“I think this calls for a drink,” West said, moving as if to cross to the sideboard, where James knew his brother kept a stock of very fine brandy. “You look rather done in by having bared your soul and all that.”
“Very touching,” James said dryly. “But actually, I need to go.”
West raised a brow. “So soon after our joyous reunion? You wound me.”
“I’d love to stay and chat”—and here, James was surprised to realize that he actually meant these words—“but I must go rescue my wife from her mother.”
Eighteen
Violet was on her third scone when James arrived.
Her mother was in the midst of a lengthy exposition on the numerous ways that Violet’s marital woes were Violet’s own fault when the door to the drawing room was flung open. Violet and Lady Worthington turned in unison, startled, expecting to see the butler or a footman, but instead it was James.
And he was glorious.
His hair was more tousled than ever, as though he’d ridden over at great speed, and he wasn’t wearing any sort of neckcloth. Violet darted a quick glance at her mother to make sure she hadn’t fainted at this state of undress. After determining that the lady was still conscious, she turned back to her husband.
“James,” she said coolly, clinging to the fragments of her dignity and trying—and failing—not to look at the triangle of skin that was visible at his cravat-less collar.
“Violet,” he said, and her eyes shot to his at the sound of his voice, at the intensity she heard there. This was not a James in the mood for one of their games.
“I thought I told you not to follow me,” she said, striving to keep her voice steady, even as her heart leapt at the sight of him, standing there as if she had willed him into existence. It was a difficult task, since he had taken several strides across the room toward her, forcing her to tilt her head back slightly to look at him.
“That’s not precisely what you said,” he said, and she was surprised to see the beginnings of a smile curving at the edges of his mouth. “What you said was for me not to come after you until I could trust you and make ours a true marriage again. So here I am. Following instructions.”
Violet was torn between fury and—betraying fool that her heart was—hope. “I suppose you’ve had a change of heart and really assessed your priorities thoughtfully and carefully in the past two hours, then?” She was pleased that her voice sounded suitably frosty—but that seed of desperate hope continued to worm its way into her heart, and the part of her that had secretly wished for him to follow her was in danger of overpowering the rest of her, so great was the joy his presence sparked in her in that instant.
“No,” he said, taking yet another step closer to her. He was so near now that she could smell him—he smelled faintly of horse and sweat and himself, and it made her want to tug him closer, lick his skin. At precisely the moment that these—thoroughly indecent, unladylike—thoughts were flitting through her mind at the speed of bullets, there was the sound of a throat being cleared.
“Lord James,” Lady Worthington said stiffly. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“Lady Worthington,” James said, looking away from Violet at last and offering an entirely correct bow to her mother. “It has been far too long.” His tone indicated that his sentiments were exactly the opposite. “I apologize for interrupting, but I could not help but overhear a snippet of your conversation with my wife as I approached.”
“You seem to be making quite a habit of that,” Violet said sweetly.
Ignoring her, James continued addressing her mother. “If I am not mistaken, you were informing Violet of the ways she has failed as a wife.”
“Indeed I was,” Lady Worthington replied frostily. “And you should be thanking me for it, sir. If someone does not bring her back in line, how can you ever expect her to provide you with an heir?”
James turned to Violet.
“Darling, have you noticed our parents seem to have a particular fixation with your breeding organs?” James asked. Violet bit her lip to keep from laughing at the aghast look on her mother’s face.
“Lady Worthington, please allow me to make something abundantly clear,” James continued. “Any fault in my marriage lies entirely at my own two feet. Your daughter is not perfect, but she is perfect for me—and she has made me a better man than I would ever have managed to be without her. I only hope she can ever forgive me for taking such a damned long time to fully appreciate her.”
Lady Worthington was gaping at him, but he evidently was not done yet. “My wife and I have rather pressing matters to discuss at the moment, so I am going to have to cut short your tea. But please believe me when I say this: neither one of us will ever walk through this doorway ever again if you do not learn to treat your daughter with the respect she deserves.”
Any comment Lady Worthington might have wanted to make was forestalled by James reaching down, seizing Violet about the waist, and lifting her bodily from the settee. He executed another polite bow and then, without further preamble, took Violet by the elbow and steered her rather firmly toward the door.
Violet waved cheerfully at her mother on the way out, then paused, some of James’s infectious recklessness spreading to her as well.
“By the way, Mother,” she said casually, “you might want to begin keeping a closer eye on the Times from now on. Any letters published under the name of Mr. Viola were written by me, and I’m sure you’ll disagree with every single word.” Relishing the look of abject horror on her mother’s face, she allowed James to lead her from the room.
Outside, James tossed her perfunctorily into the carriage before climbing up behind her and pulling the door shut.
“If you are attempting to win my favor, this is hardly the way to go about it,” Violet said huffily, blowing a stray curl out of her face. “I believe you treat hounds with more courtesy than that.”
“Would you mind ceasing to speak for more than three seconds?” James asked pleasantly.
Violet opened her mouth and then deliberately shut it again and settled back into her seat. As soon as she ceded the space between them, James leaned forward, somehow taking up more room than it seemed logical that he should.
“In response to your earlier question,” he said in a conversational tone, “no, I have not come to some sort of glorious, earth-shattering conclusion in the past couple of hours. I’ve merely followed you to explain to you what I had already worked out.”
Violet arched a brow. “James, you lied to me this morning.”
“Afternoon, technically.”
“The point remains.”
“I know,” he said quietly, and all hint of jesting was immediately absent from his voice. “I lied to you because I was afraid that you would still think I was having my actions dictated by my father. Violet, I had already realized that I should have trusted you all along—I didn’t want my discussions with him, and with Jeremy, to complicate things.”
“You should have trusted me to understand that,” she said, her voice equally quiet. “I was mistaken four years ago when I did not come to you immediately with what I’d learned of our parents’ scheming—not,” she added severely, “as mistaken as you were in not believing me when I tried to explain the situation to you—”