“He didn’t take too kindly to my comment about the appropriateness of the conversation,” she added, “and expressed some rather rude doubts about my suitability as James’s wife. I hadn’t intended to confront him before speaking to James of course, but at that point I rather lost my temper and told him I’d had quite enough of his interference in my marriage.”
“I do wish I could have witnessed this,” Sophie said somewhat dreamily. “I should so dearly love to see that man delivered a set-down . . .”
“Yes, well,” Violet said, preening a bit before subsiding, “it didn’t last long, I’m afraid. He wasted no time at all in informing me that he and my mother had interfered because neither of them had any confidence in their children’s ability to make appropriate matches on our own.”
“I needed an heir for the dukedom, and my elder son was unable to comply,” the duke said. “And you—your mother was worried that you wouldn’t take, I understand. How much easier to throw you two together than to leave it all to chance. You should be thanking me,” the duke said smugly. “It seems to me as though your happiness is entirely thanks to your mother and myself.”
“My mother said something similar just the other day as we were discussing this very matter,” Violet said coldly. “You may think yourselves some sort of strategic geniuses for working out how to take advantage of James’s gentlemanly instincts, but—”
The duke interrupted her with a laugh. “It hardly was the work of a genius. It was really all too easy. My son is entirely too predictable—if he sees a maiden in distress, of course he will come to her rescue. I merely had to mention to him that I’d seen his friend with someone who might cause a bit of a headache for him to send him tearing out in pursuit. And of course, it was nothing at all to have your mother stumble across the two of you on the balcony. I really must congratulate you, my dear, for putting on such a thoroughly convincing performance. Your mother questioned how well it would work, but I—”
“You knew precisely how to manipulate me.”
Violet and the duke both turned, startled, to the doorway, where James had appeared silently. Violet had been so caught up in the duke’s tale that she hadn’t noticed any noise from the mews heralding his return. She had never seen James look like this before—he was very still, his broad-shouldered form filling the doorway. His eyes were flicking back and forth between herself and his father, as though he couldn’t quite decide whom to focus on. After a moment, however, his gaze settled on the duke.
“Well, congratulations, Father,” James said, strolling into the room with a sort of studied casualness that Violet could see instantly was an act. “You win. You found me a bride with impeccable lineage, and you managed to keep your little secret until after all the papers were signed.” He continued to advance toward the duke, not stopping until he was only a couple of feet from his father. “You haven’t quite succeeded in your aim, though, since we’ve yet to provide you with an heir. Which I surmise is the reason you came to sniff around my wife today.” There was the slightest tremble in his voice, which Violet recognized as a sign of just how angry he was.
The duke’s expression grew hard as he surveyed his younger son. “Don’t make a scene, James. If you can’t keep your emotions in check, I don’t think there’s any point in my lingering.” He rose, making as if to step past James, but James blocked his progress.
“I will never provide you with an heir,” he said quietly, and while Violet knew—she knew—that it was just his anger speaking, the words were still like a dagger to her heart. Those were her future children he was disavowing. She knew he didn’t mean it, but that didn’t mean she wanted to hear it. “So your bloody scheme was all for naught.” He took a step closer to his father. “Now get out of my house.”
“You don’t mean he thought you were involved somehow?” Sophie’s brows knit together, and her tone of offended outrage on Violet’s behalf was obliquely comforting.
“I mean precisely that,” Violet said. “I made things worse because I panicked a bit, initially.”
The door had scarcely closed behind the duke when James turned to her. She wasn’t sure what she hoped to see in his eyes—understanding, perhaps? A sense of shared anger? Love? Whatever she was looking for, she didn’t find it, seeing instead a look of profound betrayal in those familiar green eyes.
“James,” she said quickly, before he could speak, “I knew nothing about this.” This wasn’t, of course, entirely true—she had known for close to two days, without telling him. But she was so eager to distance herself from their parents’ actions that she spoke without thinking.
“Yes, you did,” he said quietly. “I heard you. You just told him you’d been discussing it with your mother.” His voice was relatively calm, but she could hear the accusatory note to it.
“I tried to tell him I’d only learned of it a couple of days prior,” Violet said now. “But he . . . he didn’t believe me. He couldn’t fathom that I wouldn’t have come to him directly upon learning of such a thing, and so he assumed I must have known for far longer—perhaps even been involved from the very outset.” Her mind glossed over the memories of the hour that had followed the duke’s departure that morning. There had been words—angry words—so many of them that they blended together in her mind, leaving only the impression of hurt feelings and a sense of irreparable damage done.
One sentence, however, stuck out in unfortunately vivid detail.
“I should have known better. What well-bred miss would go out onto a balcony with Jeremy, of all people? It’s asking to be ruined.”
And the worst of it was, even the memory of that still stung. Because she had gone out onto that balcony with Jeremy—not because she was part of the ludicrous scheme that her mother and James’s father had cooked up, but because she had been eighteen and curious. And James had made the entire thing feel cheap and sordid.
That was one of the many things about that morning she could not forgive. Most of all, she could not forgive him for his distrust in her—she who had never given him any reason to doubt her. She who had just this once spoken overly hastily—who had just this once, and never before, kept information from him, and always with the intention of telling him the full truth. She who had entrusted her entire heart to him and had felt free, for the first time in her life, to be her true, honest self, without feeling the need to suppress any of the things about herself that her mother had insisted were so entirely unsuitable. For him to repay her by losing faith in her at the first provocation was a betrayal that she had at the time considered unforgivable.
Then there was the fact that when she had stormed out of the room in a fury, he had not followed. Had never followed. Had obviously not considered their marriage worth fighting for.
“Well,” said Sophie, finishing the last of her brandy in one healthy and entirely improper gulp, “that is quite the tale.”
“Isn’t it just,” Violet said, not managing to sound quite as matter-of-fact as she might have desired in that moment. To tell the truth, while unburdening herself of this story certainly made her feel lighter, somehow, it also made her feel rather glum.