This was not the reaction Violet had been expecting.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Our bags,” James said slowly, enunciating each word clearly. “I don’t suppose you plan to travel in that nightgown, lovely as it is?” Violet sat up straight, and his eyes dropped to her breasts. She was tempted to cross her arms over her chest, but the heat of his gaze kept them still at her sides. She chanced a quick glance down, wondering what had caught his attention, and realized that her sudden motion had caused the thin fabric to press against her chest in interesting ways. She leaned back slightly, letting him look his fill. She was not above admitting that it was thoroughly gratifying.
“You were saying?” she asked after a moment, feeling that this had gone on quite long enough. Although she had to admit, it considerably soothed her ego—she had wondered more than once if James had found comfort in someone else’s arms during the years of their estrangement, but this seemed a tick in the box of evidence in the negative. Breasts were all very well, but no man who was enjoying bedsport on a regular basis looked at a pair with such an expression of wistful longing.
He wrenched his eyes away from the sight and blinked twice to refocus his attention on her face.
“Packing?” she prodded gently.
“Ah, yes.” He took a step back, and his voice had returned to its usual distant tone. “Packing. You see, I understand that on the Continent they have sanitariums that offer rest cures for consumption, so it seems that we should pack your bags and make arrangements to leave immediately.”
“To go where?” Violet asked warily.
“Switzerland.”
“Switzerland!” She shoved back the blankets that covered her—it was too bloody warm in this room, anyway—and came up onto her knees. “I’m not going to Switzerland!”
“If this physician of yours is correct, and you have consumption, then I don’t see that you have much choice.” James looked around the room thoughtfully. “Shall I ring for Price immediately, or would you like to take a nap first? I know it’s been a trying day for you.” He reached out, placed a hand on her forehead. “And you are starting to feel feverish.”
Violet swatted his hand away; playing the invalid was all well and good, but she was hardly prepared to be carted off to some patch of grass on the Continent. “I certainly am not! I’m just warm from being trapped in bed all day in the middle of the summer.”
He tsked once, now reaching out to press the back of his hand against her cheek. “That’s what you would say if you were truly feverish, so I don’t know that I should trust your word in this regard.” He paused, looking at her thoughtfully. Unlike when he’d been evaluating her a moment before, there was nothing remotely amorous in his eyes now.
“I am not going to bloody Switzerland!” Violet half shrieked. Belatedly remembering she was supposed to be ill, she offered a sort of hacking swoon that resulted in a not-terribly-graceful collapse back onto her pillows.
“I’m not certain I should respect your wishes in this case,” James said, eyeing her with a show of concern. “Switzerland’s supposed to be very healthy. All that Alpine air. And the goats.”
“Goats?” Violet repeated blankly.
“Goats,” James confirmed with a nod. “They’re healthy sorts of creatures, aren’t they?”
“Er,” Violet said, words momentarily failing her.
“If Switzerland is good enough for a goat, it’s good enough for you,” he declared grandly.
“How very romantic,” she murmured, privately wondering if perhaps an actual physician should be summoned to examine him. “But I don’t have the slightest desire to go to Switzerland, goats or no. I’m certain that it’s very lovely, but I don’t think that’s quite necessary yet.”
“Well, a second physician certainly is.” His tone was flat, and any trace of lightness that she might have seen in him was suddenly absent. He crossed his arms over his chest, and the only wildly inappropriate thought she seemed capable of summoning was that his doing so did very enticing things to the muscles in his arms.
“James, I don’t want another physician,” she said, only slightly belatedly. She sat up straight again, and again his eyes dropped to her chest. She really must find a different nightgown to wear, she determined—or perhaps not, on second thought, given the wicked light that gleamed in his eyes as he looked at her. “I do not feel terribly poorly, truly,” she added before adding a faint cough as punctuation. She didn’t want to be bedridden—and she certainly didn’t want an actual physician to come and tell him she was perfectly healthy—but it wouldn’t do to seem too much recovered.
“Briggs seemed to think that my condition would vary wildly by the day,” she improvised, hoping that James knew nothing at all about the course of the illness, and cursing her own foolishness in not doing a bit of research. “He said there was no reason I shouldn’t carry on with my usual activities on the days I felt up to it.”
“You’re in bed,” he pointed out. “In the middle of the day. Clearly, you don’t feel up to much of anything. Unless this is an invitation?” he added, and, to her fury, she found herself blushing. Her mind was instantly filled with memories she had done her best to suppress over the past four years, so as not to drive herself mad. Memories of bare skin, entangled limbs, the warmth of James’s mouth on unspeakable parts of her body.
“I’m a bit fatigued, is all,” she managed, and before she even realized what she was doing, she had reached out to place a hand over his own. He froze, his eyes looking down at their hands.
It was not that she had never touched him over the course of the past four years. A polite bow and a formal kiss on the hand were not uncommon, and he had helped her in and out of many a carriage. But those were scripted touches, ones deemed acceptable—even necessary—by society. This was sudden, unplanned, for them and them alone.
And it still felt so right.
Before she could think better of it and remove her hand, he had turned his palm-up, capturing hers in the grasp of his much larger hand. His grip was firm, his skin very warm against her own. She didn’t dare look up at his face, instead directing her comments to their linked fingers.
“I’m certain I shall be feeling better in the morning, so there’s no need to concern yourself overmuch. In fact, Diana has invited us to the theater with her tomorrow, and I should like to attend.”
“The theater?” he repeated slowly, and she risked a glance upward, to find that she was being surveyed with a narrow-eyed gaze. He looked . . . suspicious. Suspicious was not good. “A bloody physician has just told you you have consumption and you want to go to the theater?”
“Well,” Violet hedged, thinking fast—or at least, as fast as was possible when half of her attention was still devoted to the feeling of his hand clutching hers. “It’s tomorrow, not today. And I do think I am improving already.”
“This is ridiculous,” he said, dropping her hand. “I am going to send for Worth at once for a second opinion, and then, if he confirms this quack’s diagnosis, we can consult with him on a plan of treatment.”