“Had I kissed you in this alcove, again and again, with my hands in your hair and your skirts tangled about my legs and our bodies pressed together so tightly so that you could feel every inch of how badly I wanted you—” He rocked his hips forward slightly as he spoke, and she gasped in reply. Her dark eyes were heated with passion.
“Now that would have been improper,” he said, leaning forward, hesitating so that their mouths were mere inches apart. His heart pounded in his chest, their uneven breaths meeting and mingling in the minimal space between them. He could practically feel the heat radiating from her skin, and his mind was already lost in detailed imaginings of precisely how soft her lips would feel beneath his.
He leaned forward even farther, making to close the gap between them—
“Lord James! Lady James!”
The voice was so unpleasantly familiar that all thoughts of seduction fled at once, any arousal doused so quickly that he might as well have had a bucket of cold water dumped on his head.
Resisting the urge to groan, James turned. Violet, who actually did groan, followed his suit.
It was Violet’s mother.
Lady Worthington was, he supposed, an objectively attractive woman. She actually bore quite a strong resemblance to her daughter—the same dark hair, the same wide eyes, the same fair, unlined skin. Lady Worthington had to be past forty by now, but she was aging beautifully, offering a glimpse of how Violet would look when she was older. However, to James’s mind, there was no comparison between the two. Everything that made Violet Violet—the quirk to her mouth when she was amused by something inappropriate, the sparkle in her eyes that made them look so vivid and alive—was entirely missing in her mother. It was as though Violet were an original work of art, and Lady Worthington a cold, emotionless copy created by an artist with much less skill.
And that was before she even opened her mouth.
“Lord James,” the countess said, offering him her hand, which he bent over, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “Lady James,” she continued as James straightened, leaning forward to brush her cheek against her daughter’s. James knew that Violet had told her mother that she would prefer that she continue to address her by her Christian name, rather than her courtesy title, but Lady Worthington was a stickler for propriety. Violet had married the son of a duke—not, it was true, the first son of a duke, as would certainly have been preferable, but the son of a duke nonetheless, and she would never, for an instant, forget this triumph, which had, of course, been of her own engineering.
“Mother,” Violet said, and James was struck, as always, by the change that came over his wife whenever her mother was in the room. She seemed shrunken, paler, a slightly faded version of her usual self. He had suggested, early in their marriage, that Violet stand up to her mother, which had led to a fight. She had insisted that she did so, whereby he replied that needling her and truly defying her were not at all the same thing. They had argued in circles for at least an hour—and then, by the end of the evening, had made up in highly memorable fashion, as was their wont. James lingered on that particular memory—which had, he recalled, involved testing the strength of one of the armchairs in the library—but after a moment decided that, given the cut of his coat and breeches, it might be best not to linger on it too terribly long.
Fortunately, the sound of Lady Worthington’s voice was sufficient to thwart any such pleasant reminiscences.
“I am pleased to see you two together this evening,” Lady Worthington said, disapproval evident in every syllable that came from her lips. James wondered how much she had been able to see of their activities—or sad lack thereof—in the alcove before she had interrupted them. “It’s lovely to see a wife where she belongs.” She paused, giving James and Violet a significant look, as though they might not take her meaning. “At her husband’s side,” she clarified. She cast James a sympathetic smile, as though they were long-suffering partners in crime.
James could practically see the rage rolling off of Violet, and quickly spoke before she could. “It is funny you should think so, Lady Worthington,” he said. “I’ve rather thought that, considering the great honor your daughter did me by agreeing to be my wife in the first place, the least I can do is dog her footsteps wherever she goes. I’m afraid I’ve been rather remiss in that matter.”
Violet watched him with a curious expression.
“You and I shall have to agree to disagree, Lord James,” Lady Worthington said icily.
“Something I’m certain James finds entirely acceptable,” Violet put in, and James had to smother a smile. “Mother, it’s been lovely to see you this evening—”
“I had something I particularly wished to discuss with you, Lady James,” Lady Worthington said with a severe look at her daughter. “Come to tea tomorrow.”
The invitation was, as was so often the case with Lady Worthington, a command, not a request.
“Of course,” Violet murmured, dipping the shallowest curtsey she could offer without seeming openly rude.
“Lady Worthington, you must allow me to steal your daughter away now,” James said. “I’m afraid her dance card is so full that she cannot afford to dawdle.”
Lady Worthington opened her mouth to reply, but James had already taken Violet’s arm once more and proceeded to steer her firmly away. Over his shoulder, he added, “Lady Worthington, next time you seek to scold my wife in a public place—or any place at all—I would advise you to reconsider.”
And with that, he and Violet made their retreat.
“I’m very tempted to turn around to see what the look on her face is like, but I don’t think I quite dare,” Violet said, a note of distinct satisfaction in her voice.
“Probably best not to tempt fate,” James agreed.
“Thank you,” Violet said, so softly that he nearly missed it, a gentle squeeze of his arm accompanying her words. He placed his free hand over hers and squeezed it in return.
“You don’t have to go to tea with her tomorrow, you know.”
Violet sighed. “It’s best just to go and let her say her bit.”
James frowned, but further conversation was forestalled by the fact that they had rejoined their party, though it had been reduced in number. Jeremy, Penvale, and Lady Fitzwilliam stood in a loose circle, making idle conversation; just as Violet and James approached, a gentleman—the younger brother of the Earl of Dunreedie, if James wasn’t mistaken—bowed to Diana and departed as she rejoined her friends. With a quick glance at her wrist, he could see that Diana’s dance card was already nearly entirely full.
“Where is Emily?” Violet asked, draining the rest of her glass of lemonade. Without thinking, James reached out and took the empty glass from her, handing it to a passing footman before turning to Lady Fitzwilliam and offering her the full glass in his hand with what he hoped was a not-at-all-flirtatious bow.
“Dancing with Belfry,” Diana said, in a tone of voice that James thought might be her attempt to sound casual. It was spoiled by the eager expression on her face.
“Is Mr. Cartham attending this evening?” Violet asked, craning her neck around to get a better look at the room. Even if Cartham were here, James thought, Violet would be lucky to spot him—it was quite a crush.