do have needs, tiresome as they may be.” She even worked Violet’s supposed illness into her diatribe, displaying possibly the only moment of astuteness in her entire life when she sniffed, “I’m not certain you weren’t just malingering. Why must you always be so dramatic?”
While Violet was fairly practiced at ignoring her mother’s words, and had perfected the look of bland pleasantness she currently wore as she spread clotted cream upon a scone, everything in her was screaming to return to Curzon Street, to fling herself into James’s arms, to let him carry her upstairs, lay her down on the bed, strip away her layers of clothing until there was nothing between them but his skin pressed intimately against her own.
She loved him—she had always loved him, and she knew that now. She had thought to convince herself that that love was gone, that it had never existed, that all that she and James had ever shared was youthful infatuation and lust—but this was untrue, and she could not lie to herself. Or to him. She loved him more than anything else in her life, and to turn and leave him in the library today had nearly broken her heart. Again.
But she had done it, because she knew that she had to. She could not suffer another marriage like the one they had shared before, one where there were good days, it was true—bright, shimmering, glorious days that had seemed golden and endless and joyful beyond measure—but other days when he had vanished to a place where she could not reach him. Days when his father came to call and James retreated into his office, stewing over events from the past that he shared only bits of with her.
She wanted a true marriage again, but she could not endure more heartbreak. And she needed James to understand that.
And so she calmly took a bite of her scone and allowed her mother to prattle on, even as she kept one ear alert, out of the foolish, wild hope that perhaps James was going to follow her after all, and prove himself to her at last. She had told him not to, she reminded herself sternly—she had thrown a drink in his face, for heaven’s sake. But still, an irrepressible part of her hoped that this argument would have a different outcome.
Logically, James knew that he had made very good time on his journey from White’s to West’s house in Knightsbridge, his horse weaving in and out among the bulkier carriages and landaus that clogged London’s busy streets, but it didn’t feel that way to him. He felt jumpy, nervous, ready to burst out of his own skin. Each time he’d had to rein his horse in, he’d wanted to yell in frustration.
However tempting he found the prospect of abandoning his current mission and beginning pursuit of his wife instead, James knew that if he wanted to truly convince Violet that he had changed, that he was a man she could trust, he must become that man in truth—the one she deserved. He needed to manage his issues with his father and his brother, so that they did not become a problem for Violet to handle instead, something to come between them once again. He was an adult, and it was time to conduct his relationships like one.
And so here he found himself, in St. James’s Square, staring at West’s front door with a fair amount of trepidation. It was, after all, a door he had not knocked upon for nearly four years, and he didn’t relish the prospect now. And yet, almost of its own volition, his arm was raised, the hand curled into a fist, and he knocked.
He was ushered in by a footman, then greeted by the butler, who did an admirable job of concealing his surprise at James’s unexpected appearance. In short order, James found himself swept into the library and politely bade to wait—his lordship would be with him shortly.
He paced the length of the room instead, his head a jumble of thoughts. He wondered if West would keep him waiting, would turn ducal on him, but the thought had scarcely formed when the door behind him opened, and his brother’s voice filled the room.
“James.”
James turned; West stood in the doorway, dressed impeccably as always in coat and breeches and cravat, not a single hair out of place. He looked tired, James noted—there were dark circles under his eyes, and his forehead was more deeply etched than