Page 74 of To Have and to Hoax
Tenderness.
“You acted as anyone with your upbringing might have done,” she finished for him, and he was surprised by the soft, affectionate note in her voice.
“That’s not an excuse,” he said. “Your parents—”
“Are frequently horrid as well,” she finished for him. “I’m quite aware of that, thank you.” Her voice was dry, and he could see a smile twitching at her mouth for a moment before it faded, her demeanor growing more serious. “But it was . . . different for you. My mother always took an interest in me—too great an interest, in truth,” and in her voice James could hear the memory of a thousand arguments with a countess who never quite knew what to do with a willful, curious, clever daughter who never did what was expected of her.
“Your father . . .” Violet looked at him, a faint line appearing on her smooth forehead as her eyebrows furrowed slightly. “He didn’t need you, and so he ignored you. And I think that that’s the sort of experience that makes it very hard to trust anyone.”
“It doesn’t matter,” James said hoarsely, and he realized he wasn’t just saying it to appease her, to bolster his apology. He truly believed it. He’d been an ass, and he was beginning to realize precisely how great of an ass—and was feeling ashamed. “I was with you in St. George’s; I stood at that altar with you and spoke those vows. It was . . . wrong of me to take my father’s word over yours.”
“Well, we can certainly agree on that.” Violet smiled at him, and it was as though the sun had reappeared after a storm. After a moment, however, her smile faded. “It wasn’t just that morning with your father, though. There were all the arguments leading up to those.”
“We always made those up,” James said, frowning slightly.
“We did,” Violet said slowly, giving him a piercing look. “But I can’t help but feel that they were preludes to that last fight, the one we couldn’t get past. Little things, small moments when you proved, over and over, that you didn’t trust our love. That you didn’t trust me.”
James opened his mouth to offer a hasty rebuttal, then paused, giving her words the thought and consideration they deserved—for he could tell by the slight hitch to her voice that they had not been easy for her to speak.
“You might be right,” he said after a long moment. “I’d never considered it in that light, but I believe you might be entirely right.”
“Of course I am.” Violet sniffed, crossing her arms, and James had to fight hard against the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“I would love nothing more than another chance tonotmake those same mistakes again,” James said quietly, but with every ounce of feeling he held for her behind each word. Her eyes locked on his, her gaze searching, as though she were looking for some evidence of falsehood in his face. He looked calmly back at her, for once content to let his mask lie unused, his every feeling writ upon his face. After a moment, her smile returned, slowly blooming across her face, and it was so breathtakingly lovely that it made him bold, or perhaps foolish, enough to say mournfully, “Of course, it is tragic that it took such dire circumstances to bring about this realization on my part.”
Violet’s smile vanished once more, replaced by a furrowed brow. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your illness, of course,” James said earnestly.
“James—”
“It pains me, naturally, that we will have so little time to enjoy our reconciliation,” he continued dramatically, ignoring her attempts to interrupt. “But this is the hand the fates have dealt us, and we have nothing to do now but attempt to make the best of it.”
“You are rather an ass, aren’t you?” Violet asked.
“Oh, undoubtedly,” James assured her. “And yet, I seem to recall you always found that one of my more infuriatingly attractive qualities.”
“Did I?”
“To the best of my recollection, yes.”
“My memory is failing me,” she said sadly, looking at him coquettishly from beneath her lashes. “Perhaps you had better remind me.”
“A task, madam, I am happy to undertake,” James said gallantly, and then he spoke no more, for he was before her on his knees in an instant, her face in his hands, his mouth moving urgently over hers.
It was the night before, all over again—and yet somehow different, somehow more. Last night, James had been possessed with a feverish urgency, some part of him convinced it was a dream, that Violet would disappear from his arms if he paused for even a moment. And his need had been matched by her own—she had clutched him, urged him on, faster, faster.
Now, however, James deliberately slowed himself—after all, they had plenty of time. There were still words to be spoken, hurts to be addressed, but they would do so together. He no longer feared the return of the cold and echoing silence that had occupied the house for so long.
So instead of pressing her back more deeply into her chair and kissing her until she could not breathe, he broke the kiss and rose to his feet, extending a hand toward her. She stared at it blankly, looking disconcerted.
“I am as fond of this chair as any man,” he explained politely, “but it occurred to me that it might make more sense to avail ourselves of the bed that is so conveniently nearby.” He jerked his head in the direction of the piece of furniture in question—one that James in fact had never occupied himself.
Violet, he was delighted to see, blushed. “Of course,” she said, standing and taking his hand with so blatant a display of eagerness that James had to bite back a giddy grin. Instead, he satisfied himself by leading her toward the aforementioned bed before turning her away from him and making short work of the buttons on the back of her gown.
“I don’t recall you being quite so quick at that,” Violet said over her shoulder, a note of suspicion in her voice as he pushed her dress aside and dedicated himself to unlacing her corset.
“It is remarkable what I can achieve when presented with an extremely enticing motivation,” James said.
