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Authors: The Finer Things

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“In fact, in time he can marry. He is still the Harding heir,
he is vastly wealthy, politically and socially powerful, and I have not a doubt that there are many beautiful women who would be eager to marry your brother.”
Blake stared. “He can’t have children.”
“Some women would not care. And Jon would make a wonderful stepfather, and there is always adoption.”
Blake remained motionless. He finally said, “Jon would not agree.”
“Perhaps you and I have a project to take on,” Dom said with his easy smile. “To get him out and about and find him the right woman.”
Blake gripped his arm. “You are a very good friend.”
Dom shrugged.
“So how was the south of France?” Blake asked.
“Warm.”
“Is that all you are going to say?” Blake. was amused.
Dom did not smile. “We spent the weekend in Paris before returning home.”
Blake stiffened. Violette’s image flashed through his mind. He couldn’t help wondering if Dom had run into her. He wondered what she was doing. Not that he cared.
“We bumped into Farrow on the Avenue des Champs-Elysées.”
“Farrow?!” Blake sat up straighter, aware of his racing heartbeat. “Farrow, in Paris, in the middle of the summer?”
“Apparently,” Dom said, his golden eyes boring, “Robert leased a house there last winter. He told me that he only returned once to London to take care of his affairs for a fortnight. He has, he says, been enjoying Paris inordinately.”
Blake did not believe in coincidences. “Was he with my ex-wife?”
“No, he was not, but my wife did ask if Farrow had seen or heard of Violette.” Dom stared. “He became very reticent, very suddenly, Blake. He said yes, he had seen her, and that she was well. At which point he was most eager to depart the avenue and our company.”
Blake sat very still, his pulse pounding, even roaring, in his ears. Robert Farrow was living in Paris—where Violette now was. He could not believe it. And he did not think, for one instant, that it was a coincidence.
Not that he cared.
But dammit, he did.
“Blake?” Dom queried. “Are you all right?”
Blake stood. “No.” He was grim. “Call me a fool, but I am going to Paris.”
And Dom grinned.
CATHERINE’S
hand was shaking as she opened the envelope that she had just received. It was from Paris; it was from Violette.
They had not kept up any kind of genuiné correspondence, but Catherine had finally sent Violette a short, chatty letter, telling her about her engagement. She had felt compelled. Now Catherine was afraid of what she might find written in the letter, so for a moment she held the folded vellum to her breast.
She was so confused, so distraught. She was engaged to a wonderful man; she should be ecstatic. Instead, she was close to being as miserable as a human being could be. She still did not quite know how the engagement had happened. She still knew it was wrong—a terrible mistake, an ultimate irony.
But the countess was already planning the most spectacular wedding London had ever seen. Blake had asked her if a date in December was acceptable, and Catherine had agreed.
Trembling, she decided she must not think about the wedding now—or about breaking off the engagement. Very unhappily, she unfolded the letter.
Violette had written:
Dear Catherine,
I have recently received the most wonderful news that you are engaged to Blake. I am so happy for you. No one deserves a man like Blake more, and I always thought the two of you perfectly suited for one another. Congratulations.
All is well with myself here in Paris. I have taken a brief leave from my employment at Maison Langdoc, but plan to continue there shortly. And I suppose that I have news of my own. Robert Farrow has been courting me since last winter with, I believe, the most honorable intentions. I think he is going to ask me for my hand. I think I shall accept. Isn’t that wonderful? I do not think I have ever been this happy.
Please send my regards to everyone.
Affectionately, Violette.
Catherine had to reread the letter to make sure she had understood it correctly. And then she read it a third time, trying to read between the lines. The last thing she wanted to do was to hurt Violette in any way, but Violette seemed genuinely pleased with her engagement to Blake. Was that possible?
Catherine did not think so. When a woman truly loved a man, that love did not die, it went on forever, against all common sense, all logic, all sanity. Catherine knew that herself firsthand.
“Catherine?”
She started at the sound of Blake’s voice, clutching the letter and leaping to her feet. He stood in the doorway of the drawing room, regarding her intently. She managed a smile. “I did not expect to see you today,” she said uneasily.
He came forward and kissed her hand—not her cheek, as he had used to do. “Is the letter bad news?”
She wet her lips., “No.” Her heart hammered, sounding like blasts of thunder in her own ears. “It is just a letter from”—she faltered—“from Violette.”
He stared. A slight flush appeared on his cheekbones. “I see. And what does she have to say?”
She knew she could not let him read it, for she knew he would be hurt. She held it against her skirts. She was incapable of lying, or even of deception, but surely she could omit some of the truth? “She … she asks after the family, sends her regards. She is happy in Paris.”
“That is all?”
Catherine felt her cheeks burning. “That is all I wish to tell you,” she finally said. And realized she might as well have thrown a red flag at a bull.
His eyes darkened. “There is more. Does she know about our engagement?”
Catherine’s eyes widened.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Yes. She sends us felicitations.” She bit her lip. She was not going to tell him about Farrow, absolutely not. “I do not know if she means it or not.”
“May I see the letter?” he asked calmly.
Catherine froze, in disbelief. She finally said, “I beg your pardon?”
He held out his hand and repeated the question.
Catherine wanted to say no. “Blake, this is very unseemly …” she began.
“What are you hiding from me?”
She handed him the letter, dismayed, and watched him read it. She knew him very well, so she saw his jaw tighten, his temples pulse. But otherwise, his expression did not change. He returned the letter to her. “Thank you,” he said.
“Are you all right?”
“Why would I not be all right?” But he did not smile, and his tone was cold.
“You are angry.”
“I am not angry. Why would I be angry? I am marrying you. She is marrying Farrow. How perfect the world is.”
Had she detected a trace of bitterness in his tone? “Blake,” she said in a rush, “perhaps this is the time for us to talk about our engagement.”
He suddenly pulled her close and feathered her mouth with his—the first time he had ever kissed her in an unchaste way. His lips brushed hers very briefly. “We will talk about the engagement another time. I came to tell you that I am leaving town for a week.” His gaze held hers. “Actually, I am going to Paris, and I am going there to see Violette.”
Catherine stared. “You are going to see Violette?” Her mind raced.
“There are some financial matters I wish to discuss with her. Now that we are marrying, I do feel I should make certain Violette’s circumstances are adequate. Of course, if she marries Farrow, she will not receive a pension from me. But until she has remarried, I think it is important that I make certain she is provided for in a satisfactory manner.”
“Of course,” Catherine said, her pulse—and her hopes—suddenly lifting. “I think it is a very good idea for you to go to Paris, Blake,” she said.
 
Blake stood on the Rue Bellepasse, a very small, cobbled street lined with stone buildings containing small shops, including a bakery, two cafés, a bookseller, shoemaker, and a lively brasserie. The street was clean, pleasant, and shady, for old leafy oaks stood sentinel there. Above all the shops were residential flats, many with wrought-iron balconies, and Blake stood outside the entrance of No. 42 Rue Bellepasse, which was where
Violette lived. He was sweating, in spite of the fact that it was a pleasant midsummer day.
By now he was beginning to think that he was mad to have come all the way to Paris to discuss Violette’s finances with her. Completely mad. He could have easily corresponded with her, either by himself or, preferably, through his lawyers. Perhaps it was not too late to change his mind, go to a hotel, and from there return home on the morrow.
He hesitated. His pulse was racing. And he had never before been an indecisive man.
Then he thought,
Christ.
He was already there, at her doorstep, and they had been married, even if very briefly, and he was supporting her, so he had every right to discuss what he wished to discuss with her. And he would not, of course, tell her that he had made the journey to Paris solely on her account.
His mind made up, Blake began to stride toward the weathered door of the tenement. But amidst all the traffic on the street, he suddenly saw a very elegant, open black carriage with plush red leather seats turning the corner, a stark contrast to the drays and dorries, carts and hansoms, he had thus far noted. Instinct made him pause. The carriage, pulled by two sleek black geldings, contained a couple. And even as Blake recognized the occupants, he also recognized the coat of arms embossed on the low-slung doors.
And Violette was leaning close to Robert Farrow, laughing, he saw now, at something he was saying. His heart turned over, he could not move. The carriage paused. Blake could not tear his gaze away from her. He had forgotten the effect she had on him, the impact. How he had entirely forgotten.
And Violette saw him. Her laughter died. She continued to clutch Farrow’s arm, losing all of her color, turning a ghostly shade of white.
He recovered first. It took a supreme effort. Steeling himself for God only knew what, feeling as if he were going to war, he walked toward the carriage, his strides stiff with sudden tension. As he did so, he noticed that Violette had gained weight. And then he reached the curb and realized that she was heavily, shockingly pregnant.
Blake imagined that he himself turned even more ghostly than she. He stared, disbelieving and stunned, incapable of thought or speech.
Farrow reached past Violette to open the carriage door.
“Blake. This is unexpected.” He did not smile as he climbed down, turning to offer a hand up to Violette.
She did not move. Her gaze was locked with Blake’s, her blue eyes impossibly wide.
He forced his lips into a smile. “Lady Neville.” He inclined his head. His heart was pounding now. He had one thought. Was the child his? And if so, why the hell hadn’t she told him? Or was it Farrow’s? He was extraordinarily good at numbers. It was late July. She looked ready to deliver at any time. He rapidly calculated when she had conceived, and realized that the child was definitely his.
She opened her mouth to speak and failed.
“Violette,” Farrow said gently.
She flinched, glancing briefly at Farrow, then back at Blake. “Blake, I … What are you doing here?” she whispered.
Blake moved past Farrow. “Do come down, Lady Neville. We have matters to discuss.” His tone was frigid, but so was he.
She was frightened and it showed. “I … I don’t understand.”
“No!” he snapped. “I do not understand.” It was a snarl. He reached for her, caught her wrist. She had no choice but to step down from the carriage, caught in his viselike grip.
“You can’t handle her like that in her condition,” Farrow protested.
Blake turned a murderous gaze on his rival. “Do not tell me how to treat my ex-wife. Not unless she is already
your
wife.”
Farrow stiffened. “Violette is tired. She wishes to rest. Why don’t you come back another time?”
“Also, do
not
tell me what to do,” Blake said, very low. His fists were clenched. He was ready to hit someone, preferably Farrow.
“Please, stop,” Violette whispered. “Robert, I had better speak with Blake. I will be fine.”
Farrow did not move. “I don’t like this.”
“That is neither here nor there,” Blake said coldly. He took Violette’s arm.
“I will wait here in the carriage, then,” Farrow said abruptly. “If you need me, call.
Violette nodded, which infuriated Blake even more. Holding her tightly in case she tried to bolt, but acutely aware of her condition, he led her to her door and waited very impatiently
while she unlocked it. Her hands, he saw with satisfaction, were trembling; she appeared terrified.
She did not look at him as she preceded him up the narrow, steep flight of stairs. He was instantly appalled. She was climbing up and down these steps every day in her condition? “Haven’t I given you enough funds to live decently?” he asked harshly.
On the landing she paused, unlocking the door to her flat. It was a moment before she replied. “I like this apartment, this block, this entire neighborhood, in fact. And when I am working, I can walk to Maison Langdoc.”
He was breathing raggedly. He followed her inside. The apartment was charming, if not utterly middle class. The salon was spacious, brightly sunlit, cheerfully papered, the ceiling high, and the two broad windows looked out onto the quiet street below. The furnishings were comfortable, clean, and pleasant. He almost relaxed.
She faced him slowly, still ashen.
“Is it mine?” He knew he was being cruel, but she deserved it.
She flinched. “Of course it’s yours.”
“And when is it due?”
She wet her lips. “In a few weeks.”
“I see.” He smiled unpleasantly. “And when, pray tell, were you going to tell me?”
She stared, not answering.
He wanted to hit her. He did not. “You weren’t going to tell me,” he cried. “You were never going to tell me!”
“No,” she shouted back. “No, I was not!”
They stared at one another, anger sizzling between them, so much anger, months and months of it. And then Blake turned away, cursing, pounding his fist on the wall once. He wanted to smash the plaster into pieces.
“Blake, stop!” Violette cried. “You will break your hand!”
He froze. He did not know why he felt like weeping, but he did. He could not stop recalling the day he had realized that Violette had left him. Could not stop remembering waking up alone in her bed. “You have betrayed me,” he said hoarsely. “Again.”
“No. That was not my intention,” she whispered to his back.
He whirled. “Then what, may I ask, was your intention?”
Her chin was high. But tears filled her eyes. “To keep my baby. That is all.”
“I fail to understand.”
The tears fell now, streaming down her cheeks. “Are you going to take my baby away?”
He stared at her, the loveliest woman he had ever seen, a woman he could not comprehend. In fact, looking at her now, he almost felt that he was gazing at a stranger, a lovely, genteel stranger, for she had changed so much. In spite of the flat where they confronted one another, she was no longer Violette Goodwin, a waif from St. Giles who could not speak without a Cockney accent, who could not maneuver her skirts without knocking over side tables. She had matured into a breathtaking woman, and, had he not known the truth about her antecedents himself, he would have found it impossible to believe that she was anything other than Lady Neville—that she had ever been anything other than Lady Neville.

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