Violette swallowed, knowing she was beginning to blush. “No, I’m sorry. I niver learned.”
Joanna snickered again. “I do love the hunt. I used to hunt with my father when I was but a child. Of course at my age, I’d rather watch from the sidelines.”
At her age—and with her bulk—Violette couldn’t help it. “That’s probably a real good idea,” she said smoothly. “’Cause a fall might kill yer horse if he went down beneath yew.”
It took Joanna and the other two women a moment to realize what Violette had meant. Joanna gasped, turning red. Catherine quickly smiled, her posture frozen, saying, “It is a dangerous sport. One must be an accomplished rider in order to participate.”
The countess was looking at Violette, her serene expression difficult to read. Violette knew she had made a terrible mistake and was ashamed of having lost her temper. But Joanna Feldstone was always sending her daggers with her eyes! But then the countess said, “Lady Goodwin might wish to join me on the sidelines, then. As I also prefer to wait for the men, rather than to ride with them.”
Violette was overwhelmed. The countess and Lady Dearfield, and Blake, too, of course, they were all so kind! And to think tha she had been so afraid to call at Harding Hall with Sir Thomas. To think that she had doubted Blake’s intentions, even for a moment. “Thank yew, me lady,” she whispered somewhat hoarsely. “Mebbe I’ll do just that.”
Joanna looked from Violette to the countess. She was gripping her hands so tightly in her green taffeta lap that the seams of her gloves appeared ready to pop.
“Excuse me,” Blake said warmly, poking his head around the doorway. “Dare I interrupt?”
Violette’s heart skipped a half a dozen beats. Little did she know that her feelings were mirrored on her face.
The countess smiled not quite naturally as Blake stepped into
the room. “You are never interrupting, Theodore. Don’t tell me you have finished your port and cigar?”
Blake’s smile was easy, his gaze slipping to Violette. “It was a cognac, actually, and, no, I neither finished that nor my smoking. But I made Lady Goodwin a promise.” His eyes held hers. “Do you remember?” he asked softly.
Violette could hardly breathe. Of course she remembered. She was already on her feet. “Yew promised to show me the ’undreds of flowers yew got bloomin’ ’ere at the ’All.”
He threw back his head and laughed, the sound as warm and rich as the plum pudding had been, and then he strode forward. “I promised to show you the gardens. But I am afraid, Lady Goodwin, that we do not have a hundred flowers here.”
Violette’s nerves were strained with excitement. “’Course yew do. Yew can almost count ’em from the road.”
Blake’s smile faded, but his gaze remained trained upon her face. “You must be an eternal optimist,” he finally said.
Violette did not know what an “optimist” was and was not about to reveal her ignorance to the present company, so she did not reply. Their gazes remained locked.
The countess was also standing. “Actually, we have one hundred and twelve different species of flowers and flowering plants here at the Hall.”
Violette’s excitement over the Harding gardens dimmed. Blake was still gazing with unusual intensity at her. A different kind of excitement seemed to come alive inside of her, leaping from nerve ending to nerve ending. She could not seem to move.
But Blake came to life. He took her elbow. “A hundred and twelve. How perceptive, Lady Goodwin.” He turned to his mother. “We shall be but a minute or two.” He bowed at the three women, ignoring Joanna’s narrowed eyes, and led Violette from the drawing room.
THE
moon was bright. Violette was acutely conscious of the man who held her elbow as they strolled onto the slate-floored terrace. Thousands of stars shone down upon them. Violette couldn’t help recalling that night, eight years ago, when she had watched this man dancing on another terrace with another
woman in the waxen moonlight. She knew that the man had been Blake.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Blake said, stopping, pausing to face her.
Violette looked up at his handsome face. His eyes were gentle, soft, kind. Was Ralph right? Violette hoped not. She wanted Blake to remain a prince in her mind and her heart, an unattainable one, but a prince nevertheless. She smiled at him. “I’m thinkin’ yew should be a prince, not an earl’s son.”
Blake started. Then he smiled slightly. “That is excessively flattering, Lady Goodwin. But I am no prince. Not even close, in fact.”
Violette had to look at her toes. His proximity, his appearance, his unrelenting gaze, were doing strange things to her insides. She felt dazed. And, frankly, had she ever been happier? This entire evening had been magical. It was almost like a dream.
“You’re not looking at the flowers,” he said softly.
She glanced up, into his intense eyes. For an instant she forgot to breathe, was shaken from her head to her toes.
And then he lightly touched her elbow. “Come,” he said, breaking the moment.
Violette followed him to a flower bed shaped like a figure-eight. Tulips in rainbow hues blossomed everywhere. “I luv tulips,” she said.
Blake continued to regard her.
Violette felt self-conscious. What was he thinking? His eyes were bright. She was so nervous, in spite of her happiness. Surely he did not think badly of her the way the villagers did. But she wished that she were a real lady, like Catherine Dearfield.
She walked away from the bed of tulips to admire a hedge of rioting orange flowers. “Wot are these called? I niver seen such flowers afore.”
He followed her. “I do not know, but they are very beautiful.”
Violette glanced at him, smiling.
His smile faded. “Almost as beautiful as you.”
She froze.
He was stationary—as if surprised by his own words. He hesitated. “I am sorry, but you are beautiful, which you must know.” His gaze searched hers. “Surely there is no harm in a compliment that is sincere.”
Violette was at a loss for words. She wet her lips, which seemed dry. She knew she was not beautiful. His mother was beautiful. Catherine Dearfield was beautiful. “Yer teasin’ me. Yew have to be.”
He studied her. “No, I am not teasing you.”
She looked up sideways, feeling shy, her heart beating hard, wildly. “Now yer the one eggsessively flatterin’ me.”
He chuckled. “It’s ‘excessively,’ Lady Goodwin. E-x-c. Ex-cess-ive-ly.”
Her smile faded. “Yew makin’ fun of the way I talk?”
“I would never do that.” He was somber.
She wet her lips. “E-x-c?”
He nodded.
“Ex-cess-ive-ly,” she said carefully.
“That’s right,” he murmured. “In fact, that was perfect.”
Violette smiled with real pleasure. “Excessively,” she said again. Then she sobered. “Do … do yew really think me a looker?” Her pulse raced.
His dimple had appeared. Now it disappeared. He hesitated. A long moment passed. “Yes,” he said flatly. He suddenly stepped away from her, shifting so that he gazed out on the moors, away from her.
And that simple affirmation sent chills sweeping through her. Violette felt like crying, but not with sadness. “Yew are the most beautiful man I seen, too, an’ I thought so from the first time I ever seen yew,” she whispered.
It was his turn to be frozen. His eyes were wide as he turned back to her. “An optimist—and a woman who is genuinely frank, without pretense. How unusual you are.”
Violette knew that her cheeks were hot. “Can’t I give yew one of them complyments, too?”
He regarded her silently.
She felt her cheeks continuing to burn. “I said something wrong, didn’t I?”
He nodded.
She wet her lips. “I don’t want to talk wrong the way I do. I don’t want to walk funny an’ break fine things ’cause my skirts are so big an’ wide.”
“I know,” he said harshly, his jaw flexed. Violette did not even see him lift his hand, but suddenly his palm was touching her cheek, an exquisite molding of his callused skin to her jaw. Her gaze went from his darkened eyes to his mouth. A
thought dashed through her head. What would it be like to be held by such a man? To be kissed by him?
“Violette,” he said tersely, finally dropping his hand.
She loved the way her name sounded when he said it. It sounded like the name of a real lady. She did not move.
A long, tense moment passed. She sensed that he was warring with himself. Ten years ago he had not hesitated. Almost a decade ago he had kissed that golden lady on a moonlit terrace. Violette was suddenly, acutely, disappointed.
And he knew, for he was staring at her as if he intended to read every thought on her mind, every feeling in her heart, and suddenly he gripped her elbows, leaning toward her. His mouth brushed over hers. Violette was afraid to move. Afraid to even breathe and destroy the precious moment. His mouth feathered hers again.
He pulled back, staring at her, still holding her arms. Violette swallowed with great difficulty, her pulse rioting, unable now to recollect anything other than the man beside her and the night they were immersed in. A huge bubble was swelling inside of her heart. Her thoughts raced, tumbled, wild and incoherent, her mind filling with images and hopes and dreams … and being cherished by a prince like this was one of them.
“Gawd,” she heard herself whisper. “I ain’t niver been kissed like that afore.”
His eyes darkened impossibly more and suddenly he pulled her into his embrace. Violette did not protest as her body was crushed against his. His mouth claimed hers, hot and hungry now. Violette had to cling to him in order to remain standing upright. Her legs had lost their ability to hold her up, and she had lost the ability to think.
And he kissed her and kissed her for a small eternity until her body had turned to mush and a small soft sound escaped from her own lips. He dragged his mouth from hers. Violette leaned against him, in his arms, shaking and breathless. When she managed to raise her face and open her eyes, she found him staring at her, his gaze mesmerizing with its brilliance. Violette remained motionless.
“You are shaking,” he said abruptly, putting his arm around her. Shadows had crossed his face. He seemed disturbed. He dropped his arm from her waist and gripped her elbow instead. His body no longer touched hers.
And Violette began to comprehend what had just happened. This prince of a man had kissed her, and it had been the most
incredible kiss of her life. Her body was alive like never before. She yearned for his embrace, for more of his kisses. But she was married to Sir Thomas.
As that last, final thought intruded, Violette’s stomach lurched, and with it her heart.
“I guess we got to go inside,” Violette said, her tone choked. The immensity of what she had done—of what they had done—overwhelmed her.
He looked down at her grimly. “I think we must talk.”
She stared up at him, slowly pulling her arm free of his grasp. She folded her arms across her bosom. “Talk? Wot about?” she asked fearfully. Trying to stop the stupid, foolish images from racing through her head—images of moonlit terraces, exotic gardens, and this devastating man. But suddenly there were other images too, images she did not want to entertain, not now. Images of Sir Thomas, old and wrinkled and ill, lying in his bed. Images of Ralph, angrily warning her of what the night would bring. Images of herself, many years ago, her hair chopped off, clad in ragged boys’ clothes, sweeping streets for fine gentlemen like Theodore Blake.
Oh, gawd. Ralph had been right.
But Blake’s kiss had been so beautiful. Just as the evening had been so beautiful. Just as he was so beautiful.
Violette wanted to weep. A desperate yearning rose up from nowhere, an intensity Violette had never before felt, a yearning she did not quite understand. It was far more than physical. Yet hadn’t she thought Sir Thomas to be the answer to her dreams?
But he is an old man,
her mind shouted silently, stubbornly at her.
But he is my husband,
another, frantic part of her responded.,
Abruptly Blake halted, causing her to do so, too. He released her elbow, his face carved in stone. Violette gazed at him, even though her cheeks burned violently now, with shame and even with some anger.
“I owe you a sincere apology, Lady Goodwin,” he said stiffly. “In my own self-defense, I can truthfully say that I was overcome by my passion for you. I am sorry.”
Violette stared. She was trying to understand what he was saying, but his words were so hurtful, stabbing through her breast. Everything was so hurtful. “Yew was overcome by yer passion,” she repeated thickly, thinking now about their differences, and the fact that he knew she was married, that Sir Thomas was his neighbor.
He shifted his weight. “I pride myself on being a gentleman, but tonight I behaved like a cad. My apology is sincere.”
Violette hugged herself. “I don’t want yer apol-o-gie.”
He flinched. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yew ’eard,” she whispered, batting her eyelids frantically. She wasn’t going to cry, not in front of him. Ralph had been right.
“Don’t cry,” he said suddenly, his tone as soft as the velvet night air, “please.”
Violette wiped the back of her eyes with her gloved hand. “I ain’t cryin’,” she said defensively.
“I have hurt you,” he said.
“No.” She shook her head. And because he was staring so intently, Violette looked anywhere but at him. They faced the sloping, endless moors. It was very hard to tell where the blue-black land ended and where the blue-black sky began, even though the heavens above were star-studded.
She had trusted him. Even though they had only just met, she had trusted him more than she had ever trusted anyone—and he had betrayed that trust. Because she was Violet Cooper and they both knew it. Everyone knew it.
“Why have I hurt you, Violette?” Blake asked abruptly.
Now he was calling her by her first name again. “Yew didn’t ’urt me.”
He was silent. “I shall be leaving the country in a few days. I don’t want to leave with bad feelings between us.”
Violette stiffened, eyes wide. All she could think of then was that he would shortly return to London. And it was very likely that she would never see him again.
“Can you not accept my apology?” he asked quietly—gravely.
He was going to leave. The magical evening was over. And all she would have was the memory of him, the gardens, and his kiss. Loneliness overwhelmed her. And with it an inexplicable sorrow. Violette could not reply.
“Lady Goodwin? Violette?” He started to reach for her, but quickly dropped his hand.
Slowly, still unable to speak, she nodded. Her eyes had become moist in spite of her better intentions.
“Thank you,” he said.
And they returned to the house.
“What some company?” Jon asked.
Blake turned. He remained on the terrace under the watchful stare of the candle-colored moon. He shrugged. He felt ill. How had he let himself get so carried away, with the evening, with her?
His brother crossed the terrace, carrying two snifters. “I imagine you could use a drink.” Jon’s gaze was mild yet penetrating.
Blake grimaced, his mind filled with thoughts of Violette Goodwin, whom he had never meant to hurt or insult, feeling as low as a man could feel, feeling like the dirt under his shoe. He accepted the cognac. He sniffed it without any appreciation. “I don’t know how this has happened,” he finally admitted.
“How what happened?” Jon asked.
Blake did not answer.
Jon sighed. “I can guess. You took a beautiful woman out into the gardens and there is a full moon, in case you have failed to notice. I also happened to notice that both you and Lady Goodwin seemed extremely distressed when you returned to the house. Can I assume that she rejected your overtures?”
Blake took a draught of cognac. “I had intended only to befriend her. I doubt we are friends now.” He sipped again. The feeling of illness he was afflicted with did not go away. “Of course, I do not think I am capable of having a friendship with her anyway.”
“Why not? You have some very good women friends in town, Blake.” From the kennels, one of the dogs began to bark. “Of course, they are older, intellectual, not particularly attractive.” Jon smiled.
“You are annoying me,” Blake said firmly.