Page 53 of To Have and to Hoax
James blinked. “Nonetheless,” he said, his voice less assured, “I deeply regret any discomfort I may have caused—no lady deserves to be treated in such a fashion.”
Sophie laughed, and the sound was tinkling, flirtatious, not at all like her natural laugh—and James knew it. His face was slowly draining of color.
“Lord James,” Sophie continued as James struggled for words, “you’re looking very well this evening.”
“As are you, my lady,” James managed gallantly, the expression on his face akin to that of an animal facing an unpredictable predator at close range. “It is an unexpected delight to see you again so soon.”
“I assure you, my lord, the pleasure is all mine,” Sophie purred—purred? Violet was impressed. In a different life, she thought, Sophie could have had a brilliant career on the stage.
In a feat of impressive timing, no sooner had this thought crossed her mind than she heard Penvale’s name called; Lord Julian Belfry approached.
“My lord, I was not aware that you frequented these sorts of events,” Diana said after Belfry had greeted each group member in turn and been introduced to Sophie.
“I don’t, normally,” Belfry said, looking extremely handsome—and extremely unconcerned by the whispers he had undoubtedly left in his wake as he cut across the ballroom. “However, I found myself lacking other plans for the evening, and I thought the company here might prove . . . entertaining.” His tone was casual, but Violet didn’t miss the unmistakable look of interest he cast in Emily’s direction. Emily, looking so beautiful in a prim white dress with her shining golden curls that it was almost laughable, really. Emily, who—unless Violet was very mistaken—cast a look of her own in Belfry’s direction, her cheeks coloring under his regard.
Violet looked at James at the precise second that he looked at her, an eyebrow arched, and for a moment they seemed to understand each other so perfectly that it was as though no time had passed, as though the past four years were a dream, as though it was the first year of their marriage once more, when Violet felt, even in a crowded room, that she and James were somehow alone together.
James broke eye contact first, his attention having been drawn by the sound of his own name.
“. . . have heard that you are a skilled dancer,” Sophie was saying, as Violet, too, directed her attention back to the group. “I should be absolutelybereftif you were to deny me the chance to experience your skill for myself.” She gave James a rather assessing glance, one that clearly indicated that dancing was not the only one of his skills she would like to experience. Violet had to bite the inside of her cheek to refrain from laughing out loud at the look on her husband’s face. She leaned closer—was he actuallyblushing?
“I would, of course, be honored if you would save me a spot on your dance card, Lady Fitzwilliam,” James said, since it was really the only polite thing hecouldsay under the circumstances. When a lady practically begged a man to dance with her, no gentleman could refuse her.
“Lovely,” Sophie said brightly. “I think a waltz would do nicely, don’t you? It’s so . . . intimate.” She hesitated ever so slightly before the last word. James cast a frantic look around the ballroom, tugging at his collar as though his cravat were knotted too tightly.
This was, Violet decided, the best evening she’d spent in years.
This was, James was utterly certain, the bloody worst evening he’d spent in years. He adjusted his collar again, feeling as though he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs—and was it just him, or was the ballroom overwarm? He didn’t know why thetoninsisted on having these damned events in the middle of summer—who could possibly think it a good idea to cram hundreds of perfumed peacocks into a single room, along with hundreds of candles, during one of the warmest months of the year? He needed air. He needed a drink.
He needed Lady Fitzwilliam to remove her hand from his arm.
He felt like a boy of fourteen again, one with no experience of women, flustered by the first girl to cast an appraising look in his direction. This was a bloody disaster.
It was entirely his own fault.
What the hell had he been thinking, flirting so outrageously with Lady Fitzwilliam in Hyde Park? He’d thought, deep down, that West and Violet were correct, that his primary concern should be any potential damage he had done to her reputation, and he had felt like an utter cad once he’d come to his senses in this regard—but now, too late, he realized another danger.
That she might take him up on his implied offer.
He never would have expected it of her, in truth. He’d never thought her the slightest bit interested in him as anything other than West’s studious younger brother, but apparently the years that had passed since he’d last seen her had had quite a transforming effect.
Unless . . .
He went cold as another unpleasant thought struck him.
He and his brother bore a strong physical resemblance—everyone commented on it. Could she possibly be setting her cap for him out of some desire to use him as a sort of stand-in for West? It was an appalling prospect—and not terribly flattering, at that.
He dimly registered that Lady Fitzwilliam was still speaking to him, but he interrupted her, manners be damned.
“Lemonade!” he burst out, sounding like an imbecile.
Lady Fitzwilliam blinked at him. Casting a quick glance at the surrounding group, he saw Penvale and Jeremy raise their eyebrows. Diana smirked. And Violet . . .
Violet looked as though she were trying hard not to laugh.
And that was when he knew. He knew that Violet was somehow behind this.
The realization did him little good at that precise moment, however, because he had just uttered the wordlemonadealoud, apropos of nothing, and some faint part of his mind—the reasonable, rational part that, until the past fortnight, had usually made up the majority of his brain—realized that some elaboration upon this comment was likely required.
