not a single one was with the woman she was accustomed to seeing him escort. She tried very hard to seem worldly and bored, but she was, in fact, slightly shocked. She knew, of course, that fidelity was hardly universal among the ton, and that love matches such as hers were exceedingly rare, but to see the evidence of these gentlemen’s extramarital activities was another thing entirely.
She had married for love—well, love, and because she’d been compromised—but that was a decidedly less romantic explanation, and one that she generally chose to ignore. She and James had discussed it more than once, and he had told her that even had they not been discovered on that balcony, he would likely have proposed within a fortnight.
“Truly? A fortnight?” Violet had asked on the first occasion upon which this had been discussed.
“At most,” James said with a masculine grin. He leaned toward her to place a lingering kiss upon her lips, one Violet felt from her head to her toes.
She and James had made a hash of their supposedly great love match in the end—but that first year had been often glorious. Lazy mornings in bed. Long hours together in the library. Evenings out at the theater and musicales, making occasional eye contact and sharing the knowledge of what delights awaited them upon their return home.
Oh, how she missed it.
Yes, she would admit that much—she could not, would not admit to missing James himself, but she was not too proud to admit that she missed what they’d had, what their marriage had once been. It had not been perfect by any stretch of the imagination—James had often infuriated her almost beyond bearing, and yet they had always managed to make it up. Until one day they couldn’t.
Now, standing here in this beautiful theater, surrounded by men with women who were not their wives, she suffered a small pang of uncertainty. Had James come here before? It had been four years since they had shared a bed; had he truly remained celibate that entire time? She had always assumed he had, had assumed that he was as miserable as she. Had that been naiveté?
James, with his usual abysmal timing, chose that moment to speak to her.
“Try not to look so shocked, darling, it’s very unfashionable.”
Violet resisted the temptation to grind her slipper into his foot. Instead, she smiled sweetly up at him and said, “I’m not shocked at all, my lord. I’m taking notes.”
She felt the arm beneath her hand stiffen, and a surge of triumph raced through her. Point to Violet.
James gave her a narrow look but said nothing more, instead turning back to Emily to respond to some unheard inquiry. As he spoke, Emily gazed past him to Violet, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. Violet smiled back at her.
As they made their way to the box that Lord Julian had reserved for them, Violet could not help but be aware that they were attracting some attention. She had expected this to some degree, of course—three gently bred ladies, one of them unmarried, could not attend a theater with a reputation like the Belfry’s without arousing some notice—but she wondered if they had miscalculated by inviting Emily along. She and Diana had thought merely to give Emily an evening out without her mother watching her like a hawk, or the odious Mr. Cartham’s unwelcome attentions, but she was now second-guessing this decision. Emily was unmarried, and easily shocked. Who knew what the sight of this blatant parade of mistresses would do to her delicate sensibilities?
“Did you see that lady’s bodice?” Emily hissed gleefully at Violet as James led them down the green-carpeted hallway that housed the theater’s most exclusive boxes. “I don’t know how she even moved.” She cast a not-terribly-surreptitious glance back over her shoulder. “I should like to ask her how it manages to stay up,” she added thoughtfully. “Her modiste must be very clever.”
“Emily,” Violet said severely, at the same time that James made an odd choking sound that, after a moment, Violet realized was a barely suppressed laugh.
“I do not think that lady is the appropriate word to use to describe that woman, Lady Emily,” he said a moment later, having somehow managed to school his features into a somber expression.
“Yes, yes, my lord, I do realize she’s a doxy,” Emily said impatiently, waving her hand as though this distinction were too insignificant to even warrant her notice. “But that gown was some sort of scientific marvel. I should dearly