Silence fell for a moment. Violet, lost in thoughts of that day four years past, watched as Sophie turned her empty tumbler in her hand, the crystal catching the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows. It was a small room but cozy, clearly well cared for. Violet wondered how many solitary hours Sophie had whiled away in here since her husband’s death. She wondered if she ever got lonely. She then reflected—rather grimly—that her own existence over the past four years hadn’t been that different from that of a widow, considering the amount of time she spent in her husband’s company.
The thought was thoroughly galling.
Violet sat up straighter in her chair, her mind working more quickly now. What a fool she had been, she realized all at once. She was twenty-three years old and she had a husband she had once adored, who was living in the same house with her, eating at the same table, sleeping in a bedchamber that shared a connecting door with her own, and yet they barely even spoke. Sophie, meanwhile, lived here in this house, her days only slightly more solitary than Violet’s own, but her parting from her husband had not been due to any lasting argument, but rather to the permanent separation of death.
She thought of that note from Penvale from the week before, and imagined an alternate scenario—one in which she had made it all the way to Audley House, only to find James dead. She thought of never being able to speak to him, touch him, kiss him again—and she felt empty. As if some critical, nameless part of her had died as well.
She had enacted this ruse to punish him for his neglect, for his distrust of her—and perhaps she had succeeded on some level. But she saw now—as perhaps she should have seen all along—that she had really done all of this because she still loved him, and she thought there was something between them worth fighting for.
Oh, to be sure, she was still thoroughly angry with him. He was still in the wrong when it came to their dispute the day of his father’s visit—but perhaps instead of waiting four years for an apology, she should have taken that step forward to bridge the divide herself. She had been so angry at first, expecting him to take the first step, to grovel at her feet. And when that hadn’t happened . . . she had done nothing.
She had done nothing to save their marriage, the relationship most precious to her. He had made a mistake, to be sure—one he still owed her an apology for—but she knew the man she had married. She knew how reluctant he was to entrust his heart to another. And she could imagine the sense of betrayal he must have felt that day, the entire foundation of his marriage having been proved to be based on his father’s duplicity. She could imagine how it must have hurt him, to think that anything about her feelings for him might have been duplicitous, too.
He had been in the wrong, there was no doubt—but he was still worth fighting for. They were still worth fighting for.
Sophie was staring at her curiously. Violet realized how long the silence had lingered between them and smiled apologetically.
“I’m sorry. I was woolgathering.”
Sophie waved a hand dismissively. “As was I. You gave me rather a lot to ponder, I must confess.”
“I seem to have given myself rather a lot to ponder.” Violet paused, then plunged on, an idea already taking form in her mind. “I felt rather foolish when I came here with my original intent.”
“Of asking me to flirt with your husband?” Sophie sounded bemused.
“Quite.” She couldn’t even muster embarrassment anymore. “I was beginning to feel our game rather childish.”
“I thought it was a duel?”
“So did I,” Violet admitted. “But I’m beginning to see it’s nothing more than a game. One that I intend to win, with your help.”
Sophie leaned forward slightly. “In flirting with him? Or did you have something else in mind now?”
Violet picked up her own tumbler, still partially full, and downed its contents in a single, gasping gulp before setting it down on one of the spindly tables that seemingly littered all ladies’ sitting rooms in England. “I thought I wanted to punish my husband. But more than that, I want to make him want me again.”
Violet felt her cheeks warm at her own daring in speaking so frankly, but she might as well lay all of her cards on the table.
“I rather think he already does.”
“But I think you might prove useful to my cause.” Violet hesitated for a moment, as James’s words—spoken to her once after he’d observed her convince Emily to smuggle three abandoned kittens from Violet’s home ( James was allergic) to her own, where she fostered them for the better part of a month before her mother discovered them—flitted into her mind.
You know, Violet, people will do as you ask even if you don’t browbeat them into it.
Those words had, predictably, led to a rather spectacular row on their part—followed, Violet recalled, her cheeks heating, by a rather spectacular reconciliation on the Aubusson rug in the library—but she was forced to admit that there’d been some ring of truth in them.
“If, that is, you are willing,” she amended hastily. “I already berated my husband once today for damaging your reputation; I wouldn’t like to do the same, even inadvertently.”
Sophie’s mouth quirked up at the corners. “I rather think I’ve already damaged it myself, haven’t I? Carrying on with a notorious rake like Lord Willingham does tend to create a bit of a scandal.”
Violet was surprised to hear Sophie admit it so bluntly. “Not so very great a scandal,” she said carefully. “I’ve only heard the faintest whisperings about it, in truth—Lord Willingham has been uncharacteristically discreet.”
“In any case, that’s all finished now,” Sophie said.
“I don’t mean to ask very much of you,” Violet said. “I merely want to teach James one last lesson. I want him to realize that he wants me, just as I want him . . . and I want him to be afraid that I won’t be waiting for him when he does.”
“I really should stay out of this,” Sophie replied, sounding as though she were enjoying herself thoroughly. “And yet, I’m compelled. Something about the idea of tormenting an Audley brother . . .” She trailed off for a moment, a dreamy expression upon her face. She then directed a steady gaze at Violet and leaned forward, intent. “Tell me what you have in mind.”
Eleven
The Rocheford ball was one of the highlights of the end of the London Season—not that James had much time for it this year. He was still feeling distinctly rattled by his quarrels with West and Violet—and even more so by the distinct knowledge that they were in the right. Being correct was something he usually prided himself on, but in this case, he somehow felt that he’d come out in the wrong, and he wasn’t entirely certain what to do about it.
He could say he was sorry, but James disregarded this idea almost instantly. He had already apologized to Violet for his behavior in the park—and for his conduct at the Blue Dove, for that matter. Anything more would be excessive. Although, if another apology ensured the chance to kiss Violet again . . .
He had tried to put that kiss out of his mind, but it was difficult. He was, after all, a healthy man of just eight-and-twenty who had been sleeping in an empty bed for far too long. As a result, he had spent much of the night reliving the taste of her, the smoothness of her tongue tangling with his own, the feeling of all of her soft curves pressed intimately against him.