Now, sitting in the carriage, she smoothed the violet silk over her knees, casting a quick glance at James as she did so. Her traitorous heart thumped a quick beat. There was not a single gentleman of the ton whose appearance was not improved by the elegance of a well-tailored jacket and a perfectly tied neckcloth, but none of them, as far as Violet was concerned, could match James. His dark hair was combed back, leaving nothing to distract from the strong lines of his face, his arresting eyes.
Why, Violet wondered in a moment of self-pity, did he have to be so hopelessly beautiful? So beautiful that she still caught her breath sometimes, wondering that she had once caught his attention? It would be so much easier to nurse her anger, to keep it burning hot and bright, if she were not still, on some level, the same besotted girl she had been when she met him.
Violet was dimly aware of Diana responding to Emily’s comment, but she scarcely heard her, so distracted was she by the man beside her. James had been gazing out the window of the carriage, but he suddenly glanced at her as though drawn by her eyes on him.
“I’m pleased to see you looking so well, darling,” he said, and there was a sardonic note to the term of endearment that Violet didn’t like. “Do let me know if you begin feeling unwell at any point in the evening, and I shall endeavor to remove you from our box before you commence coughing over all of our companions.”
Violet narrowed her eyes. He looked at her evenly, without blinking, and she found herself unable to look away. She knew he was angry with her over her refusal to summon another physician, and yet some part of her thrilled to hear the edge in his tone. She hadn’t realized, until the past few days, how much she had missed hearing something, anything, in his voice other than cool politeness. He seemed likely to throttle her at any moment, it was true, but somehow this didn’t concern her as much as it perhaps should have.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said in a voice of calculated sweetness. “I did bring a handkerchief along with me, so I think I shall be able to manage. Your concern is much appreciated, but—” She paused to stifle a carefully calibrated cough in her sleeve. “—I received plenty of advice and wisdom from Dr. Briggs, and it rather renders your contribution unnecessary.”
A muscle in James’s jaw twitched, and for a moment he was silent. Opposite Violet, Emily shifted, clearly uncomfortable.
Before Emily could intervene with some sort of polite inquiry to break the tension, James spoke again. “Very well, darling,” he said, his eyes still on Violet. “I shan’t trouble myself a moment more about you, then.”
He returned his gaze to the carriage window, and Violet felt suddenly oddly discontent. That wasn’t what she wanted at all.
She hadn’t long to stew over his words, however, for the carriage soon slowed to a halt and the door was opened. James exited first, then stood waiting, his hand outstretched. This contact—the touch dictated by politeness when entering and exiting a carriage—was often the only physical contact Violet and James had for weeks at a time. Even through the fabric of her gloves and his, she could feel the warmth of his hand, its steady strength. She should not have been so comforted by it.
A moment later, however, the contact was broken as James unceremoniously dropped her hand and reached up to help Emily down in turn—with rather more gallantry, Violet noticed.
“It is a shame Mr. Cartham was unable to join us this evening,” James said to Emily, his tone indicating that he felt just the opposite. “But I see it has worked in my favor, as I now have two ladies on my arm, rather than just one.”
He extended his other arm to Violet without looking at her, his attention still focused on Emily and her murmured reply, and Violet took it with bad grace. She would have liked nothing better than to drop his arm and storm ahead of him into the theater unescorted—well, no. She would have liked that, it is true, but she could think of several things she would have enjoyed doing even more. Near the top of that list was stabbing James’s well-muscled, perfectly garbed arm with a letter opener.
However, bloodshed did have an odd way of spoiling an evening—and seemed like behavior ill befitting a sometimes-invalid. She paused to spare an idle thought for a time when James had not treated her as though she were a rather inconvenient and recalcitrant sheep, and allowed him to escort her and Emily into the theater, Diana trailing behind them on the arm of her brother, who had arrived directly in their wake.
The Belfry, despite its scandalous reputation, was a beautiful theater, both outside and within. The building Lord Julian had selected was an elegant neoclassical concoction near Haymarket, and Violet could not help but stare admiringly at the columns framing the entrance as James swept her between them. Inside, the Belfry was even more impressive, sumptuously appointed in velvet and silk in varying shades of blue and green. It wasn’t at all what she had been imagining—she had had in her mind something akin to a tawdry imitation of a brothel—and she now better understood why Lord Julian was so determined to make the establishment respectable. Such a space deserved a more illustrious crowd than dissolute aristocrats and their mistresses.
At the moment, however, that was who surrounded them. Violet recognized half a dozen men she knew, viscounts and earls and, heavens, even a marquess, but not a single one was with the woman she was accustomed to seeing him escort. She tried very hard to seem worldly and bored, but she was, in fact, slightly shocked. She knew, of course, that fidelity was hardly universal among the ton, and that love matches such as hers were exceedingly rare, but to see the evidence of these gentlemen’s extramarital activities was another thing entirely.
She had married for love—well, love, and because she’d been compromised—but that was a decidedly less romantic explanation, and one that she generally chose to ignore. She and James had discussed it more than once, and he had told her that even had they not been discovered on that balcony, he would likely have proposed within a fortnight.
“Truly? A fortnight?” Violet had asked on the first occasion upon which this had been discussed.
“At most,” James said with a masculine grin. He leaned toward her to place a lingering kiss upon her lips, one Violet felt from her head to her toes.
She and James had made a hash of their supposedly great love match in the end—but that first year had been often glorious. Lazy mornings in bed. Long hours together in the library. Evenings out at the theater and musicales, making occasional eye contact and sharing the knowledge of what delights awaited them upon their return home.
Oh, how she missed it.
Yes, she would admit that much—she could not, would not admit to missing James himself, but she was not too proud to admit that she missed what they’d had, what their marriage had once been. It had not been perfect by any stretch of the imagination—James had often infuriated her almost beyond bearing, and yet they had always managed to make it up. Until one day they couldn’t.
Now, standing here in this beautiful theater, surrounded by men with women who were not their wives, she suffered a small pang of uncertainty. Had James come here before? It had been four years since they had shared a bed; had he truly remained celibate that entire time? She had always assumed he had, had assumed that he was as miserable as she. Had that been naiveté?
James, with his usual abysmal timing, chose that moment to speak to her.