To Have and to Hoax

by Martha Waters

  “There you are, Audley!” Jeremy said, still—somehow!—oblivious to the fact that the temperature in the house seemed to have plummeted in the past minute. “I was just asking your lovely wife if you’d successfully groveled, as we discussed.”

  “Jeremy,” James said, his eyes never leaving Violet’s, “get out of my house.” His tone wasn’t angry, precisely, but it wasn’t one that left room for disagreement, either.

  “I say, Audley—”

  “Now.” James’s eyes broke from hers, and Violet could see his unspoken message to Jeremy: Please. I am begging you. Jeremy, apparently, could read this, too, for he departed with a few murmured niceties to Violet and one last, baffled look at his best friend. Wooton rematerialized from the shadows in time to hand Jeremy his hat and close the door behind him, then wisely vanished once more.

  Never had a silence seemed so deafening.

  “Violet—” James said, taking three quick steps toward her. His tone was calm, soothing, and for some reason this did nothing but stoke the flame of anger that was rising within her.

  “You lied to me.” She barely recognized her own voice, so cold did it sound.

  “I might have neglected to mention a few things,” James said carefully, then winced, as though even he could see this for the evasion that it was. He looked at her directly, took a breath. “Yes. I lied.”

  “So when you told me that you suddenly realized that you were letting your father control your life,” Violet said, striving to keep her voice calm, despite the fact that she felt as though a veritable storm of emotions was swirling within her, “that you realized that you should have trusted me, your wife, all along…” She paused, inhaling—her voice had cracked a bit on the word wife.

  “It was all a lie,” she said simply. It was not a question.

  “Violet,” he said again, not moving this time, though she could see how badly he wanted to. He seemed to sense, however, that a single false step could cost him dearly in this moment. “What I told you was true. I didn’t mention the business with Jeremy because I didn’t want to complicate things.”

  “Oh no,” Violet said, her voice sounding brittle, as though it were about to crack and shatter. “Because of course things have been frightfully simple between us lately.”

  “Damn it,” he said—he did not raise his voice or alter his tone, but the amount of feeling, of emotion packed into those two simple words was enough to nearly make her take a step backward. “I am sick of quarreling with you.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Violet said, growing truly heated now, and she was grateful for the fury, because for a ridiculous moment she had been afraid that she would begin to weep. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have married me, then. Perhaps you should have married one of those other insipid, simpering girls who made their debut during my Season—the ones you told me you found so frightfully boring.”

  “There’s a vast plain between boring and you, Violet,” he said angrily, running his hand through his hair, as she’d often seen him do during their arguments when they’d first married, though it had been so long since they’d had a proper fight, she’d nearly forgotten the gesture. It felt oddly intimate and strange to see it again now, and she welcomed it, even as rage coursed through her.

  “How kind of you to say,” she replied. “Truly, the most graceful compliment I’ve received in years.”

  James swore under his breath; then, in a movement so quick Violet didn’t have a chance to prevent it, he leapt up the stairs, seized her by the elbow, and began leading her forcibly down the hallway.

  “Take your hands off of me,” Violet said, swatting ineffectively at his fingers, which suddenly seemed to be made of iron, so unrelenting was his grip. “I am not a dog to be dragged where you please.”

  James ignored her, steering her into the library and closing the door firmly behind them both.

  “I do apologize,” he said curtly, “but I thought it best to take precautionary measures, since you were showing signs of becoming shrill.”

  “Shrill?” Violet winced at the pitch that emanated from her own mouth, then tried again, more calmly. “Shrill?”

  “I can’t imagine what I was so worried about,” he said dryly, crossing his arms. Seeming restless, he uncrossed them, then glanced around the room. Violet wasn’t certain what he was looking for until a moment later, when he moved quickly to the sideboard and seized the snifter of brandy that was stored there. He haphazardly poured a measure of the liquid into one tumbler, then another, and turned to hand her a glass.

  The contents of which, of course, she promptly hurled into his face.

  It was oddly satisfying, watching him gape at her as brandy dripped down his face. She sailed past him to the sideboard, where she refilled her glass and took a leisurely sip before turning back to face her still-silent husband.

  James wiped his face roughly on his sleeve, then tossed back half of the contents of his glass in a single gulp.

  “I believe you’re supposed to savor it,” Violet said, taking another small sip and examining her fingernails. “At least, that’s what I recall you telling me once.”

  “That brandy cost a damn fortune.”

  “Precisely my point, darling. I don’t think it should be wasted by gulping.” Violet raised her eyes, risking a glance at him. His green eyes were blazing, his face still slightly damp. She curled her free hand at her side, resisting the temptation to retrieve her handkerchief, to wipe his face for him.

  “But watering the rug with it is a good use instead?” He drained the rest of the contents of his glass.

  Violet snorted. “Don’t be absurd. I think your face absorbed the entire brunt of it.”

  He sighed, then set his now-empty tumbler on a side table nearby. “I suppose I deserved it.”

  “Yes,” Violet said, sniffing and taking yet another sip. She could feel herself relaxing slightly as the brandy burned through her, her limbs feeling looser, her spine losing some of its indignant stiffness. Her anger, however, remained. The act of throwing the drink at him—something she had fantasized about more than once during long, silent dinners over the past four years—had taken the edge off of her immediate fury, but somehow she now felt even worse.

  “You deserved that and more,” she said, setting her glass down, the drink inside only half finished. She wondered for a brief, wild moment what her mother would think of this scene: her daughter—the daughter of an earl!—not just drinking strong spirits but hurling them into her husband’s face. She made a mental note to save this story in case her mother tried to detain her overlong at tea this afternoon—though, late as she would likely be at this point, she’d be lucky to get a word in edgewise around the tongue-lashing she was sure to receive.

  “I’ve been acting like a child these last weeks,” she said frankly, because she might have been many things, but she also always tried to be fair. “I deserved any tricks you played on me, because I was being foolish. I was angry with you, and I wanted to teach you a lesson, and I went about it the wrong way. It was childish, and I apologize.”

  James arched a brow, looking mildly stunned. She might have considered herself an eminently fair person, but apologizing didn’t come easily to her, and admitting she was wrong—about anything—was even harder.

  “You don’t need to apologize,” he said after a moment’s silence. “I believe that responsibility lies solely with me.”

  She could see that he was working himself up to a proper apology—one that she would likely love to hear, one that would make her soften in the face of his regret, of his nearness, of the very fact of him being James. And this was something that she could not do.

  That she would not let herself do. Not when he had claimed to be ready to put their troubles behind them, and then lied to her face half an hour later. He hadn’t explained anything of his discussion with his father in the park; he hadn’t even mentioned anything about Jeremy’s involvement in their parents’ scheme, whatever that might have been.
If these events were what had led to his apology this morning, then he had been lying when he said he trusted her, because he was still taking the word of everyone else above her own. It had hurt when he had done so four years ago, and it still stung now, even as it infuriated her.

  In short, nothing had changed; she would not let him weaken her with whatever apology he intended to offer her now.

  So again, she spoke. “You’re going to apologize now, I know. But I don’t want you to.”

  His brow furrowed. She wanted to smooth it, to run her thumb down the skin, feeling its warmth and firmness, watching his expression change from one of concern to something else entirely. And yet, she did not.

  She could comfort this man—this infinitely precious man—over and over, but doing so would not solve their problems.

  At this point, only he could solve them.

  “I love you,” she said simply, and felt as though a weight had been lifted from her chest, so light did she feel with this unburdening of the truth. She felt as though she had carried these three small words around with her every day for the past four years, that they had grown heavier each day for being unspoken.

  “I love you,” she repeated, feeling almost giddy, and she saw him open his mouth, perhaps to speak these same words back to her, and again she forestalled him, knowing that allowing him to do so would weaken her resolve. “But I don’t want to hear what you have to say right now. I’m going to tea with my mother, and then I am going to dine at Diana’s, and then I am going to the Goodchapel musicale with Emily tonight, and I don’t want you to follow me, not unless you mean it.” She swallowed, surprised by the sudden rush of emotion she felt. So often had she wished that he would trust her, love her without anything coming between them. So often had she wished that he had followed her from the drawing room on that horrible morning four years ago—wished that he had refused to let her walk away, forced her to argue with him until their issues were laid bare and things were right between them once more.

  And yet, now that she thought he might follow her at last, she was turning him away. Because she realized something now—something that perhaps she should have realized long before.

  She wanted him to follow her for the right reasons. She wanted him to follow her because he loved her and trusted her above all others. She wanted him to follow her without having to think twice about it, without ever doubting her word. She wished for him to follow her without her having to ask him to—and without her having to convince him, once she did, that she had been worthy of the pursuit. She was no longer willing to settle for a marriage that involved anything less, with a man who claimed to love her, but who failed to put his faith in her when it counted the most.

  “I have missed you more than I can say,” she said, swallowing again, and he reached for her, his arm extending halfway across the space that divided them before freezing, falling to his side once more. She saw in his face the effort that the simple action of dropping his arm took, and she was grateful for it, though she couldn’t bring herself to tell him as much.

  “I want this to be a true marriage again—I want us to be together. I want to spend my days and nights with you. And I think you want that, too. But I want you to trust me beyond all measure. I want a real marriage, and I don’t think we can have that in the absence of trust. And I don’t think we can have that until you stop allowing your obsession with your father to dictate everything about our lives. You were thrown from a horse less than a fortnight ago, a horse you never should have been riding in the first place. And you cannot tell me that your foolishness had to do with anything other than your obsession with showing your father your worth.” She paused, swallowing around the lump that had appeared in her throat. “I already know your worth. You don’t need to prove anything to me. I need for my opinion to be the one that matters the most to you, because I am your wife. So please, James, I am begging you. I am leaving now, and please don’t come after me until you can make that true.”

  And, with more strength than she had known she possessed, she turned from him and walked to the library door. Deep in her heart, she knew that she was somehow hoping he would race after her, block her exit, refuse to let her leave without fixing this, once and for all. She didn’t want him to follow her for the wrong reasons, it was true—but she could not help hoping he might already understand the right ones, and that he might not let her walk away after an argument once again. And yet, when he made no sign of stopping her departure, she prided herself on the fact that she left the room without once looking back.

  Seventeen

  After Violet left the room, James lingered. He didn’t wish to—every instinct in his body was screaming at him to run after her, apologize once more, promise her that he would never lie to her again. He’d fall to his damn knees if he had to.

  And yet, something held him back. She still thought him in thrall to his father. She still thought him unable to trust, to love her the way she deserved. He needed to prove to her, somehow, that this wasn’t true. But how?

  How could he show her what he felt so deeply? He was an Englishman, after all; dramatic declarations weren’t really his forte. How could he make her trust him? Trust them?

  An indeterminate amount of time later, Wooton appeared at the door. “The Marquess of Willingham and Viscount Penvale, my lord.”

  James looked up wearily from his seat by the fireplace. It was an unseasonably cool day for July, and the weather had turned gray and foggy in the afternoon; he was seated in his favorite armchair, another glass of brandy in hand. He could still feel the faint stickiness on one side of his face where he’d failed to entirely wipe away the drink that Violet had hurled at him. Despite his rage in the moment, his mouth now twitched slightly at the memory.

  “You look terrible,” Jeremy said without preamble, appearing behind Wooton and sauntering into the room.

  “It’s not been my finest day, I must confess.” James gestured lazily at the sideboard without rising, merely raising his own glass. “Help yourselves.”

  “It will take a fair bit of work to catch up, from the smell of you,” Penvale said severely as he, too, entered the room, sounding slightly like a disapproving governess, much to James’s amusement. His disapproval, however, did not stop him from crossing to the sideboard and filling two glasses. He handed one to Jeremy, who had already sunk down into a chair opposite James, and kept the other for himself as he leaned against the mantel.

  “Where’s your wife, Audley?” Penvale asked, apparently having no time for niceties.

  “At tea with her mother.” James took a healthy gulp of brandy, then rubbed a hand over his forehead. “And then dining with your sister,” he added, directing his words to Penvale. “And then at a godforsaken musicale with Lady Emily.” He cast a dark look at Jeremy.

  “You can’t mean to imply that you have any desire to join her at any of those events,” Jeremy said incredulously over the rim of his glass.

  “Of course not. But I did have every intention of retrieving her from her mother’s house approximately a quarter of an hour after her arrival and bringing her home again, with no intention of departing the house again for several days.”

  “What seems to be the problem, then?” Penvale asked lazily, swirling the liquid in his glass. James wasn’t deceived by his casual demeanor; he knew Penvale was paying close attention to every word that was spoken.

  James debated for a brief moment trying to explain the whole story, then quickly rejected this idea; for one, it would take too long. Additionally, he thought he might yell with frustration.

  “I need to convince her that I trust her,” he said shortly. “And also that I’m not allowing my father to run my life.”

  “So just visit him and give him his bloody horses back,” Penvale said practically. He sounded casual, even disinterested; James, however, stared at him.

  “What?” Penvale asked, shifting uncomfortably. “You’ve been killing yourself trying to manage the damn stables, jus
t to prove to your father that you can. Why not just give them back? Won’t that show Violet that you trust her judgment?”

  Give them back.

  It was a simple idea—deceptively so. And one that he didn’t really have a strong motive for rejecting—Violet’s dowry was generous, his inheritance from his mother fat. Did they truly need a house in the country? He suspected Violet’s answer would be no, if in return she received a husband who was not spending a sizable portion of his waking hours trying to prove himself to his bastard of a father.

  It seemed outlandish somehow, and yet—why not? He needed to make some sort of grand gesture, and he needed to do it fast. He refused to spend another night without her in his bed.

  In his life.

  He tossed back the last of his drink, then stood, clapping first Jeremy, then Penvale on the shoulder. “Thanks for the friendly advice, chaps,” he said, striding for the door.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Jeremy called after him in protest.

  “Probably for the best,” James tossed over his shoulder. “You can show yourselves out, I trust?” he asked, pausing briefly at the doorway. Without waiting for an answer, he strode into the hall, bellowing for Wooton and his horse.

  * * *

  It was the habit of the Duke of Dovington to pass several afternoons a week at his club when he was in town. The duke was fastidious in his routine, taking great pains to appear at the venerable doors of White’s at the same time on each afternoon, so that any who might have business with him would know just where he might be found. He being a duke, there were any number of men who took advantage of this predictability.

  Until that day, however, his younger son had never been one of them.

  James found his father in the library at White’s, his head bent over a volume of Pliny the Elder. The duke did not look up as he approached, apparently so absorbed in his reading that he did not hear the sound of rapidly advancing footsteps. James, who had never seen his father read for pleasure in his life, took this for the nonsense that it was and, in one neat motion, reached out beneath the duke’s very nose and flipped the book shut.