To Have and to Hoax

by Martha Waters

  “You’re a reasonably handsome man,” she added, “if one likes that sort of thing.”

  This, at least, was enough to draw his attention. “ ‘That sort of thing’?” he inquired. Once he had poured a third glass of lemonade for Lady Fitzwilliam, they moved away from the table and began a slow circuit of the room, keeping close to the walls rather than taking the most direct path back across the dance floor, which was full of people milling about, as the orchestra was between sets.

  “Oh, you know.” Violet waved an airy hand. “Tall. Dark. Handsome. It’s all right for some, I suppose, if you find that type terribly attractive.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “I’m afraid your charms have rather faded for me, James.”

  He blinked. His charms had faded? It had to be simple male pride that accounted for the burst of indignation—indignation laced with some deeper, more potent emotion—that this statement provoked. “Perhaps it’s merely been too long since you’ve sampled them,” he managed.

  “I don’t see how that can be true,” Violet said with a laugh—was it his imagination, or did that laugh sound slightly unsteady? “Or have you already forgotten our—er—encounter earlier this evening?”

  James stopped dead in his tracks, forcing Violet to halt as well. All the teasing was gone from his voice as he said, “I’ve never forgotten anything about you, Violet. About us.”

  She blinked up at him. “Oh.”

  “Just so we are clear.”

  She blinked again, and then her face resumed its expression of archness. “Well then, my point remains.”

  “And which point was this?”

  “That I’m not some girl of eighteen to be taken in by a handsome face and a few kisses.” She kept her voice low, smiling blandly at an acquaintance they passed.

  “So you do find me handsome,” he said triumphantly. He tightened his grip on her arm.

  She feigned disinterest—it was a decent charade, but he saw through it. At some point in the past fortnight, he had come to know her again—not in the way he once had, of course. But the part of him that had, from their first meeting, beat out a pulse of recognition had been awakened once more.

  “The fact remains,” she said, sniffing, “that it takes more than a couple of improper kisses to turn my head these days.”

  “Have my kisses been improper?”

  Her cheeks heated under his gaze, and he mentally crowed. “They certainly have.”

  “How so?” he pressed, enjoying himself thoroughly. “Is it not proper for a husband to kiss his wife in the sanctity of his own home?”

  “Well—”

  “Now, I will grant you, had I kissed you somewhere in public, that would have been improper.” He slowly drew her toward an alcove they were passing, shaded in part by a potted fern. “Had I led you into a dark corner of a crowded ballroom and pressed you against a wall, and kissed you with half the ton milling about a few feet away—that would have been improper.” He had reached the alcove in question and turned her to face him, edging her back into it and blocking her from view of the crowd. He leaned forward, and her chin tilted up, her breath quickening.

  “Had I kissed you in this alcove, again and again, with my hands in your hair and your skirts tangled about my legs and our bodies pressed together so tightly so that you could feel every inch of how badly I wanted you—” He rocked his hips forward slightly as he spoke, and she gasped in reply. Her dark eyes were heated with passion.

  “Now that would have been improper,” he said, leaning forward, hesitating so that their mouths were mere inches apart. His heart pounded in his chest, their uneven breaths meeting and mingling in the minimal space between them. He could practically feel the heat radiating from her skin, and his mind was already lost in detailed imaginings of precisely how soft her lips would feel beneath his.

  He leaned forward even farther, making to close the gap between them—

  “Lord James! Lady James!”

  The voice was so unpleasantly familiar that all thoughts of seduction fled at once, any arousal doused so quickly that he might as well have had a bucket of cold water dumped on his head.

  Resisting the urge to groan, James turned. Violet, who actually did groan, followed his suit.

  It was Violet’s mother.

  Lady Worthington was, he supposed, an objectively attractive woman. She actually bore quite a strong resemblance to her daughter—the same dark hair, the same wide eyes, the same fair, unlined skin. Lady Worthington had to be past forty by now, but she was aging beautifully, offering a glimpse of how Violet would look when she was older. However, to James’s mind, there was no comparison between the two. Everything that made Violet Violet—the quirk to her mouth when she was amused by something inappropriate, the sparkle in her eyes that made them look so vivid and alive—was entirely missing in her mother. It was as though Violet were an original work of art, and Lady Worthington a cold, emotionless copy created by an artist with much less skill.

  And that was before she even opened her mouth.

  “Lord James,” the countess said, offering him her hand, which he bent over, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “Lady James,” she continued as James straightened, leaning forward to brush her cheek against her daughter’s. James knew that Violet had told her mother that she would prefer that she continue to address her by her Christian name, rather than her courtesy title, but Lady Worthington was a stickler for propriety. Violet had married the son of a duke—not, it was true, the first son of a duke, as would certainly have been preferable, but the son of a duke nonetheless, and she would never, for an instant, forget this triumph, which had, of course, been of her own engineering.

  “Mother,” Violet said, and James was struck, as always, by the change that came over his wife whenever her mother was in the room. She seemed shrunken, paler, a slightly faded version of her usual self. He had suggested, early in their marriage, that Violet stand up to her mother, which had led to a fight. She had insisted that she did so, whereby he replied that needling her and truly defying her were not at all the same thing. They had argued in circles for at least an hour—and then, by the end of the evening, had made up in highly memorable fashion, as was their wont. James lingered on that particular memory—which had, he recalled, involved testing the strength of one of the armchairs in the library—but after a moment decided that, given the cut of his coat and breeches, it might be best not to linger on it too terribly long.

  Fortunately, the sound of Lady Worthington’s voice was sufficient to thwart any such pleasant reminiscences.

  “I am pleased to see you two together this evening,” Lady Worthington said, disapproval evident in every syllable that came from her lips. James wondered how much she had been able to see of their activities—or sad lack thereof—in the alcove before she had interrupted them. “It’s lovely to see a wife where she belongs.” She paused, giving James and Violet a significant look, as though they might not take her meaning. “At her husband’s side,” she clarified. She cast James a sympathetic smile, as though they were long-suffering partners in crime.

  James could practically see the rage rolling off of Violet, and quickly spoke before she could. “It is funny you should think so, Lady Worthington,” he said. “I’ve rather thought that, considering the great honor your daughter did me by agreeing to be my wife in the first place, the least I can do is dog her footsteps wherever she goes. I’m afraid I’ve been rather remiss in that matter.”

  Violet watched him with a curious expression.

  “You and I shall have to agree to disagree, Lord James,” Lady Worthington said icily.

  “Something I’m certain James finds entirely acceptable,” Violet put in, and James had to smother a smile. “Mother, it’s been lovely to see you this evening—”

  “I had something I particularly wished to discuss with you, Lady James,” Lady Worthington said with a severe look at her daughter. “Come to tea tomorrow.”

  The invi
tation was, as was so often the case with Lady Worthington, a command, not a request.

  “Of course,” Violet murmured, dipping the shallowest curtsey she could offer without seeming openly rude.

  “Lady Worthington, you must allow me to steal your daughter away now,” James said. “I’m afraid her dance card is so full that she cannot afford to dawdle.”

  Lady Worthington opened her mouth to reply, but James had already taken Violet’s arm once more and proceeded to steer her firmly away. Over his shoulder, he added, “Lady Worthington, next time you seek to scold my wife in a public place—or any place at all—I would advise you to reconsider.”

  And with that, he and Violet made their retreat.

  “I’m very tempted to turn around to see what the look on her face is like, but I don’t think I quite dare,” Violet said, a note of distinct satisfaction in her voice.

  “Probably best not to tempt fate,” James agreed.

  “Thank you,” Violet said, so softly that he nearly missed it, a gentle squeeze of his arm accompanying her words. He placed his free hand over hers and squeezed it in return.

  “You don’t have to go to tea with her tomorrow, you know.”

  Violet sighed. “It’s best just to go and let her say her bit.”

  James frowned, but further conversation was forestalled by the fact that they had rejoined their party, though it had been reduced in number. Jeremy, Penvale, and Lady Fitzwilliam stood in a loose circle, making idle conversation; just as Violet and James approached, a gentleman—the younger brother of the Earl of Dunreedie, if James wasn’t mistaken—bowed to Diana and departed as she rejoined her friends. With a quick glance at her wrist, he could see that Diana’s dance card was already nearly entirely full.

  “Where is Emily?” Violet asked, draining the rest of her glass of lemonade. Without thinking, James reached out and took the empty glass from her, handing it to a passing footman before turning to Lady Fitzwilliam and offering her the full glass in his hand with what he hoped was a not-at-all-flirtatious bow.

  “Dancing with Belfry,” Diana said, in a tone of voice that James thought might be her attempt to sound casual. It was spoiled by the eager expression on her face.

  “Is Mr. Cartham attending this evening?” Violet asked, craning her neck around to get a better look at the room. Even if Cartham were here, James thought, Violet would be lucky to spot him—it was quite a crush.

  “I believe so, but I’ve yet to see him. I’ve instructed Penvale”—here Diana jerked her head at her brother, who was sipping a glass of champagne and looking bored—“to keep a sharp eye out for him, so that we might keep him away from Emily.”

  “Playing matchmaker, are we?” James asked.

  Diana sniffed. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to want to see Emily married to someone other than that vulgar boor.”

  “You sound frightfully snobbish, Diana,” Penvale said, sounding amused. “Not such a rebel after all, are we?”

  “You’re making a mistake if you think to match Belfry with Lady Emily,” Jeremy added. “A less likely man to marry I’ve never seen. Haven’t you heard anything of his reputation?”

  “Mmm, yes,” Diana said sweetly, giving Jeremy a saccharine smile. “But I didn’t think it was any worse than yours, my lord.”

  Rather than look offended, Jeremy appeared amused. “Touché. And yet I’ve no intention of marrying, either, so my point remains.”

  “So you say,” Diana said, sounding skeptical. “But need I remind you that you are a marquess? At some point, you’ll have to produce an heir.”

  Jeremy shrugged. “I’ve a cousin who I’ve no doubt would be quite pleased to inherit. He has a very fertile wife, if I recall.”

  Diana tossed her head impatiently. “Don’t be absurd. Of course you’ll marry.”

  Jeremy shrugged again, and James was fairly certain he was doing so merely to irritate Diana. “If you say so. I’ve yet to meet a debutante I didn’t find insufferable, so you’ll forgive me for remaining unconvinced.”

  “You knew me when I was a debutante,” Diana said through gritted teeth.

  “Did I?” Jeremy asked in mock surprise. “Oh, I do believe you’re right.” He pointedly did not apologize, nor did he amend his previous statement.

  Diana took a deep breath, in the manner of a parent dealing with a particularly stubborn toddler. “I’ll wager you’ll be married within the year. I could find you a bride in three snaps.”

  Jeremy laughed out loud, and James suspected that Jeremy and Diana had entirely forgotten the presence of the rest of the group, who were observing this interaction with some interest. “That would be money in my pocket, Lady Templeton.”

  “Then you’ll take the wager?” Diana asked, a steely glint in her eye, and, seeing the alarmed look on Penvale’s face at this, it suddenly struck James that Jeremy might be in over his head for once. It was rather enjoyable to witness. “And you’ll allow me to send a parade of marriageable misses in your direction?”

  “Why not?” Jeremy asked blithely. “I somehow think I’ll be able to resist the temptation. What shall we make the bet?”

  Diana paused, and James wondered for a brief moment if she was going to affect ladylike hesitation to deal with something so sordid as money.

  “One hundred pounds.” James blinked; that sum would pay the annual salaries of half of his household staff, for Christ’s sake. He was beginning to wonder if Diana and Jeremy weren’t taking this a bit far.

  “Done,” Jeremy said briskly, then extended his hand. “Shall we shake on it?”

  Diana appeared momentarily startled—James was quite certain that no one had ever attempted to shake her hand before—but she took Jeremy’s proffered hand.

  “I shall spend my winnings on a glorious wedding gift for you,” she said.

  “Of course,” Jeremy said, unconcerned. Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Violet and Lady Fitzwilliam exchange raised eyebrows.

  “How would you feel about a swan centerpiece for your dining room table?” Diana asked.

  “Lovely,” Jeremy replied. “Since I don’t expect to ever see such a thing.”

  “Right,” said Penvale, seeming to seize upon the momentary cessation of hostilities to change the subject. “Shall we—”

  The faint strains of a waltz began to filter throughout the room; the previous set had ended while Jeremy and Diana were speaking, and Penvale was now interrupted by a gasp from Lady Fitzwilliam. He turned politely in her direction. “Yes, my lady? Is something wrong?”

  “No, no, nothing at all,” Lady Fitzwilliam replied, waving her hand quickly. “I merely… no, never mind.”

  “I assure you, my lady, we are all ears,” James said, in as pleasant a voice as he could manage.

  “It is only that I thought I heard the sounds of a waltz,” Lady Fitzwilliam said with her best downcast look.

  The rest of the party turned to look at James.

  “Lady Fitzwilliam,” he said as politely as he could, despite the fact that he felt rather like a cornered fox, “would you do me the very great honor of giving me this dance?”

  “Oh,” Lady Fitzwilliam said brightly, as though the idea had never occurred to her. “How very kind of you, Lord James.” She took his proffered arm. “I do so love to dance the waltz, but of course I would never be so forward as to ask you myself… how very thoughtful you are.” She stroked a finger down the length of his forearm in a disturbingly flirtatious way. James shot a glare at Violet, who looked as though she were biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself laughing.

  This, James thought, not for the first time over the course of the past fortnight, was why men should never marry.

  Twelve

  Violet was not certain what it said about the state of her marriage—or, perhaps, her social life—that watching her husband dance with another woman was the most entertaining thing she’d experienced at a ball in years.

  James steered Sophie around the ballroom
with the look of a man faced with an unpleasant task who was determined to get it over and done with, no matter the cost to him personally. Sophie, by contrast, was leaning forward ever so slightly—not close enough to cause any blatant gossip, as there was still a sliver of space between James and herself, but certainly closer than either Emily or Diana had ever stood when dancing with James before.

  The evening was going perfectly according to plan. James appeared wildly uncomfortable with Sophie’s advances, and his kiss at home, and his seductive words just a few minutes before—blast her horrible mother for interrupting that particular interlude!—seemed to indicate that he desired her as much as she did him. And he didn’t like it one bit when she feigned indifference. Surely, all of this combined was enough to cause some sort of revelation in even the most thickheaded, emotionally stunted of men—and James, fond of him as she was, could not be said to possess a great deal of emotional intelligence. But surely even he must be awakening to his own desire. For her. Now, in theory, all she had to do was wait for him to come to her.

  Violet was drawn back from watching the entertaining tableau before her with a sharp “Lady James.”

  She turned, her hackles already going up at the distinct note of disapproval she heard in the voice summoning her, and found herself face-to-face with James’s brother.

  “West,” she said, sagging slightly.

  West’s eyes, at the moment, were focused on her with an expression of more gravity than she had ever seen. In truth, Violet and West had always gotten on well—early in her marriage, when James and West had been closer, she had invited West to dinner often, and they would frequently dine à trois, West lingering late into the evening for drinks and discussion. The loss of this camaraderie was one of the many things she regretted about the past four years.

  “I suppose you have something to do with this,” West said. He jerked his head in the direction of the dance floor, where James and Sophie were currently waltzing near Diana and Belfry. Past them, weaving in and out of the other immaculately dressed couples on the dance floor, she spotted Penvale and Emily.