“I suppose you have something to do with this,” West said. He jerked his head in the direction of the dance floor, where James and Sophie were currently waltzing near Diana and Belfry. Past them, weaving in and out of the other immaculately dressed couples on the dance floor, she spotted Penvale and Emily.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said airily, but West was having none of it.
“I quarreled with my brother yesterday, and I don’t wish to do the same with you,” he said shortly. “But I’d greatly appreciate it if you two would leave others out of whatever twisted little game it is that you are playing.”
Violet wished to object in outrage, to defend herself, but she wasn’t certain that she could, in complete honesty. She and James both appeared aware that they were now playing a game, one that each of them seemed equally unwilling to concede.
“For the record,” she said, “Lady Fitzwilliam was eager to assist me.”
“I don’t care a whit,” West said with an anger that belied this statement. Violet wondered if Sophie had any idea of the feeling with which he still spoke of her. “She is a respectable widow, and she has no business risking her reputation for the sake of some petty revenge against my idiot brother. I don’t deny that he likely deserves it,” he added wryly, his tone softening somewhat. “But I have always thought rather highly of you, Violet, and I think you are above this.”
In that moment, watching James dance with another woman, accompanied by the man who very well might still be in love with that woman, Violet reviewed her actions of the past fortnight. And, all at once, everything that had seemed calculated and clever suddenly seemed foolish and desperate.
“It has been so nice having him take notice of me once again,” she said truthfully, in a very quiet voice. It hurt her pride considerably to admit this, and yet she somehow could not find it in herself to lie to this man who was, after all, her brother, if only by marriage. She did not like admitting weakness, much less a weakness that she felt to be somehow beneath her. It was far easier to pretend that she did not want James to notice her, that she did not care for her husband’s opinion, that their whirlwind courtship and marriage had been no more than youthful foolishness and lust, nothing deeper.
But she had already realized that this was simply not true. And, all at once, she was tired of pretending otherwise.
“Violet,” West said, looking at her evenly, “I do not know what it was that came between you and my brother. It’s really none of my concern, after all. But I do think you are entirely incorrect to assume that he has only taken notice of you recently.” Violet opened her mouth to reply, but West forestalled any protest. “He has never stopped noticing you,” West said simply. “I doubt he ever will. I do not know what has broken between you, or whether it can be fixed, but I think the first step to take would be to stop lying to yourselves.”
And, suddenly, Violet found herself quite at a loss for words. It was an unusual experience for her. She had no reply for West, because she knew, in a rush of feeling, that every word he had spoken was true.
Why was she watching her husband dance with another woman? Why was she attempting to trick and torment him into coming back to her? Why was she not taking matters into her own hands and demanding he dance with her instead?
“Thank you, West,” she said suddenly, and before he could reply she was off, diving into the crowded dance floor, weaving this way and that among the waltzing couples, offering hasty apologies over her shoulder when she bumped into someone or other. She knew she was making a spectacle of herself, but she didn’t much care at the moment.
Then James and Sophie were before her. A few minutes before, she would have taken pleasure in the expression of discomfort on James’s face. Now, however, she barely noticed, instead reaching up and tapping her husband quite firmly on his shoulder—and not allowing herself to notice how very shapely and well-muscled said shoulder was.
James turned, startled, and Violet met his eyes straight-on, not blinking. “Would you mind if I cut in?”
James’s eyebrows rose, and a smile flitted across his face—it was gone before it was ever truly there, but Violet had seen it, and it gave her a bit of courage. This was a commodity in which she was not usually lacking, but which she rather welcomed at the moment.
Sophie, for her part, looked equal parts amused and pleased. “I find myself suddenly fatigued,” she said, placing a dramatic hand to her forehead. “I think I must find somewhere to sit down.” Violet was vaguely conscious of the eyes of the surrounding dancers on them; several couples had stopped waltzing altogether to better watch this scene. Sophie, however, seemed unconcerned—she was quite a bit bolder than anyone gave her credit for, Violet realized. Without so much as a backward glance, she vanished into the crowd, her head held high, heedless of the whispers she left in her wake, leaving Violet and James alone.
So to speak. They were, of course, in the middle of a crowded dance floor—proving a bit of an obstacle to the other dancers at the moment, in fact, who were still watching them with a great deal of interest.
“Shall we?” James asked, extending a hand. Violet took it and allowed him to pull her close to him—closer, she noticed, than he had been standing to Sophie during their waltz.
She was conscious of everything about him—it felt as though every nerve had become sensitive to his presence. She smelled the familiar scent of him, sandalwood and soap and something indefinable but entirely James. She could feel the warmth of his hand at her back, seeming to sear her flesh despite the barriers of clothing and glove between their skin. She was standing so close to him that if she looked at his jaw—which she found herself doing, because the idea of looking into his eyes suddenly seemed impossible—she could see the faint trace of evening stubble there. While initially she was aware of the stares and whispers of the couples around them, the longer she danced in James’s arms, the dimmer her consciousness of anything but him became.
After several paces, James said, “Oh, I’m sorry.” Violet glanced up, startled, and he continued, the corner of his mouth quirking upward, “Did you want to lead? You were the one who secured this dance with me, after all.”
“If I were not in the middle of a dance floor,” Violet informed him, with as much dignity as she could muster, “I think I would hit you with my fan right now.”
“You didn’t bring a fan.”
“A mistake I shan’t repeat in the future, I assure you.”
“Of course not,” James said gravely. “After all, think of all the uses you could find for a weapon at a ball. You could whack any gentlemen who attempt to lure you onto a balcony—oh, wait.” He frowned, mock thoughtful. “If my memory serves me correctly—and I am getting up there in years, so please do correct me if I am wrong—”
“You’re eight-and-twenty,” Violet said, resisting the urge to grind her teeth.
“—but I seem to recall that you have a fondness for such interludes. But then, of course, if you were to see your husband dancing with another woman, one behaving in a rather forward manner, you could intervene—”
“James,” Violet said warningly.
“—but no, you seem to enjoy throwing your husband into just those situations.” He shook his head. “Perhaps that fan wouldn’t be as useful as I initially thought.”