Brenda Joyce (29 page)

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Authors: The Finer Things

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“We should marry immediately, this very minute,” he said. “Before inspectors Adams and Howard come to arrest you. I am not going to allow you to be carted off to Newgate like some common criminal.”
Violette levered herself upwards with difficulty. All she could think of was that she had never wanted anything more than to be asked by Blake for her hand in marriage, but it seemed, dear God, that he was only marrying her to save her, not for any other reason. And she prayed that she was wrong. Desperately, she prayed that he would tell her what she wanted so terribly to hear.
“Violette, we have no other choice. If we marry, I will insist that you remain here, in my father’s custody, until the trial. And we shall do everything in our power to make sure the peerage returns a verdict of not guilty. What else is there to understand?”
Violette wet her dry lips. Trying not to hear the little voice inside of her head, screaming,
Fool!
“If I were not in this trouble, would you be asking me to marry you then?”
He turned white.
It was answer enough.
“Oh, God,” Violette said, turning her back on him. What she wanted, she did not, could not, want this way.
He seized her arm. “We do not have time. We should perform the nuptials now. This moment, in fact.”
She shook her head, unable to speak.
His grip tightened on her arm. “Violette, you are not thinking clearly.”
She whirled. “I am thinking very clearly,” she flung. “What will happen after the trial? If I am cleared? You will be saddled with a wife you never wanted. You will be saddled with me!”
He took a step back from her. “We will reach an understanding now,” he said finally.
“An understanding?” Her tone was wild, bitter.
“When the hoopla has died down, we can annul the marriage, or seek a divorce, whichever is easier,” he said.
IT
was, without a doubt, the worst day of her life.
Violette stood beside Blake in a small salon in Rutherford House. The doors had not just been shut, they were locked. The draperies on the windows had been drawn. The small yet opulent room was gas-lit. And Violette and Blake were not alone. Dom St. Georges and Jon were behind them clad in dark jackets and trousers and snowy white shirts. Jon was seated. Reverend Alcott faced them, an open Bible in his hands.
As the reverend performed the ceremony which would, temporarily yet legally, unite her and Blake as man and wife, Violette fought not to cry. It was perhaps the hardest effort she had ever made in her short life. She stole a glance up at Blake’s face.
His profile was perfect, yet set in stone, making it impossible for her to comprehend his feelings. Yet she did not need to see his expression for her to know how he was feeling, he had made himself so very clear.
Violette’s pulse pounded with painful force. She felt dizzy, lightheaded, weak-kneed, and faint. It was only two hours ago that she and Blake had reached their
understanding.
She clutched the small nosegay in her gloved hands. This was what she had wanted. To be Blake’s bride, his wife. Yet she did not want Blake this way, after all. But she had had no choice in the end. She did not want to die.
“I do,” Blake said firmly.
Violette swallowed, aching in every fiber of her being, aching in all of her muscles and bones. The reverend turned to her. “Do you, Lady Violette Goodwin, take this man, Lord
Theodore Blake, Viscount Neville, to be your husband, in sickness and in health, in poverty and wealth, to hold and to cherish, to love for all time, until death do you part?” he asked.
Until death do you part.
Violette licked her lips. Her breathing was shallow. Blake glanced at her. “I do,” she whispered, wondering if she was crying yet. And her words were not a lie. She would love him until she died.
Maybe, if God were merciful, she would not have a long life. To see him eventually marry someone else—after their divorce.
“Then I now pronounce you man and wife. Lord Neville, you may place the ring on the bride’s fourth finger.”
Violette held up her left hand. It was shaking so terribly that she was embarrassed. Blake slipped a gold wedding band studded with diamonds and rubies onto her fourth finger, over her white kid gloves. Violette stared down at the beautiful ring until her vision blurred. She had never owned such a beautiful piece of jewelry before. She would, of course, give it back to Blake when they divorced.
“You may kiss the bride,” the reverend said, smiling.
Blake faced Violette squarely. She lifted her gaze to his. She was wearing a simple pale blue silk dress and a matching hat with a half veil, the net in darker blue, that covered her eyes and nose but not her mouth. Blake seemed to hesitate. Violette stared at him, aware of being more unhappy than she had ever been in her life, of being more hurt than she had ever known a body could be.
His jaw flexed. His eyes seemed hard. He leaned forward and brushed his mouth against hers for less time than it took her heart to beat once. Although his lips hardly touched hers, his kiss was strange—indifferent, cold.
Violette closed her eyes, pulling away from him, hugging herself. How she wanted to escape the room, escape Blake. Too late, she realized she had crushed the nosegay she was holding.
He was surrounded by the men. Dom hugged him. Jon finally smiled. Blake managed a grin, but his expression was strained. Violette regarded them all, unmoving. They were acting like this was a real wedding.
“Lady Neville,” the reverend said.
It took Violette a moment to realize that she was being addressed. Lady Neville, the wife of Lord Theodore Blake, Viscount of Neville. Her heart beat harder now. She forced a smile to her stiff, frozen mouth.
His own kind smile faded. Reverend Alcott was in his eighties. According to Blake, he had known the family since his father was a small child. He had married the earl and the countess. He had baptized both boys. Alcott touched her elbow. “Are you unwell?” he asked with utter sympathy.
His concern might very well undo her. Violette stiffened her spine. “I am fine, thank you.”
“Lady Neville, if you wish to ever speak with me, feel free, anytime.” He smiled at her. His brown eyes were warm. “I am a wonderful listener. And I do consider myself family.”
Violette nodded, unable to continue smiling. Jon was staring at her. Violette hesitated. Every time she saw him it hurt her terribly. If only he would get well.
Now it appeared that he wished to speak to her. Violette had not spoken to or seen him since the night of the accident. Afraid of what he might say, Violette moved to his side.
He studied her. “Welcome to the family, Violette,” Jon said seriously. “I am pleased to have you as a little sister.”
He appeared to mean it. Violette was in disbelief. He was paralyzed because of her. “How can you say that?” she whispered.
“I am saying what I mean,” he said flatly.
She wished he would smile. She wished his eyes would light up the way they once had. “I am so sorry, Jon,” she said. “So very sorry.”
“Now is neither the time nor the place to discuss the past, which cannot be changed in any case.”
Violette nodded. He was clearly so unhappy. But he was an extraordinary man. “Thank you,” she finally said.
Dom St. Georges grinned at her, stepping between them. His amber eyes were bright. He took her gloved hand and kissed it very firmly. “I cannot resist,” he said. “I have had a feeling about this since we first met.”
Violette did not understand. He might have been speaking Chinese. Nor did she care to understand, for she was looking past Dom, into Blake’s eyes. He was staring at her very gravely. Her heart lurched. She thought about the way he had kissed her just a moment ago. Brides often cried at their own weddings, but with joy and happiness. She did not dare allow herself any tears. Her sorrow would be all too apparent.
“Shall we go?” Blake asked.
She nodded, fighting for self-control. “Thank you,” she said to everyone present, managing, she hoped, to smile. She had
the feeling that she failed. Blake had taken her arm, but not proprietarily. He led her to the door which Dom unlocked. They had not even stepped into the corridor when voices could be heard in the foyer. Violette recognized the men who were speaking and froze, gripping Blake’s arm. Very clearly she had heard Inspector Howard speaking with the Rutherford butler.
“Christ,” Blake ground out. “What damnable timing.”
“Better now than five minutes ago,” Dom said grimly, moving in front of them. They all returned to the foyer, where Howard and Adams stood holding their hats and shifting their weight, breaking off the conversation with the butler. The servant appeared relieved.
“My lord,” he addressed Dom St. Georges. “These two gentlemen were most adamant about being shown into the salon to see Lord Blake. Yet you gave me the strictest instructions.”
“I did.” Dom was cool. He faced the two inspectors. “The marquis of Waverly, gentlemen, at your service.” He bowed. “What may I do for you?”
“We have a coroner’s warrant here,” Howard said, stepping forward. “For Lady Goodwin.”
Violette was aware of Blake slipping his arm around her reassuringly. She leaned against him, unable to control her trembling.
Dom smiled. “You do mean Viscountess Neville, do you not?”
Howard jerked, he and Adams exchanging a quick look. “Viscountess Neville?”
“Lady Goodwin has married Viscount Neville, and what a happy day this is. Perhaps you wish to congratulate the bride and groom?”
For one more moment, Howard and Adams were stunned. Then Adams pushed forward, facing Dom, Blake, and Violette. “I can quickly guess the games being played here,” he said angrily. “But we do have a coroner’s warrant for the arrest of Lady Goodwin.”
Blake said coldly, “Perhaps you had better go fetch a new warrant, one correctly addressed. In order to arrest Viscountess Neville—my wife.”
A moment of silence reigned amidst generally hostile stares.
“If you truly wish to arrest a member of the earl of Harding’s family,” Blake said, smiling. It was not a pleasant smile.
For another instant Adams did not speak, but he was turning purple. “This is not the end of this investigation,” he ground
out. “Someone has committed murder, and charges will be brought—against your
wife.
”
“Someone has committed murder, all right,” Blake said, “but
not
my wife.”
A moment later Adams and Howard were marching out angrily. Blake thanked Dom. Shortly afterward Blake and Violette were inside his phaeton and the carriage was rolling quickly down the street. Jon had taken his own vehicle in order to return to Harding House.
Violette sat facing Blake, avoiding his eyes. She continued to shake. She felt shocked. The day had become incomprehensible. First an utterly false marriage, and then the warrent for her arrest.
“Violette.” He reached over and covered her gloved hand with his. “Do not fret. They can arrest you now, but they cannot try you in the Queen’s Bench, which is a victory for us.”
She met his gaze. It was no longer cold—he was concerned. “I am so scared,” she confessed through stiff lips. “Why is this happening to me?”
He stared. “I do not know,” he finally said.
She wanted him to pull her forward, into his embrace. He did not. But she had known that he would not. She pulled her palm free of his, and gazed down at her lap. Hurting, and so terribly afraid.
“I am meeting Dodge. We have much to discuss. I shall drop you at home.”
She had to meet his probing eyes. “What? What are you going to discuss? What is going to happen now?”
“We shall try to avoid any charges being leveled at all. We shall suggest, very strongly, that every effort be made to find the real killer. And if the inspectors insist on bringing charges against you, we are going to arrange for you to remain in my custody, or my father’s, until the trial. I am confident that we can arrange that.”
Violette touched her heaving breasts.
Until the trial.
Oh, God. What if there was a trial? What if, even in the Lords, they could not win? And how could they, when she wasn’t really one of them?
She could still run away. The thought crystallized instantaneously.
But then she would never see Blake again; Blake who was trying to protect her from the worst, had married her in order to save her; Blake, whom she loved so much that it hurt. She
did not dare look at him now. If she did, she would probably throw herself into his arms, begging, weeping.
“Let me do the worrying,” Blake said, breaking into her thoughts.
Violette had to meet his gaze. “I don’t understand you. You are the kindest man I have ever met. You are still being kind to me.”
It was a moment before he replied. “I do not want you to suffer,” he said.
She inhaled and their, gazes locked. Something was taut and tight between them. It made Violette afraid to move, filling her with a tension she had never before experienced. Silence abruptly settled between them. Violette gripped her own hands. Did he care, after all? Just a little, perhaps?
If only he would change his mind. If only he would decide to keep her as a wife. Then she would not even consider running away, even if it meant hanging.
“We are almost home,” Blake said into the stillness stretching between them.
Violette closed her eyes briefly.
We are almost home.
Was he trying to kill her with his kindness, his choice of words? It was his home. Not hers. And they both knew it. Because this marriage was a sham, a pretense—just as she herself was a fraud, a pretender—not a real lady and not a real wife.
In that blazing instant Violette knew that she was not going to be able to survive and withstand this marriage, no matter how short a duration it was. Every moment passed as Blake’s wife would crush her a little bit more, bleeding her dry, until she was so broken and spent that she ceased to exist. Maybe hanging was better than impossible dreams.
 
Blake’s town home had been designed in the Italianate style. Four stories high, occupying a narrow space, it was built of whitewashed sandstone, the roof tiled. The front doorway was arched and domed, and Violette was met there by a butler whom Blake introduced to her as Chamberlain.
“Chamberlain,” he said, “this is my wife, Viscountess Neville. Please attend her as needs be. Violette, anything you need, you may ask Chamberlain.”
Violette was beyond words, so she did not speak. The white-haired, bushy-browed butler had not blinked upon discovering that Blake had returned home so suddenly with a wife.
Blake bowed. “I shall not be home for supper. Do not wait up for me.”
Violette refused to look at him. If she did, she would cry.

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