“A bit of the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” James drawled, in a tone that he knew would irritate Jeremy further. “Or perhaps the pot calling the kettle a pot?”
“What exactly do you mean to do here?” Jeremy asked, leaning forward. Anger was etched into all the lines of his body, though James wasn’t sure it would have been obvious to anyone other than himself or Penvale. “Flirt with Sophie at every turn? You’ll destroy her reputation.”
“Funny,” James said, “I rather thought you were doing a perfectly good job of that already.”
“We’ve been discreet,” Jeremy said defensively, and James couldn’t argue with that, because it was true. Jeremy was, in fact, usually discreet in his carryings-on with married ladies, and he had taken extra care with Lady Fitzwilliam these past few months. James had actually been a bit impressed by how little gossip swirled around their liaison.
At the moment, however, James was disinclined to be charitable. “Regardless, I hardly think that one conversation in Hyde Park compares to months of sharing a bed. Does West know about the two of you?” he asked, as though the thought had just now occurred to him.
“If he does, he’s never spoken of it,” Jeremy said tightly. “But I doubt he’d extend the same courtesy to you, were you to continue this ridiculous flirtation.” He stood suddenly, a clear signal that he wished James to leave. “As you well know, Sophie and I are ending our liaison,” he announced. “That was why we were in the park this afternoon—I meant to discuss it with her, before we encountered you and Violet. Afterward, she beat me to it. We don’t suit—don’t know why I ever thought we would, really.” He looked at James evenly the entire time he spoke. “But I hold her in very high regard, and don’t wish to see you make a fool of her out of some misguided attempt to convince yourself that you’re not still in love with your wife.”
James shoved his chair back and stood. “I’m not—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Audley,” Jeremy said wearily, and walked James to the door of his study. “But do have a care with your brother, by the by. If he catches wind of you sniffing round Sophie’s skirts, there will be hell to pay.”
* * *
The devil of it was that Jeremy was correct. It had been years now—more than six—but his brother and Sophie Wexham had at one point been very much in love. Miss Wexham had been in her third Season when she’d met West, who had been twenty-four. It must be a family failing, James mused. Falling disastrously in love at an inappropriately young age.
Sophie Wexham was beautiful and clever, and had a dowry that made every fortune hunter of the ton look twice—but she had never quite taken, as James had once overheard one dowager say. Her bloodline was far too new—her family’s title only stretched back one generation, and many of the older aristocratic families turned up their noses at Viscount Wexham and his daughters. The Marquess of Weston, as heir to the ancient and venerable duchy of Dovington, ought not to have looked twice at such an upstart chit.
But he had.
More than twice. They’d met at a musicale and had spent a good portion of the evening in whispered conversation about the crimes against Mozart being committed. One would think it difficult to fall in love while trying not to stuff one’s fingers into one’s ears, but West and Sophie seemed to have managed it. By the end of the evening, they were entirely in one another’s thrall.
So it continued for the rest of that Season—they danced twice at every ball, West called on Sophie at her parents’ town house with almost laughable frequency, and they went for long rides together in Hyde Park. A marriage seemed inevitable—there was even betting at White’s as to when the engagement would be announced.
And then there had been West’s curricle accident.
Such a silly thing to alter the course of one life and end another one.
West had impulsively challenged Jeremy’s elder brother David, the Marquess of Willingham, to a race, during which the curricles overturned on a sharp corner, killing David instantly and shattering West’s leg. He was bedridden for months, and in the days following the accident had been gripped with a fever that had very nearly killed him.
When he was well enough to rejoin society—though society had a rather difficult time recognizing the formerly reckless and charming Marquess of Weston in the somber gentleman who had taken his place—it was to find that his beloved Sophie had married West’s childhood friend Fitzwilliam Bridewell.
Three years later, Lord Fitzwilliam was dead—killed in battle on the Continent. Lady Fitzwilliam was a widow at the age of twenty-four. Through all of this—the six years that spanned West’s long recovery, Sophie’s marriage, her widowhood, her mourning, and her reentrance into society—James had never once heard his brother utter her name.
Until now.
“I would ask what the hell is wrong with you, but I’m certain there are too many correct responses to select only one.”
James looked up—it was the following morning and he was at home in his study, his head full of numbers involving competing offers for a mare in his stables whose foals tended to grow into exceptionally fast runners. For a second, he merely blinked up at his brother, who stood in the doorway, hat and gloves in hand. It was such an incongruous sight, West here in his house, that for a moment he wasn’t able to process it. By the time his mind had caught up with his eyes—something Violet had once remarked was uncommonly difficult for the entirety of the male species—West had crossed the room and was towering over him. James could sense waves of anger rolling off of him.
Christ. It was going to be that sort of day. First Jeremy last night, now West—he supposed that once he’d dealt with his brother, he should take himself upstairs and submit to whatever verbal lashing Violet was no doubt saving for him. Might as well get it all over with at once. At least this time, he was the one sitting behind the desk.
“West,” he said, rising respectfully—West was, after all, still his elder brother, and a future duke at that. “What can I do for you?”
“What is this nonsense I’m hearing about you at my club?” West demanded, crossing to the sideboard where James kept a decanter of brandy and several cut-glass tumblers. He raised the decanter, uninvited, and poured himself a healthy splash. He did not ask James if he cared for a drink as well.
“I’m not entirely certain I know what you mean,” James said, though he in fact had a fairly good idea.
“It seems that you had a lengthy conversation with Lady Fitzwilliam in the park yesterday,” West said, his fastidiously correct use of Sophie’s title making the words sound extra stiff.
“Do you have spies?” James asked.
West looked at him sharply over the rim of his glass as he took a sip of his drink. “The fact that I’ve already heard of this should indicate how much gossip there has been, James. I’m not some old biddy swapping the latest news over tea, you know. But a man displaying blatant interest in a woman who is known to be linked to his best friend—”
“Not widely known, I shouldn’t think,” James muttered, watching his brother closely. It was clear that his suspicions had been correct—West likely knew every move Lady Fitzwilliam had taken in the years since they’d been close, even if he hadn’t so much as uttered her name.
“Widely enough,” West replied curtly, clearly in no mood for splitting hairs. “James, I know that we’ve not been on the best of terms these past years”—an understatement, James thought, but West always had been polite—“but as your brother, I can no longer sit by and watch you make a mess of your life.”
“Funny,” James said acidly. “You didn’t seem to mind overmuch when Father made a misery of it time and time again.” This was a slight exaggeration—James hadn’t been abused or mistreated, merely neglected. Now, as an adult, he realized that he had been rather lucky, all in all. As a boy of six, or eight, or ten, however, he’d been unable to see anything except a father whose love and attention were reserved solely for the elder brother he rarely saw, so
much time did West spend in the duke’s company.
“I have never claimed that Father was a particularly good parent,” West replied, his eyes focusing intently on James.
“In fact, as I am certain you know, I do my best to avoid speaking to him whenever possible,” West continued, his eyes never leaving James’s. “So if you’d stop bloody punishing me for the fact that he’s a piss-poor father, then perhaps we could have a proper conversation.”
“I’m not punishing you for that,” James said sharply. “You were a boy, you couldn’t be expected to stop his favoring you. But I don’t have to forgive you for meddling in my life as an adult.”
“If you’re referring to that bloody row we had—”
“What else would I be referring to?” James asked, exasperated. He was rapidly reaching the limits of his patience—it had hardly been a restful twenty-four hours.
“—then I don’t know how else to make you see reason. You’re being a fool, and you’ve been a fool for the past four years.” West downed the rest of his drink in a single gulp, then crossed the room and set the empty tumbler down on James’s desk with a decisive clunk.
“I told you this four years ago, and I shall say it again today,” West said, leaning forward to fix James with his penetrating gaze. James, for all that he was a grown man of eight-and-twenty with a wife and a home of his own, felt very much like a younger brother in that moment. “You have made an utter mess of what started off as a brilliant marriage. You’ve allowed Father to guide everything you have or have not done for the entirety of your adult life, and you’re making yourself miserable in the process. I don’t mind much what you do with your own life—I can’t very well stop you, though I do pity poor Violet. But leave Sophie out of this.”
James barely managed to keep his expression neutral at the sound of West voicing Lady Fitzwilliam’s name, nor did he miss the emotion in his brother’s voice.
“Furthermore, you might consider the fact that I’m your brother, and it’s permissible for me to have opinions about how you conduct yourself, and how you go about your life. You don’t have to agree with me, or listen to me, but I’m allowed to voice them nonetheless. It’s part of loving someone, James.” He paused for a moment; when he spoke again, he had gotten himself under control, and his voice was once again cool and regulated. “When you’re ready to act like a man and not a child, you know where to find me,” West finished, tucking his hat under his arm and pulling on first one glove, then the other. “Until then…” He trailed off, clearly unsure how to conclude this heartwarming interlude of brotherly affection. “Until then,” he repeated, more firmly this time, before striding from the room as abruptly as he had materialized, scarcely seeming to lean on his cane at all.
James sank back into his chair as West departed, thinking longingly of the virtues of a lengthy tour somewhere without wives, friends, or brothers. Somewhere remote. The Far East, perhaps. Or New South Wales. A criminal colony seemed preferable to London at the moment.
He glanced down at the papers spread across his desk, the numbers swimming before his eyes, and groaned softly. If he ever had a son, he decided in that moment, the first piece of fatherly advice he would ever give him would be to never marry. Wives were too bloody distracting.
“My lord?”
James looked up, startled. As if summoned by his thoughts, his own wife hovered in the doorway. He rose instantly, and she took a couple of steps into the room. She was dressed in a morning gown of white lawn, her hair slightly disheveled. He wondered if she had any idea how utterly tempting she looked standing there, her cheeks flushed, dark tendrils of hair curling about her face. Her gown was modest, but it somehow only made James more tempted to reach for the bodice, to tug it down and follow its path with his lips.
Forcing his unruly thoughts into order with some difficulty, he said, “Violet? Can I help you?”
“I saw that West was here,” she said, walking toward one of the windows that bracketed James’s desk. “It was an unusual enough occurrence that I thought to see what he wanted.”
She spoke as though the answer he gave was not of terribly great interest to her, but he had one of the flashes he’d had of late—moments where suddenly he was twenty-three all over again and her every word and thought was visible to him, a book that only he could read. At the moment, she was desperately curious, but trying very hard not to show it.
It was all going according to plan—even West’s visit, unexpected (and rather unpleasant) as it had been, could serve its own purpose.
“He just stopped by to say hello,” James said, walking out from around the desk. Violet had stopped directly in front of the window, squinting into the late morning sunlight as she stared into the garden. She pretended not to notice his approach.
“Did he, now?” she murmured skeptically, not removing her gaze from the window, even as James took several steps closer, crowding her. “Odd, isn’t it? He’s not been in the habit of paying you calls much of late.”
“I always thought you liked West,” he said, watching her profile, gilded by sunlight. He told himself that he was staring to make her uncomfortable, but the truth was she was so lovely that he could not possibly have brought himself to look away. “I should have thought you’d be pleased that he paid a visit.”
She did look up then, and he mentally congratulated himself on a well-placed hit. “I do like West,” she said, her eyes sparking, and as she met his gaze full-on, he realized that he might have made a slight miscalculation. He’d meant to needle her, annoy her, but always maintain the upper ground—and yet, when she was looking at him like that, really looking at him without any of the distance that had spread between them, it was all he could do to keep his hands at his sides, to resist the temptation to reach out, pull her to him, and kiss her senseless.
She, however, seemed oblivious to his internal struggle, because she was still, as usual, speaking.
“But I don’t believe for a second that his visit today was at all coincidental.” A moment of silence fell, during which she glared at him furiously and he tried desperately not to notice the interesting things her angry breathing did to her bosom. It was covered in fabric, to be sure, but it was still moving in a very distracting fashion.
“What do you mean?” he managed.
“You know precisely what I mean,” she said with quiet derision, and this was when James knew that she was very angry indeed. Angry Violet became noisy. Even angrier Violet became alarmingly quiet. “I am certain West stopped by because he heard of that shocking display in the park with Lady Fitzwilliam yesterday, and if you think for a second that I am going to allow you to ruin a respectable woman’s reputation—”
“She’s carrying on with Jeremy,” James felt compelled to point out, though he knew that he hadn’t much of a leg to stand on in terms of the rightness and wrongness of the matter. “Not exactly a pillar of respectability himself, you know.”
“He has been uncommonly discreet,” Violet said tersely. “I’ve heard only the slightest whisperings of any carryings-on between them—yesterday was the first time I’ve ever even seen them together. So please do not try to convince me that the lady’s reputation was already in tatters. Jeremy has done nothing to ruin her, and has indeed gone out of his way to ensure that no damage has been done to her social standing. What will ruin her, however, is your making a spectacle of yourself in Hyde Park.”
She paused for breath, and James, suddenly feeling like a rather great ass, opened his mouth to reply. Violet, however, had not finished speaking her piece.
“Furthermore,” she continued, her gaze still holding his own, “the state of the lady’s reputation is really a bit beside the point. The fact is, she is a person in her own right, and not an object of revenge. Did you spare a moment’s consideration for that small fact? Did you even for a moment stop to think that she might have some rather strong feelings on being treated in such a fashion?” Her voice never rose louder than her normal speaking vol
ume, but James felt every word like a physical blow.
She paused, eyeing him from head to toe. Her gaze was like a hot poker on his skin. “No,” she said dismissively. “Of course you didn’t. You are a man, and she is merely a woman.”
In that instant, James felt like more of a cad than he ever had done in his entire twenty-eight years of life. He had always considered himself a gentleman, someone who respected women and treated them with the courtesy they deserved. He had always looked askance at men who belittled female intelligence, able to see their derision for what it truly was: insecurity. And yet, in less than a minute, Violet had shown him what an utter prick he was.
In truth, he had not given overly much consideration to Lady Fitzwilliam’s feelings the day before; he had been able to tell from a quick glance at her face as he was speaking that she knew he was not serious in his flirtation, and that knowledge had been sufficient to ease his conscience. In that moment, it had been enough; now, however, he saw that it should not have been. She was a widow; she might or might not still be in love with his brother; and, beyond all that, she was a woman, with feelings and thoughts of her own. And he had treated her abominably.
Violet was right—and so was West, and so, God help him, was Jeremy. He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face, suddenly exhausted by the entire bloody mess that he and Violet had created. At that moment, he would have given every shilling he possessed to go back a week and undo every word he had spoken to Violet outside that damn tavern.
Actually, he’d have liked to go back four years and undo every word he’d said to her that fateful morning when he had discovered her conversing with his father. At the time, all he’d felt was betrayal—betrayal at the hands of the person he’d trusted most in the world, the only person, in fact, that he had ever truly trusted with the deepest, most important parts of himself. Now it all seemed less important.
To Have and to Hoax Page 17