Authors: The Finer Things

Brenda Joyce (4 page)

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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“Thank God for Tulley,” Jon said. He faced the earl. “Father, you will not get Blake to change his mind, much less his ways. He never does what you wish for him to do. He is the rogue in the family, the self-proclaimed black sheep, remember?”

“How can I forget,” the earl said. He threw his hands up into the air. “It has been one misadventure after another, and I had truly hoped things would change when you came of age. Yet what has changed? First I had to explain to the world that my son trades in China. This was the major topic of discussion in the club when the Lords was in recess seven years ago. But three years past I had to explain that he bought a bank. And everyone was appalled, Blake, let me tell you this! Do you know that the prime minister actually asked me if he had heard correctly, that you were a moneylender?”

Blake couldn’t help it. He said, mildly, “I am a moneylender.”

Jon groaned.

The earl flushed. “Don’t use that word in connection with yourself in this household! And now I have to explain that you are building row houses in the East End?”

“Have you ever been to the East End, Father?” Blake asked grimly. “Have you ever been to St. Giles? Seven Dials? Southwark?”

Harding froze. Then he stalked out from behind his desk. “I want you to know something, Theodore. I was one of the first peers in the Lords to support the Reform Act of ’32, and then the poor laws and the factory laws after that. I’ve been on thirty commissions in the past twenty years, half of them dealing with investigations into the abominable conditions that exist in this country, commissions involving factory workers, miners, tradesmen, even children, women, you name it! Do not ask me if I have visited London’s slums.”

Blake’s jaw flexed. “Have you?” he challenged.

Jon’s eyes widened. The earl did not move. A thick silence cloaked the room, broken only by the periodic ticking of the library’s single-pendulum clock. Blake regretted his lapse of temper and judgment.

Suddenly one of the library’s two teak doors was pushed open, and the countess appeared. Suzannah looked at the tableau in front of her, from her husband to her two sons. Like Jon, she was blond and fair, and about ten years younger than the earl. She was wearing a pale blue moirée morning gown, her wedding rings, and small sapphire ear studs. “I thought I heard shouting, but when I approached, there was this very unnatural silence.” Her voice was soft and melodic, in accordance with her appearance.

“Hello, Mother.” Blake moved first. He crossed the room with long strides and took his mother’s hands, kissing her cheek. “Forgive my appearance, but it was a long, dusty trip. You are beautiful, as always.”

“And you are, as always, immaculate and impossibly dashing,” Suzannah Blake, the countess of Harding, replied with a smile. “You do not appear to have suffered an interminable railway journey. I imagine you have broken a few hearts along the way.”

Blake smiled. “I owe it all to my tailor. But if I have broken any hearts, I am quite unaware of it.”

“I doubt that,” Jon interjected. “At least, that’s not the latest word to float around Londontown.”

Blake eyed his brother in annoyance.

Suzannah smiled at her younger son. “I am so glad you could come, Blake. It’s been too long since we had the entire family here at the Hall. Am I interrupting?”

The earl turned and slammed closed a ledger on his desk. The noise was loud and emphatic. “Actually, darling, you are, and in the nick of time.
Your
son is building houses. What will he think of next?”

The countess sighed. “Oh dear. I suppose the sky will fall as a consequence?”

Blake and Jon laughed in unison. The earl glowered. Suzannah moved to him and patted his arm. Finally, grudgingly, he gave up his pout. “What is afoot, madam?” Harding asked, shrugging on his tweed riding coat. Like Jon, he was clad casually, in breeches and boots.

“We have callers. Sir Thomas Goodwin is here with his
bride. I have left them in the keeping of Catherine. Please, come and bid the knight and his wife good day.”

The earl sighed, crossing the room. “God, I didn’t know Goodwin was still alive. We didn’t see him, did we, last year?”

“He was ill. But he is very much alive today, although I must say, he doesn’t look all that well.”

“Mother, Sir Thomas is seventy if he’s a day,” Jon said.

Suzannah paused at the door. “I think I should warn you, though,” she said to her husband and sons. “His bride is not what you are expecting.”

“And what are we expecting?” Blake asked with some amusement.

“I do not think Lady Goodwin is even eighteen,” the countess said hesitantly.

Blake and Jon looked at each other and started to laugh. “Good for Goodwin.” Blake chuckled.

“I didn’t know he had it in him,” Jon agreed, grinning.

“And she is … different,” Suzannah added. And she appeared quite worried.

Two

VIOLETTE
was in awe. She had never been inside a house like this before.

She sat stiffly on a yellow velvet sofa in the drawing room, not hearing a word of the polite conversation being exchanged between Lady Catherine Dearfield, a friend of the family’s, and Sir Thomas. Her eyes were wide, taking in every detail of the drawing room, which was almost as large as the entire ground floor of Goodwin Manor itself. A huge yellow, white, and gold carpet covered the entire floor. A dozen distinct seating arrangements were evident, consisting of sofas and loveseats, bergères and ottomans, and tête-à-têtes. Four huge crystal chandeliers hung from the high, molded ceilings, which were painted mauve, with beige and gold accents. Innumerable paintings graced the walls, as did various busts and statuettes on their pedestals. This home, Violette thought, should not belong to a mere earl and his countess, it should belong to a king and his queen.

And the outside of the country house was as palatial as the
inside. For from afar, Harding Hall truly resembled a royal residence, with the house’s numerous wings, its high roofs and towers, its terraces, balconies, and Gothic spires.

“So how do you find the country, Lady Goodwin?”

It took Violette a moment to realize that she had been addressed. She flushed, shifting carefully; it was at times like these that she desperately wished she had been born a lady and was used to crinoline cages. “I … er … I love me new ’ome,” Violette said, just as the Harding family entered the room.

Sir Thomas stood, as did Lady Catherine. But Violette was frozen. She had just met the countess, who had been amazingly pleasant, not at all like the villagers, not that Violette had dared utter a word in response to her. Being in such esteemed company was intimidating enough. And now the countess had returned with the earl and their two sons. Harding did look like a king, even in his country clothes, but he appeared to be a somewhat annoyed king. Violette could not help but stare. His sons were as dashing as princes, one fair like the countess, the other as dark and as handsome as sin. Her heart fluttered a little.

“Violette,” Sir Thomas said with a slight cough.

Violette realized that everyone was looking at her. She jumped to her feet. Her heavy skirts, adorned with heavier roses, caught the small clawed foot of the sidetable besides the yellow velvet sofa. It tilted precariously, a small china lamp sliding towards its edge.

Violette watched it, horrified. But the dark handsome man in the black suit and silver brocade waistcoat rushed forward and caught the lamp before it crashed to the floor. “Gawd, I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He set the lamp on the table and looked at her. His eyes were a brilliant shade of blue. He stared directly at her, making her feel uneasy, making her want to run away—or come impossibly. closer. And then he smiled. “No harm done, Lady Goodwin. May I perform the introductions? Theodore Blake, at your service. But you may call me Blake, everyone does.” Before Violette could digest the impact of his devastating smile, much less his words, he had lifted her gloved hand, almost but not quite to his mouth. He kissed it without touching the skin of her glove.

She gaped at him, her heart seeming to turn over. Suddenly, eight years slipped away and she recognized him as the man who had danced on the terrace all those years ago. He gave
her another smile, this one different, somehow intimate, then he pushed her hand down to her side, where it belonged. “Sir Thomas, so good to see you again. May we wish you somewhat belated felicitations?”

Sir Thomas came forward and the two shook hands. Violette wet her lips, backing up a step, trying to mind her skirts, watching now as her husband was greeted by the earl and the eldest son, whom she gathered was Lord Farleigh. Her pulse was racing, but she decided that was because she had almost broken what had to be a priceless Oriental lamp. She didn’t realize that she continued to stare at Lord Theodore Blake until he looked her way, catching her in the act. He smiled at her again. He had a dimple in his left cheek and a slightly cleft chin.

Violette ducked, blushing. Good gawd! She had never had such a handsome man look at her before, and certainly not the way this Blake had looked at her. And he had kissed her hand.

The greetings over, it was time for the ladies to sit back down. The countess took a seat on the yellow sofa and smiled at Violette. “Lady Goodwin, do come and sit by me.”

Violette stole a glance at the assembly. Lady Catherine was taking a wide chair to accommodate her crinolines, Sir Thomas was standing besides the earl, discussing some issue currently being debated in Commons, and both of the sons were regarding her openly. Violette felt that her cheeks remained red. Forcing a smile, she maneuvered carefully past Lady Catherine and the sidetable, not wanting to knock anything over. She sat.

“Do our moors agree with you?” the countess asked, her gaze steady upon Violette’s face.

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, yes, me lady. I am very ’appy ’ere.” She stole another glance at Blake. She hadn’t been mistaken. He continued to watch her, but she could not fathom his expression. It was just slightly amused, she decided.

And Violette did not like being the butt of jokes, even ones she did not understand. She lifted her chin. “I grew up in London, I did. I niver in me life saw such beauty afore.”

The countess smiled. “I love York as well. I think, even when I am in town for the Season, my heart remains here.”

“The season?” Violette frowned. “Which season?”

A choked coughing sound made Violette turn her head. She watched Lady Catherine hand Jon her handkerchief, which he pressed to his mouth as he continued to cough.

“There is a season in London … ,” a male voice said gently. Violette looked into Blake’s blue eyes.” … during which
all of society throws itself into an endless round of fêtes and soirees, of dinners, dances, and balls.” He smiled. “It is really overdone and quite boring.”

Violette’s pulse pounded. She could not imagine balls and dances being boring. “I would not be bored,” she said carefully.

Blake’s smile flashed but his eyes held hers. “Yes, I can understand that.”

Sir Thomas came forward, flushed. “Come, Violette, we have outstayed our welcome. My lord, my lady, we are so pleased to have you back again.”

The countess was standing. “Thank you so much for calling, Sir Thomas. I am truly delighted for you and your bride. Lady Goodwin? Thank you.”

Violette had stood, and was feeling relieved that she hadn’t caught the clawed foot of the sidetable again, but now her mouth dropped open. The countess was thanking her? For what? “Why … er … yer most welcome,” she said haltingly.

Jon started coughing again.

“Are yew ill?” Violette couldn’t help asking with concern. He was a strapping man, all golden-like, with broad shoulders and long legs—he did not seem sickly.

Lady Catherine was at his side, once again allowing him the use of her lacy linen. She smiled at Violette. “Jon has come to the country to recover from a winter flu that would not go away. I do believe it has lodged in his brain as well as his lungs.” Catherine turned and leveled a cool green stare at Jon. “As he has forgotten how to comport himself,” she said-in a very low, censuring tone.

Violette did not understand. She wasn’t certain what “comport” meant, but she thought it had something to do with behavior, and the Harding heir certainly behaved as well or better than anyone Violette had ever seen.

“Sir Thomas, again, felicitations,” Blake said, distracting Violette. His voice was as rich as honey. It was a voice that could never be ignored.

Suddenly he turned and bowed slightly at her. “A real pleasure, Lady Goodwin.” As he straightened one hand touched the left side of his chest slightly, as if he were covering his heart. “I am so pleased that we are neighbors.”

Violette thought wildly for something to say. “Me, too,” she finally said. And then, “I always wondered wot it was like inside yer ’ouse.”

Blake laughed. “And now you know.” His eyes twinkled. “And hopefully you will have many more opportunities to enjoy my home. One day I shall give you a tour.”

“Blake,” Jon said, his tone warning.

“May I escort you to the door?” Blake asked, holding out his arm.

Violette blinked at it, but it did not go away. She knew she was supposed to place her arm in his, but she couldn’t imagine being escorted outside by such a man. So she said, “I can manage, thank yew.” And she followed Sir Thomas out.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jon demanded.

“I’m not doing anything,” Blake said, staring out of the drawing room window as the Goodwins rolled away in their decrepit victoria. He and Jon were alone with Catherine. The moors were covered with heather in full bloom. Finally the purple landscape swallowed up the knight and his bride.

“I think the two of you behaved reprehensibly,” Catherine said. She tucked strands of platinum blond hair behind her ears. She faced Jon. “How dare you laugh at that poor girl.”

“Me?” Jon’s tawny brows lifted. “I was hardly laughing at her; she is sweet enough. Although you must admit Mother was right, Lady Goodwin was hardly what one would expect.” He smiled again.

Catherine jabbed him with her elbow, a quite unladylike gesture.

“Ow,” Jon said.

Blake continued to gaze out of the window.

“At least I wasn’t flirting with her.” Jon eyed Blake.

Blake finally tore his gaze away from the rolling moors. He shrugged helplessly. “I confess. I was flirting. It is my second nature. You have to admit, in spite of the accent and the garish dress, she is stunning.” But it wasn’t Violette’s looks Blake was thinking about. There was something about her that wouldn’t leave him alone—and was almost disturbing him.

“Quite,” Jon agreed. “Blake, why in God’s name didn’t you tell Father the truth?”

Blake grimaced. “It did not seem like the time.”

“I think you choose to annoy him,” Jon accused.

Catherine’s hands found her hips. “Blake! You did not tell your father about the honor Prince Albert bestowed upon you?”

Blake smiled ruefully. “No, I did not.”

Jon glanced at Catherine. “But he told Father all about his latest project, practically giving Father an apoplexy.”

“You exaggerate,” Blake said mildly, glancing back out of the window. He turned his back on Catherine and Jon.

Catherine and Jon exchanged looks. “Blake,” Catherine said softly, “the fact that the prince has titled you in reward for your good works will soon be all over town. Your father will find out. He is going to be so pleased, but he will be furious if he learns of this from an acquaintance. Why don’t you tell him tonight?”

Blake did not answer. His gaze was on the rippling, purple-hued moors. His thoughts remained on Lady Violette Goodwin. Oddly enough, he found her fascinating.

“He refuses to say or do anything to promote a calm moment between himself and our father,” Jon remarked, somewhat sarcastically. “And I do not think Blake is very concerned with Father right now.” Jon smiled. His chin had the same cleft as Blake’s. “Are you smitten, little brother? Finally, after all these years?”

Blake turned with a laugh. “Smitten? Hardly. But you have to admit, she is charming.” Yet his smile was gone. How could she be married to Sir Thomas, even if it were done all the time? Was she even eighteen?

“Charming?” Catherine said. “That is not quite a word I would use to describe Lady Goodwin.”

“Sometimes ‘charm’ has a different meaning for a man—when in reference to a woman,” Jon explained. “She is adorable, I agree. Charming, to say the least.”

“This topic is not at all seemly. She is married,” Catherine said, stepping between the two brothers, “married, as in: she is a wife, she has a husband. And Sir Thomas is our neighbor.”

“You don’t have to define marriage to me,” Jon said, grinning.

Blake remained silent.

Catherine huffed. “Perhaps I should. After all, the one of you has a reputation as a rake a mile long, and the other has a familial duty to perform which is long overdue.”

Jon put his arm around his brother, and together they faced Catherine. “Who said I am failing in my familial duties?” Jon asked.

“Your mother. Your father. All of society,” Catherine said.

“And you?” Jon asked softly.

Catherine sighed, but a faint pink color marred her lovely
cheeks. “No, Jon. I am your friend. I have known you for too many years to count and I would never judge you.”

Jon removed his arm, giving Catherine an enigmatic look. “Blake,” he said somberly, “what is wrong?”

Blake’s gaze had wandered to the window. “Is she eighteen?” he asked. “It is such a common arrangement, but I am having trouble with the concept.”

“Blake, you
are
smitten,” Jon said, teasingly.

“She is married,” Catherine repeated firmly, “to our neighbor. And, yes, she is eighteen.”

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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