To Have and to Hoax(73)
“Of course,” Jeremy said, unconcerned. Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Violet and Lady Fitzwilliam exchange raised eyebrows.
“How would you feel about a swan centerpiece for your dining room table?” Diana asked.
“Lovely,” Jeremy replied. “Since I don’t expect to ever see such a thing.”
“Right,” said Penvale, seeming to seize upon the momentary cessation of hostilities to change the subject. “Shall we—”
The faint strains of a waltz began to filter throughout the room; the previous set had ended while Jeremy and Diana were speaking, and Penvale was now interrupted by a gasp from Lady Fitzwilliam. He turned politely in her direction. “Yes, my lady? Is something wrong?”
“No, no, nothing at all,” Lady Fitzwilliam replied, waving her hand quickly. “I merely . . . no, never mind.”
“I assure you, my lady, we are all ears,” James said, in as pleasant a voice as he could manage.
“It is only that I thought I heard the sounds of a waltz,” Lady Fitzwilliam said with her best downcast look.
The rest of the party turned to look at James.
“Lady Fitzwilliam,” he said as politely as he could, despite the fact that he felt rather like a cornered fox, “would you do me the very great honor of giving me this dance?”
“Oh,” Lady Fitzwilliam said brightly, as though the idea had never occurred to her. “How very kind of you, Lord James.” She took his proffered arm. “I do so love to dance the waltz, but of course I would never be so forward as to ask you myself . . . how very thoughtful you are.” She stroked a finger down the length of his forearm in a disturbingly flirtatious way. James shot a glare at Violet, who looked as though she were biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself laughing.
This, James thought, not for the first time over the course of the past fortnight, was why men should never marry.
Twelve
Violet was not certain what it said about the state of her marriage—or, perhaps, her social life—that watching her husband dance with another woman was the most entertaining thing she’d experienced at a ball in years.
James steered Sophie around the ballroom with the look of a man faced with an unpleasant task who was determined to get it over and done with, no matter the cost to him personally. Sophie, by contrast, was leaning forward ever so slightly—not close enough to cause any blatant gossip, as there was still a sliver of space between James and herself, but certainly closer than either Emily or Diana had ever stood when dancing with James before.
The evening was going perfectly according to plan. James appeared wildly uncomfortable with Sophie’s advances, and his kiss at home, and his seductive words just a few minutes before—blast her horrible mother for interrupting that particular interlude!—seemed to indicate that he desired her as much as she did him. And he didn’t like it one bit when she feigned indifference. Surely, all of this combined was enough to cause some sort of revelation in even the most thickheaded, emotionally stunted of men—and James, fond of him as she was, could not be said to possess a great deal of emotional intelligence. But surely even he must be awakening to his own desire. For her. Now, in theory, all she had to do was wait for him to come to her.
Violet was drawn back from watching the entertaining tableau before her with a sharp “Lady James.”
She turned, her hackles already going up at the distinct note of disapproval she heard in the voice summoning her, and found herself face-to-face with James’s brother.
“West,” she said, sagging slightly.
West’s eyes, at the moment, were focused on her with an expression of more gravity than she had ever seen. In truth, Violet and West had always gotten on well—early in her marriage, when James and West had been closer, she had invited West to dinner often, and they would frequently dine à trois, West lingering late into the evening for drinks and discussion. The loss of this camaraderie was one of the many things she regretted about the past four years.
“I suppose you have something to do with this,” West said. He jerked his head in the direction of the dance floor, where James and Sophie were currently waltzing near Diana and Belfry. Past them, weaving in and out of the other immaculately dressed couples on the dance floor, she spotted Penvale and Emily.
“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.”