Page 64 of To Have and to Hoax
Not for the first time in recent days, he felt like an utter bastard.
However, one thing was clear: at the moment, he was in no condition to go barging into his wife’s room, demanding to speak with her. It was the middle of the night, for one thing—she was likely asleep, and unless she’d changed a great deal in the past four years, he didn’t think she’d take kindly to being woken from a dead sleep by a slightly intoxicated husband with no clear idea of what to say.
So instead he returned to his bedchamber and tried to ignore the connecting door. He undressed, trying not to think about the wife in a similar state of undress lying on the opposite side of that door. A wife who, just a few short hours before, he had . . .
Well. He wasn’t entirely certain he had a word for what he and Violet had done. None of the usual verbs—making love,tupping, the euphemisticsleeping with—seemed quite right. He’d spent many a lonely night over the past four years imagining making love to Violet, but either his memory had been woefully inadequate, or what they had done this evening had surpassed any of their previous encounters.
He climbed into bed dressed only in his smalls, then proceeded to lie with his gaze firmly fixed on the canopy overhead, trying to think about anything other than Violet’s breasts, the sounds of her moans, and the slight hitch to her breathing at the moment he’d entered her.
Horses. Yes, that was it, he should be thinking about horses and riding—
No, definitely not riding.
He gave up then and let his memories take over, recalling the feeling of her tongue in his mouth and on his neck, the silkiness of her hair in his hands, the excruciating pleasure of feeling her clench and convulse around him.
How in God’s name had he gone withoutthatfor the past four years? And how could he convince himself that he could ever be satisfied with anyone else?
He was a fool. What did it matter if his and Violet’s first meeting had been orchestrated by their parents? What did it matter if Violet had known about it? And the more he thought about it, the more he thought she must be telling him the truth—if the past fortnight had taught him anything, it was that his wife was not a skilled liar. Regardless, he knew, deep down, that had he been flung together on that balcony with anyone else, he would not have kissed her, would not have fallen in love, would not have married her. Perhaps being a pawn in his father’s plans was all right, if it led to a life with Violet.
With that realization, at last, he slept.
Violet entered the breakfast room rather nervously the next morning, having dressed with more than usual care, but the moment she saw the empty room she sagged, wishing she hadn’t bothered. James wasn’t here. What had she expected—that one glorious interlude on a window seat, followed by one thorough tongue-lashing, would mend all that was wrong between them?
Of course not.
She ate a rather morose breakfast by herself, then retreated to the library, as was her wont, picking up first one book, then another, casting each one aside as it failed to hold her attention. In the early afternoon she rang for tea, and the maid had just brought the tea service in when Wooton entered the room and announced, “Lady Templeton.”
Violet stood as Diana entered the room, bracing herself for what was to come. The evening before, when Violet had sought Diana out and begged her to take her home, Diana had—uncharacteristically—not asked any questions, seeming to sense that Violet was in no state to answer them. Violet should have known that this reprieve would not last, however; in truth, she thought waiting a full twelve hours showed remarkable restraint on Diana’s part.
“Diana,” she said as Wooton and the maid departed, closing the door behind them. “How . . . unexpected.”
“Don’t take that tone withme, Violet Audley,” Diana said severely, removing her gloves. “Lord, it’s warm today. I really think we ought to reconsider ladies’ fashions during the summer months. Wearing this much clothing is positively inhumane, I tell you.” She dropped onto a settee. “Oh, lovely, tea. I see I have excellent timing.”
“Don’t you always?”
“I do, rather,” Diana said smugly, watching as Violet poured her a cup.
“Do you have plans this afternoon?” Violet asked innocently, pouring a cup for herself as well and stirring in a lump of sugar and a splash of milk.
“Stop that at once, Violet. I did not come here for a simple chat, as I think you well know. I want to know exactly where you disappeared to last night, and why you needed so desperately to leave—lookingquitedisheveled, I might add.” She gave Violet a rather beady-eyed look; Violet was suddenly strongly reminded of her own mother—perhaps the only time in her life she had thought Lady Worthington and Diana had anything in common.
“I’d rather not say,” Violet said, but she could feel herself blushing as she spoke—whydid she seem to have taken up the habit of blushing lately? It was extremely inconvenient—and she knew Diana would not leave her be.
“Well,Iwould rather not have to spend the next year attempting to get Lord Willingham married,” Diana said. “And yet, here we are.”
“You’re the one who made that silly bet with him,” Violet observed reasonably.
“That isn’t the point. Stop changing the subject.”
“I hardly thinkIam the one who changed the subject.”
Diana sniffed. “Tell me what occurred last night,” she demanded.
“James and I had an . . . interesting conversation,” Violet said carefully.
“Oh?” Diana said sweetly. “Kept your mouths quite busy in this conversation, did you?”
“Diana!”
