“I don’t know what you mean,” she said airily, but West was having none of it.
“I quarreled with my brother yesterday, and I don’t wish to do the same with you,” he said shortly. “But I’d greatly appreciate it if you two would leave others out of whatever twisted little game it is that you are playing.”
Violet wished to object in outrage, to defend herself, but she wasn’t certain that she could, in complete honesty. She and James both appeared aware that they were now playing a game, one that each of them seemed equally unwilling to concede.
“For the record,” she said, “Lady Fitzwilliam was eager to assist me.”
“I don’t care a whit,” West said with an anger that belied this statement. Violet wondered if Sophie had any idea of the feeling with which he still spoke of her. “She is a respectable widow, and she has no business risking her reputation for the sake of some petty revenge against my idiot brother. I don’t deny that he likely deserves it,” he added wryly, his tone softening somewhat. “But I have always thought rather highly of you, Violet, and I think you are above this.”
In that moment, watching James dance with another woman, accompanied by the man who very well might still be in love with that woman, Violet reviewed her actions of the past fortnight. And, all at once, everything that had seemed calculated and clever suddenly seemed foolish and desperate.
“It has been so nice having him take notice of me once again,” she said truthfully, in a very quiet voice. It hurt her pride considerably to admit this, and yet she somehow could not find it in herself to lie to this man who was, after all, her brother, if only by marriage. She did not like admitting weakness, much less a weakness that she felt to be somehow beneath her. It was far easier to pretend that she did not want James to notice her, that she did not care for her husband’s opinion, that their whirlwind courtship and marriage had been no more than youthful foolishness and lust, nothing deeper.
But she had already realized that this was simply not true. And, all at once, she was tired of pretending otherwise.
“Violet,” West said, looking at her evenly, “I do not know what it was that came between you and my brother. It’s really none of my concern, after all. But I do think you are entirely incorrect to assume that he has only taken notice of you recently.” Violet opened her mouth to reply, but West forestalled any protest. “He has never stopped noticing you,” West said simply. “I doubt he ever will. I do not know what has broken between you, or whether it can be fixed, but I think the first step to take would be to stop lying to yourselves.”
And, suddenly, Violet found herself quite at a loss for words. It was an unusual experience for her. She had no reply for West, because she knew, in a rush of feeling, that every word he had spoken was true.
Why was she watching her husband dance with another woman? Why was she attempting to trick and torment him into coming back to her? Why was she not taking matters into her own hands and demanding he dance with her instead?
“Thank you, West,” she said suddenly, and before he could reply she was off, diving into the crowded dance floor, weaving this way and that among the waltzing couples, offering hasty apologies over her shoulder when she bumped into someone or other. She knew she was making a spectacle of herself, but she didn’t much care at the moment.
Then James and Sophie were before her. A few minutes before, she would have taken pleasure in the expression of discomfort on James’s face. Now, however, she barely noticed, instead reaching up and tapping her husband quite firmly on his shoulder—and not allowing herself to notice how very shapely and well-muscled said shoulder was.
James turned, startled, and Violet met his eyes straight-on, not blinking. “Would you mind if I cut in?”
James’s eyebrows rose, and a smile flitted across his face—it was gone before it was ever truly there, but Violet had seen it, and it gave her a bit of courage. This was a commodity in which she was not usually lacking, but which she rather welcomed at the moment.
Sophie, for her part, looked equal parts amused and pleased. “I find myself suddenly fatigued,” she said, placing a dramatic hand to her forehead. “I think I must find somewhere to sit down.” Violet was vaguely conscious of the eyes of the surrounding dancers on them; several couples had stopped waltzing altogether to better watch this scene. Sophie, however, seemed unconcerned—she was quite a bit bolder than anyone gave her credit for, Violet realized. Without so much as a backward glance, she vanished into the crowd, her head held high, heedless of the whispers she left in her wake, leaving Violet and James alone.
So to speak. They were, of course, in the middle of a crowded dance floor—proving a bit of an obstacle to the other dancers at the moment, in fact, who were still watching them with a great deal of interest.
“Shall we?” James asked, extending a hand. Violet took it and allowed him to pull her close to him—closer, she noticed, than he had been standing to Sophie during their waltz.
She was conscious of everything about him—it felt as though every nerve had become sensitive to his presence. She smelled the familiar scent of him, sandalwood and soap and something indefinable but entirely James. She could feel the warmth of his hand at her back, seeming to sear her flesh despite the barriers of clothing and glove between their skin. She was standing so close to him that if she looked at his jaw—which she found herself doing, because the idea of looking into his eyes suddenly seemed impossible—she could see the faint trace of evening stubble there. While initially she was aware of the stares and whispers of the couples around them, the longer she danced in James’s arms, the dimmer her consciousness of anything but him became.
After several paces, James said, “Oh, I’m sorry.” Violet glanced up, startled, and he continued, the corner of his mouth quirking upward, “Did you want to lead? You were the one who secured this dance with me, after all.”
“If I were not in the middle of a dance floor,” Violet informed him, with as much dignity as she could muster, “I think I would hit you with my fan right now.”
“You didn’t bring a fan.”
“A mistake I shan’t repeat in the future, I assure you.”
“Of course not,” James said gravely. “After all, think of all the uses you could find for a weapon at a ball. You could whack any gentlemen who attempt to lure you onto a balcony—oh, wait.” He frowned, mock thoughtful. “If my memory serves me correctly—and I am getting up there in years, so please do correct me if I am wrong—”
“You’re eight-and-twenty,” Violet said, resisting the urge to grind her teeth.
“—but I seem to recall that you have a fondness for such interludes. But then, of course, if you were to see your husband dancing with another woman, one behaving in a rather forward manner, you could intervene—”
“James,” Violet said warningly.
“—but no, you seem to enjoy throwing your husband into just those situations.” He shook his head. “Perhaps that fan wouldn’t be as useful as I initially thought.”
“I should very much like to have it right now,” Violet said acidly, “so that I might thrust it down your throat.”
This time the smile lingered on James’s face, and it was embarrassing—truly, just absurd—how the sight of it seemed to make Violet’s heart swell. “I am a fortunate man indeed,” he said dryly, the smile still in place, “to be the recipient of such loving tributes from my wife.”
“I shall never ask a man to dance again,” Violet muttered. “It makes you utterly insufferable.”
“What was that, my darling?” he asked innocently. “I could not hear you over the sound of my own head swelling under such praise.”
This time, Violet couldn’t help it—she smiled, too. And it felt wonderful.
“Did you enjoy your waltz with Lady Fitzwilliam?” She smiled up at him with a look of innocent inquiry. “She seemed most…” She trailed off delicately. “… enthusiastic.”
“Yes, quite,” he said dryly. “Though I sup
pose it’s no more than I deserve.”
Violet looked up sharply at that—the smile had faded from James’s face, and he was looking at her intently. It wasn’t quite an apology, but it was something—something that gave Violet reason to hope.
“I quite agree,” she said lightly. “Though of course I was as shocked as you at the drastic turn in Lady Fitzwilliam’s feelings for you.” She sighed airily. “I suppose one never can predict the workings of the human heart and all its complexities.”
“Violet.” James’s voice was stern, but she could detect a thread of amusement running through it. “Did one of your bloody poets say that?”
“No,” Violet said, then admitted, “although it wouldn’t be at all out of character for one of them.”
“That idiot Byron would certainly spew some such nonsense,” James muttered.
“We’ll feel foolish if, after all our mockery, Lord Byron goes on to be considered one of the great poets of the ages,” Violet said, mainly to annoy him.
“I think I shall have to eat my words about some things, but never about Byron.”
“Shall we wager on it?”
“No,” James said firmly. “I believe Jeremy and Lady Templeton have done enough wagering for all of us for the evening.”
Violet laughed, and silence fell between them for a moment. Unlike their usual silences, however, this one wasn’t strained or cold. It felt comfortable. Violet realized that here, in the middle of a crowded ballroom, enclosed within the circle of her husband’s arms, she felt safer than she had in ages. Years, perhaps.
She only felt truly safe when James was there.
“James,” she began hesitantly, “I’ve been thinking that perhaps you and I should talk.”
She looked up at him as she said this, and he opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the dance ended. They separated, and James bowed stiffly as Violet curtseyed. They stood awkwardly before one another for a moment, and James opened his mouth to reply once more, but before he could, they were interrupted.
“Audley,” Penvale said, materializing at James’s shoulder, “fancy a game of cards and a drink?” He was accompanied by Diana, who linked her arm through Violet’s own.
“And you must come with me, darling,” she said, already pulling Violet away from the gentlemen. Violet could do no more than wave helplessly to her husband as she was tugged along in Diana’s wake, feeling oddly bereft. She couldn’t recall the last time she and James had said so little and yet communicated so much with one another—and she would have given a considerable amount to know what he had been about to say when they were interrupted.
“Your timing is abominable,” she grumbled as Diana led her to the refreshment table, where Emily was nursing a glass of lemonade in the company of—Violet gave an internal groan—the dreaded Mr. Cartham. Now Violet understood Diana’s hurry.
“Emily was in need of rescue,” Diana said. “And in any case, I had promised the next dance to Willingham and I needed an excuse to abandon him. The man is truly insufferable, do you know that? I don’t know how your husband has tolerated him for all these years—although I suppose that, being men, they communicate largely through grunts and clinking glasses, so I’d wager Audley isn’t aware of just how horrid the man is.”
“Diana,” Violet protested, laughing a bit, but before she could say more they had reached Emily and Mr. Cartham.
“Ladies,” Mr. Cartham said in that oily voice of his. He was of middling height, with dark hair scraped back severely from his face, and harsh features. He was not a handsome man, and his face was further ruined by the smug expression he always wore in Emily’s company. Violet didn’t know how Emily could stand to be in the man’s presence for more than two minutes—but she also knew that Emily had no choice in the matter. Taking a cursory glance about the room, she saw Lady Rowanbridge watching them carefully from where she held court amongst a swathe of society matrons. She looked anxious.
“Mr. Cartham,” Diana said, her tone curt to the point of impoliteness. “I do apologize for depriving you of Lady Emily’s lovely company, but I’m afraid I’ve a pressing need for her at the moment. It’s a bit of an emergency, I’m afraid.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, then played her trump card. “A ladies’ problem.”
Mr. Cartham might have made a fortune from his gambling hell; he might have been well-connected; and he might have—according to rumor—known his way around certain criminal elements of the London underworld—but even he was not so foolhardy as to face the prospect of a “ladies’ problem” with complete sangfroid.
“Of course,” he said hastily, dropping Emily’s arm as though it were a blazing-hot poker. “I relinquish her to your care.”
“You are all that is magnanimous,” Diana replied—Violet thought that, had they been characters in a novel, Diana would have been wielding a rapier and offering an elaborate courtly bow, somehow all while twirling her impressive moustache.
“What on earth was that about?” Emily asked as they darted out of the ballroom and into the corridor that lined it.
“We were saving you, of course,” Diana said impatiently as they turned right and walked toward the ladies’ retiring room, their footsteps muffled by the heavy carpet. “I couldn’t allow you to languish in that man’s company.”
“Diana,” Emily said, an uncharacteristic note of impatience in her voice, “it’s entirely possible that I might have to marry Mr. Cartham someday—someday soon, in fact,” she added, and Violet could not miss the hint of sadness in her voice. “I’m not getting any younger, you know.”
“And you’re still the most beautiful woman in any ballroom,” Diana said loyally.
“That isn’t the point,” Emily insisted, and Violet and Diana looked at her in surprise. “I shall have to grow accustomed to the man at some time, and I can’t do so if you are constantly conspiring to keep me from his company.”
“Darling, his company makes you miserable,” Diana said. She paused for a moment before adding, “And besides, I couldn’t help but notice that you seemed to find Lord Julian Belfry’s company rather enjoyable.”
Emily blushed. “He asked me to dance, and my dance card wasn’t full. It would have been the height of rudeness to refuse him.”
“Yes, of course,” Diana said with a grin. “I am certain that is the only reason you had for dancing with him—mere politeness.”
“Lord Julian would be an entirely unsuitable candidate for marriage—” Emily began, but Diana cut her off with an incredulous laugh.
“More unsuitable than Mr. Cartham from heaven only knows where? I think not.”
“And,” Emily continued, as though Diana hadn’t spoken, “he has given no indication that he has the slightest interest in matrimony.”
“Well, of course not,” Diana said impatiently. “Men never do have the slightest interest in matrimony, until they suddenly do.”
While Violet thought that Diana might be sticking her nose where it didn’t belong at the moment, even she was forced to privately acknowledge the truth of this statement. It had certainly proved true in her own case—James had once confessed to her that, prior to meeting her, he hadn’t thought to marry until he was thirty. Instead, they were five years into their marriage, and he still had yet to achieve that lofty age.
“I don’t wish to discuss this anymore, Diana,” Emily concluded, a note of steel in her voice that Violet thought Diana would be wise not to ignore. Diana evidently had thoughts along the same lines, because as they slipped into the ladies’ retiring room—which was mercifully unoccupied at the moment—she redirected her focus to Violet.
“You and Audley looked quite cozy,” she said, sinking down onto a settee in the small sitting room. Violet sat down next to her and set about unbuttoning her gloves. It had been quite warm in the ballroom, and the temptation of air—even the overheated air of this small, stuffy room—on her bare skin was too great to resist.
“We were waltzing,” she said shortly, stri
pping off first one glove, then the other. “Close proximity is one of the requirements of the dance, I believe.”
“I do not know what I did to deserve such vexing friends,” Diana announced to no one in particular. “It seems a cruel fate for one such as myself.”
Violet let out a rather unladylike snort and exchanged an amused glance with Emily.
“For your information,” she said, and Diana leaned forward eagerly, rather like a dog beneath a table hoping to receive scraps of food, “James and I were in the midst of a conversation that I think had real promise—until you and that brother of yours so rudely interrupted us.”
Diana moaned dramatically, flinging a hand to her forehead as she leaned back against the cushions of the settee. “I shall never forgive Penvale,” she said morosely. “Just think—if he had not been so determined to seize Audley for one of their masculine tête-à-têtes, you and Audley might have… I don’t know…” She trailed off for a moment, seemingly trying to think of some suitably scandalous behavior. “Kissed on the ballroom floor,” she finished dramatically.
“Are you sure you’re not thinking of yourself?” Emily asked innocently, calmly fanning herself. “That seems rather more your style than Violet’s.”
“The point is,” Violet said loudly, seeking to steer this conversation back on course, “I should rather like to continue that conversation. So I think I am going to do just that, if you will excuse me.”
She stood without awaiting a reply, shoving her gloves into her reticule rather than putting them back on—her mother would probably deliver an ear-blistering lecture at the sight of such impropriety, so Violet made a mental note to exert even more effort than usual to avoid her. She did not reenter the ballroom, since she knew James would not be there; instead, she continued down the hallway, peering into each room she passed until she spotted James and his friends—Penvale, Jeremy, Belfry, and, to her surprise, West—around a table littered with glasses.
To Have and to Hoax Page 23
