be brilliant to know that Blake was not
going to be happy if he wandered downstairs and found Ralph dining in his breakfast room. Oh, God. She had to explain.
Violette, now regretting offering Ralph a guest room instead of a bed above the stables, wrapped only in a bed sheet, rushed into the bathing closet. “Margie! Where is Mr. Horn?”
“He has just come down for breakfast, mum,” the little maid said, testing the water for warmth.
Violette’s brow furrowed. Then, without another moment of hesitation, she ran to the door adjoining her room to Blake’s. She rapped sharply on it.
Blake opened the door, his eyes widening, his valet moving in the room behind him. “Violette! What in the blazes are you doing?”
Before she could answer he had strode into her room, shutting the door abruptly.
“I’m sorry,” Violette said, the words tumbling out. “But I have to speak with you!”
Some of his anger faded. “What is wrong?”
“Blake, please don’t be mad at me,” she blurted. “But yesterday, when I came home, Ralph was waiting for me on the street.”
Blake stiffened. “Horn? He was here?”
Violette wet her lips. “He is here.”
He stared. “What do you mean, precisely, by ’he is here?’”
Violette winced.
“Here? In
my
house?”
Violette opened her mouth, intending to explain, but found it extremely difficult to get any words out.
“Where the hell is he?” Blake demanded, turning red.
“I let him use a guest room.”
Blake’s brows shot up.
“And I think he is taking breakfast downstairs at this very moment,” Violette cried.
Blake strode across the room and out of her door.
Violette ran after him, but halted on the threshold. “Blake! Why are you so angry?” she called after him—but he was disappearing down the hall and he did not deign to reply.
Violette whirled, dropping the sheet. Her maid, who had apparently been privy to the entire conversation, gaped. Violette ignored her, retrieving the rose wrapper from the floor. She threw it on, belting it tightly, and ran after Blake in her bare feet.
She raced down the stairs. “Wait, please, wait,” she called after him, but he was an entire floor ahead of her.
As he hit the ground floor he stared up at her. “You cannot come down in that state of deshabille,” he said furiously.
Violette winced but did not stop as Blake disappeared down the hall. She ran faster, hitting the ground floor landing at a run. The footman at the front door pretended not to see her. Violette heard Blake’s voice, hard and angry as she raced down the hall and slammed into the breakfast room.
Ralph was sitting at the head of the table, in Blake’s seat. He had, she was certain, done it on purpose. He had a plate in front of him piled with food, more food than any single person could possibly eat. He was sitting back in the chair, his arms folded across his chest, his expression insolent.
Blake was saying, “I wish I could say that your sudden appearance is a surprise, Horn. Get out of my chair.”
Violette came forward. “Ralph, please do as he says.”
Ralph did not move, although he looked at her—as did Blake. “Go back upstairs,” Blake told her coldly. “This is not your affair.”
“Not my affair?” Violette gasped.
“Get out of my chair, Horn, before I remove you from it myself,” Blake said very tightly.
“Ralph, please!” Violette cried.
Ralph stood up. “Mornin’, Yer Lordship. Sleep well?” His tone was mocking.
“And to think I was about to ask you the very same thing,” Blake said. “Have you enjoyed my hospitality?”
“Certainly did,” Ralph said. “Now I know why she did it. If I’d been ’er, I’d ’ave married yew, too.” His smile was as cold as Blake’s. “Couldn’t pass up all these fine things.”
“Stop it,” Violette said, her pulse racing.
Both men ignored her. Blake stepped directly in front of Ralph. “So tell me, Horn, where have you been? I must say, I did not expect you to reappear until the murder trial was long over.”
“Where I been,” Ralph said, “ain’t none of yer busyness, me lord.”
Violette stepped between the two men, who looked as if they would jump at each other and attempt to strangle one another. “Please!” She put her back to Ralph. “Ralph was in Tamrah. Investigating the matter of the arsenic. He also found out that
Lady Feldstone’s housekeeper was purchasing rat poison last year.”
Blake gazed at her. “You are lying to protect him?” he asked incredulously.
“I’m not lying!” Violette cried, aghast.
“You are lying to protect him,” Blake ground out.
“I am not.”
“You did not mention this last night,” he said pointedly. “And whom, may I ask, gave you the right to invite this … this … man into my house?”
Violette was hurt to the quick. She lifted her chin, swallowing the lump of anguish. “I thought, after last night, that it is now
our
house,” she said softly.
“Last night,” Blake said, “changes little, if anything.”
Violette inhaled. Had he struck her physically, he could not have hurt her more.
“Violette,” Blake said, instantly reaching for her arm. Violette flung him off, backing away from him.
“I am sorry. I spoke rashly, out of anger,” he said.
Violette shook her head, too wounded to speak. She turned and ran out of the room.
Blake stared after her. “Dammit,” he said harshly.
“’Appy?” Ralph sneered.
Blake turned, fist clenched, and hauled back. Before Ralph could duck fully, he’d slammed his fist into Ralph’s jaw, knocking him backwards into the opposite wall. Blake rushed forward, pulling him up to his feet by his shirt. “I don’t like you,” he said, “I don’t trust you. In fact, regardless of the Feldstones’ housekeeper’s actions this past year, you are still the number one suspect on my list of possible murderers.” He released him.
Ralph straightened from a crouch. “Yew can suspect me all yew want, Yer Lordship, but that won’t change the facts. I didn’t kill Sir Thomas, an’ more importantly, Violette loves me the way she’ll never, ever love yew.”
Blake stiffened,
Ralph smiled. “’Cause we’re the same, ’er an’ me, an’ nuthin’ can ever change that, not ’er new ways an’ airs, an’ one day she’ll give up on yew an’ yer fancy ways an’ she’ll come ’ome.”
Blake stared. His expression had become unreadable.
 
 
Violette retired to her room. From her third-story window, she watched Ralph depart, clearly thrown out by Blake. And an hour or so after his departure, she saw Blake leave in his sleek black phaeton. She wondered where he was going. She tried not to care.
Her maid tried to coax her into accepting a light dinner in her room. Violette sent it all back, even the plum pudding.
She did not know how she had come to this impasse. To love a man who clearly had no real feelings, no love in return, for her. How cruel and hateful Blake was. Yet she did not hate him. If only she could.
She could not cry. Her tears were used up. But for the thousandth time she wondered how she could survive this marriage, especially after last night.
There was a knock on her door. Violette sighed and stood, opening it. Margie faced her uncertainly. “Mum,” she said, and cleared her throat. “His Lordship wished me to tell you that you are dining at Harding House this evening at eight.”
“I’m not going,” Violette said flatly. And she meant it. She could not face the Hardings. She knew the earl and countess would be upset and dismayed to learn that their son had married her. It was entirely different than inviting Violette as a guest into their home.
But more importantly, she wasn’t going anywhere with Blake—except, she supposed with a sinking sensation, to the Lords next week.
Margie’s eyes were wide. “But His Lordship sent a note. I mean,” she stammered, “he must want you to go out with him or why would he bother to send a messenger?”
“I don’t care,” Violette said, her pulse pounding. Roaring. “Tell him I am unwell when he comes home.”
Margie’s eyes were wide.
“I am serious,” Violette said. “I am not feeling well and I am NOT dining with him at Harding House.”
“Yes, mum,” the maid said meekly.
Violette slammed the door.
 
Violette froze when she heard Blake’s footsteps in the hall outside her bedroom door. She crossed her fingers and prayed that he would go away, but he did not. He knocked.
She debated pretending to sleep. But she was still fully dressed in her daytime clothes. A glance at the clock showed
her it was just seven P.M., an hour before the Hardings’ supper party. She gnawed her lower lip.
“Violette?” Without awaiting her permission, he pushed open the door and stepped inside her room. His gaze found hers. It was direct and piercing.
Violette stood in the center of the room, frozen. She did not move. She could not. He was the last person she wanted to see, yet he was the one her soul yearned for, always.
“So, you are unwell?” he asked, one brow lifting.
Violette hesitated. “I have had a headache all day.”
“I did not know you suffered from migraines.”
She thought about that morning. “Now you do.”
“But you are not abed. Most women take to their bed when suffering so.” His gaze was impenetrable.
“I can’t sleep. Because of the pounding in my head,” she lied.
He turned and shut the door, alarming Violette. When he faced her, he stared. “Chamberlain tells me that you have been in your room all day, and that you refused to eat dinner.”
“I am unwell. I am not hungry,” Violette said, a catch in her voice.
“Are you unwell? Or are you angry? Perhaps hoping to punish me childishly?” Blake asked. “By abusing yourself?”
She stiffened. “Why would I be angry with you? In order to be angry, I would have to care. And I do not.” She flung out the words. Her fists were clenched.
“I am very sorry,” he said softly, “about my terrible temper this morning.”
She shrugged. Trying not to cry. “Ralph can take it.”
“I am not talking about Horn. I am talking about you,” Blake said.
Violette looked into his eyes and thought that she saw something soft and tender there. She whirled abruptly, giving him her back, clenching her fists so tightly that her own nails hurt her palms. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He came up behind her. “I never meant to hurt you. I am not a cruel man. Please forgive me for what I said. I was angry with Horn and … confused.” He seemed to hesitate.

Other books

Dead Wolf by Tim O'Rourke
Full Circle by Davis Bunn
The Lightning Bolt by Kate Forsyth
The Family by Jeff Sharlet
The Maiden At Midnight by Kate Harper
The Warrior Poet by Le Veque, Kathryn
Second Chances by Sarah Price
Nan Ryan by Silken Bondage
Domino by Chris Barnhart