To Have and to Hoax

by Martha Waters

  “I tried to tell him I’d only learned of it a couple of days prior,” Violet said now. “But he… he didn’t believe me. He couldn’t fathom that I wouldn’t have come to him directly upon learning of such a thing, and so he assumed I must have known for far longer—perhaps even been involved from the very outset.” Her mind glossed over the memories of the hour that had followed the duke’s departure that morning. There had been words—angry words—so many of them that they blended together in her mind, leaving only the impression of hurt feelings and a sense of irreparable damage done.

  One sentence, however, stuck out in unfortunately vivid detail.

  “I should have known better. What well-bred miss would go out onto a balcony with Jeremy, of all people? It’s asking to be ruined.”

  And the worst of it was, even the memory of that still stung. Because she had gone out onto that balcony with Jeremy—not because she was part of the ludicrous scheme that her mother and James’s father had cooked up, but because she had been eighteen and curious. And James had made the entire thing feel cheap and sordid.

  That was one of the many things about that morning she could not forgive. Most of all, she could not forgive him for his distrust in her—she who had never given him any reason to doubt her. She who had just this once spoken overly hastily—who had just this once, and never before, kept information from him, and always with the intention of telling him the full truth. She who had entrusted her entire heart to him and had felt free, for the first time in her life, to be her true, honest self, without feeling the need to suppress any of the things about herself that her mother had insisted were so entirely unsuitable. For him to repay her by losing faith in her at the first provocation was a betrayal that she had at the time considered unforgivable.

  Then there was the fact that when she had stormed out of the room in a fury, he had not followed. Had never followed. Had obviously not considered their marriage worth fighting for.

  “Well,” said Sophie, finishing the last of her brandy in one healthy and entirely improper gulp, “that is quite the tale.”

  “Isn’t it just,” Violet said, not managing to sound quite as matter-of-fact as she might have desired in that moment. To tell the truth, while unburdening herself of this story certainly made her feel lighter, somehow, it also made her feel rather glum.

  Silence fell for a moment. Violet, lost in thoughts of that day four years past, watched as Sophie turned her empty tumbler in her hand, the crystal catching the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows. It was a small room but cozy, clearly well cared for. Violet wondered how many solitary hours Sophie had whiled away in here since her husband’s death. She wondered if she ever got lonely. She then reflected—rather grimly—that her own existence over the past four years hadn’t been that different from that of a widow, considering the amount of time she spent in her husband’s company.

  The thought was thoroughly galling.

  Violet sat up straighter in her chair, her mind working more quickly now. What a fool she had been, she realized all at once. She was twenty-three years old and she had a husband she had once adored, who was living in the same house with her, eating at the same table, sleeping in a bedchamber that shared a connecting door with her own, and yet they barely even spoke. Sophie, meanwhile, lived here in this house, her days only slightly more solitary than Violet’s own, but her parting from her husband had not been due to any lasting argument, but rather to the permanent separation of death.

  She thought of that note from Penvale from the week before, and imagined an alternate scenario—one in which she had made it all the way to Audley House, only to find James dead. She thought of never being able to speak to him, touch him, kiss him again—and she felt empty. As if some critical, nameless part of her had died as well.

  She had enacted this ruse to punish him for his neglect, for his distrust of her—and perhaps she had succeeded on some level. But she saw now—as perhaps she should have seen all along—that she had really done all of this because she still loved him, and she thought there was something between them worth fighting for.

  Oh, to be sure, she was still thoroughly angry with him. He was still in the wrong when it came to their dispute the day of his father’s visit—but perhaps instead of waiting four years for an apology, she should have taken that step forward to bridge the divide herself. She had been so angry at first, expecting him to take the first step, to grovel at her feet. And when that hadn’t happened… she had done nothing.

  She had done nothing to save their marriage, the relationship most precious to her. He had made a mistake, to be sure—one he still owed her an apology for—but she knew the man she had married. She knew how reluctant he was to entrust his heart to another. And she could imagine the sense of betrayal he must have felt that day, the entire foundation of his marriage having been proved to be based on his father’s duplicity. She could imagine how it must have hurt him, to think that anything about her feelings for him might have been duplicitous, too.

  He had been in the wrong, there was no doubt—but he was still worth fighting for. They were still worth fighting for.

  Sophie was staring at her curiously. Violet realized how long the silence had lingered between them and smiled apologetically.

  “I’m sorry. I was woolgathering.”

  Sophie waved a hand dismissively. “As was I. You gave me rather a lot to ponder, I must confess.”

  “I seem to have given myself rather a lot to ponder.” Violet paused, then plunged on, an idea already taking form in her mind. “I felt rather foolish when I came here with my original intent.”

  “Of asking me to flirt with your husband?” Sophie sounded bemused.

  “Quite.” She couldn’t even muster embarrassment anymore. “I was beginning to feel our game rather childish.”

  “I thought it was a duel?”

  “So did I,” Violet admitted. “But I’m beginning to see it’s nothing more than a game. One that I intend to win, with your help.”

  Sophie leaned forward slightly. “In flirting with him? Or did you have something else in mind now?”

  Violet picked up her own tumbler, still partially full, and downed its contents in a single, gasping gulp before setting it down on one of the spindly tables that seemingly littered all ladies’ sitting rooms in England. “I thought I wanted to punish my husband. But more than that, I want to make him want me again.”

  Violet felt her cheeks warm at her own daring in speaking so frankly, but she might as well lay all of her cards on the table.

  “I rather think he already does.”

  “But I think you might prove useful to my cause.” Violet hesitated for a moment, as James’s words—spoken to her once after he’d observed her convince Emily to smuggle three abandoned kittens from Violet’s home (James was allergic) to her own, where she fostered them for the better part of a month before her mother discovered them—flitted into her mind.

  You know, Violet, people will do as you ask even if you don’t browbeat them into it.

  Those words had, predictably, led to a rather spectacular row on their part—followed, Violet recalled, her cheeks heating, by a rather spectacular reconciliation on the Aubusson rug in the library—but she was forced to admit that there’d been some ring of truth in them.

  “If, that is, you are willing,” she amended hastily. “I already berated my husband once today for damaging your reputation; I wouldn’t like to do the same, even inadvertently.”

  Sophie’s mouth quirked up at the corners. “I rather think I’ve already damaged it myself, haven’t I? Carrying on with a notorious rake like Lord Willingham does tend to create a bit of a scandal.”

  Violet was surprised to hear Sophie admit it so bluntly. “Not so very great a scandal,” she said carefully. “I’ve only heard the faintest whisperings about it, in truth—Lord Willingham has been uncharacteristically discreet.”

  “In any case, that’s all finished now,” Sophie said.


  “I don’t mean to ask very much of you,” Violet said. “I merely want to teach James one last lesson. I want him to realize that he wants me, just as I want him… and I want him to be afraid that I won’t be waiting for him when he does.”

  “I really should stay out of this,” Sophie replied, sounding as though she were enjoying herself thoroughly. “And yet, I’m compelled. Something about the idea of tormenting an Audley brother…” She trailed off for a moment, a dreamy expression upon her face. She then directed a steady gaze at Violet and leaned forward, intent. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

  Eleven

  The Rocheford ball was one of the highlights of the end of the London Season—not that James had much time for it this year. He was still feeling distinctly rattled by his quarrels with West and Violet—and even more so by the distinct knowledge that they were in the right. Being correct was something he usually prided himself on, but in this case, he somehow felt that he’d come out in the wrong, and he wasn’t entirely certain what to do about it.

  He could say he was sorry, but James disregarded this idea almost instantly. He had already apologized to Violet for his behavior in the park—and for his conduct at the Blue Dove, for that matter. Anything more would be excessive. Although, if another apology ensured the chance to kiss Violet again…

  He had tried to put that kiss out of his mind, but it was difficult. He was, after all, a healthy man of just eight-and-twenty who had been sleeping in an empty bed for far too long. As a result, he had spent much of the night reliving the taste of her, the smoothness of her tongue tangling with his own, the feeling of all of her soft curves pressed intimately against him.

  He knew that much of society must assume that he had taken a mistress and was just remarkably discreet about it—it was certainly what he would have assumed of a man in his position. And yet, he never had. The idea had occurred to him—particularly on long nights when he was feeling particularly in want of feminine companionship. But he had never seriously entertained the idea, because the thought of bedding another woman after he had experienced the joy of making love to Violet was, quite simply, profoundly unappealing.

  Jesus Christ. She had ruined him. Perhaps she should be apologizing to him.

  And West…

  Well, perhaps he should apologize to West. God knew that his life would be easier if he were engaged in only one long-standing row.

  With all of this on his mind, James hardly placed the Rocheford ball high on his list of priorities the following morning when he awoke. He skipped his morning ride, having rather soured on Hyde Park, and instead dressed and headed to the breakfast table, not certain whether he hoped Violet would be there. The table was unoccupied, but midway through his meal, a footman delivered a note.

  “From her ladyship,” the footman clarified, although James recognized the handwriting immediately. He tore it open, not knowing what he expected—an apology? A stinging rebuke? A request for a damned physician to come examine her allegedly delicate lungs? But instead he found a simple reminder of the ball that evening, and a request that he be ready to escort her there at eight o’clock.

  “Not too ill to go to a ball, I see,” he muttered, crumpling the note in his hand. He was dimly aware that he was speaking to a plate of kippers and eggs, and spared a passing mournful thought for the shreds of his dignity.

  Fortunately, he had enough business to keep him occupied for much of the day, though he often found his thoughts wandering to linger unhelpfully on the curve of Violet’s cheek or the sound of her laugh. In truth, he had found it difficult to spare any attention for the business of the stables at Audley House of late. When he and Violet had first quarreled, the stables had been a welcome distraction, occupying his time and energy so that he could not linger overmuch on the ruins of his marriage. Now, however, he frequently found himself feeling an odd sort of disconnect from the business that consumed his life, motivated only by the vague desire to prove to his father that he could make a success of this endeavor.

  Upon his return home, he lingered over a glass of brandy in the library, reading a lengthy letter from the estate agent at Audley House before finally, as the light filtering through the windows took on the particular rosy glow of evening, heading upstairs to dress for the night’s entertainment.

  At the appointed hour he was back downstairs, fully decked out in black and white evening attire, resisting the urge to tap his foot impatiently. After five years of marriage, he still failed to understand what precisely it was about women’s toilettes that required so much bloody time.

  He had made the mistake of voicing this question to Violet once. He had never done so again.

  He was distracted by a clearing of the throat at the top of the stairs. He looked up and watched as the lady in question descended the staircase.

  Magnificent seemed such a woefully inadequate adjective.

  She wore a gown of midnight blue, the bodice cut low enough to draw his eye immediately to her décolletage—though, hell, perhaps his eye would have been drawn there anyway. He was, after all, a man. Even he, who knew nothing about ladies’ fashions, could see that this dress had been lovingly tailored to nip at every curve of Violet’s body. Her dark hair was piled high in a gleaming mass atop her head, and her dark eyes seemed to burn out of the pale perfection of her face, her gaze never leaving his as she slowly descended.

  He realized that his mouth was open, and he snapped it shut instantly. It was maddening that one woman should have so much sway over him, but some corner of his mind still capable of intelligent thought suggested that perhaps he should accept it as his lot in life, and merely enjoy it.

  She descended the final step, then gave a tiny, delicate cough, and he rapidly amended his previous statement.

  It was maddening that the woman who should hold him in thrall would be, of all the women in London, one as stubborn and infuriating as Violet.

  Even as she fished a delicate, lace-edged handkerchief out of her bodice—and, damn it, she must have put it there on purpose, knowing that he’d be unable to tear his eyes away from this production—her gaze did not leave his face. She coughed into said handkerchief—which was currently the object of considerable envy on his part—and there was something knowing, something ever so slightly daring in her expression, and instantly, he knew.

  He knew that she knew.

  Or rather, he knew that she knew that he knew.

  It was enough to give any man a headache, truly.

  Given the events of the past week, he was not even entirely certain that he could be classified as sane any longer—sane men did not engage in lengthy wars of attrition with wives pretending to have illnesses with fluctuating degrees of severity—but, dash it, he knew this much: Violet knew that he knew that she wasn’t really ill.

  Her gaze was all practiced innocence, wide brown eyes framed by impossibly dark lashes—eyes that had once made him wish he was the poetic type, so that he could compose an ode to them.

  “James,” Violet said, taking a step toward him, a note of amusement in her voice.

  James did not allow her the opportunity to say more. He took three quick steps forward, seized her by the waist, hauled her against him, and kissed her.

  And, just as when he had kissed her the day before, his immediate thought was to wonder how, precisely, it was that he had gone for so long without doing so. Before he had met Violet, he would have said that he enjoyed kissing, that it was a diverting stop on the road to greater pleasures. But with Violet, kissing was not merely a stop along a well-trodden path. It was a destination all its own.

  He could feel this kiss… well, everywhere. In the warmth of her skin, burning through the fabric of her dress where his hands gripped her waist. In the softness of her lips as he kissed them, his tongue darting out to trace their seam, slipping inside her mouth as she opened it with a slight gasp. In the softness of her breasts, pressed against his chest, making him itch to slide his hand up, cup them.

&nbs
p; So he did.

  Violet gasped into his mouth once more at the touch and pressed herself more firmly against his hand as he caressed the curve beneath his palm, his hands frustrated by the layers of fabric separating him from the warmth and smoothness of her bare skin. Their mouths grew desperate, tongues tangling, and Violet arched her neck with a low moan, allowing James access to the long, pale column of her throat, upon which he traced delicate designs with his tongue. In his breeches he was stiff and aching, and it was only with difficulty that he resisted the urge to roll his hips against hers.

  Violet slid her hands into his hair and pulled his mouth back to her own, her lips possessing his with a frenzy and ardor that nearly undid him. It was as some vague corner of his mind began to wonder about retreating upstairs that she seemed to recall herself, tearing her mouth away from his.

  “James,” she said, and he was pleased to hear the slight pant in her voice, the unevenness of her breathing a sign of the same desire that coursed through him, setting his blood on fire, every nerve in his body jangling. “We can’t,” she said simply, and reached up a hand to smooth her hair, which had escaped from their interlude with remarkably little damage done.

  “I apologize,” he said, in tones of exaggerated politeness. “I was undone by your beauty.” The words were not untrue, but he knew that Violet would take them for rank flattery and disregard them—which was, he told himself, all for the best. Better that she should never know what the sight of her in that gown did to him.

  What the sight of her every day did to him.

  He reminded himself, quite sternly, that she was leading him on a merry chase—reminded himself of the realization that had prompted the rash and most certainly unwise action of kissing her in the first place.

  And yet, in that moment, with the taste of her still on his lips, he would have played hound to her fox quite happily for the rest of his days.

  That was it. He had finally lost all reason and dignity whatsoever. This, apparently, was what marriage did to a man. Or, at the very least, marriage to Violet. He somehow thought that marriage to, say, Lady Emily Turner, would be an entirely different and altogether more restful experience.