BLAKE
started. “Someone like myself?” he echoed.
Violette’s pulse was hammering so hard she was lightheaded. She could not take her eyes off of him; she hardly heard him repeat her words. The images were there again, inside of her head, but stronger than before. But now they were welcome. Blake, dancing in the moonlight, with that golden lady. Herself, and Ralph, hiding in the shrubs just below the terrace, two grubby, hungry orphans hoping to steal some food. And the other night, Blake, on a moonlit terrace, with Violette in her blue satin best. She had been in his arms. He had kissed her passionately. It had been the most wonderful moment of her entire life. But then she had been married to Sir Thomas, and it had been terribly wrong. Today, Sir Thomas was dead.
And God bless him and rest his soul, but he had been old, wonderfully kind but so very old, too old, while Blake, standing before her now, suggesting that she remarry, was young and handsome, gallant and kind. The answer to every woman’s dreams. She stared into his brilliant blue eyes, remembering her own childhood dreams, born one anguished night in the union. That night, she had hoped for and dreamed of having all that she now had, with one exception—the love of a prince of a man.
Maybe, just maybe, she had dreamed of being loved by Blake even then, when she was only ten years of age.
She dreamed of being loved by him now.
And Violette felt it, the headlong, spinning, breathless fall, she felt every single inch of it, as she tumbled head over heels in love with this devastating man. She could almost feel his arms around her again, could taste his mouth, hear his warm, rich laughter in her ear.
Oh, my gawd,
she thought, stunned.
I love him, I truly do.
And maybe he loved her. Violette trembled. She could hardly imagine what it would be like to be his wife, to be loved by him, day after day, night after night. How easily she could see herself at Harding Hall in one of those glorious rooms, clad in
silks and chiffons, belonging there because of Blake. Violette was faint with the prospect.
“Lady Goodwin?” Blake prompted. “What I am suggesting, actually—”
She cut him off, blurting, “Do yew mean we should marry? Yew an’ me?”
His eyes widened. And his expression changed; he appeared shocked.
But surely she had not misunderstood. Had she? She loved him. She had never felt such love before. Not ever, not even for Ralph, whom she considered a brother. She loved him the way the moon loved the night sky, the sun the day. Her tremulous smile disappeared. “Blake? Didn’t yew mean that we should marry?”
“Lady Goodwin.” Blake forced a smile. He was oddly pale. “I am sorry I was not clear. I did not mean to suggest that we marry. I meant only that all widows eventually remarry for economic convenience. It is more than common.”
In that instant, Violette realized the immensity of her mistake. She had misunderstood. He had not meant that they should marry, not at all. She could not move, could not even breathe, and where as a moment ago she had been exhilarated, now she stared, feeling a crushing weight lowering itself pound by pound upon her shoulders, her chest, her heart. He had meant that she marry someone
else.
“Lady Goodwin,” Blake said, suddenly seizing her arm “Please, this is a terrible misunderstanding.”
Somehow, she lifted her chin, held her head high. She blinked back hot tears, managed a smile, prayed it wasn’t lopsided. “’Ow stupid can a gel be? I must be an idiot. O’ course yew wouldn’t marry the likes of meself.” She swatted at her tears with her hand. “Gawd. Sir Thomas ain’t even cold yet.”
He continued to hold her arm, and he jerked on it. “Who you are has nothing to do with it. I am not marrying, not ever, or, if I do, it shall be for convenience and nothing more.”
“’Course it’s who I am. I can’t talk proper an’ I can’t walk without knocking things over an’ I ain’t a real lady an’ we both know it.” Violette backed up again. Her heart hurt her terribly now. Worse, she felt humiliated for having been such a stupid fool.
“No. If I wanted to marry you I would in spite of all that.”
Violette inhaled.
Blake winced. He threw up his hands. “Blast! That did not
come out the way I intended it to. I am not at all interested in marrying anyone, period. Marriage is not even on my mind.”
“Why?” Violette asked bluntly. She did not believe him.
His tone was ice. “That is not your affair.”
She stared. He stared back. “One day yew’ll marry,” Violette finally said, deadly certain. “Someone like Lady Catherine Dearfield.” She felt far more ill than before at that thought.
“Catherine is practically my sister,” he said flatly. “I assure you, I have no plans to wed at all in the near, or not so near, future.”
Violette did not reply. She had no reply to make, she just wanted him to leave, so she could grieve for Sir Thomas, and for herself. And she still did not believe him.
But he lingered, making no move to depart. “Lady Goodwin, perhaps we should change what has turned out to be a painful topic?”
“Aggtually, I’m real tired,” Violette said, hoping he would take the hint. She wanted to be alone. To crawl into her bed, hug her pillow, and berate herself for being a stupid fool. Berate herself and rid herself of the remnants of any lingering wisps of her crazy dreams.
But if he understood, he was refusing to leave. He continued to stare at her. “Do you wish me to proceed with the sale of the house?” he asked. “I can arrange everything. You shall not have to lift a single finger, except to sign the bill of sale.”
Violette turned her back on him and stared out of the window at his beautiful gray horse, a huge animal she would be afraid to even walk past, silhouetted against the heather-covered moors. She despised his horse. Suddenly it symbolized everything he was and everything she wasn’t. “I can’t write.” She felt a grim satisfaction in uttering those words, as if in revealing and declaring the final truth about herself to this man who was so kind yet so indifferent to her would kill off any last hopes she might have. She wished she had never met him. But then she didn’t wish that at all.
“You can’t write?” Blake echoed. Violette glanced at him and saw his complete shock. Instantly she regretted her admission. Then, “Not even your name?”
“Not even my ABC’s.” She glanced away, humiliated anew. Why did Sir Thomas have to go and die? Leaving her and Ralph alone? Allowing her safe world to come crashing down upon her? Tempting her with the impossibility of loving this prince of a man when he would never love her back? Violette
did not want to be alone. She was scared to be alone, but she had never felt more alone in her entire life than she did at that moment. “Just go,” she said tiredly.
Except that she really didn’t want him to leave.
“Of course you are tired. How thoughtless of me.”
Violette did not turn. But she strained to hear, heard not a sound, and knew he continued to stand there.
From behind her, he said, “When you wish for me to start the sale, contact me at Harding Hall. Good day.” Still he did not move.
Violette was afraid to speak. So she said nothing. She was afraid to say good-bye, afraid it would be final and she would never see him again.
He turned and, his footsteps loud on the wooden floors, departed the manor.
She wasn’t certain how long she remained staring out of the window after he had gone, when she heard a movement behind her and knew it was Ralph. She sighed and turned to face him.
“I ’eard everythin’.” His oddly pale gray eyes flashed. “Yew must be an idiot.”
“Don’t,” Violette warned, her own eyes filling with anger.
“Yew want to marry ’im? Are yew crazy? ’E wouldn’t marry yew, m’lady, if yew were the last woman on this earth.”
“Yer a fine friend,” Violette cried, balling up her fists. Her vision was blurring.
“Yer in luv with ’im, ain’t yew? An’ yer ’usband ain’t even cold yet.” Ralph spat. His own fists were clenched.
Violette hit him. Hard, in the stomach. But Ralph was reed thin, and he knew her as well as he knew himself, and he sucked in his abdominal muscles as she wielded the blow, so Violette was the one to hurt her fist and wrist. She cried out. Ralph opened up his arms and Violette fell against him. She wept against his chest.
He stroked her hair. “C’mon, luv, this ain’t the brave gel I know so well.” He smiled above her head. “Can’t blame yew fer fallin’ fer the likes o’ Lord Blake. They say ’e’s a real ladies’ man. Got lots of skirts back in town, ’e does. I just don’t want to see ’im usin’ yew. Yew’don’t want that, do yew, Violette?”
Violette was frozen, her face buried against his clean white shirt. She knew that Ralph didn’t mean to rub salt in her
wounds, but he was doing just that. “’Ow do yew know ’e’s a ladies’ man?” she whispered.
“It’s a fact.” Ralph tilted her chin up so their eyes locked. “But ’e’s a smart man. We’ll sell the manor right away. It’s a good idea. But don’t yew even think of remarryin’.” He frowned down at the top of her head. His gaze was intense. “Sir Thomas turned out all right, we were lucky, we were. But I won’t let yew marry again. Yew an’ me, together, we’ll do just fine—like in them old days.”
Violette stiffened against his chest, recalling how Ralph had initially been set against her marrying Sir Thomas—but Violette had been determined to accept his proposal and become his wife, for his gentle nature had been apparent to her from the start and she knew he was the answer to her dreams—or most of them. She would have probably accepted his suit even if it had meant sharing his bed, which it hadn’t. But Ralph had been afraid that they would be separated by her marriage. Violette had explained that Ralph was the only family she had, and Sir Thomas had been good enough to hire Ralph to work at the manor without any further questions.
But now Violette didn’t quite like what Ralph was saying. What if she did eventually decide to remarry, for “economic convenience”? It would be her decision, not Ralph’s. Yet because Blake’s image remained seared upon her mind, she decided not to argue pointlessly. She met Ralph’s gaze. “An’ ’ow are we goin’ to do
just fine
? I don’t ever want to be ’ungry again, Ralph Horn. I don’t ever want to sleep on a stoop. I don’t want to go back to St. Giles.”
“We won’t starve an’ we won’t go back, I promise yew that,” Ralph said grimly.
Violette was sarcastic, but not intentionally so. “Yew think there’s some pot of gold out there fer the likes of yew an’ me?” She shook her head. “Before I married Sir Thomas, I was a shopgirl, an’ I worked ’ard to get me job, but I don’t recall yew workin’, Ralph.”
Ralph stared at her. His eyes narrowed. “I brought us ’ome some coin.”
Violette started to push away from him, unable to stop thinking about Blake, wishing that he had said yes, he wanted to marry her, take care of her, love her. How had this happened to her? She had only met him three days ago. “Yew stole purses, Ralph, when we’d agreed to be respectable folks.”
The front door opened and closed.
“Now who the bloody ’ell is that?” Ralph said with exasperation. But Violette knew he was relieved and that he would not answer her. He turned slightly, sliding one arm around Violette’s waist. She remained pressed against his side, too exhausted now to move away. She was being too hard on Ralph. He was family, all that she had. And he was doing the best that he could, just like she was. It was so easy to be rich, so hard to be poor. Thank Gawd, she thought, for Ralph. If anything ever happened to him, she would really be alone.
And Lady Joanna appeared on the threshold. She saw them together and she gasped.
The brothers walked their mounts alongside a trickling stream. The moors were a blanket of purple all around them. The sky was brilliantly blue, unmarred by even a single cumulus cloud. Below them, the terrain sloped gently away, and the towers and parapets of Harding Hall could be seen in the distance.
“Catherine warned you not to flirt with her,” Jon said frankly.
Blake raked a hand through his hair. “It was the most awful moment of my life when I realized what she said. And I truly do not want to hurt her, not ever; she does not deserve it.”
“No one does,” Jon commented. They paused as Jon’s bay stallion began sniffing the water in the stream before drinking.
“How could she think that I would be interested in marriage?”
“How could she think that you would think of marriage to her?” Jon eyed him.
Blake frowned. “She said the same. That is
not
the issue even if we do come from entirely different worlds.”
Jon tugged on his mount’s reins. “So you would marry her in spite of her antecedents?”
“I did not quite say that.”
“Then what is the issue?”
“I am not interested in marrying anyone, and why should I be? I am not the heir to the earldom. Thank God.”
“One day you will get your due.” Jon mounted, gathering up his reins.