“Price said that her ladyship has not been feeling well since her return from the country,” Wooton said, and though there was no hint of reproach in his voice, James stiffened slightly all the same. Damn Wooton. He had been his father’s butler throughout James’s childhood, and had done the unthinkable—left the employ of a duke to serve a lowly second son—upon James’s marriage. James himself had barely been able to fathom it, though he knew Wooton had always had a fondness for him. Indeed, he had displayed far more concern for James’s well-being during his boyhood than his own father had, though Wooton’s concern was usually expressed in a stern, unyielding, butlerish sort of way. Sometimes, he thought Wooton forgot that he was a fully grown man, and not the lonely boy he had once been.
In any case, when James had returned home late the night before last, Wooton had been waiting by the door, as always, causing James a slight pang of guilt for keeping him up. A ridiculous emotion to feel for one’s butler, to be sure, but Wooton was not as young as he once was—though had James been asked to pinpoint precisely how old Wooton was, he was not at all certain he would have been able to give an answer with any measure of accuracy.
Wooton hadn’t said much upon his arrival beyond a curt, “I am glad to see your lordship in one piece,” and yet James had felt three different sorts of censure from that one remark—for his recklessness, for the unnecessary worry he had caused Violet, and for allowing her to travel halfway to Kent and back without his escort.
Not, James felt like informing Wooton, that Violet would have welcomed his escort on her return to London. In fact, he was relatively certain that had he entered that carriage with her, he would not have emerged in one piece. However, he had not said this—it had been a long day, but he had not yet sunk to the level of having to explain himself to his servants. Even Wooton.
Now, however, James could sense all the unspoken words Wooton was holding back—little wonder that the lady of the house should fall ill after hours of worry and uncomfortable carriage travel. Again, James was tempted to tell his butler that Violet was a sturdy sort, and that he’d never known her to be unduly troubled by carriage travel before, but he knew that all he would receive from the man would be a bland, “Of course, my lord,” so he refrained.
“I shall pay her a visit,” he said to Wooton, handing him his coat, hat, and gloves, and walking decisively toward the stairs. Glancing over his shoulder quickly as he began to ascend the steps, he was satisfied to see a fleeting expression of surprise flick across Wooton’s face. If nothing else, today he had managed to cause his butler to express an emotion, however briefly—any self-respecting Englishman could feel proud of such an accomplishment.
His steps slowed, however, as he approached Violet’s door, and he hesitated. Should he knock, or go right in? He didn’t wish to disturb her if she was asleep, but the idea of walking uninvited into her bedchamber, as though the past four years hadn’t happened . . . No. He rapped softly on the door.
After a moment, Violet’s voice: “Enter.”
Upon opening the door, the first thing that hit him was the smell. The entire damn room smelled like Violet. It made sense, of course—she slept here, for Christ’s sake—but it still caught him off guard, the strength of the scent. Violet smelled wonderful. It was hard to say what exactly her scent was—something floral and warm and uniquely Violet, though not actual violets—but he had spent the past four long years catching mere whiffs of it across the dinner table, and it was overwhelming to be surrounded by it once more. He felt like a starving man who’d been led out of the desert and sat before the most sumptuous feast he’d ever had in his life.
He gave himself a stern, internal shake. Was he going senile? Surely he was young for that.
He was distracted from these less-than-comforting thoughts, however, by the sight of Violet herself. She was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, a book lying open on her lap. She was watching him with a wary gaze.
“Violet,” he said, his voice more formal by far than it had been on the night they met. “How are you feeling?”
She gave a faint cough, then hastily stifled it before responding. “Passable, thank you.” Her voice was equally formal, and he guessed that she was still angry about their ordeal earlier in the week.
“Wooton said you’re not feeling well,” he said, taking a couple of steps forward. The curtains were pulled, dimming the light in the room, but he could see by the flickering light of the fire that she was dressed in a blue morning gown, though she had not gone to the trouble of dressing her hair, which lay in a thick braid over one shoulder. It made her look very young—very like the eighteen-year-old girl he had fallen in love with, in fact.
Had thought he’d fallen in love with, he reminded himself sternly. It wouldn’t do to allow one dratted hairstyle to make him go soft in the head.
“Yes,” she said, giving another small cough. “I’ve been feeling a bit poorly since my return from the country”—she, at least, made no effort to disguise the note of reproach in her voice—“but I’m certain it’s nothing to worry overmuch about. I shall be right as rain in another day, I expect.”
James gazed at her intently, pondering—it was unlike Violet to admit to illness until she was delirious with fever. She shifted in her chair as he continued to look at her, her cheeks flushing slightly, causing the book on her lap to fall to the floor with a soft thud.
“What are you reading?” James asked, hastening to pick up the volume before she could lean down to do so for herself. He straightened and flipped the book in his hand so that he could peer at the spine. He read the title, then flicked an amused glance at his wife, whose cheeks appeared to be reddening further.
“Childe Harold?” he asked, handing the book back to her. “Please correct me if my memory is failing me in my advanced age, but did you not once call Byron a ‘floppy-haired fool’?”
“I may have,” Violet admitted, setting the volume aside on the small table next to her chair. “But I thought I might as well see what all the fuss is about. It’s quite good, actually,” she said reluctantly, rather as she might admit that Napoleon’s coat was attractive. “Though I still think he’s a bit of an idiot. All that carrying on with Caro Lamb.” She sniffed disdainfully, and James had to suppress an urge to grin.
“I think he’s rather an idiot myself,” James said, and Violet’s gaze met his, and for a moment it was as though no time had passed. She was enjoying herself—for a moment, just a moment, he could see it plain as anything. There was the look in her beautiful brown eyes that he used to see each time they really got into it about history or literature or anything else they used to debate—the keen interest, the intelligence that polite society found unseemly in a woman. It was one of the things James loved best about her.
Had loved best.
That sobering addendum brought him back to himself, and to his reason for looking in on her. “If you are fit enough to discuss Byron, then I suppose I can rest easy that I don’t need to summon a physician for you?”
“Oh!” Violet said with a start, and an odd expression crossed her face, though it was gone before James could identify it. “No! That is, yes. That is . . .” She waved her hand, clearly attempting—unsuccessfully—to appear casual. “I shall consult a physician if I am not feeling better soon. You need not concern yourself, my lord.”