Authors: The Finer Things

Brenda Joyce (38 page)

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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“What have I done?” he asked.

She shook her head, eyes downcast. “It is not you. It is I.”

Before she could react, he had paced in front of her and was lifting her chin in his hand. He stared into her eyes, standing so close to her that she could see the gold flecks in his irises. Tears welled.

“Something is upsetting you,” he exclaimed, releasing her face. He reached for her hands.

Violette clung to the shawl for another heartbeat, terrified as she realized what was happening, but he clasped her palms, forcing her to finally drop both ends of the mantle. It slipped off of her shoulders, to the floor.

“If I have done something,” he began hoarsely, and then his gaze dropped, to her swollen breasts and protruding abdomen, and he froze, mouth open.

Violette inhaled. “You have done nothing,” she said.

“Good God. You are pregnant.” He had turned white.

“Yes, with Blake’s baby.” Tears fell down her cheeks.

He dropped her hands, took a step away, and continued to stare. “Does he know?”

“No.” Violette rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. “And you mustn’t tell him. He must never know.”

Farrow stared. His color remained ashen. His jaw was flexed. “Is that the right thing to do?”

“I don’t care!” Her voice rose. “Should I tell him about the baby, so that he can come here and take him away from me?”

Farrow was motionless. “If it is a boy, it is Blake’s heir.”

“Only until Blake has another, legitimate child.” Violette was frightened now. “Why are you taking his side? Are you going to tell him?” she cried.

At first he did not answer. “I am not taking his side. That would be impossible, considering that I am in love with you.”

Violette gasped.

But Farrow was grave. “But I am a man, a man without a son, a man in need of an heir. I can only imagine how I would feel if I were Blake, and that child, in these circumstances, were mine.”

“Are you going to tell him?” Violette demanded harshly.

A moment ensued. “I do not know,” Farrow replied.

Thirty-two

HE
finally convinced Violette to walk down the block with him to a small restaurant which he had often mentioned, one always busy, filled with gay Parisians amidst flickering candlelights. Although it was late April, Violette took her shawl, hoping, he supposed, to disguise her condition. Farrow was still in shock. What did a man do when he was in love with a woman pregnant with another man’s child?

They entered the small, intimate restaurant. A smiling proprietor ushered them to a window table that looked out on a centuries-old church dotted with pigeons. Farrow took a few moments to order them a meal. When he had done so, he looked at Violette and caught her studying him with a slight flush on her cheeks. She glanced away.

Should he tell Blake? He could not do so without losing Violette, he suspected, and not necessarily to the other man. But her silence was a deception, and it was not honorable, it was not right. He did not know what to do. “Violette?”

She looked up.

“What are your plans now?” he asked.

Her reply was cautious. “Do you mean, after my child is born?”

He nodded. “You must be in need of funds. I want to help you.”

“That is too kind.” She smiled at him. “I am not in need of funds.” This was news to him. “Blake has settled a generous pension on me. Nothing will change. I shall return to work at Maison Langdoc four or five months after the child is born. I shall find a young woman to help with the baby.”

He started, disbelieving. “Blake has left you a pension! And you have continued to work?”

She cocked her head. “I enjoy my employment. I am very good at selling to the ladies, and as it turns out I have a very good eye for what a particular woman can and cannot wear.” She smiled. “Which does sound odd, considering how I used to dress myself.”

“Why wouldn’t you stay at home to take care of the child yourself?”

“I intend to stay home, as I said, for four or five or even six months. But Robert, I enjoy working at Maison Langdoc. I enjoy it very much.”

He absorbed that, but had trouble with the concept. It was a unique proposition. Women belonged in the home.

“Actually,” she said softly, her color having increased, “by the end of next year I am hoping to open my own shop.”

He started.

She smiled at him. “I believe I can be a success. Do you think I can raise the money from a bank in order to start my own business?”

He knew he gaped. “You wish to open your own shop? Next year? After you have just had a child?”

She nodded. “I would do so now if I weren’t in this condition. I believe I would need someone with means to sponsor me to the banks.”

“Yes, you would,” he said somewhat stiffly. He had to ask. “Violette, if you remarried, surely you would not wish to open a shop then?”

“Why not?” Her smile had faded. “You seem disapproving.”

He sat back, staring. He could not imagine his wife being a shopkeeper. He supposed she could be persuaded to change her mind. “I do not approve. How can I? You have turned yourself into an extraordinary woman—a genteel, refined lady. You deserve all that life has to offer, Violette—a beautiful home in the city, a staff to attend you, a country place, silks and velvets, rubies and sapphires. But to continue to work after Blake has left you a pension? To become a shopkeeper after having a child?”

Her chin lifted. “I am sorry you do not approve.”

He quickly reached across the table to clasp her hand. “But I approve of you. Wholeheartedly.” He smiled at her.

She relaxed slightly. “You are a rake.”

“Not anymore.” He meant it.

She stared.

He hesitated. “As long as we are on the topic, painful as it is, I must ask you to consider what you intend.”

She withdrew her hand. “Are we talking about my plans for a shop—or something else?”

“I’m speaking about keeping Blake in ignorance of your condition.”

She looked down. “I am not telling him. The child is mine, not his.” She had removed her hands to her lap, but not before he saw that they were trembling.

He sighed, torn, gazing at her. “Then I shall not say anything, if you feel this way,” he finally said. It was not a decision he was comfortable with.

She jerked. “You will respect my wishes?”

“I have no choice, not if I wish to continue to court you, now do I?”

She stared. “Is that what you are doing?”

“Yes.” He was grave. “I most certainly am.”

“But … after the child?”

“The child changes nothing,” he said flatly. “Not between us.”

Violette regarded him with wide, unblinking eyes. “I think,” she finally said, “that I am very lucky.”

He wished she had said it as if she really meant it. He wished she still did not love Blake.

It was a beautiful, warm May day, the sun shining, the skies blue, a robin singing from the treetops, but Blake did not notice. In his office at the bank, he was immersed in his papers. He did not look up when his assistant poked his head into the room. “My lord?”

Still reading, Blake said, “Yes?”

“His Lordship, the earl of Harding, to see you, with your brother, Lord Farleigh.”

That got Blake’s attention. He looked up as his father walked into the room. Jon was being carried. He rose, moving around his desk. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

“I am sure that it is,” the earl returned with a slight smile. “We have a few matters to discuss with you, Blake.”

Blake did not like the sound of that. He leaned one hip on his desk as the earl sat down, glancing at Jon. His brother smiled encouragingly at him. But there was the glint of steel in his eyes. “Do not keep me in suspense,” Blake murmured. What could they want? He had not a doubt that they wanted something.

“Very well,” Richard said. “You have been divorced since January, it is now May. And it is apparent to both your brother and I that you have not made a single attempt to find another bride.”

Blake could not believe his ears. “I beg your pardons,” he said stiffly—vastly affronted.

“Do not get all huffy,” Jon said smoothly. “Blake, she left you six months ago. It is more than clear to everyone that you are very unhappy. It is time to get on with your life.”

“
My
life,” Blake said, not pleasantly.

The earl sighed with annoyance. “Blake, let us call a spade a spade. In a few years I will be seventy.”

Blake snorted. “I’ would not call a decade a few years.”

Richard ignored him. “Your brother is not recovering from the accident. His duty now falls upon you. You owe it to me, to him, to your mother, and to the earldom, to produce an heir. And that cannot be done without a wife. Therefore, we wish to know when you plan to remarry.”

It was a moment before Blake could speak. He was very angry. “Actually, I have no plans to remarry.”

“But you need an heir.” The earl was standing.

Blake ground down his jaw, remaining silent with difficulty.

“Blake,” Jon said with a brief smile that did not reach his eyes, “I know you have been hurt. For the second time. But you do have a duty to perform. So this time, you should choose for convenience’ sake—wisely.”

Blake stood and paced. A sick feeling had appeared from nowhere and it pervaded his entire being. He did not want to remarry, period. But he knew that his father and his brother were right. He had a duty to perform, one he could not deny. The thought formed instantly, out of thin air, inside of his mind.
Damn her
. Damn Violette. He never thought about Gabriella anymore.

“I need some time,” he finally said.

“Why?” That from Jon.

Blake glared. “Because,” he paused, “if I agree to this … this extortion, then at least give me the time to choose wisely.”

“Actually”—the earl coughed—“we have the perfect woman in mind.”

Blake halted in midstride.

“The perfect bride,” Jon repeated, unsmiling.

It was a moment before he could find his voice. “Do tell.”

“Catherine,” his father said firmly. “It is more than time that she wed. I have already spoken with her father. He would be thrilled should you two become affianced.”

Blake gaped. “Catherine? Catherine
Dearfield?”

“Yes, Catherine,” the earl said. “She is genteel, kind, the two of you are very close already, and she would, in short, make a perfect wife, a perfect mother, and I believe, a lifelong friend and partner.”

Many images raced through Blake’s mind. The first time he had met Catherine, a pretty little blond girl in pigtails astride her Arabian mare. Catherine’s come-out, the pigtails gone, a shy but beautiful young lady revealed in an ice pink ball gown. Suddenly he looked at Jon. Jon had danced with her first that night, even before her father. The image was suddenly there in his mind as if it were yesterday, not three years ago. They had made a striking couple. Graceful, beautiful, and somehow inherently at ease with one another.

Of course, Jon was now confined to a chair or his bed. He would never waltz with her, or any woman, again.

Jon met his gaze. His face was impassive. “The two of you would do very well together, I agree. She would make the perfect wife, the perfect mother. And Catherine should marry, and soon. Otherwise she will be considered an old maid, and life will have passed her by.”

He managed to speak. “Catherine is like a sister to me.”

“She is not your sister,” the earl said. “So why don’t you get that excuse right out of your head?”

Blake bristled. “The two of you come here, and out of the blue, tell me to marry, and whom to wed, and I am supposed to come to heel like a well-trained hound?”

“Blake. We want what’s best for you, what’s best for her, what’s best for the family and the earldom.”

Blake sank into a chair. “I am sorry. I have been shocked.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand. “I need some time … to think about this … to adjust my thinking.”

The earl stood. “So your answer is not No.”

Blake glanced up, into his father’s eyes. “I will not shirk my duty, Father, that I promise you.” Dread swept through him.

The earl smiled, pleased.

“But whether I will marry Catherine, that I cannot decide in a moment or two.” And Blake turned to look at Jon.

Jon stared back at him.

Blake hesitated. He stood on the threshold of the drawing room at the Dearfield town house with the Dearfields’ butler. Catherine sat at the secretaire, a quill in her hand, but she was not
writing. She was staring pensively through the open french doors at the small back garden, which was a riot of yellow and white spring blooms. Her expression was far more than somber. It was sad.

“Lady Catherine, Lord Neville to see you,” the butler intoned.

Catherine smiled as she turned, rising, hands outstretched. “Blake, dear, it is so good to see you.” She sailed forward.

He smiled at her, unable not to really study her now. She was an attractive woman, although not his type. But he cared deeply for her, he always had. He took her hands in his and kissed her cheek. “Hello, Catherine. Have I interrupted you?”

“No, of course not. Come sit down. Thompson, could you bring us some tea and cakes.” She smiled at the butler, who bowed and left. “Have you had tea yet, Blake?”

“No. I don’t take tea at the office.” He sat beside Catherine on the sofa, wondering why she was so sad. “Is something bothering you, Catherine? God knows, you have asked that question of me often enough. Now it is my turn.” He smiled.

Her smile faded, she sighed. “Not really.” She met his gaze and sighed again. “I guess I am a bit bothered.” She smiled but it was forced. “I am lonely, Blake.”

He tensed in spite of himself. But had he ever had a better opening? “Would you care to elaborate?”

She glanced down with a shrug. “I had always intended to wed, have children, to have a wonderful home and family, in fact. But now I just do not know.”

His pulse raced. “You have refused a dozen good men, that I know of, since your come-out. Why?”

Her smile was fleeting. “I suppose I was waiting for a romantic hero. A knight in shining armor. A man who only exists in a woman’s dreams.”

He stared, because her voice had caught. He reached for her hand. “I did not know you were a romantic, Catherine.” Suddenly he thought about Jon, who was also a damned romantic, as Blake had learned last year during the fiasco with Violette.

She smiled wanly. “Hopelessly so.”

He hesitated. “Does the man you marry have to be a hero? Or can he be flesh and blood, hard-working, sincere?”

She gazed curiously at him. “I am not going to marry.”

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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