To Have and to Hoax

by Martha Waters

  “Not a mistake, then?”

  “No,” he said, his gaze steady on hers. He couldn’t read the look in her dark eyes, but something flickered through them in response to that one word—was it relief? “It is safe to say that many mistakes have been made since, but I do not believe the events of that day can be counted among the tally.” He spoke the words before he entirely knew what he was saying, but realized in an instant that they were true: despite everything, he did not regret marrying Violet. This knowledge felt like a sudden revelation, and one that he did not have the time to examine at present.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Why had he asked? He mentally floundered for a moment, feeling rather as though he’d waded out into a marsh and was now seeking to find solid ground once more. Ah, yes, there it was. “I was merely curious,” he said, “whether you remembered the part of the vows that mentioned obeying.”

  It was remarkable, really, how fast that soft look in her eyes vanished, likely not to be seen again for another four years. It was replaced by a flash of anger equally satisfying to observe, though in an entirely different way.

  “Are you going to forbid me to ride in the park, then, husband?” she asked, her voice low and deadly. James knew that that was precisely what she wished him to do, if only so that she might have the pleasure of defying him.

  “Not at all,” he said, kicking one heel up to rest upon his desk. “I am merely going to come with you.”

  * * *

  Less than an hour later, James found himself cantering down Rotten Row, Violet at his side. It was not yet the five o’clock hour, meaning that the park wasn’t bursting with aristocrats out to see and be seen the way it would be in a couple of hours, but the weather was fine enough that they were far from alone. Since entering the park, James had seen several acquaintances—men he knew from his club on horseback, married couples in phaetons, and a few clusters of ladies on foot, tiny dogs accompanying them, led by their footmen, of course, not by the ladies themselves.

  He and Violet had been largely silent for the duration of their ride, offering little comment other than a few stilted remarks about the weather and their pace. It was so easy, when they were together, for him to weaken, to soak in the simple enjoyment of being in her company once more. But then there would be a moment like this, in which she stifled a cough in her sleeve that he was almost certain was feigned, and he would recollect all at once the game that was afoot, and he would be awash in anger once more. Anger and disappointment—disappointment that she was lying to him again, that she was proving to be just as deceitful as he had accused her of being all those years ago.

  No, he amended. That wasn’t fair, either. He’d been very angry that day, had felt very betrayed, and he’d be the first to admit—though never had he admitted this to Violet, he realized—that he’d spoken too harshly. Once his anger had cooled, he’d realized that he’d reacted somewhat out of proportion to the facts. On the day of their argument, he had learned that she had been involved in her mother and his father’s plot to meet him out on that damned balcony at that long-ago ball.

  And it had stung—still did sting, if he were being entirely truthful. He had worked hard for his entire adult life, which at that point was admittedly relatively brief, to distance himself from his father, to become an independent man, in control of his own life and destiny. And yet, in a matter of such importance as his marriage, he had been manipulated like a pawn on a chessboard. But now, with some distance, he could admit that his accusations of Violet that day—that she was a conniving girl who’d married him for his position—had been unfair. She had been eighteen, in her very first Season, and he knew from personal experience how domineering Lady Worthington could be. It stung that he had been deceived in such a fashion, but it was not so unforgivable as he had once believed.

  No, what was unforgivable was her refusal to admit to her own complicity. She had first disavowed any knowledge of his father and her mother’s scheme, before changing her story, claiming that she’d scarcely known about their ruse longer than he had. By that point, her words hadn’t mattered; he didn’t trust her to tell him the truth, and even if she were being honest now, the fact remained that she had still kept her knowledge secret from him, no matter the duration of her deception—and that her first instinct, upon being accused of doing so, was to lie. That was what maintained that rift between them, as far as he was concerned. Perhaps he was a fool, but he believed that by the time they had wed, Violet had truly come to love him—no one was as good an actress as all that. And he thought that he could have forgiven her for betraying his trust—once. But when she had lied in the face of discovery, had denied all knowledge of their parents’ plotting—that was what he could not forgive.

  And that was why this fresh deceit of hers, with its bloody coughing and swooning and malingering, was so damned irritating.

  And he was determined to get even.

  “Is Willingham planning to host his hunting party next month?” Violet broke into his thoughts, not looking at him as she spoke, keeping her attention focused firmly ahead of her. This gave James the luxury of admiring her profile, which was so lovely it made his heart clench. Her cheeks were flushed by the fresh air, and tiny wisps of dark hair had escaped her braids to curl against her fair cheeks and throat. He was suddenly possessed by so strong a desire to reach out and stroke his finger down her cheek that he tightened his fist around the reins, causing his horse to shy slightly at the pressure. He hastily loosened his grip and saw her glance sideways at him, still awaiting an answer.

  “Yes,” he said belatedly. “I believe he is. I trust you will be accompanying us, as usual?”

  Violet’s refusal to visit the country didn’t extend to all country houses, merely their own; it was James’s distinct impression that she had no objection to being at a country house party, full of friends, other ladies with whom she might converse—it was just the idea of visiting Audley House with only her husband for company that she found distasteful. She had accompanied him to Jeremy’s estate each August for a visit that usually stretched at least a week longer than planned. For all his other faults, Jeremy was an excellent host, and his shooting parties were among the more coveted invitations among the ton.

  Violet hesitated. “I don’t know. I suppose it all depends on my health.” She gave a small cough at the end of this sentence, stifling it so quickly that James might not have noticed it at all if he hadn’t been looking.

  Which she was clearly aware that he had been.

  Had he been less annoyed, he might have been tempted to applaud.

  “Of course,” he said, striving to keep a note of sarcasm out of his voice. As was so often the case with Violet, however, his emotions were a bit closer to the surface than he liked this afternoon. “I shouldn’t want you to suffer any sort of a relapse. Although,” he added, as though giving the matter great thought, “I do wonder if the fresh country air might do you some good. Perhaps we would do better to depart London immediately—we could allow you to convalesce at Audley House and then join Jeremy in Wiltshire once you were feeling improved.”

  For the first time in his life, he wished he had a beard, if only so that he might stroke it thoughtfully. On second thought, however, that might be laying it on a bit thick.

  “I don’t believe I would find a stay at Audley House terribly restful,” Violet replied. “It’s rather difficult to rest peacefully when one is constantly worrying about one’s husband breaking his neck on the back of an untrained horse, you see.” Her spine was rigid and she did not look at him as she spoke, her gaze fixed on the path ahead of them. In profile, her expression appeared carefully blank, but he could tell that her jaw was clenched tightly.

  “My dearest wife, you seem to have forgotten that I am not a man prone to making the same mistake twice.”

  She snorted then, the sound thoroughly unladylike.

  “It seems to me that you are in fact a man pro
ne to repeating the same mistake over and over again for his entire life.” She gave him a sideways glance as if to measure his response, and James fought to keep his facial expression neutral.

  “Meaning?” His tone was cool.

  “Meaning,” she said, and her voice was not as calm as it had been a moment before, “that if you are going to insist on losing faith in someone the moment you see the slightest possibility that they have wronged you, then you are going to have a very frustrating life.”

  “As opposed to my life as it is now, which is all sweetness and light?”

  “If you already find your life frustrating, darling, I would suggest that you have only yourself to blame.” She had gotten herself back under control, and this was delivered in a tone of perfect smoothness that he assumed was carefully calculated to enrage him.

  He hated that she knew him so well—and that if her goal was to rattle him she was succeeding.

  He reined in his horse sharply and reached out a hand to seize the reins of her horse as well. Persephone shied at the sudden firm touch, and reared ever so slightly on her hind legs. Violet was a competent horsewoman and adjusted her seat with ease, in no danger of falling.

  And yet, that did not stop James’s arm from reaching out, as if of its own volition, to wrap around her waist and steady her. She stiffened in surprise; he knew he should loosen his grip, but he found himself unable to do so. In the blink of an eye, Persephone had all four hooves planted firmly on solid ground once more. Violet was entirely secure within the saddle…

  And still, James could not let go.

  He was obsessed, suddenly, with the curve of her trim waist beneath his hand, the warmth of her skin even through the many layers of her clothing and his gloves. He was seized with a wild, reckless desire to reach out his other hand and lift her bodily onto his horse, to sit snug before him in the saddle, her back pressed against his chest and his arms tucked around her.

  This fantasy lasted but a moment, but was so vivid that he dropped his arm from her waist as though he had been stung by a bee. Violet let the rough motion pass without comment. For once.

  “I assume you had some reason for halting us so abruptly?” she remarked, and James, with great difficulty, brought his mind back to the conversation at hand. He raked a hand through his hair in frustration, and did not miss the way Violet’s eyes followed the movement.

  “If I find my life frustrating,” he said after a moment, having gathered his wits as best he could, “I promise you that living in the same home as you does nothing to make it less so.”

  The words were harsh, and he very nearly regretted them—certainly would have if anything like hurt had flickered across Violet’s expression. But her eyes narrowed and her mouth flattened into a thin line, and he felt the same rush that he always experienced whenever he succeeded in provoking her.

  “Of course,” she said stiffly. “Of course you give up on your marriage, on your relationship with West, but none of it is your fault. Of course.”

  James gave an internal howl of outrage—give up? He gave up? It was utter nonsense.

  “I don’t think my relationship with my brother is any of your concern.” He sounded like a pompous ass, even to his own ears.

  “Oh, of course not,” Violet said. “What am I but your wife, after all? Or had you forgotten?”

  “As if you’d let me,” he muttered.

  “Funny,” she replied, her eyes flashing, “you seemed to have little difficulty doing so last week.”

  “Violet—”

  “Of course it wouldn’t even occur to you to send your wife a note that you’d been injured,” she continued, ignoring him. “Silly me to even expect such a courtesy. After all, we wouldn’t want your wife of all people to worry about you. Your wife who for years has been telling you that she wishes you’d leave the running of those stables to others. Your wife certainly doesn’t have any right—”

  “Enough about the bloody accident!” he shouted, more forcefully than he had intended. He glanced around quickly, but they were far enough away from other riders that no one seemed to have heard his outburst. Belatedly, he realized that they were still standing stock-still in the middle of the path, and he gave his horse a nudge with his heel, spurring him into motion. Violet followed suit, and they continued at a measured pace down the path, James uncomfortably aware that he had just raised his voice at a lady in public. He might roll his eyes at society and its many dictates, but he liked to think that he had some semblance of good manners.

  Just not with his own wife.

  He inhaled deeply. “I apologize that you were alarmed by Penvale’s note,” he said after a moment. “And I apologize for my words at the Blue Dove. I may have spoken… hastily.”

  Violet turned her head to look at him suspiciously, as though she suspected some sort of trap.

  James exhaled in frustration. “For Christ’s sake, I’m trying to apologize and the best you can do is blink at me like an owl?”

  The corner of Violet’s mouth twitched. “How flattering.”

  “A very attractive owl, of course.”

  Violet arched a brow. “Indeed?”

  “Yes,” James said, by now quite certain that continued speaking on his part would only lead to more trouble, and yet somehow unable to stop. “A very fine specimen—”

  “Specimen?”

  “—of owlishness—”

  “Owlishness?”

  “The best sort of owl, really.” He managed to force his mouth shut, just barely resisting the temptation to clap a hand over it for good measure. He had some dignity left, after all.

  “I can’t believe you managed to convince me to marry you,” Violet said after a moment’s silence.

  Just like that, the lightness of the moment vanished. “I seem to recall the situation being quite neatly managed,” he said shortly.

  Violet’s face, which had been if not quite smiling then definitely amused, suddenly turned serious. “I know what you think you recall,” she said, her gaze never leaving his. “And I know that you will never consider, for one second, that you might not have been the only one neatly managed that day.”

  James opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated a moment, suddenly uncertain. He had nursed his anger on this issue for so long that he tended to reach for it instinctively; however, there was nothing in Violet’s expression at the moment except sorrow, and it gave him pause. He searched for words, not entirely certain what he planned to say, but before he could speak, she let out a faint cough. A swell of anger rose within him, his doubts vanishing. Hadn’t he just apologized for the bloody horse accident and his behavior following it? Did she still mean to continue with this ridiculous ruse?

  It was infuriating, truly. And, furthermore, it was the perfect example of why he could not trust her. Did she realize that, he wondered? Did she see how perfectly she was proving him right?

  Before he could make any sort of reply, he heard his name being called. Jeremy approached on horseback. And riding next to him was—James squinted, though he had a sinking feeling he already knew—

  Oh, Christ. It was Sophie Wexham.

  Although he supposed that she wasn’t, in fact, Sophie Wexham anymore. She was Lady Fitzwilliam Bridewell. She was also a widow, and this was her first Season out of mourning.

  A fact of which Jeremy had wasted no time in taking advantage.

  James wasn’t entirely certain how long they’d been carrying on together—a couple of months, he thought. In truth, he found it an odd match. The Sophie Wexham that he and West had known did not seem the type who would find Jeremy’s brand of cheeky charm all that appealing.

  But of course James hadn’t spoken to her—other than to offer a bland pleasantry at a ball or musicale—in years. He had no idea how she had changed since her marriage or widowhood.

  He wondered if she was still in love with his brother. For both their sakes, he rather hoped not.

  As Jeremy and Lady Fitzwilliam drew closer, James a
nd Violet reined in their mounts. “Is that—” Violet murmured under her breath.

  “Indeed,” James replied, equally quiet.

  “Rather brazen of them to be out together on Rotten Row, isn’t it?”

  “They’re on horseback, not in a closed carriage,” James pointed out. Violet didn’t even dignify this with a response, merely giving him a dubious look.

  “Audley! Lady James!” Jeremy called as he drew up beside them. “How… unexpected.” His tone was mild, but James could practically see the waves of curiosity rolling off him. James couldn’t entirely blame him—to see himself and Violet out on what was, to all appearances, a cordial afternoon ride was highly unusual these days.

  “Jeremy,” James said. “Lady Fitzwilliam.”

  Lady Fitzwilliam was still every inch as beautiful as she’d been when James had first met her, at some London ball or another. She had golden curls and brown eyes and some of the longest eyelashes he had ever seen. Sitting easily atop her mount next to Jeremy, the sunlight streaming behind her, she looked glorious—and James gave hearty thanks that his brother was not there to see her. It would have been rather too much for West to bear, James suspected.

  “Lord James,” she murmured. “It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”

  “Indeed it has, my lady,” he agreed. “I do hope you’ll allow me to express my condolences on your husband’s passing.”

  “Thank you.” Lady Fitzwilliam’s lips pursed slightly, then softened back into their usual smooth curve.

  “You must be pleased to be back out in society,” Violet said.

  “Yes,” Lady Fitzwilliam said after the merest hesitation. “It’s very… invigorating.”

  “Lord Willingham’s company does tend to have that effect,” James said dryly; the flush that swept over her face made him immediately regret his words. In truth, he was surprised to see her with Jeremy today—from what precious little Jeremy had told him, he’d been under the impression that their liaison was drawing to an end. Not that he was terribly surprised by that development—she really didn’t seem at all in the usual line of Jeremy’s lovers. She in fact seemed far more like someone James himself would take up with, were he the trysting sort.