And that was why this fresh deceit of hers, with its bloody coughing and swooning and malingering, was so damned irritating.
And he was determined to get even.
“Is Willingham planning to host his hunting party next month?” Violet broke into his thoughts, not looking at him as she spoke, keeping her attention focused firmly ahead of her. This gave James the luxury of admiring her profile, which was so lovely it made his heart clench. Her cheeks were flushed by the fresh air, and tiny wisps of dark hair had escaped her braids to curl against her fair cheeks and throat. He was suddenly possessed by so strong a desire to reach out and stroke his finger down her cheek that he tightened his fist around the reins, causing his horse to shy slightly at the pressure. He hastily loosened his grip and saw her glance sideways at him, still awaiting an answer.
“Yes,” he said belatedly. “I believe he is. I trust you will be accompanying us, as usual?”
Violet’s refusal to visit the country didn’t extend to all country houses, merely their own; it was James’s distinct impression that she had no objection to being at a country house party, full of friends, other ladies with whom she might converse—it was just the idea of visiting Audley House with only her husband for company that she found distasteful. She had accompanied him to Jeremy’s estate each August for a visit that usually stretched at least a week longer than planned. For all his other faults, Jeremy was an excellent host, and his shooting parties were among the more coveted invitations among the ton.
Violet hesitated. “I don’t know. I suppose it all depends on my health.” She gave a small cough at the end of this sentence, stifling it so quickly that James might not have noticed it at all if he hadn’t been looking.
Which she was clearly aware that he had been.
Had he been less annoyed, he might have been tempted to applaud.
“Of course,” he said, striving to keep a note of sarcasm out of his voice. As was so often the case with Violet, however, his emotions were a bit closer to the surface than he liked this afternoon. “I shouldn’t want you to suffer any sort of a relapse. Although,” he added, as though giving the matter great thought, “I do wonder if the fresh country air might do you some good. Perhaps we would do better to depart London immediately—we could allow you to convalesce at Audley House and then join Jeremy in Wiltshire once you were feeling improved.”
For the first time in his life, he wished he had a beard, if only so that he might stroke it thoughtfully. On second thought, however, that might be laying it on a bit thick.
“I don’t believe I would find a stay at Audley House terribly restful,” Violet replied. “It’s rather difficult to rest peacefully when one is constantly worrying about one’s husband breaking his neck on the back of an untrained horse, you see.” Her spine was rigid and she did not look at him as she spoke, her gaze fixed on the path ahead of them. In profile, her expression appeared carefully blank, but he could tell that her jaw was clenched tightly.
“My dearest wife, you seem to have forgotten that I am not a man prone to making the same mistake twice.”
She snorted then, the sound thoroughly unladylike.
“It seems to me that you are in fact a man prone to repeating the same mistake over and over again for his entire life.” She gave him a sideways glance as if to measure his response, and James fought to keep his facial expression neutral.
“Meaning?” His tone was cool.
“Meaning,” she said, and her voice was not as calm as it had been a moment before, “that if you are going to insist on losing faith in someone the moment you see the slightest possibility that they have wronged you, then you are going to have a very frustrating life.”
“As opposed to my life as it is now, which is all sweetness and light?”
“If you already find your life frustrating, darling, I would suggest that you have only yourself to blame.” She had gotten herself back under control, and this was delivered in a tone of perfect smoothness that he assumed was carefully calculated to enrage him.
He hated that she knew him so well—and that if her goal was to rattle him she was succeeding.
He reined in his horse sharply and reached out a hand to seize the reins of her horse as well. Persephone shied at the sudden firm touch, and reared ever so slightly on her hind legs. Violet was a competent horsewoman and adjusted her seat with ease, in no danger of falling.
And yet, that did not stop James’s arm from reaching out, as if of its own volition, to wrap around her waist and steady her. She stiffened in surprise; he knew he should loosen his grip, but he found himself unable to do so. In the blink of an eye, Persephone had all four hooves planted firmly on solid ground once more. Violet was entirely secure within the saddle . . .
And still, James could not let go.
He was obsessed, suddenly, with the curve of her trim waist beneath his hand, the warmth of her skin even through the many layers of her clothing and his gloves. He was seized with a wild, reckless desire to reach out his other hand and lift her bodily onto his horse, to sit snug before him in the saddle, her back pressed against his chest and his arms tucked around her.
This fantasy lasted but a moment, but was so vivid that he dropped his arm from her waist as though he had been stung by a bee. Violet let the rough motion pass without comment. For once.
“I assume you had some reason for halting us so abruptly?” she remarked, and James, with great difficulty, brought his mind back to the conversation at hand. He raked a hand through his hair in frustration, and did not miss the way Violet’s eyes followed the movement.
“If I find my life frustrating,” he said after a moment, having gathered his wits as best he could, “I promise you that living in the same home as you does nothing to make it less so.”
The words were harsh, and he very nearly regretted them—certainly would have if anything like hurt had flickered across Violet’s expression. But her eyes narrowed and her mouth flattened into a thin line, and he felt the same rush that he always experienced whenever he succeeded in provoking her.
“Of course,” she said stiffly. “Of course you give up on your marriage, on your relationship with West, but none of it is your fault. Of course.”
James gave an internal howl of outrage—give up? He gave up? It was utter nonsense.
“I don’t think my relationship with my brother is any of your concern.” He sounded like a pompous ass, even to his own ears.
“Oh, of course not,” Violet said. “What am I but your wife, after all? Or had you forgotten?”
“As if you’d let me,” he muttered.
“Funny,” she replied, her eyes flashing, “you seemed to have little difficulty doing so last week.”
“Violet—”
“Of course it wouldn’t even occur to you to send your wife a note that you’d been injured,” she continued, ignoring him. “Silly me to even expect such a courtesy. After all, we wouldn’t want your wife of all people to worry about you. Your wife who for years has been telling you that she wishes you’d leave the running of those stables to others. Your wife certainly doesn’t have any right—”
“Enough about the bloody accident!” he shouted, more forcefully than he had intended. He glanced around quickly, but they were far enough away from other riders that no one seemed to have heard his outburst. Belatedly, he realized that they were still standing stock-still in the middle of the path, and he gave his horse a nudge with his heel, spurring him into motion. Violet followed suit, and they continued at a measured pace down the path, James uncomfortably aware that he had just raised his voice at a lady in public. He might roll his eyes at society and its many dictates, but he liked to think that he had some semblance of good manners.