Page 45 of To Have and to Hoax
James could have kissed his butler in that moment—needless to say, not a sentiment he had ever expected to experience. But who knew how far things might have gone had Wooton not interrupted? He ought to give the man a raise, really.
Because James was feeling deeply unsettled. How could it be that he still responded to Violet with such intensity? Why was it that a few stolen moments spent kissing his wife in his own study left him feeling more alive than he had in years? It was infuriating. Absurd. And so James did what he always did whenever he was feeling off-kilter, lacking the upper hand.
“I’d forgotten how easy it can be to silence you,” he said, his tone deliberately even, just the slightest note of mockery lurking underneath.
It worked in an instant; Violet had turned to face him a moment before he spoke, and in that moment he had seen a hundred things in her face—uncertainty, amusement, lust. But as soon as the words left his mouth, her face closed, her gaze shuttering and the corners of her mouth turning down.
“And I’d forgotten what an ass you can be,” she responded, her own voice clipped and remote. She turned on her heel without a further word and sailed from the room.
And James—despite having achieved exactly what he’d intended, despite having put some much-needed distance between them—was left feeling precisely as she had described him: like an ass.
Ten
“Violet,” Diana said, rising from the chair upon which she wasseated, dropping her paintbrush in the process. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“I needed to speak to you at once,” Violet said as soon as Wright had closed the door behind her. “I apologize for arriving so early—it’s barely past noon, but I knew you would be awake—”
“Not at all,” Diana said, waving a lazy hand at a chair and sinking back onto her own. “Shall I ring for tea?”
“No,” Violet said, not wanting the distraction, then paused, reconsidering. She liked to think she was a sensible person, and any sensible Englishwoman knew that life was more easily tackled with tea. “Well, perhaps a spot of tea wouldn’t go amiss.”
Diana rose again to ring the bell, and after a moment’s murmured request to a maid, she resumed her place in her chair. They were not in her sitting room but in the solarium, Diana’s favorite room of the house and, she often joked, the reason she had agreed to marry Lord Templeton in the first place.
At least, Violetthoughtshe was joking. It was rather difficult to tell with Diana sometimes, and her motives for marrying the viscount had certainly been mercenary.
The room was littered with chairs and a couple of settees, all given a warm glow by the ample light flowing in through the windows that lined the walls and roof. Diana spent most of her mornings in this room, painting, as she had been doing when Violet interrupted her.
“Darling, what’s all this about?” Diana asked after she had settled herself once more. “You don’t look quite the thing at all.”
Violet, who had perched on the edge of an armchair as she waited for Diana to resettle herself, barely able to contain her impatience, burst out, “I think James knows I’m not ill!”
Diana blinked once, twice, and Violet, with effort, relaxed her posture slightly, doing her best to attempt to look casual, rather than like an escapee from Bedlam.
“How could he possibly have found out?” Diana asked, waving a dismissive hand. “He’s a man. They’re sheep.”
Now it was Violet’s turn to blink. “Meaning . . . they follow each other?”
Diana sighed, impatient as always with anyone who couldn’t quite keep up with her. “No, meaning their minds can only focus on about three things at once—and I’m quite certain your husband doesn’t have the mental capacity to think overmuch about the symptoms of your malady.”
“He did take a first at Oxford,” Violet felt compelled to mention, out of some lingering sense of wifely loyalty. “He’s not a complete idiot, you know.”
“Oh yes, Audley’s clever enough, as men go”—Diana’s tone indicated that she had her doubts as to the extent that any man could, in fact, be considered clever—“but they’re all the same. None of them question anything too terribly much. It’s why in any real marriage the woman should pull all the strings.”
“I pity your next husband,” a voice sounded from the doorway. Startled, Violet turned in her seat, only to relax upon realizing that it was Penvale, leaning against the doorjamb. “I showed myself in,” he said, pushing himself upward. At that moment, a maid bearing a heavily laden tea tray appeared behind him; he relieved her of her burden with a wink and a smile, making her blush and giggle as she bobbed a curtsey and departed.
“Really, Penvale,” Diana said as he carefully set the tray down on the table before her. “Please don’t send yet another one of my maids into a tizzy, you’ll put her off her work.”
Ignoring her, as he frequently did, her brother flung himself into a chair, then leaned forward to select a scone. “What’s this about, then?” he asked after swallowing his first mouthful.
Diana, who had busied herself pouring cups of tea for them, didn’t look up as she spoke. “Violet’s concerned that Audley knows she’s bamming him.”
Violet, who had expected a denial from Penvale, instead merely received a snort of laughter. “Of course he does,” he said.
“What?” Diana asked, freezing in the act of handing a cup of tea to Violet. “What on earth do you mean?”
“I mean,” Penvale said, speaking with exaggerated slowness, “that Audley isn’t a complete idiot, and he’s perfectly capable of recognizing when he’d being lied to by his own wife.” Penvale’s tone wasn’t reproachful, but Violet couldn’t help stiffening all the same.
“When did he realize?” she asked.
