To Have and to Hoax

by Martha Waters

  “I know,” she said. “But I have to try something—I can’t go out looking like this.”

  “We’ll sneak out before anyone sees us,” he said, locating his gloves and pulling them on. He paused, looked at her. “Where are your gloves, by the by?”

  “In my reticule.”

  “Ah.”

  A slightly awkward silence fell.

  “Well,” she said brightly, jumping to her feet. “Well.”

  James looked down at her. “Would you like to leave?”

  “Yes,” Violet said immediately. His gaze unnerved her; she had so much she still wanted to say to him, and yet in this moment no precise idea of how to get it out.

  She opened her mouth to speak, sucking in a deep breath—and coughed.

  Later, she would find it amusing how much trouble a single bit of dust could cause. They were in a library, after all—dust was rather to be expected, particularly when the library in question didn’t seem to be as heavily used as James’s and her own. In any case, this speck of dust caused her to cough once, twice—and by the time she had regained her composure, the smile had faded from James’s face.

  “I’d offer you a handkerchief,” he said coldly, “but no doubt you’ve one tucked away in there somewhere for just this purpose.”

  Violet’s mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”

  He took her arm in a firm grip, attempting to lead her out of the library, but she resisted, digging her heels in and wrenching her arm free of his. James stopped, too, turning to her with his hands on his hips.

  “Was all this just part of your game?” he asked, gesturing around him as though to encompass the library in general, the window seat in particular, and most especially the activities that had so recently taken place upon it. “Do you have a bloody plan written out somewhere? Does it tell you how often each day you should cough to raise my sympathies?” He took two steps closer to her, his cheeks flushed, eyes blazing. “Violet, I know you don’t have consumption.”

  He appeared to think he’d thrown some sort of gauntlet, as though she’d cower and retreat upon this revelation. She, however, was so angry that the words practically poured out of her as she took a step closer to him, so close that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

  “I know you know, you bloody bastard!” She reached out and whacked at his chest. “I had a piece of dust in my throat! I’m so frightfully sorry,” she added, sarcasm dripping from every word. “I didn’t realize you were so sensitive to my health that a mere cough would unnerve you so.”

  James let out an incredulous laugh. “Says the woman who’s spent a fortnight wandering about our house coughing whenever she’s in earshot, summoning an actor to pose as her physician?”

  “I suppose that’s somehow more beyond the pale than a man flirting with the woman his brother once courted out of some misguided quest for revenge,” Violet said mock thoughtfully. “How foolish of me not to realize that you, as ever, occupy the moral high ground.”

  “I apologized for that,” James said stiffly, and Violet could practically see him sliding an aloof mask into place upon his face. And, all at once, she decided that she simply would not allow it.

  “Yes, for that,” she said scathingly. She reached out a fist to pound upon his chest once again, but he caught her curled hand in his own viselike grip, refusing to release it. “Has it ever, even once, occurred to you to apologize to me for anything that’s happened over the course of the past four years? Did it ever occur to you that I might like an apology for having my happiness destroyed?”

  “I think there’s plenty of blame to go around on that front.” Despite the fact that he was standing mere inches away from her, that her hand was still caught in his grasp, that just a few minutes earlier he had been inside her, James suddenly seemed very, very far away. And then, just for a moment, his mask slipped—he looked younger, somehow, and just as lonely as she felt. He looked like the man she had fallen in love with, who had in truth been little more than a boy.

  “You were the one who walked out of that room,” he said very quietly.

  Violet blinked, for a moment unaware of what he was referencing. After a beat, she realized he was referring to that terrible morning, when she had finally fled the drawing room so as not to burst into tears.

  “You were supposed to follow me,” she replied, her voice little more than a murmur. And then she turned and walked toward the doorway.

  “Where are you going?” His voice sounded hoarse, entirely lacking his usual confident tone.

  “I’ll ask Diana to take me home.” She turned to glance over her shoulder. “And don’t follow me now. Only follow me when you’re ready to admit you still love me, and to let me love you in return.”

  And then she swept through the room toward the doorway and let the heavy door fall shut behind her as she departed.

  * * *

  Much later that evening—after James had rejoined his friends’ card game, after he had drunk considerably more brandy than he ought to have, after he had endured a bumpy, jostling carriage ride back to his house, without any company other than lingering traces of Violet’s perfume—he found himself outside his wife’s door, hesitating.

  He’d raised his hand to knock, then lowered it thrice now, and he was growing disgusted with himself. He pressed his forehead against the wood of the door, relishing its coolness on his overheated skin. Violet’s words of earlier echoed through his brain—there was so much there to process that he scarcely knew where to start. One part kept coming back to him, though: When you’re ready to admit you still love me, and to let me love you in return.

  Love.

  Violet still loved him.

  And she thought that he still loved her.

  And, as usual, she was completely, utterly, infuriatingly correct.

  How had he thought that he didn’t care for her? How had he believed that he could go the rest of his life without the feeling of her arms wrapped around him, her lips pressed to his, their hips moving together in a perfect rhythm? The cynical part of him tried to regain control, reminding him that he had just ended a rather long dry spell, that any tumble would have had a similar effect upon him—

  And yet he couldn’t make himself believe it.

  It had been different, and special, because it had been Violet. He didn’t want anyone else. Just Violet.

  And of course he’d done his damnedest to ruin it all. He winced, recalling the look upon her face when he had attacked her for the slightest cough. To be sure, one indignant part of his brain piped up, it was rather like the boy who cried wolf—how, precisely, was he to know that this cough, distinct from all the others, had been genuine?

  You might have considered the timing, the more reasonable part of him said by way of reply. James winced again. The timing, indeed. There was nothing quite like making love to one’s wife after a lengthy drought only to immediately attack her for having a bit of dust caught in her throat.

  Not for the first time in recent days, he felt like an utter bastard.

  However, one thing was clear: at the moment, he was in no condition to go barging into his wife’s room, demanding to speak with her. It was the middle of the night, for one thing—she was likely asleep, and unless she’d changed a great deal in the past four years, he didn’t think she’d take kindly to being woken from a dead sleep by a slightly intoxicated husband with no clear idea of what to say.

  So instead he returned to his bedchamber and tried to ignore the connecting door. He undressed, trying not to think about the wife in a similar state of undress lying on the opposite side of that door. A wife who, just a few short hours before, he had…

  Well. He wasn’t entirely certain he had a word for what he and Violet had done. None of the usual verbs—making love, tupping, the euphemistic sleeping with—seemed quite right. He’d spent many a lonely night over the past four years imagining making love to Violet, but either his memory had been woefully inadequate, or what they had done
this evening had surpassed any of their previous encounters.

  He climbed into bed dressed only in his smalls, then proceeded to lie with his gaze firmly fixed on the canopy overhead, trying to think about anything other than Violet’s breasts, the sounds of her moans, and the slight hitch to her breathing at the moment he’d entered her.

  Horses. Yes, that was it, he should be thinking about horses and riding—

  No, definitely not riding.

  He gave up then and let his memories take over, recalling the feeling of her tongue in his mouth and on his neck, the silkiness of her hair in his hands, the excruciating pleasure of feeling her clench and convulse around him.

  How in God’s name had he gone without that for the past four years? And how could he convince himself that he could ever be satisfied with anyone else?

  He was a fool. What did it matter if his and Violet’s first meeting had been orchestrated by their parents? What did it matter if Violet had known about it? And the more he thought about it, the more he thought she must be telling him the truth—if the past fortnight had taught him anything, it was that his wife was not a skilled liar. Regardless, he knew, deep down, that had he been flung together on that balcony with anyone else, he would not have kissed her, would not have fallen in love, would not have married her. Perhaps being a pawn in his father’s plans was all right, if it led to a life with Violet.

  With that realization, at last, he slept.

  * * *

  Violet entered the breakfast room rather nervously the next morning, having dressed with more than usual care, but the moment she saw the empty room she sagged, wishing she hadn’t bothered. James wasn’t here. What had she expected—that one glorious interlude on a window seat, followed by one thorough tongue-lashing, would mend all that was wrong between them?

  Of course not.

  She ate a rather morose breakfast by herself, then retreated to the library, as was her wont, picking up first one book, then another, casting each one aside as it failed to hold her attention. In the early afternoon she rang for tea, and the maid had just brought the tea service in when Wooton entered the room and announced, “Lady Templeton.”

  Violet stood as Diana entered the room, bracing herself for what was to come. The evening before, when Violet had sought Diana out and begged her to take her home, Diana had—uncharacteristically—not asked any questions, seeming to sense that Violet was in no state to answer them. Violet should have known that this reprieve would not last, however; in truth, she thought waiting a full twelve hours showed remarkable restraint on Diana’s part.

  “Diana,” she said as Wooton and the maid departed, closing the door behind them. “How… unexpected.”

  “Don’t take that tone with me, Violet Audley,” Diana said severely, removing her gloves. “Lord, it’s warm today. I really think we ought to reconsider ladies’ fashions during the summer months. Wearing this much clothing is positively inhumane, I tell you.” She dropped onto a settee. “Oh, lovely, tea. I see I have excellent timing.”

  “Don’t you always?”

  “I do, rather,” Diana said smugly, watching as Violet poured her a cup.

  “Do you have plans this afternoon?” Violet asked innocently, pouring a cup for herself as well and stirring in a lump of sugar and a splash of milk.

  “Stop that at once, Violet. I did not come here for a simple chat, as I think you well know. I want to know exactly where you disappeared to last night, and why you needed so desperately to leave—looking quite disheveled, I might add.” She gave Violet a rather beady-eyed look; Violet was suddenly strongly reminded of her own mother—perhaps the only time in her life she had thought Lady Worthington and Diana had anything in common.

  “I’d rather not say,” Violet said, but she could feel herself blushing as she spoke—why did she seem to have taken up the habit of blushing lately? It was extremely inconvenient—and she knew Diana would not leave her be.

  “Well, I would rather not have to spend the next year attempting to get Lord Willingham married,” Diana said. “And yet, here we are.”

  “You’re the one who made that silly bet with him,” Violet observed reasonably.

  “That isn’t the point. Stop changing the subject.”

  “I hardly think I am the one who changed the subject.”

  Diana sniffed. “Tell me what occurred last night,” she demanded.

  “James and I had an… interesting conversation,” Violet said carefully.

  “Oh?” Diana said sweetly. “Kept your mouths quite busy in this conversation, did you?”

  “Diana!”

  “I apologize. You were saying?”

  “We were talking—did you just snort?”

  “I am a lady,” Diana said with great dignity.

  “In any case, I thought we were making progress in the—er—proceedings… and then I coughed.”

  “Violet! If you were making progress, why on earth would you do that?” Diana looked truly indignant, as though she were a mother reprimanding an unruly child.

  “Why is it,” Violet wondered aloud to the room at large, “that I cannot inhale a speck of dust and cough a bit without causing such a reaction? I shall have to instruct the housemaids to be extremely thorough in their dusting, for the sake of any entertaining I wish to do.”

  “Oh, come now,” Diana protested. “You must admit, you’ve spent an entire fortnight hacking into a handkerchief at the slightest provocation.”

  “Encouraged by you!” Violet said, nettled. “And, in any case, I like to think I did not do any such thing as hack. It was far more delicate than that.”

  “Isn’t there a children’s story about this? The girl who cried wolf?” Diana mused.

  “Shall I demonstrate the cough for you?” Violet asked. “Because, really, I hardly think hack is an accurate—”

  “Violet!” Diana set her teacup down with a decisive clink. “Heavens, I wonder if this is what having children is like.” She took a calming breath. “So I take it your cough was accidental?”

  “Indeed.”

  “That was unfortunate timing.”

  “James seemed to agree with you,” Violet said. “He took it as a sign of my…” She trailed off, unsure of what word to use.

  “Continued duplicity?” Diana suggested helpfully.

  “Something like that.” Violet shrugged. “In any case, I rather lost my temper at that point and said some… things.”

  “Nothing more than the man deserved, no doubt,” Diana murmured.

  “I told him to alert me when he was ready to let me love him,” Violet confessed in a rush. “And that I wouldn’t wait forever.”

  “Excellent!” Diana said brightly. “Really, Violet, it doesn’t do to moon over a man for too long. I think you should give up Audley and take up a lover posthaste.”

  “I thought you were encouraging this scheme of mine!” Violet protested.

  “When I thought it was about revenge,” Diana clarified. “Not love.” She looked at Violet sharply. “And that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? That you love him?”

  “Yes,” Violet said helplessly. “Though I rather wish I didn’t, if this is how he’s going to behave.”

  “Darling,” Diana said. “This can’t go on forever. You’re young and beautiful. Any man would be lucky to have you, and it’s not worth going to all this trouble for a husband who doesn’t return your feelings. I don’t believe in unrequited swooning,” she added, giving Violet a severe look. “It doesn’t do to let a man get an overly inflated sense of his own worth, you know. If Audley isn’t going to rejoin you in your bed, then I say why not let some other chap?”

  Violet was tempted for a moment to inquire how Diana felt about James joining her on window seats rather than beds, just to witness the reaction it would provoke, but even she was not so bold as that.

  Instead, she merely said, “Ours might not have been the happiest marriage of late, but at least it is still a faithful one, and I intend for it t
o remain that way.”

  Diana sagged. “Morals,” she said simply. “So tiresome.”

  Violet arched a brow.

  “You seem to have rather a puritanical streak yourself, Diana. You’ve been out of mourning for how long now? And yet I’ve heard no whispers of a paramour.”

  “I’m working on it,” Diana said cryptically, but before Violet could give much thought to that particular statement, Wooton reappeared in the doorway.

  “Lord Willingham, my lady,” he intoned, and stepped aside so that Jeremy could pass into the room.

  “Jeremy?” Violet said, rising to offer him her hand. “How lovely. Are you looking for James? I’m afraid he’s not at home.”

  “I was, rather,” Jeremy said, bowing gallantly over her hand, then doing the same—rather more perfunctorily, it must be said—over Diana’s. “But how can I be disappointed when I am presented with such charming company? Indeed, what man could resist the temptation to begin the day with two such lovely ladies?”

  “I was under the impression that it was your habit to do exactly such a thing,” Diana replied icily as Jeremy took a seat and Violet set about making a cup of tea for him. “Perhaps not two, though,” she added, mock thoughtfully. “Though of course, I wouldn’t know. Your stamina might be more impressive than I’ve been given to understand.”

  “I greeted the dawn alone today,” Jeremy said, accepting the cup from Violet and taking a healthy gulp from it. “Which, of course, so disconcerted me that I made my way here immediately upon awakening.” His tone was light, but his gaze on Diana was sharp.

  “How lucky we are,” Diana said venomously. “But do go away, Willingham, I was in the middle of a very important conversation with Violet and you are ruining it.”

  “Bedeviling her about last night, are you?” Jeremy asked wisely.

  “She is, and I suspect it’s the reason you called as well,” Violet said. “Do leave me alone, the both of you.”

  “I thought you should know, Violet, that you and Audley were quite the talk of the ballroom after you left.”