To Have and to Hoax(80)

Soon, too soon, she felt a warmth rushing up within her, setting every nerve in her body jangling. James was close, too, she could tell—his thrusts were growing more erratic, his breathing heavier, and his hand had slid from her breast to clutch at her hips instead, pinning her to him as he moved ever more forcefully within her.

“Vi . . . Vi . . .” he panted, pulling his head back to look at her once more. She pulled his face down to her own, kissing him sloppily and desperately, her heart pounding in her chest.

She was close—so close—but not quite there.

“James,” she moaned, arching against him with an inarticulate cry, and somehow, he understood. He let one of his hands glide down underneath her skirts, sliding it into the negligible space between them, and rubbed—not with the finesse she usually expected from him, but at that moment, Violet didn’t care—once, twice, thrice . . .

She shut her eyes tight, her head falling back against the cushions as wave after wave of pleasure washed through her. She could feel herself clenching around him, and a moment later he was gone, too, groaning into her neck as he shuddered helplessly above and within her, the sound of his pleasure heightening her own.

And, for the first time in four years, she had the feeling she’d nearly forgotten: that there was nowhere else on earth she would rather be.





Thirteen


Violet couldn’t have guessed how long they lay like that, her feet still hooked around his back, he still buried within her, his face pressed against her neck, her eyes screwed tightly shut. Eventually, however, she returned to herself and released her grip on him, allowing her legs to slide back down to the floor, her thighs protesting. The movement seemed to rouse James from his stupor, as he lifted his head at last, straightened up, and stood, his hands fumbling to refasten his breeches.

Feeling unaccountably shy, Violet blushed and looked away, suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was only half dressed in the library of a house that was not her own. She sat up, tugging her bodice into place, then raising her hands to her hair to ascertain the damage there. She fumbled around on the window seat cushions behind her, feeling for the pins that James had so cavalierly flung aside; finding them, she began shoving them haphazardly into her coiffure, attempting to restore some semblance of order.

“I don’t know much about ladies’ hair,” James said, thrusting his arms into his coat and then dropping to his knees to hunt for his gloves, “but I don’t think you’ll be able to make that look the same as it did before.” There was a faint note of satisfaction in his voice that made Violet simultaneously want to kiss and smack him.

“I know,” she said. “But I have to try something—I can’t go out looking like this.”

“We’ll sneak out before anyone sees us,” he said, locating his gloves and pulling them on. He paused, looked at her. “Where are your gloves, by the by?”

“In my reticule.”

“Ah.”

A slightly awkward silence fell.

“Well,” she said brightly, jumping to her feet. “Well.”

James looked down at her. “Would you like to leave?”

“Yes,” Violet said immediately. His gaze unnerved her; she had so much she still wanted to say to him, and yet in this moment no precise idea of how to get it out.

She opened her mouth to speak, sucking in a deep breath—and coughed.

Later, she would find it amusing how much trouble a single bit of dust could cause. They were in a library, after all—dust was rather to be expected, particularly when the library in question didn’t seem to be as heavily used as James’s and her own. In any case, this speck of dust caused her to cough once, twice—and by the time she had regained her composure, the smile had faded from James’s face.

“I’d offer you a handkerchief,” he said coldly, “but no doubt you’ve one tucked away in there somewhere for just this purpose.”

Violet’s mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”

He took her arm in a firm grip, attempting to lead her out of the library, but she resisted, digging her heels in and wrenching her arm free of his. James stopped, too, turning to her with his hands on his hips.

“Was all this just part of your game?” he asked, gesturing around him as though to encompass the library in general, the window seat in particular, and most especially the activities that had so recently taken place upon it. “Do you have a bloody plan written out somewhere? Does it tell you how often each day you should cough to raise my sympathies?” He took two steps closer to her, his cheeks flushed, eyes blazing. “Violet, I know you don’t have consumption.”

He appeared to think he’d thrown some sort of gauntlet, as though she’d cower and retreat upon this revelation. She, however, was so angry that the words practically poured out of her as she took a step closer to him, so close that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

“I know you know, you bloody bastard!” She reached out and whacked at his chest. “I had a piece of dust in my throat! I’m so frightfully sorry,” she added, sarcasm dripping from every word. “I didn’t realize you were so sensitive to my health that a mere cough would unnerve you so.”

James let out an incredulous laugh. “Says the woman who’s spent a fortnight wandering about our house coughing whenever she’s in earshot, summoning an actor to pose as her physician?”