Page 11 of To Have and to Hoax
“I didn’t have much choice, did I?” Violet said, arching her brows at him. “Given that Mother was standing there observing the entire thing?” She hesitated a fraction of a second, then added, “You didn’t have much choice, either.”
Brief as that hesitation was, James must have heard it, for the smug grin faded from his face almost instantly, replaced by a look of intense focus. He dropped her hand, which he had been holding in his own, and instead stepped closer to her, seizing her shoulders in a grip firm enough to prevent escape, but not forceful enough to hurt. “Violet.”
Something in his tone had her eyes flicking up to meet his immediately. He dropped one of her shoulders to cup her cheek in his hand, and she turned her face into his palm, relishing the contact.
“I would’ve made the same choice, even if your mother hadn’t caught us.” His voice was quiet, intent, and she heard the truth in every word he spoke. “Admittedly, it might have taken a bit longer”—his mouth quirked up slightly, and she answered him with a weak smile of her own—“but I have no doubt that we would still have found ourselves here, in this library, and probably having a far more interesting conversation.”
He finished speaking, but he did not drop his hands, nor did he break his gaze. He was so very handsome, she thought, as she thought nearly every time she looked at him—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair slightly mussed by her own fingers on the carriage ride over, his vivid green eyes staring unblinkingly into her own. And she loved him. And he had told her exactly what she needed to hear.
“I’m glad we agree, then,” she told him, attempting to inject her usual note of airiness into her tone; whether or not she was successful, she was not entirely certain, but he pulled her into his arms all the same.
After that, not much was said for quite a while.
And the library got a very thorough inspection.
Now, standing in the same room recalling that moment, Violet swallowed and pushed the thought back. Regardless of the fact that the library was now used strictly for studious pursuits, rather than amorous ones, it was still a lovely room. The walls were papered a dark green, the carpets were deep red, and it was full of settees and armchairs, none of them terribly new, which meant that they were all exceedingly comfortable. The windows along one wall were large, offering a view of the garden behind the house, but the true beauty of the room was in the books. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three of the walls and, most importantly to Violet’s mind, these books were not for show. They were worn, with cracked spines and peeling letters.
“My father’s library at Brook Vale Park is full of books he’s never read,” James had told her once as they sat curled up upon one of the settees. “So as soon as I bought this house, I set about filling it with all the books I read and loved, regardless of whether they made for the most impressive collection.”
“That explains the collection of Grimm I found yesterday, then,” Violet said with a grin, nestling closer to him. “Not the most serious or literary volumes.”
“Quite,” James said dryly, but then had said very little else for some time to follow. Violet was once particularly good at silencing him, in a number of thoroughly enjoyable ways.
Once.
This morning, however, Violet did not find the library to be the sanctuary it so frequently was. She felt . . . anxious. She couldn’t settle to one thing. It was Thursday, meaning that she had nothing on her schedule for the day until a musicale hosted by the Countess of Kilbourne much later that evening. Upon her return the previous evening, she had instructed Wooton to tell callers that she was not at home, assuming that she would be exhausted from her whirlwind travels. She was rather regretting that now—it was still early, and the empty hours seemed to stretch out endlessly before her.
Boredom was something with which Violet had little experience, though certainly not for lack of trying on the part of good society. Any occupation more strenuous than needlework was frowned upon in well-bred ladies—and Violet, despite her best efforts to thwart her mother over the years, was certainly that. So while many of the paths that she might have enjoyed had she been a gentleman were closed to her, she had managed, thanks to a fair bit of craftiness, to keep herself well enough occupied. While her mother had despaired of the hours she spent holed up with her books (“You’ll develop a squint! What man will marry a lady who squints?”), she would have been considerably firmer in her disapproval had she known that, in addition to the improving novels that Violet kept placed strategically, and oh so visibly, about her bedchamber and the drawing room, her daughter was also reading every scientific text and volume of poetry she could get her hands on. She would have been even more appalled to learn how much time Violet spent composing poetry of her own, and writing letters to the editors of scientific journals—under a pseudonym, of course. She was bold, but she was not insane.
Upon her marriage, Violet had been able to engage in these activities openly within her own home, this small amount of freedom almost dizzying at first. James had been greatly amused to learn of her wide and varied interests, and had on more than one occasion offered to attempt to publish her poetry for her, but she had declined.
“It’s not rubbish, but it’s not brilliant, either,” she had explained to him once. “I think I’m far too interested in too many things to excel at one single pursuit.”
He had smiled at her, touching his hand to her cheek, but she could see he didn’t truly understand—he, with his brilliant mind for mathematics, could not comprehend a mind like Violet’s, built for dabbling.
In any case, she had, on more than one occasion over the past four years, spared a moment’s gratitude for her ceaseless and wide-ranging curiosity; it was what had kept her sane in a marriage that had become so dissatisfying.
In the first year of her marriage, of course, it hadn’t mattered much. James had been home quite frequently then, sometimes stopping by in the middle of the day for no other reason than to see her. Now, he spent much of his day out of the house—she gathered, from fragments of conversation she overheard, that he had frequent meetings with his man of business about the finances of the stables at Audley House, and she assumed he was as reluctant as he had ever been to delegate any of that responsibility. He still journeyed to Kent frequently—sometimes at a rate of once or twice a week, depending on what was afoot at the stables at a particular time of year. Once, it would have bothered her; now, of course, it scarcely made much difference, since even when he was home, he was often locked away in his study for hours on end, attending to the never-ending series of tasks that required his attention as a landowner and the holder of a fortune in horseflesh. At least, she assumed that was what he was doing. It wasn’t as though he ever told her himself.
This thought served to reignite some of her anger of the previous afternoon, as she recalled once again the feeling of looking up as she stepped out the door of the Blue Dove to see him standing there, perfectly healthy, staring at her with an expression of shock that she was certain must have mirrored her own. It was bad enough that it hadn’t even occurred to Penvale to write to tell her of James’s improved condition—although, she was forced to admit, she had dashed off in such a hurry after receiving his first note that she likely would have missed it. But that her husband—herhusband!—had seemed disgruntled that Penvale had written at all . . . It was . . . well . . .
Intolerable.
Yes, it was intolerable. And Violet wasn’t going to stand for it any longer.
She turned to her writing desk, which was set before one of the windows, and retrieved a blank sheet of paper and a pen and ink. She scrawled a hasty note, then made a copy of it on another sheet of paper, and threw down her pen.
Turning on her heel, she swept out of the library, startling a footman who was passing.
“John!” she said, holding out the two missives. “See that these are delivered to Lady Templeton and Lady Emily Turner with all necessary haste.” He bowed and made as if to turn. “And John,” she added, causing him to freeze in his tracks, “see that Mrs. Willis has a particularly fine tea prepared this afternoon. We shall be three, and we shall be hungry.”
As Violet had expected, both Diana and Emily were exceedingly prompt in their arrival that afternoon. They entered the drawing room within moments of one another with similarly inquisitive expressions.
“Please, take a seat,” Violet said, standing to greet them. “And thank you for responding to my urgent summons.”
“It’s not as though I had much else to do,” Diana said, honestly if not flatteringly. She smoothed the skirts of her green afternoon gown before sinking with her usual languor onto a settee.
“I cherish your friendship as well,” Violet said sweetly. She paused as Anna, one of the maids, entered with a lavish tea service. “Thank you, Anna, that will be all—and would you be so good as to close the door on your way out?” This done, Violet leaned forward to pour.
