His father smiled his infuriating smile at him, and then nudged his horse into a trot, leaving James, gaping like a fool, sitting atop his stationary horse in the middle of Rotten Row.
The only thing to do was to take himself home, and so James did just that. The insinuation about Jeremy had been shocking, no doubt—he had always tried his hardest not to think about Jeremy and Violet together on that balcony, but when the memory did spring to mind, he waved it off as Jeremy being Jeremy. Now, however, James realized that it was in fact not at all like Jeremy. Say what you liked about the man—and people had on occasion had cause to say quite a bit—but he was careful in his selection of ladies. He tended to limit himself to opera dancers, actresses, widows, and unhappily married ladies with inattentive husbands. James had never seen him panting after an unmarried miss before or after that evening with Violet.
At the time, he hadn’t thought anything of it. Now, he wondered how he could have been such an idiot.
Jeremy would never have lured an eligible young virgin of marriageable age out onto a balcony—to do so and to be caught was to be forced into marriage, and if the Jeremy of eight-and-twenty was disinterested in matrimony, the Jeremy of five years prior would have shuddered at the very word. Clearly, there had been something else afoot. It was tempting to succumb to anger—James’s instinctive reaction to anything bearing his father’s fingerprints—but he was trying, if only belatedly, to learn to trust those around him, or at least give them the benefit of the doubt. He therefore resisted the temptation to bang down Jeremy’s door and present him with his accusations—and perhaps a fist to the jaw.
Instead, he rode back to the house at a feverish pace, and upon arriving, hopped off his mount and tossed the reins to a stable hand, entering the house directly from the mews and startling a scullery maid when he raced past her on the kitchen stairs. He found Wooton in the entryway, inspecting the banister railings with a white glove, in a move so entirely and stereotypically butlerish that James was, for an instant, seized with a mad desire to laugh.
“Is Lady James awake?” he asked without preamble.
Wooton straightened at the sight of him. “She is entertaining Lady Templeton and Lord Willingham with tea in the library,” said Wooton, and this piece of news caused James to freeze in the act of removing his gloves. “Shall I announce you, my lord?”
“No, thank you, Wooton,” James said, finishing the glove removal at a slightly less frenetic pace. “I’ll just surprise them, I think.”
“Very good, my lord,” Wooton said with a bow, and departed—off to do whatever mysterious things butlers did all day, that all together resulted in a quietly and efficiently run house. James set off down the hallway toward the library. He hadn’t counted on Violet having company, and particularly not on Jeremy being among said company. He supposed Jeremy had come in search of him and had stayed to converse with the ladies instead, though he reflected on the oddity of Jeremy paying a call just past noon; at this time of day, he was usually still abed (and frequently in someone else’s company).
It was strange, too, for Diana to be here this early—she kept fashionable hours, and James was certain he had heard her remark more than once on how odd she found Violet and James’s habit of early rising. He had a sneaking suspicion that Jeremy’s and Diana’s uncharacteristically early calls had something to do with the events of the previous evening; he and Violet had, after all, made rather a spectacle of themselves. He was sick of the games and the arguments and the interfering lunatics he called friends. He just wanted to have an honest conversation with his wife.
To be followed, preferably, by a lengthy interlude in bed.
This thought, in turn, conjured vivid memories of the events of the night before. Violet, her head tilted back wantonly, eyes shut, dark hair in disarray. The feeling of her hips tilting against his own in silent invitation. The heat and warmth of her as he had slid home, again and again and—
Christ.
How could he have ever thought than anyone other than Violet would satisfy him?
You didn’t, said the quiet, reasonable voice that occupied some small corner of his head. Not really.
And he knew it was true. Why else had he spent the past four years as chaste as a monk, in a house with a woman who loathed him? Because he’d never stopped hoping, never stopped wanting, even if he hadn’t been able to admit it, even to himself.
And that was the problem, really. Wasn’t that what Violet had been saying in her roundabout fashion last night? He’d loved her, but he’d lost faith in her at the slightest provocation. He’d let his past dictate his future, and he’d never done the slightest thing to fight for that future.
He was the son of a duke, and as such, he wasn’t accustomed to having to fight for much of anything. And when something didn’t come easily to him, he abandoned it.
Mathematics? Easy. Wedding Violet? Easy. Inheriting his father’s stables? Easy.
But moving past childhood hurts? His relationship with West? Marriage to Violet? More difficult. And so he’d never really tried.
And his life was undoubtedly emptier because of it.
So now it was time to do something about it.
The door to the library was cracked, and as James approached, he could hear voices filtering out. He reached for the doorknob, then paused as his brain registered what exactly he was hearing.
Violet was speaking. “. . . has gotten out of hand. James and I came to a similar conclusion last night, as a matter of fact.” James felt a flash of amusement at these words, his hand still hovering above the doorknob; Violet pointedly did not mention the manner in which they had come to an accord of sorts.
“I quite agree,” came Lady Templeton’s voice. “Which is why I say, abandon the sham illness and invite one of these—very willing—gentlemen into your bed.”
James froze, his arm still outstretched. What the bloody hell?
“You do realize that the man you’re speaking of deceiving is my closest friend, don’t you?” Jeremy asked, his tone casual; James thought that only someone who knew Jeremy well would have caught the note of anger running beneath the surface, and he felt a brief flash of gratitude for Jeremy, despite whatever mysterious dealings his friend might have had with his father five years past.
“I hardly think now is the time for you to try to claim the moral high ground about deceiving a man in his marriage, Willingham,” Lady Templeton said, her tone scornful.
“I say,” Jeremy said, and James knew instantly that Diana had gone too far, “I would like you to know that I have not once seduced a woman who was happily married, or whose marriage had ever been based on anything other than family connections or money.”
James heard the sound of a chair being pushed back against the floor, and he beat a hasty retreat before he quite realized what he was doing—he didn’t wish to be caught lurking outside the door eavesdropping on this conversation. He was irritated, even as he made his way back down the hall; he needed to speak to Violet, and he needed Jeremy and Diana to depart for him to do so. He supposed he could barge in and ask them to leave, but he didn’t particularly feel like managing the awkwardness that would doubtless ensue when they realized he’d overheard their conversation. He wasn’t concerned about Violet taking Diana’s advice—and the realization of that unquestioning trust made him feel nearly giddy—but he still thought his presence might be a bit de trop at the moment, and it hardly seemed like a good note on which to begin a discussion with Violet.