To Have and to Hoax

by Martha Waters

  “Audley,” the duke said stiffly after he had looked up to see what audacious soul had the gall to do such a thing. “I might have known it was you.”

  “Father,” James said, but for once his voice didn’t sound as stiff as it often did when he was in the presence of his father. He had taken his gloves off upon his arrival at White’s, but now held them tightly in one hand, slapping them against the palm of the other with a soft thwacking sound.

  “Sit down,” his father instructed, gesturing to the chair opposite him rather like a king receiving visitors to court. His manner was one with which James was very familiar—and one for which he had no patience today.

  “Thank you, but no,” he said. “This won’t take long, in part because I’m in rather a rush, and in part because I frankly don’t have much to say to you.” The duke blinked in surprise, but James barely even registered this small victory, so intent was he on saying what he had come here to say. “Tomorrow I am going to meet with my man of business and instruct him to start the proceedings of transferring ownership of Audley House back to you.”

  The duke blinked again—it was clear that whatever he had been expecting of his son, it was not this.

  “Violet and I will, of course, move our possessions from Audley House back to Curzon Street,” James continued, growing more confident with each word that he was doing the right thing. “I would also, at a later date, be happy to discuss with you some of the financial arrangements I have made with a view toward securing the future of the stables, as you may wish to continue with them yourself.”

  “James,” the duke protested, “what is this about? Those stables were a wedding gift.”

  “No,” James said quietly, and though he did not raise his voice, the duke nearly flinched at the force he put into that single word. “Those stables were a trick—another ploy on your part, because you thought that West wouldn’t give you an heir, and suddenly you needed me. And how better to weasel your way into my life, to control me, than to make me beholden to you?

  “So I am giving them back to you, Father. I can discuss the running of them with you some other time, but we will do so as equals. I would be happy to be your partner in this—but I’m no longer interested in being the recipient of your generosity.” He could not prevent a sardonic tone from entering his voice on the word generosity. “Furthermore,” he added, beginning to actually enjoy himself, primarily due to the dumbfounded look on his father’s face, “it is my expectation that my wife and I are shortly to be reconciled, not that it is any concern of yours. It is my dearest wish that this reconciliation should result in children at some point, if we are lucky. However—” And here James took two quick steps forward, bracing a hand on one arm of his father’s chair and leaning down so that their faces were very close together indeed. “—if I should ever hear you refer to our son as your heir, I will ensure that you never see him.”

  His father, for once, was speechless. James smiled, turned, and strode from the room.

  And then he rode like hell.

  * * *

  It was, Violet decided, without a doubt the worst teatime she had ever spent in her mother’s company—and that was truly saying something. Lady Worthington had wasted no time upon her arrival in launching into a lengthy lecture on Violet’s behavior of late, ranging from her tardy arrival to tea to her shocking conduct at the Rocheford ball—“Cutting in on a dance! I’ve never heard of anything so scandalous!”—to her failings as a wife—“No wonder he’s panting after Fitzwilliam Bridewell’s widow! Men do have needs, tiresome as they may be.” She even worked Violet’s supposed illness into her diatribe, displaying possibly the only moment of astuteness in her entire life when she sniffed, “I’m not certain you weren’t just malingering. Why must you always be so dramatic?”

  While Violet was fairly practiced at ignoring her mother’s words, and had perfected the look of bland pleasantness she currently wore as she spread clotted cream upon a scone, everything in her was screaming to return to Curzon Street, to fling herself into James’s arms, to let him carry her upstairs, lay her down on the bed, strip away her layers of clothing until there was nothing between them but his skin pressed intimately against her own.

  She loved him—she had always loved him, and she knew that now. She had thought to convince herself that that love was gone, that it had never existed, that all that she and James had ever shared was youthful infatuation and lust—but this was untrue, and she could not lie to herself. Or to him. She loved him more than anything else in her life, and to turn and leave him in the library today had nearly broken her heart. Again.

  But she had done it, because she knew that she had to. She could not suffer another marriage like the one they had shared before, one where there were good days, it was true—bright, shimmering, glorious days that had seemed golden and endless and joyful beyond measure—but other days when he had vanished to a place where she could not reach him. Days when his father came to call and James retreated into his office, stewing over events from the past that he shared only bits of with her.

  She wanted a true marriage again, but she could not endure more heartbreak. And she needed James to understand that.

  And so she calmly took a bite of her scone and allowed her mother to prattle on, even as she kept one ear alert, out of the foolish, wild hope that perhaps James was going to follow her after all, and prove himself to her at last. She had told him not to, she reminded herself sternly—she had thrown a drink in his face, for heaven’s sake. But still, an irrepressible part of her hoped that this argument would have a different outcome.

  * * *

  Logically, James knew that he had made very good time on his journey from White’s to West’s house in Knightsbridge, his horse weaving in and out among the bulkier carriages and landaus that clogged London’s busy streets, but it didn’t feel that way to him. He felt jumpy, nervous, ready to burst out of his own skin. Each time he’d had to rein his horse in, he’d wanted to yell in frustration.

  However tempting he found the prospect of abandoning his current mission and beginning pursuit of his wife instead, James knew that if he wanted to truly convince Violet that he had changed, that he was a man she could trust, he must become that man in truth—the one she deserved. He needed to manage his issues with his father and his brother, so that they did not become a problem for Violet to handle instead, something to come between them once again. He was an adult, and it was time to conduct his relationships like one.

  And so here he found himself, in St. James’s Square, staring at West’s front door with a fair amount of trepidation. It was, after all, a door he had not knocked upon for nearly four years, and he didn’t relish the prospect now. And yet, almost of its own volition, his arm was raised, the hand curled into a fist, and he knocked.

  He was ushered in by a footman, then greeted by the butler, who did an admirable job of concealing his surprise at James’s unexpected appearance. In short order, James found himself swept into the library and politely bade to wait—his lordship would be with him shortly.

  He paced the length of the room instead, his head a jumble of thoughts. He wondered if West would keep him waiting, would turn ducal on him, but the thought had scarcely formed when the door behind him opened, and his brother’s voice filled the room.

  “James.”

  James turned; West stood in the doorway, dressed impeccably as always in coat and breeches and cravat, not a single hair out of place. He looked tired, James noted—there were dark circles under his eyes, and his forehead was more deeply etched than usual. West was thirty, but today he looked older.

  “West,” he said, finding himself more nervous to confront his brother than his father. Their father might have been a duke, but he was an unpleasant bastard on top of that, and one whose acceptance James no longer desired. West, however, was different.

  “I apologize for dropping by unannounced like this,” James added a bit hesitantly, and his brother’s face softened slightly.


  “You’re always welcome here, James,” West said, his voice quiet and sincere. He took several unhurried steps into the room. He gave every appearance of the English lord, relaxed and comfortable in his natural habitat, but James could tell he was curious.

  “I came to apologize,” James said without preamble.

  West raised an eyebrow, then wandered toward the fireplace, where he turned to stare into the flames that flickered there, leaning on his cane a bit. “Is this about… her?”

  James knew that by her his brother meant Lady Fitzwilliam—whose name West had avoided uttering at all costs over the past six years. His brother’s voice was calm, carefully modulated, and with his face turned toward the flames, James couldn’t read West’s expression.

  “In part,” he said. “But I think I’ve much else to apologize for as well.”

  At this, West turned, not even bothering to disguise his curiosity anymore. “Had some sort of revelation, have you? A moment of divine inspiration?”

  “Don’t be an ass,” James said without heat. “I merely had a rather interesting conversation with my wife this afternoon. She made me realize a few things.”

  “Did she?” West murmured.

  “I’m giving Audley House back to Father.”

  West’s face went blank with surprise for a moment, and James relished the feeling of having caused this, the sight all the more enjoyable for its rarity. “You can’t be serious.”

  “As the grave,” James said cheerfully. “I told Father he could have the stables back, and the house along with it. I then informed him I’d be amenable to a future discussion of us working together to run the stables as partners, but that I’d no wish to be solely responsible anymore.”

  “What the hell did Violet say to you?” West asked, sounding somewhere between impressed and alarmed. “I must ask her to teach me her tricks.”

  “Ha.”

  “What did Father say?” James didn’t think he was imagining the note of barely contained eagerness in his brother’s voice.

  “Not much of anything,” James said with a shrug. “I imagine he’s still sitting in his chair at White’s, gawking at the spot on the rug where I was standing when I told him. I’m sure he has some choice thoughts about me at the moment—likely thinks I’m an incompetent fool, at best. But I find myself unable to care overmuch. I know what I’m capable of—I’m not much bothered anymore whether Father does.”

  “Where will you and Violet live?” West asked, more serious now.

  James shrugged again, unbothered. “We still have the house in Curzon Street—and I bought that with my inheritance from Mother. I suppose I shall see if Violet misses the country house—if she does, I expect I can find us a cottage of some sort.”

  “You seem remarkably unconcerned about all of this.” West crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his shoulder against the mantel.

  James sighed, raking his hands through his hair. “The stables are lucrative, but I’ve no head for withers and which filly breeds winners and all that rot. I accepted the stables as a gift from Father because I was so damned infatuated with Violet that I wanted to lay the world at her feet—I didn’t trust her to continue wanting me otherwise. And I also wanted to prove to Father that I could run them. It felt like a test, one that I had to keep taking over and over again every day of my life. There was little joy in it anymore.”

  West was silent for a moment, and James became conscious of the fact that this was the most personal information he had shared with his brother since they were boys. And yet, it didn’t feel odd. It felt… right.

  “You said you came here to apologize?” West’s voice was quiet, but his gaze—an identical shade of burning green to James’s own—was fixed on James’s face, unblinking.

  “I’ve never trusted you.” James paused for a moment, almost regretting his bluntness. West, however, had not offered much of a reaction; he was silent, waiting patiently for James to continue.

  So he did.

  “I—when we were boys…” He paused, took a breath, gathered himself. “Father favored you because you were the firstborn, the heir. I was always left behind.” West opened his mouth, and James raised a hand, forestalling any objection. “I know it wasn’t your fault, that you didn’t ask for it, but it’s what happened. Now I understand that growing up under Father’s constant gaze wasn’t a delight, either—I think I might have even had the better end of the deal. But it’s hard for a boy to comprehend this.

  “So, for as long as I can remember, you were Father’s before you were anything else. I never trusted you not to go running to him with my secrets.”

  “You never gave me the chance to prove otherwise,” his brother said.

  “I know,” James said frankly. “I’m not here to argue with you. I’m just here to say I’d like to try again.”

  “Did Violet ask you to apologize to me?” West asked.

  “No,” James said, very glad that this was the answer he was able to give. “She told me—well, she told me a number of things—not that that would surprise you, I imagine,” he added with a quick grin, which was matched by one of West’s own. “But I realized that I was being a bloody idiot, and I need to trust people, and that’s why I’m here, telling you that I want to trust you.”

  James felt decidedly odd when he had finished with this little speech. He wasn’t used to confiding in West—wasn’t used to confiding in anyone, in truth. Even Jeremy and Penvale, two men in whom he’d have considered his faith to be unshakable, had never been on the receiving end of any confessions of this sort—and for the first time, James wondered if it wasn’t so much that Jeremy and Penvale were more trustworthy than anyone else, but rather that his faith in them had never been tested in the way it had with Violet and West. He wondered what would have happened to his and Jeremy’s friendship had he learned about Jeremy’s role in his meeting with Violet four years ago. He thought it likely that their friendship would have been damaged beyond repair, and he spared a moment to be grateful that he was not that same man—boy, really—of four-and-twenty anymore.

  “If you expect me to weep and embrace you, I shall have to tell you right away that I’m not really the sort,” West said. His tone was grave, but James could see the amused look in his eyes.

  “I rather think a handshake will do,” James said, equally gravely, and he thrust out his hand. West seized it in his own and gave it a firm shake.

  “I think this calls for a drink,” West said, moving as if to cross to the sideboard, where James knew his brother kept a stock of very fine brandy. “You look rather done in by having bared your soul and all that.”

  “Very touching,” James said dryly. “But actually, I need to go.”

  West raised a brow. “So soon after our joyous reunion? You wound me.”

  “I’d love to stay and chat”—and here, James was surprised to realize that he actually meant these words—“but I must go rescue my wife from her mother.”

  Eighteen

  Violet was on her third scone when James arrived.

  Her mother was in the midst of a lengthy exposition on the numerous ways that Violet’s marital woes were Violet’s own fault when the door to the drawing room was flung open. Violet and Lady Worthington turned in unison, startled, expecting to see the butler or a footman, but instead it was James.

  And he was glorious.

  His hair was more tousled than ever, as though he’d ridden over at great speed, and he wasn’t wearing any sort of neckcloth. Violet darted a quick glance at her mother to make sure she hadn’t fainted at this state of undress. After determining that the lady was still conscious, she turned back to her husband.

  “James,” she said coolly, clinging to the fragments of her dignity and trying—and failing—not to look at the triangle of skin that was visible at his cravat-less collar.

  “Violet,” he said, and her eyes shot to his at the sound of his voice, at the intensity she heard there. This was not a James in the mood
for one of their games.

  “I thought I told you not to follow me,” she said, striving to keep her voice steady, even as her heart leapt at the sight of him, standing there as if she had willed him into existence. It was a difficult task, since he had taken several strides across the room toward her, forcing her to tilt her head back slightly to look at him.

  “That’s not precisely what you said,” he said, and she was surprised to see the beginnings of a smile curving at the edges of his mouth. “What you said was for me not to come after you until I could trust you and make ours a true marriage again. So here I am. Following instructions.”

  Violet was torn between fury and—betraying fool that her heart was—hope. “I suppose you’ve had a change of heart and really assessed your priorities thoughtfully and carefully in the past two hours, then?” She was pleased that her voice sounded suitably frosty—but that seed of desperate hope continued to worm its way into her heart, and the part of her that had secretly wished for him to follow her was in danger of overpowering the rest of her, so great was the joy his presence sparked in her in that instant.

  “No,” he said, taking yet another step closer to her. He was so near now that she could smell him—he smelled faintly of horse and sweat and himself, and it made her want to tug him closer, lick his skin. At precisely the moment that these—thoroughly indecent, unladylike—thoughts were flitting through her mind at the speed of bullets, there was the sound of a throat being cleared.

  “Lord James,” Lady Worthington said stiffly. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

  “Lady Worthington,” James said, looking away from Violet at last and offering an entirely correct bow to her mother. “It has been far too long.” His tone indicated that his sentiments were exactly the opposite. “I apologize for interrupting, but I could not help but overhear a snippet of your conversation with my wife as I approached.”