As though sensing his thoughts, the source of his aggravation shot him a narrow look.
He adopted a look of practiced innocence, causing her gaze to narrow even further.
Despite the turmoil of his thoughts, despite his complete and utter inability to work out how the bloody hell he felt about his wife at any given moment, it was still all he could do to refrain from grinning at her, and he realized in a rush how much he had missed this—had missed teasing her, needling her.
Kissing her.
He offered his wife his arm, which she took graciously.
And yet, as he escorted her out to the carriage, as they rattled over the cobblestone streets of London, he could not stop his thoughts from returning to one simple truth:
He wished very badly to kiss her again.
* * *
The evening was a success, and they’d only just arrived.
Violet managed to resist congratulating herself with great difficulty—oh, very well, she didn’t entirely resist, only so much could be expected from a lady—as she swept into the glittering Rocheford ballroom on her husband’s arm.
She wasn’t at all certain what had brought on such an ardent display from James as the one at the base of their staircase half an hour earlier, but she decided to call it a success nonetheless. Whatever his reasons for kissing her—and a small, easily distracted part of her couldn’t help wishing that she knew what those reasons were, so that she might attempt to coax a repeat performance out of him—that he had done so was undeniable proof of that fact that she was so anxious to drive home:
He still wanted her. Quite desperately.
Now she only had to gently prod him into action. Fortunately, she had Sophie to help her in this regard.
The minor, insignificant fact that her traitorous body had responded to his kisses and caresses as kindling to a spark was immaterial. Of course she still wanted him. She had already admitted as much, had she not? That was not relevant to the matter at hand. She was there not to prove her own desire, but his.
To make him realize it—even if doing so required making him suffer a bit. And to make him rue the day he had ever thought he could suppress that desire, or forget it, or ignore it.
She scanned the ballroom as she and James entered. This ball would no doubt be given that highest of compliments tomorrow—being described as a terrible crush. In one quick survey of the room, Violet saw two dozen people she knew. Hundreds of candles glimmered in sconces on the wall and from chandeliers overhead, reflecting off the sparkling jewels at the throats and on the wrists of the ladies below. Along one wall was a long table groaning under the weight of bowls of punch and lemonade, and discreet servants circulated amongst the guests, offering the same on trays. Couples assembled on the dance floor, and the opening strains of a minuet could be heard.
Upon a second perusal of the room, however, she groaned quietly—one of the familiar faces she spotted was her mother’s.
“Something wrong?” James murmured.
“My mother is here,” she said in an undertone. “Over by the refreshment tables.” Lady Worthington, dressed in a blue satin gown a few shades lighter than Violet’s own, was chatting animatedly with Baroness Highgate, one of her mother’s dearest friends and a notorious gossip. Violet could not think of a conversation she would less like to be a part of at the moment; she watched as Lady Worthington took a sip of lemonade and gave a polite smile.
“Fortunately for us, I see Jeremy and Penvale on the opposite side of the ballroom,” James said, steering her firmly away from said refreshment tables. Violet prayed her mother hadn’t heard their names announced, but she rather thought that might be too much to hope for. Lady Worthington had inconveniently good hearing.
“Audley,” Penvale said as James and Violet approached. “Violet,” he added, in a much lower tone of voice—Violet had given both Penvale and Jeremy leave to use her given name years ago, but this was scandalously familiar enough that they were quiet about doing so in public. “You’re looking very… healthy,” he added, giving her what she supposed he intended to be a look heavy with meaning.
Her eyes darted to James before she could stop herself, and she saw that he had adopted a deliberately bland expression. She looked back at Penvale and narrowed her eyes at him slightly.
“Yes,” she said carefully, and heaved a dramatic sigh. “One does never know what to expect upon waking each morning, but I seem to be having one of my good days.” She gave a sad little smile. “Who knows how long it will last, though? I suppose I should enjoy the time I’ve been blessed with.”
She thought that she might have laid it on a touch thick, but, really, how long was James going to continue this charade? While her primary aim at the moment was forcing James to admit he still wanted her, she was petty enough to admit that she also found the prospect of needling James to the point of admitting she wasn’t truly ill to be incredibly satisfying. She would wrench a confession out of the absurd man if it killed her.
Of course, the trouble was, as always, that James didn’t look the least bit absurd. He looked so very, very handsome in his evening kit, the precise knot of his snowy white cravat keeping his chin at just such an angle so as to show off the devastating lines of his face. He just looked so very… male. It was in the way his broad shoulders filled his coat, the manner in which the careful cut of his clothing did nothing to conceal the muscle and strength beneath them. He was standing there with that closed-off look on his face, the one that angered her more than she would have ever thought possible, and yet a significant portion of her mind was occupied by the distracting wish to fling her arms around him and claim him as her own.
She had observed dogs, on occasion, urinating on trees to mark their territory, and while her instincts had fortunately not yet reached that primitive level, she felt an unexpected sympathy with the desire.
Her rather ridiculous thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable voice of Diana. “There you are! Emily and I have been looking for you since we arrived, and just look who we found along the way!”
The group turned as one to see Diana and Emily making a beeline for their corner, Sophie being tugged alongside them, her arm firmly linked through Diana’s as though they were the dearest of friends, rather than passing acquaintances. Violet couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at James as they approached. A look of suspicion crept across his face. He looked at Violet, and she shot him a quick, satisfied smile before stepping forward to greet her friends.
“Diana! Emily!” she said, seizing each of their hands in turn, as though she’d not seen them in weeks, rather than a day. “Sophie!” she added, turning her head slightly toward James as she spoke so that he would be unable to miss her use of Sophie’s given name. “You look beautiful.”
This much at least was true; no more of the muted colors of mourning for Sophie. She was wearing a daringly cut gown of emerald green, her blond hair gleaming in the candlelight. Violet had never seen Sophie—in the years she had encountered her at society events—in a gown with a bodice so revealing. While Sophie was not particularly curvaceous, having a petite, trim figure, the cut of this dress could have made a stick look enticing. And Sophie was certainly not a stick.
Violet gave Sophie a quick, conspiratorial smile, then stepped back to allow the ladies to greet the gentlemen.
After kissing Diana’s and Emily’s hands in turn, James turned to Sophie. “Lady Fitzwilliam,” he said, bowing over her hand, everything in his manner entirely correct. The flirtatiousness of the day before was entirely absent and Violet realized, with a slight pang, that he truly had taken her words to heart. She felt her resolve waver for a moment—she was beginning to feel slightly awful about what she was about to do. Or, to be more accurate, what Sophie was about to do.
“I feel I owe you an apology,” James continued, straightening. “My behavior in the park was not that of a gentleman, and entirely inexcusable.”
“Not at all, my lord,” Sophie replied, and Vio
let nearly started, so entirely foreign was the seductive note that she heard in Sophie’s voice. “There is nothing to apologize for.”
James blinked. “Nonetheless,” he said, his voice less assured, “I deeply regret any discomfort I may have caused—no lady deserves to be treated in such a fashion.”
Sophie laughed, and the sound was tinkling, flirtatious, not at all like her natural laugh—and James knew it. His face was slowly draining of color.
“Lord James,” Sophie continued as James struggled for words, “you’re looking very well this evening.”
“As are you, my lady,” James managed gallantly, the expression on his face akin to that of an animal facing an unpredictable predator at close range. “It is an unexpected delight to see you again so soon.”
“I assure you, my lord, the pleasure is all mine,” Sophie purred—purred? Violet was impressed. In a different life, she thought, Sophie could have had a brilliant career on the stage.
In a feat of impressive timing, no sooner had this thought crossed her mind than she heard Penvale’s name called; Lord Julian Belfry approached.
“My lord, I was not aware that you frequented these sorts of events,” Diana said after Belfry had greeted each group member in turn and been introduced to Sophie.
“I don’t, normally,” Belfry said, looking extremely handsome—and extremely unconcerned by the whispers he had undoubtedly left in his wake as he cut across the ballroom. “However, I found myself lacking other plans for the evening, and I thought the company here might prove… entertaining.” His tone was casual, but Violet didn’t miss the unmistakable look of interest he cast in Emily’s direction. Emily, looking so beautiful in a prim white dress with her shining golden curls that it was almost laughable, really. Emily, who—unless Violet was very mistaken—cast a look of her own in Belfry’s direction, her cheeks coloring under his regard.
Violet looked at James at the precise second that he looked at her, an eyebrow arched, and for a moment they seemed to understand each other so perfectly that it was as though no time had passed, as though the past four years were a dream, as though it was the first year of their marriage once more, when Violet felt, even in a crowded room, that she and James were somehow alone together.
James broke eye contact first, his attention having been drawn by the sound of his own name.
“… have heard that you are a skilled dancer,” Sophie was saying, as Violet, too, directed her attention back to the group. “I should be absolutely bereft if you were to deny me the chance to experience your skill for myself.” She gave James a rather assessing glance, one that clearly indicated that dancing was not the only one of his skills she would like to experience. Violet had to bite the inside of her cheek to refrain from laughing out loud at the look on her husband’s face. She leaned closer—was he actually blushing?
“I would, of course, be honored if you would save me a spot on your dance card, Lady Fitzwilliam,” James said, since it was really the only polite thing he could say under the circumstances. When a lady practically begged a man to dance with her, no gentleman could refuse her.
“Lovely,” Sophie said brightly. “I think a waltz would do nicely, don’t you? It’s so… intimate.” She hesitated ever so slightly before the last word. James cast a frantic look around the ballroom, tugging at his collar as though his cravat were knotted too tightly.
This was, Violet decided, the best evening she’d spent in years.
* * *
This was, James was utterly certain, the bloody worst evening he’d spent in years. He adjusted his collar again, feeling as though he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs—and was it just him, or was the ballroom overwarm? He didn’t know why the ton insisted on having these damned events in the middle of summer—who could possibly think it a good idea to cram hundreds of perfumed peacocks into a single room, along with hundreds of candles, during one of the warmest months of the year? He needed air. He needed a drink.
He needed Lady Fitzwilliam to remove her hand from his arm.
He felt like a boy of fourteen again, one with no experience of women, flustered by the first girl to cast an appraising look in his direction. This was a bloody disaster.
It was entirely his own fault.
What the hell had he been thinking, flirting so outrageously with Lady Fitzwilliam in Hyde Park? He’d thought, deep down, that West and Violet were correct, that his primary concern should be any potential damage he had done to her reputation, and he had felt like an utter cad once he’d come to his senses in this regard—but now, too late, he realized another danger.
That she might take him up on his implied offer.
He never would have expected it of her, in truth. He’d never thought her the slightest bit interested in him as anything other than West’s studious younger brother, but apparently the years that had passed since he’d last seen her had had quite a transforming effect.
Unless…
He went cold as another unpleasant thought struck him.
He and his brother bore a strong physical resemblance—everyone commented on it. Could she possibly be setting her cap for him out of some desire to use him as a sort of stand-in for West? It was an appalling prospect—and not terribly flattering, at that.
He dimly registered that Lady Fitzwilliam was still speaking to him, but he interrupted her, manners be damned.
“Lemonade!” he burst out, sounding like an imbecile.
Lady Fitzwilliam blinked at him. Casting a quick glance at the surrounding group, he saw Penvale and Jeremy raise their eyebrows. Diana smirked. And Violet…
Violet looked as though she were trying hard not to laugh.
And that was when he knew. He knew that Violet was somehow behind this.
The realization did him little good at that precise moment, however, because he had just uttered the word lemonade aloud, apropos of nothing, and some faint part of his mind—the reasonable, rational part that, until the past fortnight, had usually made up the majority of his brain—realized that some elaboration upon this comment was likely required.
“It is very warm this evening,” he said smoothly. “I thought a glass of lemonade might not go amiss. Don’t you think, Lady Fitzwilliam?” He did not allow her the opportunity to respond. “Please allow me to fetch one for you. It would be a delight, I assure you.”
Lady Fitzwilliam gave a sort of wistful little sigh. “How very thoughtful you are, my lord.” Her hand tightened slightly on his arm. “And so capable. It is most… illustrative.”
James had never realized that the word illustrative could contain such a wealth of illicit meaning. It was a rather—dare he say it?—illustrative moment.
That was it. He had finally taken leave of his senses.
“I shall fetch your lemonade, Lady Fitzwilliam,” he said expansively, removing her hand from his person at last, but placing a gallant kiss upon it before releasing it. “The sooner I retrieve it, the sooner I may return to you.” He turned to Violet. “Dearest wife. You are looking a bit pale. Would you like to walk with me to the refreshment tables? I think a bit of movement might do you some good.”
“I should be happy to accompany Lady James on a turn about the room while you fetch her a lemonade,” Belfry said with the merry air of one who was observing a particularly entertaining bit of theater. He let out a soft “oof!” as soon as he made this offer, and James was nearly—although not quite entirely—certain that Diana had elbowed him in the stomach.
“Come, wife,” James said, taking Violet by the elbow and steering her away from the group before she quite seemed to realize what was happening.
“Let go of my elbow, you idiot,” she hissed, shaking off his touch as soon as they began their slow progress across the crowded room. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“No,” James said through gritted teeth, smiling at some of the curious glances being thrown at them as they walked. “But I’m wondering if you have.”
“I don’t kno
w what you mean.”
James snuck a sideways glance at Violet; her head was held high, her voice as lofty as that of a queen. It was maddening.
And maddeningly attractive.
With some effort, he focused on the matter at hand. “I know you invited Lady Fitzwilliam here tonight, so you needn’t even pretend on that account.”
“I am flattered that you think I have so much sway over Lady Rocheford that I should be able to control the guest list at her ball.” Violet’s tone was sweet, innocent, but James was unmoved.
“All right,” he allowed. “But I don’t for a second believe it was a coincidence that we met her so soon after arriving.”
“James, we are at a ball. The entire point is to see and be seen.”
“Ah, yes,” James said mock thoughtfully. “And I could not help seeing that Lady Fitzwilliam was rather friendly this evening.”
“Perhaps she took pity on you and thought to offer you the gift of female companionship, since you made your interest so blatantly obvious yesterday.”
“It is strange that she seemed so patently disinterested in any sort of flirtation yesterday, and yet this evening seems to have had a change of heart,” he said icily, pausing as they reached the refreshment table. He poured a glass of lemonade so hastily that some of the liquid sloshed onto the white linen tablecloth. He thrust the glass at Violet, then poured another one for himself—despite the fact that, not being a debutante himself, he couldn’t recall ever having drunk the watered-down swill previously.
“Perhaps she had time to reconsider,” Violet said, taking a careful sip, her tongue darting out to catch a drop from the corner of her mouth. How was it that the small pink tip of a perfectly ordinary tongue could be so mesmerizing? James couldn’t tear his eyes away from it, nor could he ignore how desperately he wanted to be in close contact with that tongue once more.
To Have and to Hoax Page 21
