To Have and to Hoax(103)

“So, for as long as I can remember, you were Father’s before you were anything else. I never trusted you not to go running to him with my secrets.”

“You never gave me the chance to prove otherwise,” his brother said.

“I know,” James said frankly. “I’m not here to argue with you. I’m just here to say I’d like to try again.”

“Did Violet ask you to apologize to me?” West asked.

“No,” James said, very glad that this was the answer he was able to give. “She told me—well, she told me a number of things—not that that would surprise you, I imagine,” he added with a quick grin, which was matched by one of West’s own. “But I realized that I was being a bloody idiot, and I need to trust people, and that’s why I’m here, telling you that I want to trust you.”

James felt decidedly odd when he had finished with this little speech. He wasn’t used to confiding in West—wasn’t used to confiding in anyone, in truth. Even Jeremy and Penvale, two men in whom he’d have considered his faith to be unshakable, had never been on the receiving end of any confessions of this sort—and for the first time, James wondered if it wasn’t so much that Jeremy and Penvale were more trustworthy than anyone else, but rather that his faith in them had never been tested in the way it had with Violet and West. He wondered what would have happened to his and Jeremy’s friendship had he learned about Jeremy’s role in his meeting with Violet four years ago. He thought it likely that their friendship would have been damaged beyond repair, and he spared a moment to be grateful that he was not that same man—boy, really—of four-and-twenty anymore.

“If you expect me to weep and embrace you, I shall have to tell you right away that I’m not really the sort,” West said. His tone was grave, but James could see the amused look in his eyes.

“I rather think a handshake will do,” James said, equally gravely, and he thrust out his hand. West seized it in his own and gave it a firm shake.

“I think this calls for a drink,” West said, moving as if to cross to the sideboard, where James knew his brother kept a stock of very fine brandy. “You look rather done in by having bared your soul and all that.”

“Very touching,” James said dryly. “But actually, I need to go.”

West raised a brow. “So soon after our joyous reunion? You wound me.”

“I’d love to stay and chat”—and here, James was surprised to realize that he actually meant these words—“but I must go rescue my wife from her mother.”





Eighteen


Violet was on her third scone when James arrived.

Her mother was in the midst of a lengthy exposition on the numerous ways that Violet’s marital woes were Violet’s own fault when the door to the drawing room was flung open. Violet and Lady Worthington turned in unison, startled, expecting to see the butler or a footman, but instead it was James.

And he was glorious.

His hair was more tousled than ever, as though he’d ridden over at great speed, and he wasn’t wearing any sort of neckcloth. Violet darted a quick glance at her mother to make sure she hadn’t fainted at this state of undress. After determining that the lady was still conscious, she turned back to her husband.

“James,” she said coolly, clinging to the fragments of her dignity and trying—and failing—not to look at the triangle of skin that was visible at his cravat-less collar.

“Violet,” he said, and her eyes shot to his at the sound of his voice, at the intensity she heard there. This was not a James in the mood for one of their games.

“I thought I told you not to follow me,” she said, striving to keep her voice steady, even as her heart leapt at the sight of him, standing there as if she had willed him into existence. It was a difficult task, since he had taken several strides across the room toward her, forcing her to tilt her head back slightly to look at him.

“That’s not precisely what you said,” he said, and she was surprised to see the beginnings of a smile curving at the edges of his mouth. “What you said was for me not to come after you until I could trust you and make ours a true marriage again. So here I am. Following instructions.”

Violet was torn between fury and—betraying fool that her heart was—hope. “I suppose you’ve had a change of heart and really assessed your priorities thoughtfully and carefully in the past two hours, then?” She was pleased that her voice sounded suitably frosty—but that seed of desperate hope continued to worm its way into her heart, and the part of her that had secretly wished for him to follow her was in danger of overpowering the rest of her, so great was the joy his presence sparked in her in that instant.

“No,” he said, taking yet another step closer to her. He was so near now that she could smell him—he smelled faintly of horse and sweat and himself, and it made her want to tug him closer, lick his skin. At precisely the moment that these—thoroughly indecent, unladylike—thoughts were flitting through her mind at the speed of bullets, there was the sound of a throat being cleared.

“Lord James,” Lady Worthington said stiffly. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“Lady Worthington,” James said, looking away from Violet at last and offering an entirely correct bow to her mother. “It has been far too long.” His tone indicated that his sentiments were exactly the opposite. “I apologize for interrupting, but I could not help but overhear a snippet of your conversation with my wife as I approached.”