To Have and to Hoax(75)
“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 suppose 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.