Authors: The Finer Things
Brenda Joyce (41 page)
“Are you going to take my baby away?” she cried, gripping her own palms.
He looked at her, then looked around at the flat where she lived. He thought about his own lavish town house in Belgravia, and then about Harding House and Harding Hall. “I do not know,” he finally said.
She cried out.
Blake could not leave Paris, not with the baby due in a few weeks—three to be exact. He was still in shock.
He paced the suite that he had taken at the Hôtel Jérome. He had been pacing the Oriental rugs all afternoon. How could she have deceived him this way? He was sick, furious; he wanted to punish her for what she had done. Yet he recalled her tears. Violette was no actress. She was afraid he was going to take the baby away from her.
As well he should. His child was a Harding. He intended to adopt the boy, or girl. And if it was a boy, his son would one day succeed to the earldom. Blake could provide his child with the finest tutors, the finest care, the finest lifestyle. To leave his child in Violette’s care, should she remain unwed, was insane. Of course, it did not seem that she would remain unwed for very long.
Blake slumped in an oversized chair. He remained oblivious to the lavish furnishings surrounding him—to the master paintings on the walls, to the gilded and lacquered antiques filling all the rooms. He did not know what to do. He only knew that he was incredibly unhappy, and that the cause of his unhappiness
was Violette. And if he were truly honest with himself, he might even admit to being jealous of her relationship with Farrow. But he was too overwrought, he could not admit such a thing.
was Violette. And if he were truly honest with himself, he might even admit to being jealous of her relationship with Farrow. But he was too overwrought, he could not admit such a thing.
One thing remained clear. He would remain in Paris until after the baby was born. And then he would return home—but whether or not his child would accompany him, he could not say.
Violette could not sleep. That, her physician had told her, was very common among women in her condition, but tonight she knew her restlessness had nothing to do with the life inside of her. It had everything to do with Blake. She was terrified.
Terrified that he would steal her baby from her, and terrified of the feelings he still aroused within her. When she had seen him standing on the street earlier, had realized in a heartbeat that it was him, the world had seemed to stop and congeal. Before the fear, there had been nothing but joy.
Her happiness had been short-lived, of course, because of her deception. And now he knew. What should she do? Run away again?
Violette thought that he would probably follow her all the way to China now that he knew she carried his child. How could he not take it away?
Violette got up at sunrise, knowing that if she hadn’t slept by now she never would. As she brewed coffee, she stared out of the window, watching her neighborhood coming to life, the baker opening his shop, two of her neighbors going to work. She was vaguely aware of the fact that Ralph had not come home for three nights now. She should be worried, but, actually, she was relieved.
And she wondered when she would see Blake again. He had left very abruptly, not telling her whether he was staying in Paris or returning to London. His anger also frightened her.
She knew, from a lifetime of experience, what angry men were capable of.
Violette dressed mechanically. It was hard to admit, but if Blake left she would not just be relieved; she would be dismayed as well. This made no sense. She had thought she had gotten over him by now. It occurred to Violette that she should marry Farrow as quickly as possible, as if that might strike her feelings for Blake out of her heart. Robert, of course, had not yet proposed. Maybe, she thought dismally, she was wrong
about him the way she had been wrong about Blake.
about him the way she had been wrong about Blake.
A knock at her door made her jump. She had not buttoned the back of her dress, too late realizing she had chosen a garment she could not close without help. She put on a lightweight shawl and crossed the salon. It was early morning, the sun barely up. She was not expecting anyone, but sometimes Madame Langdoc or one of the clerks from the shop called to see how she was doing while on their way to work.
She opened the door and came face to face with Blake.
He nodded at her, unsmiling, his gaze skimming over every feature of her face in a way she knew so well, had thought she had forgotten. She took a step backwards nervously, her pulse soaring. “Good morning,” she said, a croak.
Blake finally smiled at her, not naturally. He looked as if he had also been up all night. “May I come in? I left so abruptly yesterday that we did not have a chance to finish our conversation.”
She stiffened, panic coursing over her; he was going to tell her he was taking the baby, she just knew it. Her heart hammering now, making her feel ill, she managed a nod and allowed him to step inside. She shut the door after him, bolting it, and faced him, twisting her clammy hands.
He looked at her palms, then into her eyes. “How have you been feeling?” His tone was gentle.
Violette started. She had not been expecting this. “Fine.”
“I am serious.” His gaze, brilliantly blue, was searching.
“So am I.” She suddenly felt the strength of his magnetism. She had also forgotten how very attracted she was to him. Today, in a calmer moment, there was no denying it.
“And your doctor? Do you have a good one? What does he say?”
“I have a very good doctor. His name is Jean Aubigner. He says that I am as healthy as a horse, and undoubtedly my baby is the same.” She smiled slightly.
And so did Blake. He shoved his hands in the trousers of his charcoal gray trousers. “You speak beautifully now,” he said seriously, his gaze holding hers. “Naturally, without the least trace of an accent.”
She flushed, suddenly aware of the pleasure his praise had generated inside of her breast. “I am reading and writing now, too,” she heard herself say.
“I know. Catherine told me.” His expression changed.
Violette also stiffened. She wet her lips. “I heard about the engagement. I am very happy for you both.”
He did not say a word.
Violette said, in a rush, “I always thought the two of you perfectly suited to one another.” She forced a smile. It felt lopsided.
“Yes,” Blake said. “Perfectly suited—that is what everyone says.”
“How is your mother? Your father?”
His regard was unwavering. “They are very well.”
“They must be pleased. About the engagement, I mean.” But now she was thinking about his brother.
Blake nodded stiffly. “We have chosen December the fifteenth as the wedding day.”
Violette forgot all about Jon. She thought she might throw up. “How wonderful—a Christmas wedding.” She hurried past Blake. “Let me make some coffee. Do you like croissants?”
He followed her into the small whitewashed kitchen. Cheerful yellow drapes adorned the room’s two windows. A sprigged tablecloth covered the kitchen table. “And you? When shall you and Farrow do the deed?”
Violette busied herself putting a kettle of water on the stove. Meticulously, she began measuring coffee. She felt her shawl slipping. “Actually, I do not know. He has not asked me yet.” She did not look up.
“And when he does?” Blake walked closer. “Will you accept his suit?”
“Of course I will!” She laughed, and it sounded forced. “He is a noble, caring man.”
“Than he has changed,” Blake said flatly.
Violette turned, not realizing that Blake had come up behind her and was standing so close, and suddenly she was face to face with him and practically in his embrace. She froze. His gaze skimmed her face, lingering on her mouth. “You are far more beautiful than before—and that is practically an impossibility,” he murmured.
His tone was soft and sensual. Violette stared into his eyes. Daring to remember what his kisses had felt like, tasted like.
She could hear his breathing. It seemed labored.
She darted past him. “I am a cow. Fat, like a washerwoman.”
“That will change,” he said roughly.
“I hope so.”
“Are you still mad about desserts?” he asked.
She had to smile, and glancing at him, saw that he was smiling a little too. “Yes, but we have no plum pudding here.”
His smile faded as their gazes locked. “But they have the finest pastries in the world in Paris,” he said slowly.
The kitchen was far too warm for comfort. “Yes,” she whispered. “They do.”
Neither one of them moved.
And then the kettle on the stove began to sing. Violette jumped and rushed forward to remove it from the flame. She forgot to pick up a cloth; she touched the handle and cried out. Blake rushed to her side.
“I am fine,” she cried, stepping away from him, thoroughly out of breath. But she had. burned her hand. She went to the pump over the sink and began to work the faucet. This time Blake kept his distance. “It is nothing,” she said, almost panting. She wanted him to leave.
She wanted him to stay. God, she did.
“You must be more careful,” he returned gravely. “Your dress, it is not buttoned.”
Her shawl had slipped. Violette was shaking as she turned to face him. She was, she realized in despair, as in love with Blake as she had ever been. “I chose the wrong gown. I can not button it entirely myself.”
Their gazes held. After a moment, Blake said, “Do you wish for me to button it for you?”
Violette stared. It was very hard to breathe. She nodded.
Blake approached, his gaze on her face. Violette could not glance away. She wondered if he could hear her pounding heart. In her own ears, it sounded like a jungle drum.
“Turn around,” he said.
Violette obeyed, aware of flushing. His hands skimmed her shoulders as he removed the shawl, placing it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. And as he began to do up the buttons on her dress, his fingertips skimming her skin, Violette was seized with the most intense desire she had ever known. If Blake kissed her now, she would whirl, embrace him, fuse their lips—perhaps never let him go.
But he did not kiss her. His hands stilled, remaining placed lightly on her back. And then he stepped away from her.
Violette remained motionless, overwhelmed with yearning—and disappointment.
“Why are you here?” she asked imploringly, eyes closed.
He hesitated. “I am staying in Paris,” he said, “until the baby is born.” His gaze darkened. “Until our baby is born,” he amended.
She faced him, wide-eyed. A part of her was joyous. Another part horrified. Finally her instincts as a new mother won out. “And then?”
His expression hardened. “And then I have no choice.”
Violette gripped the edge of the sink for support. “What are you saying?!” she cried.
“I thought about it all of last night. It is best, Violette, that I raise our child in London as a Harding.”
Violette could not move. Panic and dread warred for preeminence within her. She wanted to protest. But the very worst part of it was that she knew, deep in her heart, that his decision was the right one, the only one.
When she could speak, she said hoarsely, truthfully, “Then you shall kill me. A second time.”
He stared.
“WHAT
do I have to do,” Violette asked desperately, “to get you to change your mind?”
do I have to do,” Violette asked desperately, “to get you to change your mind?”
Blake gripped the back of one kitchen chair. Although he was certain he had made the right decision last night, then he had been alone—not confronting a distraught mother-to-be—not confronting Violette. Violette was, he saw, shaking visibly. “I can give our child all that you cannot,” he said softly.
Violette trembled. “But if I marry Farrow … ,” she trailed off.
He hesitated. His decision had become so painful. “I wish to adopt the child.”
“You wish to take my child away from me!” she screamed. “The child is mine!”
He inhaled. Violette began to cry, but silently. He had wanted to punish her yesterday for her treachery, for her deception, and mostly for her having left him. But he did not want to hurt her now. Not like this. And deciding to adopt their child had not been meant to be a punishment—or had it? He heard himself say, “Paris is so very far away.”
She stiffened. “I have plans, plans to open my own maison. But I will change all of that. Just do not deny me my child, Blake. Please.”
“What are you saying?” he asked, his gaze on her face.
“I will go back to England with you. You can adopt the child—just let him stay with me. I won’t marry, not if you do not wish me to.”
His heart turned over, hard. It was a moment before he could speak, even though a part of himself was inwardly exultant, about to accept her incredible offer. “Violette, I would never allow or disallow you to remarry; this is a free world, and you are an independent woman, extraordinarily so.”
She began to cry again.
“Please don’t cry,” he said hoarsely.
“But if I return to England? So you can see the child whenever you wish?”
“You cannot return to England. You are a fugitive from the law.”
She froze, her face pale, tears shimmering on her cheeks.
Blake sat down on one of the kitchen chairs abruptly, his head in his hands. His temples throbbed. He felt as if he held Violette’s life in his hands—a responsibility he did not want, one which was overwhelming. One thing was becoming clear. He could not hurt her, no matter how she had hurt him. And he accepted that realization now—for the very first time in nine long months. Dear God, she had hurt him, because somehow he had fallen in love with her against his will and all reason, against all odds.
He looked up. “I have changed my mind.”
Her eyes widened.
“I will adopt the child, but he, or she, may live here with you.”
“Blake,” she whispered, moving toward him.
He lifted a hand, warding her off. She halted in her tracks. “I will buy you a house, hire you staff, a nurse, a nanny, all that you need.” He found it difficult to speak, but somehow continued. “You will not live here, like this, with our child. I will have a contract of sorts drawn up.”
Violette nodded, her eyes huge and luminous and trained upon him. “I do not know how to thank you,” she said.
Blake stood. “I must leave. I am late.” It was a lie. He was afraid he himself might burst into tears if he stayed another moment. He left the kitchen, his strides rapid, aware that she
followed him. At the front door he paused. “I am staying for the baby’s birth, but as soon as he or she is born, and I know you and the child are healthy, I am leaving.”
followed him. At the front door he paused. “I am staying for the baby’s birth, but as soon as he or she is born, and I know you and the child are healthy, I am leaving.”
Violette swallowed. “I understand.”
He opened the door and suddenly she seized his arm. He turned, met her gaze, which was sheened again.
She smiled tremulously at him, stood on tiptoe, and brushed her mouth to his cheek.
Blake was frozen. Her lips affected him so powerfully that he could not move. His heart lurched, his blood raced, and the feeling of her tender kiss lingered on his face. It struck him then. Nothing had changed, in spite of all the time that had elapsed. He still wanted her the way he had never wanted any other woman. He was still in love with her.
Blake managed to stay away for the next four days. It was a very difficult feat. Although he occupied himself by hunting for an appropriate residence for her, which he found in the Faubourg St-Germain on the third day, and by interviewing staff, Violette haunted his thoughts constantly. He wondered if she kept time with Farrow now, was green with jealousy at the thought. Even as he hired an English-speaking butler and a chef, he worried now about her delivering the child safely. In spite of this age of modern medicine, women did die in childbirth. He had a private interview with Dr. Aubigner, who assured Blake that he did not expect any problems.
On the fifth day Blake again called at 42 Rue Bellepasse. He had gone to bed the night before knowing he could not put it off, for Violette must hire her own maids and nurse. Anticipation which he did not wish to feel had made a good night’s rest impossible.
He was calling in the midmorning, far earlier than was customary, but he did not want to miss her. She greeted him at the door bleary-eyed, in a blue silk wrapper trimmed with exquisite ivory lace, her ebony hair loose and streaming over her shoulders. Blake stiffened.
“I’m sorry. Have you been knocking for a very long time? I was asleep … What time is it?” she asked huskily.
“No, I apologize, I will come back later,” he said, trying to keep his gaze on her face. But it was impossible. Her breasts were swollen and ripe, he could see the shadows of her aureoles through the fine layers of silk, and her stomach was huge, just inches from him. He wanted to touch her. Ached to touch her.
Both her hard swollen abdomen and her equally swollen breasts.
Both her hard swollen abdomen and her equally swollen breasts.
“No!” She smiled then, but uncertainly. “I will brew us coffee and dress while it brews. Please.” She stepped aside, opening the door.
Blake entered hesitantly. Violette shut the door and moved into the kitchen. He watched her from behind, not following her—her nightclothes left little to the imagination. Although he had seen her naked before, then she had been slim and slender, not lush and ripe and carrying his child. He should not have come, but he had a list of possible nurses for her to interview.
“How have you been?” she asked from the kitchen as she put a kettle on to boil.
He gripped his hat in his hands, glancing reluctantly, with fascination, toward her. He watched her take a loaf of bread out of the breadbox and begin to slice it. “Well. I have found a house for you on the Rue St-Dominique. It is furnished, and beautifully. I have hired a butler who speaks fluent English, and a chef who does not, although he claims he does.” Blake smiled briefly. “I have selected several nurses for you to interview, ones with impeccable recommendations.”
She froze, a crock of jam in hand. She set it down and left the kitchen, coming to stand on the threshold of the parlor. Her eyes were wide and no longer the least bit unfocused.
Blake shifted, finding it impossible to breathe normally. She was all woman, Venus, in her pregnant state, in her current deshabille. It was unnatural, fighting this kind of desire, this kind of compulsion.
“I … of course I will interview whomever you wish,” she said huskily. “I hadn’t realized you would act so swiftly on what you said the other day.”
“I am a man of my word.”
“I know that.” She stared.
He could see that she was suddenly aware of the currents sizzling between them. Her cheeks were turning pink, and her breasts were rising and falling a bit more rapidly than was usual—although it was an extraordinarily warm day out. Later it would probably be scorchingly hot.
The kettle sang and Violette quickly turned away. This time Blake left the salon, but only went as far as the doorway of the kitchen. He watched her reach for the kettle. “Be careful,” he said. Her breasts moved freely beneath the silk gown and wrapper, swinging like suspended globes.
She glanced briefly at him with a small smile, saw where he was looking, and her smile died. Her jaw tight, she poured the hot water. “Just a few more minutes,” she said, her tone unnaturally low.
But he recognized it instantly. Now she placed the crock on the kitchen table, along with the sliced bread. She returned to the cupboard for two blue and white porcelain plates. Blake realized he had never watched a woman in the kitchen before. It was mesmerizing.
He stood in the doorway; she stood behind one of the chairs at the table, her hands gripping the carved wooden back. Outside of the open window, a robin watched them from the heavy branches of a leafy oak, as silent.
“Blake, I am already indebted to you,” Violette said slowly. Her knuckles were white. “I want to thank you again.”
The kitchen seemed small and airless. “You are not indebted to me.”
“But I am. First in England, where you rescued me repeatedly, and then with your very generous pension,” she broke off. He watched her color increase as she stared at her hands, clasping the back of the chair. “And now this. So very gracefully allowing me to raise our child with your lavish support.”
His heart hammered against his ribs. He did not know what to say. And Violette astounded him. She was the graceful one present, and not just in manners and behavior.
Abruptly Violette turned to pour two steaming mugs of coffee. Blake was at a loss for words. Her presence, her beauty, her sensuality, and her integrity had all combined to make it difficult for him to think clearly. He tried to shake the cobwebs from his brain, but small conversation was eluding him. “Do you like Paris?” he asked finally.
“Very much.” Blake held out her chair and she sat down.
He joined her at the small table. “I see.” He also liked Paris. “Is it not difficult being a foreigner here?”
She met his gaze, her regard direct. “Sometimes. I like the life I have made here for myself.” She hesitated.
He understood. “You are lonely?”
She flushed, the mug of coffee in her hands. “Sometimes. But I have Ralph, although I rarely see him now. We seem to have drifted apart. And Madame Langdoc has been very kind.” Her gaze was on the tablecloth. She clutched the mug with both hands.
“And you have Robert,” he said.
“He has become a good friend,” she said, glancing sideways at him.
He could not stand the thought. And suddenly he was savagely glad that she was with child, because that would keep Farrow out of her bed. He said carefully, “I am glad for you.”
Her lashes lowered, but he had glimpsed her eyes. Was she disappointed? But what did she expect him to say? That he was angry, upset, jealous? That he wanted her back? She had left him. He would never ask her to come back. Besides, she had said she intended to accept Farrow when he proposed. Blake could only assume that she loved him.
But did she?
Once, a lifetime ago, she had loved him.
“After the child is born, I intend to visit as often as possible,” he said.
“That is fine.”
“And I would like to take him home with me for Christmas and Easter. I want him to know my family.”
Violette nodded. “I agree with you completely.”
Again, she amazed him. Blake finally reached for his coffee. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if Violette had not run away. If she had remained in London, been tried in the Lords and found innocent, and now carried his child—in which case they would be sharing coffee in his house in Belgravia, not in this small Parisian flat, after a night spent making love.
Not liking the train of his thoughts, he said, “Tell me about this shop you wish to open.” He met her gaze.
She was startled. “I won’t do that now. But I had hoped to open up my own shop after the child is born. A ladies’ shop like Maison Langdoc and Lady Allister’s.”
He watched her as she suddenly smiled. “I happen to enjoy my employment at Maison Langdoc, just as I enjoyed it at Lady Allister’s. I have learned so much. I know that I once had horrid taste in fashion, but I have become quite good now at selecting styles and fabrics for my customers. There are some very powerful, wealthy women who have begun to ask for me now when they do their shopping.” She became silent. “I suppose it is a hopeless idea.”
He stared at her perfect profile. “I am not surprised that you have excelled at what you chose to do.”
Her head shot up, eyes wide.
“I am not surprised at all,” he said softly.
Flushed, she stood abruptly. “I’ll get more coffee.”
“You haven’t even touched your coffee.” He covered her hand, which rested on the table, with his. “And I think it is a very good idea. There are only a handful of topnotch ladies’ retailers in town. I have always admired originality and initiative. I will help you get your business started if you wish. I have a sense that this could be a big success.”
She stared at him, unmoving. “You would help me open my own shop?” she whispered.
He nodded, suddenly aware of how much it meant to her, and because of that, how much it meant to him.
“Blake. I am already indebted … I couldn’t. And what about the baby?”
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