To Have and to Hoax(93)

“The past four years, Violet,” James interrupted. “I’m apologizing for the past four years.”

“Oh,” Violet said, and James was pleased to see that, for the moment, she didn’t seem to have any other reply. Since the occasions upon which Violet was rendered speechless were few and far between, James seized the opportunity with both hands.

“You were right last night,” he said, “when you said I should trust you—should’ve trusted you all along.” He paused, struggling for words; he was an Englishman, the son of a duke—these were not traits that led to unburdening himself easily. He had always been taught the value of a stiff upper lip, of a controlled demeanor. He had, it seemed, become rather too good at keeping one, and it was time to unlearn that skill as best he could. Never had doing so mattered more.

“You are my wife,” he said simply, and these four words felt as important to him as any four words he had ever uttered in his entire life. They were, he realized, the beginning and the end of everything; she was his wife, and he loved her. “You should be the person I trust above all others. You’ve never given me cause not to. And I . . .” He paused a moment, the words coming too fast now, lodging in his throat. He risked a glance at her, and saw that her eyes were shining, and that there was a look in those eyes—those perfect, beautiful, dark-lashed brown eyes—that he hadn’t seen there in quite some time.

Tenderness.

“You acted as anyone with your upbringing might have done,” she finished for him, and he was surprised by the soft, affectionate note in her voice.

“That’s not an excuse,” he said. “Your parents—”

“Are frequently horrid as well,” she finished for him. “I’m quite aware of that, thank you.” Her voice was dry, and he could see a smile twitching at her mouth for a moment before it faded, her demeanor growing more serious. “But it was . . . different for you. My mother always took an interest in me—too great an interest, in truth,” and in her voice James could hear the memory of a thousand arguments with a countess who never quite knew what to do with a willful, curious, clever daughter who never did what was expected of her.

“Your father . . .” Violet looked at him, a faint line appearing on her smooth forehead as her eyebrows furrowed slightly. “He didn’t need you, and so he ignored you. And I think that that’s the sort of experience that makes it very hard to trust anyone.”

“It doesn’t matter,” James said hoarsely, and he realized he wasn’t just saying it to appease her, to bolster his apology. He truly believed it. He’d been an ass, and he was beginning to realize precisely how great of an ass—and was feeling ashamed. “I was with you in St. George’s; I stood at that altar with you and spoke those vows. It was . . . wrong of me to take my father’s word over yours.”

“Well, we can certainly agree on that.” Violet smiled at him, and it was as though the sun had reappeared after a storm. After a moment, however, her smile faded. “It wasn’t just that morning with your father, though. There were all the arguments leading up to those.”

“We always made those up,” James said, frowning slightly.

“We did,” Violet said slowly, giving him a piercing look. “But I can’t help but feel that they were preludes to that last fight, the one we couldn’t get past. Little things, small moments when you proved, over and over, that you didn’t trust our love. That you didn’t trust me.”

James opened his mouth to offer a hasty rebuttal, then paused, giving her words the thought and consideration they deserved—for he could tell by the slight hitch to her voice that they had not been easy for her to speak.

“You might be right,” he said after a long moment. “I’d never considered it in that light, but I believe you might be entirely right.”

“Of course I am.” Violet sniffed, crossing her arms, and James had to fight hard against the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I would love nothing more than another chance to not make those same mistakes again,” James said quietly, but with every ounce of feeling he held for her behind each word. Her eyes locked on his, her gaze searching, as though she were looking for some evidence of falsehood in his face. He looked calmly back at her, for once content to let his mask lie unused, his every feeling writ upon his face. After a moment, her smile returned, slowly blooming across her face, and it was so breathtakingly lovely that it made him bold, or perhaps foolish, enough to say mournfully, “Of course, it is tragic that it took such dire circumstances to bring about this realization on my part.”

Violet’s smile vanished once more, replaced by a furrowed brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your illness, of course,” James said earnestly.

“James—”

“It pains me, naturally, that we will have so little time to enjoy our reconciliation,” he continued dramatically, ignoring her attempts to interrupt. “But this is the hand the fates have dealt us, and we have nothing to do now but attempt to make the best of it.”

“You are rather an ass, aren’t you?” Violet asked.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” James assured her. “And yet, I seem to recall you always found that one of my more infuriatingly attractive qualities.”