Authors: The Finer Things

Brenda Joyce (31 page)

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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VIOLETTE
was told by Chamberlain that she had a caller. She had not left the sanctuary of her bedroom all day. Her eyes widened as her steps faltered. Ralph stood in the foyer, grinning at her. “’Ello, luv.”

“Where have you been?!” Violette cried, rushing to him. They embraced for a moment.

“I been up north.” His smile had faded. “Wot’s goin’ on, Violette? Yew went an’ married that ’igh an’ mighty ’Ardin’ bloke?”

Violette gripped his arm. “Come inside. We’ll share dinner. Blake is not at home.”

Ralph narrowed his eyes as they entered the parlor. “I already ’eard from the stable boys. Yew married ’Is Lordship!” It was an accusation.

Violette regarded him grimly. “I did. They were going to arrest me, Ralph! Arrest me for killing my husband! Where, may I ask, have you been?”

“I been up north to Tamrah, like I said.” He glared at her. “Lookin’ fer some answers on me own. Bein’ as that fancy lawyer an’ ’usband of yers ain’t come up with the real murderer.”

Violette stared. She had been almost certain that Ralph would not abandon her.

“But did yew have to go an’ marry ’im?” Ralph demanded.

“Yes,” Violette said. “I had no choice. I don’t want to hang, Ralph. Now I am more than Blake’s wife, I am a peer. That gives me rights—including the right to be tried in the Lords, where Blake and his family have friends.”

“Bah,” Ralph spat. “Yew goin’ to sit in the ’Ouse of Lords?!”

“What did you find in Tamrah?” Violette asked, trying not to think about a trial. She kept wishing that in the end, there wouldn’t be any charges filed against her, or any trial after all. Ralph was right. How could she, Violet Cooper, sit in the Lords?

“Sir Thomas ’ad the pox.”

“What?” Violette gasped.

“Fer a few years now. That’s why ’e was so sickly all the time. Remember those sores ’e ’ad?”

Violette stared, in shock. It was a moment before she could accept what Ralph had told her. “Could he have died from the pox?” she asked hopefully.

“Luv, ’is liver was filled up with rat poison.” Ralph’s gaze was cold. “Someone wanted to bury ’im, an’ that’s the truth.”

“You didn’t find anything else out?”

“I found out who’s been buyin’ rat poison this past year in Tamrah.”

“Who?” Violette whispered.

“There one other buyer, Violette, luv. The Feldstone housekeeper.”

“Lady Feldstone’s housekeeper?” Violette repeated, shocked. “But, surely you’re not thinking … that’s absurd?!”

“Mebbe. Mebbe not.” Ralph took off his crushed felt cap and tossed it onto a cream-colored silk sofa striped with green, red, and gold. He sat down hard on the plush couch. Violette rushed forward when she realized what he had done, grabbing his hand and jerking on him. “Get up! God! Before you get dirt and soot all over Blake’s furniture!”

Ralph scowled at her and did not budge. “Wot a good little wife yew are.”

Violette stamped her foot. “Get up, Ralph Horn, before I hit you as hard as I can.”

“Yer such a lady, Violette,” Ralph said.

Violette clenched her fists.

Ralph sighed and stood.

Violette was relieved that he had not left a single spot behind. But then she met his eyes and saw him staring at her. She could not look away.

“Yew look bad,” he said baldly. “Like yew ain’t slept or ate in days. Like yer real sad, like yew cry a lot.”

Violette bit her lip.

“Wot’s ’e done to yew!” Ralph exclaimed.

Violette managed to shake her head. “This isn’t a real marriage, Ralph. He only married me to give me his name.” Her voice caught. She turned her back on Ralph, walking over to a small table that was uncluttered in spite of the current fashion for bric-a-brac and knickknacks. She fingered an exquisite crystal panther.

“Yer not ’appy,” Ralph said, from close behind her. His breath feathered her nape.

Violette jumped. She had not heard him approach. The table was behind her hips, Ralph so closely in front of her that his legs crushed her skirts in spite of the crinoline hoops she wore. “No,” she whispered, “I am not happy.”

He tilted her chin up with one finger; she dropped her gaze. “I told yew. ’E ain’t fer yew. But now wot are yew goin’ to do?”

“We’ll divorce when the trial is over, or before that, as soon as it is safe to do so.” She continued to avoid his eyes.

“But yew don’t want t’ divorce ’im, now do yew?” Ralph asked softly.

Violette whispered, not looking up, “I am a fool. I love him so much.”

“I know,” Ralph said harshly. He suddenly took her into his arms and held her for a moment. When he released her, he said, “I’ll kill ’im if ’e ’urts yew.”

Violette forced a smile. “That would be even worse.” She sniffed once. “Are you staying at the flat?”

He shrugged. “Don’t really ’ave no reason to, not with yew gone.” His pale gray eyes were very direct.

“Do you want to stay here?” Violette asked.

Ralph’s expression brightened. “Now that’s a good thoughtful gel. I’m sure a room behind the barn would be nice an’ cozy.”

Violette stiffened. “I will not put you behind the barn! There are several guest rooms on the third floor,” Violette said. She hesitated. Blake would not like Ralph staying with them. “I’ll tell Chamberlain to ready one of the guest rooms.”

His eyes gleamed. “Well, if you insist, luv.”

Violette sat alone in her bedroom on the pale chintz sofa in front of the fire which crackled and danced in the hearth. She stared at the heavy clock on a table just past the mantel. The gold hands told her that it was nine o’clock.

She and Ralph had shared supper alone, for Blake had not yet come home. Blake’s cook had presented them with a ten-course meal, and Violette, although she had eaten, had not tasted a single morsel of food. How could she? When she sat at Blake’s oblong mahogany table opposite Ralph, a pair of huge silver candlesticks interposed between them? Ralph had not seemed to feel any qualms. He had eaten enough for three men, while drinking two entire bottles of Blake’s red Burgundy
wine. Chamberlain, who never said a word, was growing on Violette. He had, bless his professional soul, offered Ralph a third bottle, which Ralph had, fortunately, declined. Violette had heard him snoring just a short time ago when she had wandered down the hall.

She stood, a rose-colored satin wrapper belted tightly around her. Where was Blake? Would he come home at all tonight? Perhaps he was at some fancy affair, dancing with some incredibly elegant woman like Gabriella.

Her heart lurched hard at the notion. She began to pace the room. Could he have not, at least, sent her a note telling her whether he would return at all that night? Wasn’t that the husbandly thing to do? But they weren’t really married! In fact, he had no real obligations toward her at all.

Violette did not know what to do. But at that precise moment, she heard footsteps coming down the hall outside of her bedroom door.

She did not hesitate. Her feet bare, she ran to her closed door and pressed her ear against it, breathing far too rapidly. She strained to hear. Yes, it sounded like two pairs of footsteps, not one, and then she was exultant, because she heard the door on her right opening and closing. Violette darted back across the room to the door which separated her bedroom from Blake’s sitting room. It was adjacent to the fireplace. She pressed her ear against the smooth wooden surface, wishing her foolish heart would quiet down.

And she was rewarded with the sound of movement inside—and the sound of Blake’s voice, dismissing his valet.

His steps sounded closer now, and she stiffened, failing to breathe. Before she could wonder what he was about, the door she was leaning on opened. Violette cried out, falling forward—against Blake.

He caught her beneath her arms, hauling her upright. “What in the blazes are you doing?” he asked, but mildly.

Violette jerked free of him, stepping back into her own room, feeling a hot, telltale flush covering her cheeks. She reached down to make sure that her satin robe remained firmly belted. “I …” Her mind was frozen, inacapable of coming up with an excuse.

“Were you eavesdropping?” Blake asked, his gaze bright and penetrating. But he was not angry. He seemed, perhaps, amused.

Violette straightened. “Of course not. I was about to knock,” she lied. “There are some things I wish to discuss with you.”

He smiled at her, as if he knew exactly what she had been about. Then his midnight gaze slid from her eyes to her mouth and down the satin robe, right to her bare, curling toes. A liquid jolt went through Violette, a streak of red-hot desire. His smile had vanished. Violette suddenly realized just how undressed she was. The satin fabric of her gown had become a sensual caress with each intake of breath, each brief movement she made. Blake was not really her husband. He did not have the right to see her when she was clad like this, in nothing but a slip of a nightgown and a thin outer wrapper.

“May I come in for a moment?” Blake asked slowly.

Violette was shaken. Blake’s gaze had slipped again, and even though only for an instant, she found it difficult to breathe. And although she should tell him “No,” she nodded. She was riveted in place, as if nailed to the floor, as he moved past her, his body brushing hers. Violette had never been more acutely aware of anyone. She had never wanted to touch anyone more. But she did not have the right to go over to him and lay her palm on his cheek, her face on his chest, just as he did not have the right to look at her as if he were trying to see through her nightclothes.

She bit her lip as he turned. He had shed his jacket but not his trousers or his shirt, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms. His feet, like hers, were bare. There was something powerful and provocative in having him enter her bedroom while preparing for bed.

He paused in the center of the room, facing her, his hands slipping into the pockets of his fine wool trousers. “I am sorry I missed supper.”

“Are you?” Violette heard herself ask, her tone on edge. Immediately she flushed.

He stared. “I would not say so if it were untrue. In any case, I have had a hard and busy day.”

And a busy evening
? Violette wondered silently, but did not dare say so aloud.

“I ate at the club. I hope your day went well?” Blake said politely.

Violette stared at him, biting her lip. Why hadn’t he come home for supper? Where had he spent the evening? Had he
really been at his club? Was it always going to be this way? Two strangers cohabiting—until the divorce?

“Violette?”

“Did you really sleep at Harding House last night?” Violette asked abruptly.

His eyes widened.

Violette could not believe what she had so unfortunately and impulsively blurted out.

“I beg your pardon?” Blake asked stiffly.

Violette straightened her spine. “I was just wondering …” She could not continue.

Two spots of red color appeared on Blake’s cheeks. “If I am a liar?” He completed the sentence for her.

“No.” How Violette wished she hadn’t spoken up.

“What is it that you really wish to ask me, Violette?” Blake asked darkly.

Violette inhaled. “You did not come home last night. And … you have a reputation.”

“I see. And do I appear to be a ruthless cad who would leave his bride at home in order to philander about town?”

“I … I am not really your bride.”

Blake stared. A heavy silence ensued. “No. You are not really my bride.”

She walked away from him, aware that her hands were shaking. “I want a divorce,” she said harshly. Another spontaneous outburst. “Now.”

He was frozen. “That is ridiculous. And impossible. Or do you wish to hang?”

“I don’t care,” Violette said, sitting down hard on the couch, facing the fire, Blake behind her. She tucked her toes under the satin wrapper, hunching over, wanting to cry.

She heard him move. He strode around the sofa and halted in front of her, staring down at her. “Our marriage is a pretense, and we both know it. But if it makes you feel any better,” he said, regarding her closely, “I will make certain that I do come home every night for the duration of our marriage.”

Violette finally looked up at him.

“And if you need company in order to dine, then you shall have it,” he said.

It was a victory of sorts, but it did not feel like one. Violette shrugged.

“I do not want to hurt you,” Blake said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Violette returned woodenly.

He sat down in a chair, shifting his body so he regarded her directly. “It does matter.”

Violette did not reply.

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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