To Have and to Hoax

by Martha Waters

  “My lord, I do think it rather early in our acquaintance for you to be discussing my undergarments,” Violet said, grinning at him. A startled laugh escaped him before he seemed to realize it was happening, and it made her like him more.

  “At what point would that be considered appropriate, then? I’m not entirely knowledgeable about the intricacies of etiquette.”

  Was he… flirting with her?

  “Certainly not until we’ve danced at least twice,” Violet said firmly. And was she flirting in return?

  “I see,” he said, mock somberly.

  “After all, I have very delicate sensibilities that you are at risk of offending,” she added, and was rewarded with a quick flash of a smile in the darkness. It quite transformed his face, for all that it was so fleeting. She felt, absurdly, in that moment that she would have done a great deal to receive another one of his smiles.

  “I rather think you’re more at risk of offending mine, all things considered,” he replied dryly. At this mention of the circumstances under which Violet had been discovered, she felt herself blush. It was maddening.

  “My lord,” she said stiffly, “I would ask you to please not mention—”

  “You need not even ask,” he interrupted. “I wouldn’t.” He didn’t elaborate further, but she believed him instantly.

  “I can’t imagine what you must think of me,” Violet said, giving a laugh that she hoped would pass for casual and worldly, as though she were frequently found embracing gentlemen on balconies at balls. Her heart pounded heavily in her chest, though, and she realized in a moment of clarity that she did, in fact, care what Lord James Audley thought of her, despite having made his acquaintance a mere five minutes earlier. It was rather vexing, considering that she prided herself—much to her mother’s dismay—on not giving a farthing for anyone’s opinion but her own.

  She realized that somehow, without her noticing, he had moved closer. She found herself being forced to crane her neck upward at a sharper angle than she had moments before, and Lord James’s broad shoulders blocked out some of the light emanating from the ballroom behind them. They were standing entirely in the shadows now, and even had someone chanced to wander onto the balcony at that moment, the interloper would have been hard-pressed to see them in their current position. The thought made her feel curiously breathless.

  “I think that you’re the most interesting young lady I’ve met so far this Season,” he responded, without a trace of mockery on his face or in his voice. Why was it that interesting seemed like the nicest thing that any gentleman had ever said to her? Why was interesting on his lips so vastly preferable to beautiful or charming or amusing, all compliments that had already been paid her this Season?

  His eyes caught hers and held them, and her heart began to race even more quickly, until she felt certain that he must be able to hear it, too, so loudly did it pound in her ears. Was this normal? Should she summon a physician? In everything she’d ever read about courting, there had been no mention of a moonlit scene on a balcony concluding with a swoon due to some sort of malady of the heart.

  “I’m certain my mother would be appalled if she heard you say that,” Violet managed, forcing a laugh, still not breaking their gaze. “She’s always worried that I’m too interesting for my own good.”

  He smiled again, just a flash before it vanished, and Violet once more had the curious sensation that everything around them dimmed in comparison to the brightness of that smile. Even after it was gone, its presence somehow lingered, making the sharp-angled intensity of his face less severe, more welcoming. It was as though once she’d seen that smile on his face, she could never forget the impression it had left.

  “Well, I think you’re just interesting enough for my own good.” He took a step forward and extended his hand.

  “Lady Violet,” he said, “would you do me the honor of this dance?”

  “Here?” Violet asked with a laugh. “On a balcony? Alone?” There was, after all, a perfectly good ballroom a few feet away—one to which he was supposed to be escorting her, in fact.

  “I actually thought we would go back indoors,” he said, his mouth quirking up the slightest bit at the side. “But…” He hesitated, and Violet knew that he felt it, too, this pull between them. She didn’t want to return to a noisy, crowded ballroom and discuss the weather with him.

  “You can still hear the music,” she said before she could convince herself not to, and it was true—she could catch strains of music filtering out through the French doors, spreading through the cool night air around them.

  “Yes, you can,” he agreed, so quickly that she nearly laughed aloud. “Please say you’ll dance with me,” he added, taking yet another step forward, and by now he was standing far too close for propriety. Violet tilted her head back and looked at him, finding herself caught in the intensity of that green gaze yet again. The word please sounded incredibly appealing on his lips.

  “If I must dance with you twice before any discussion of your undergarments can ensue,” he added, “I had better not waste any time—it’s a conversation I suddenly find myself quite desperate to have.”

  A startled laugh burst out of Violet and he seized the opportunity to sweep her into his arms—she had always thought the expression a bit absurd when encountered in a novel and yet there, on that balcony, on that particular moonlit night, it seemed entirely accurate.

  Violet had danced with gentlemen before, of course, and until this moment she would have said that she had enjoyed those dances thoroughly. Some had been better than others, naturally—such was the way of life, her mother had once noted with a heavy sigh—but on the whole, Violet would have considered herself a lady who liked dancing.

  But now, waltzing around on a balcony in the arms of a man she barely knew, she realized that all of those previous dances had been mere flickering candle flames compared to this one, which blazed like the sun. His arms were strong around her, turning her deftly in time with the music. This close, she could smell the particular scent that clung to him, some combination of freshly pressed linen and shaving soap and the faint note of spirits—brandy, perhaps? Whatever it was, the mixture was thoroughly intoxicating. Wild, mad thoughts flitted through her head: would it be strange to press her nose to his immaculately pressed jacket and sniff?

  She decided that yes, it would.

  She looked up at his impossibly handsome face as they slowly rotated, her eyes catching and holding his. His smile had not made a reappearance, but she could somehow sense its presence in his eyes, in the way he looked down at her. It made her feel warm and itchy in a way that she could not precisely explain, but which was not at all unpleasant.

  Over the past weeks of the Season, Violet had danced many dances, spoken to many gentlemen, worn many beautiful gowns—but it was here, in a not-particularly-spectacular evening gown of blush-pink silk (which, in her opinion, didn’t flatter her complexion), on a secluded balcony, that Violet found herself at last thinking, Yes, this.

  “You know, this might be the most enjoyable ten minutes I’ve spent at a ball all year,” Lord James said, eerily echoing Violet’s own thoughts.

  “I can hardly believe that,” Violet said lightly, attempting to ignore the thrill that had gone through her at the words. “Gentlemen are allowed to engage in all sorts of activities that are unsuitable for young ladies, some of which I imagine must be more enjoyable than standing outdoors on a rather chilly evening.”

  “True,” he agreed. “And yet, I find myself with a strong preference for this evening’s company.”

  She looked up at him then, as they turned slowly about the balcony, his hand warm and steady in her own, the other burning through layers of fabric at her back.

  “Lady Violet,” he said, halting abruptly, “I’m going to take you inside now, before I do something I regret.”

  “Oh?” Violet said, unable to suppress a note of disappointment in her voice. Instead of releasing her, he pulled her closer to him, th
e warmth of her body drawn to that of his like a moth to a flame.

  “Well, actually,” he said, gazing down at her, “I’m not certain I’d regret it at all. But since I do try to distinguish myself from the Jeremy Overingtons of the world, I don’t make it a habit to kiss young ladies on balconies.” He reached his hand up, relinquishing his hold on her waist to brush it against her cheek, then take one of her dark curls between his thumb and forefinger. Violet felt rooted to the ground—had the ballroom caught fire at that moment, she doubted even that would have spurred her to movement.

  But, as she discovered a moment later, the sound of her mother’s voice proved more effective than any blazing inferno.

  “Violet Grey!” came Lady Worthington’s shrill cry, horror and disapproval warring for precedence in her tone. Lord James dropped his hand immediately, and Violet took two hasty steps back, but it was too late.

  They had been seen.

  Lady Worthington swept toward them, the feathered headdress she wore atop her head quivering with indignation. She was still a very handsome woman, not yet forty, though Violet thought she often dressed as though she were far older. In this moment, her beauty was put to its full intimidating effect—fair cheeks blazing with color, blue eyes sparkling with anger. She looked from Violet to Lord James and back again, a single glance communicating more than words possibly could have. Violet braced herself for a blistering attack, but found her mother’s first words aimed at the gentleman of the party, not herself.

  “Lord James Audley, I believe.” It was not truly a question; Lady Worthington had Debrett’s memorized, as Violet knew only too well.

  “You presume correctly, my lady,” Lord James said with a courteous bow.

  “Well, my lord,” Lady Worthington said, and Violet winced at the sharp edge to her voice, “I assume you won’t mind telling me what, precisely, you were doing on this balcony with my daughter?”

  Lord James held Lady Worthington’s gaze briefly, then broke it, casting his eyes to Violet’s. He looked at her for a long moment, and she knew—somehow, she just knew—what the next words out of his mouth would be, much as she longed to prevent them.

  “As it happens, your ladyship,” he said, still every inch the proper gentleman, “I was just getting around to proposing.”

  One

  July 1817

  Violet Audley had mastered many skills in her five years of marriage but, to her everlasting dismay, pouring tea was not one of them.

  “Really, Violet,” said Diana, Lady Templeton, reaching for the teapot. “Allow me.” Given Diana’s disinclination to exert herself when it was not strictly necessary, this was an indication of dire straits indeed.

  “Thank you,” Violet said gratefully, relinquishing the teapot and reclining slightly against the green-and-gold settee upon which she was seated. “I’m sure the maids will appreciate one less tea stain to mop up later.”

  “You must keep them busy in that regard,” said Emily with a smile, accepting the teacup that Diana handed her, filled to the brim with unsweetened, undiluted tea. Violet had always found it rather amusing that Lady Emily Turner, the most beautiful debutante of their year, the most prim and proper and sweet of all English roses, preferred her tea plain and bitter.

  “That’s quite enough commentary on my tea-pouring skills, thank you,” Violet said, watching as Diana dropped a lump of sugar and a splash of milk into the cup before handing it to her. Diana began to prepare a cup for herself.

  “That’s one thing you must miss about Audley,” Diana said casually. “Didn’t he pour tea for you, when you two were… friendlier?” The final word was laced with the delicate sarcasm at which Diana so excelled, and Violet stiffened—as she so often did at the mention of her husband’s name.

  “He did, on occasion,” she replied, taking a large sip of tea and instantly regretting it, given that the contents of her teacup were scalding. However, perhaps fortunately, Diana seemed to mistake Violet’s watering eyes and flushed cheeks for a response to the mention of James and the painful memories associated with him, rather than a reaction to the sensations associated with nearly burning the roof of her mouth off, and she desisted.

  “Speaking of romantic entanglements,” Diana said, taking a placid sip of her own tea and redirecting her sharp gaze from Violet—still sputtering—to Emily. “Have you seen your attentive Mr. Cartham lately?”

  It was Emily’s turn to flush now, and she was unfortunate enough to have set her teacup down already, giving her no chance of escape. Within moments, however, she assumed her usual mask of calm and poise. Violet had always thought that it was this mask that made Emily so attractive to the gentlemen of the ton. To be sure, she was lovely—golden curls, deep blue eyes, lily-white skin, curved in all the correct places—but it could be argued that Diana, with her hazel eyes and honey-blond locks and impressive bosom, was equally enticing, and she had certainly received less interest than Emily had during their first Season… at least from gentlemen with matrimony on their minds. Diana had received any number of offers of a more indecent nature.

  Diana, like Violet, made no effort to mask her spirit or her sharp intelligence or, additionally, her frustration with the position of a woman of good background but not especially large fortune who was flung upon the marriage mart. Emily, though her frustrations were similar to Diana’s (for Violet was the only one of the three whose dowry had been considered truly impressive), was so good at adopting an air of meek agreeability that men seemed unable to resist.

  Until, of course, they learned precisely how little blunt Emily’s father, the Marquess of Rowanbridge, had to his name. Then Emily became somewhat more resistible.

  “He still has not returned from his trip to New York,” Emily said in response to Violet’s question about Mr. Cartham. “Apparently his mother’s health was not so dire as he thought when he departed, and her decline was a lengthier event than he anticipated.” She seemed to inject the level of concern appropriate for a lady speaking of her suitor’s dying mother, but Violet was not fooled. “In any case, I received a letter from him yesterday noting his soon departure from America, so I expect he should return within a matter of days.”

  “Bother,” Diana muttered, setting her teacup down with a clatter. “That means your reprieve will soon be over, then.”

  “Indeed,” Emily murmured.

  Silence momentarily descended upon the room, each of the three ladies reflecting on the unwelcome return of Mr. Oswald Cartham, an American by birth, owner these ten years past of Cartham’s, one of the most notorious gaming hells in London. Cartham was in his mid-thirties, rich as Croesus, and, for the past three years, Emily’s most persistent suitor.

  He was also utterly odious.

  It was rather absurd, Violet thought idly, staring into her teacup at the cloudy liquid it contained. Three ladies, all considered among the prettier girls to be presented at court upon their debut five years earlier, all from old aristocratic families of impeccable lineage and respectability.

  And all utterly miserable in love.

  There was Emily, whose father’s debts at Cartham’s meant that he had no choice but to allow the man’s unwelcome attentions toward his daughter until he could scrape together the funds he owed.

  There was Diana, who had been so desperate to flee the home of her aunt and uncle, where she had resided since her parents died—her mother in childbirth, and her father of apoplexy soon after—when she had been only five years old. She’d held no illusions about marrying for love; all she wanted was freedom, and she had seized it by marrying a man thirty years her senior, who had left her a widow at the age of twenty-one.

  And then there was Violet. Violet of the impetuous love match. Violet, who had married James Audley a mere four weeks into their acquaintance, thoroughly scandalizing polite society. Violet, who in those four weeks had fallen head over heels in love with the man who had proposed to her—in front of her mother!—on that darkened balcony. Violet, who had been eigh
teen, infatuated, swept up by her young, dashing, impossibly handsome husband. Violet, who now… well.

  The less said about Violet and James, the better.

  It was uncanny timing, then, that at the precise moment that Violet was occupied with these utterly gloomy thoughts—about her husband, Diana’s late one, and Emily’s lack of one—that her butler, Wooton, appeared in the doorway of the drawing room, a platter balanced on his hands and a single letter placed in the center of the platter.

  “My lady,” he said, bowing without allowing the tray to drop so much as a millimeter. Even Violet’s mother would have found no fault. “A note just arrived for you from Viscount Penvale.”

  “For me?” Violet asked, startled. “Not for Lady Templeton?”

  “No, my lady,” Wooton said. “It is very plainly addressed to you.”

  “Thank you, Wooton,” Violet said, rising from the settee and taking the note from him. “That will be all.”

  “My lady.” Another bow, and he was gone.

  “Why on earth would my brother be writing to you?” Diana asked idly.

  “I don’t know,” Violet replied, opening the missive, which appeared to have been hastily scrawled—Penvale’s handwriting was barely legible.

  15 July

  Audley House

  Lady James,

  I write to inform you that your husband was thrown from his horse this morning whilst attempting to ride a particularly feisty stallion. The fall knocked him unconscious, and he has yet to regain his senses. A physician has been sent for, and Willingham and I remain by his side, anxiously awaiting his recovery. I will, of course, continue to keep you apprised of his condition, but I felt that you would wish to learn of this incident as soon as possible, and thought your husband would wish the same.