any number of men who took advantage of this predictability.
Until that day, however, his younger son had never been one of them.
James found his father in the library at White’s, his head bent over a volume of Pliny the Elder. The duke did not look up as he approached, apparently so absorbed in his reading that he did not hear the sound of rapidly advancing footsteps. James, who had never seen his father read for pleasure in his life, took this for the nonsense that it was and, in one neat motion, reached out beneath the duke’s very nose and flipped the book shut.
“Audley,” the duke said stiffly after he had looked up to see what audacious soul had the gall to do such a thing. “I might have known it was you.”
“Father,” James said, but for once his voice didn’t sound as stiff as it often did when he was in the presence of his father. He had taken his gloves off upon his arrival at White’s, but now held them tightly in one hand, slapping them against the palm of the other with a soft thwacking sound.
“Sit down,” his father instructed, gesturing to the chair opposite him rather like a king receiving visitors to court. His manner was one with which James was very familiar—and one for which he had no patience today.
“Thank you, but no,” he said. “This won’t take long, in part because I’m in rather a rush, and in part because I frankly don’t have much to say to you.” The duke blinked in surprise, but James barely even registered this small victory, so intent was he on saying what he had come here to say. “Tomorrow I am going to meet with my man of business and instruct him to start the proceedings of transferring ownership of Audley House back to you.”
The duke blinked again—it was clear that whatever he had been expecting of his son, it was not this.
“Violet and I will, of course, move our possessions from Audley House back to Curzon Street,” James continued, growing more confident with each word that he was doing the right thing. “I would also, at a later date, be happy to discuss with you some of the financial arrangements I have made with a view toward securing the future of the stables, as you may wish to continue with them yourself.”
“James,” the duke protested, “what is this about? Those stables were a wedding gift.”
“No,” James said quietly, and though he did not raise his voice, the duke nearly flinched at the force he put into that single word. “Those stables were a trick—another ploy on your part, because you thought that West wouldn’t give you an heir, and suddenly you needed me. And how better to weasel your way into my life, to control me, than to make me beholden to you?
“So I am giving them back to you, Father. I can discuss the running of them with you some other time, but we will do so as equals. I would be happy to be your partner in this—but I’m no longer interested in being the recipient of your generosity.” He could not prevent a sardonic tone from entering his voice on the word generosity. “Furthermore,” he added, beginning to actually enjoy himself, primarily due to the dumbfounded look on his father’s face, “it is my expectation that my wife and I are shortly to be reconciled, not that it is any concern of yours. It is my dearest wish that this reconciliation should result in children at some point, if we are lucky. However—” And here James took two quick steps forward, bracing a hand on one arm of his father’s chair and leaning down so that their faces were very close together indeed. “—if I should ever hear you refer to our son as your heir, I will ensure that you never see him.”
His father, for once, was speechless. James smiled, turned, and strode from the room.
And then he rode like hell.
It was, Violet decided, without a doubt the worst teatime she had ever spent in her mother’s company—and that was truly saying something. Lady Worthington had wasted no time upon her arrival in launching into a lengthy lecture on Violet’s behavior of late, ranging from her tardy arrival to tea to her shocking conduct at the Rocheford ball—“Cutting in on a dance! I’ve never heard of anything so scandalous!”—to her failings as a wife—“No wonder he’s panting after Fitzwilliam Bridewell’s widow! Men