love with him—and then pushed her away just as abruptly, making the past four years a misery.
Well, she was finished with all of that. She refused to allow one person to be the sole keeper of her happiness a moment longer.
So she would cough, and she would wheeze, and she would bring him to his knees—and then she would move on with her life.
It would be a bit easier to do so, of course, if the close proximity of his forearms to her person did not send her into a fit of swooning, but she was determined to be stronger than this traitorous body of hers.
Beginning now.
“I am quite comfortable, thank you,” she said, a note of steel in her voice, and reached out with one hand to grasp one of his arms. “My pillows are entirely satisfactory.”
“Of course,” he murmured, the very picture of solicitousness as he withdrew his arms from behind her. The welcome space that was created between them was erased a moment later, however, when he sat back down on the edge of the bed. Mercifully, he managed to avoid either of the other two books that were somewhere under the bedspread.
“Did you require something else from me, husband?” she asked sweetly.
He raised an eyebrow; it made creases in his forehead that she found annoyingly endearing, and she quickly drew her eyes away from that treacherous terrain. She could afford no skin-wrinkle-induced moments of weakness.
“I am merely here to ensure that you are as comfortable as possible, in your weakened state. Especially as it seems that your mind may be going.” Something about the way he said the word comfortable sent a shiver down her spine, despite the fact that the look on his face was one of bland concern. It was distracting—she realized that he was still speaking to her, though she hadn’t been attending anything he’d said.
He raised a sardonic brow at her. “If I were a more easily offended man, I’d think you weren’t paying attention.”
“Funny, because I believe that the current status of our marriage is predicated on your being easily offended.”
As soon as the words were out of Violet’s mouth, she wished them back; she very nearly clapped a hand over her mouth, in fact. What on earth had possessed her? Over the past four years, she and James had developed a set of unwritten rules, and one of them was a refusal to acknowledge anything about the argument that had led to their current state of affairs. And, indeed, if Violet were being truthful, she knew that her words hadn’t been entirely fair. James was not, in fact, an easily offended man—he was merely a distrustful one, and for reasons that she knew enough about to feel were valid, to a certain degree at least.
James arched a brow again. “It is always interesting to hear a revisionist view of history, my dear.”
“Don’t call me that,” Violet said through gritted teeth. He had never once called her “my dear” in earnest—only ever in that horrible, vaguely sarcastic tone of his that she’d had so many occasions to hear over the past four years. She hated it. Sometimes, she knew without any doubt that the man she had once loved was still underneath there somewhere, if that layer of ice would only melt away—but when he used that tone with her, she found it nearly impossible to believe.
“Of course,” James murmured. “I shouldn’t wish to upset you in your fragile state of health.”
“I’m not—” Violet began, then cut herself off hastily by feigning a coughing fit. It was just as well she wasn’t prone to lying on a regular basis—it seemed that she was utterly inept at it. She allowed her coughs to subside, offering a weak, “Indeed.”
“Quite.” A pause, and then James said, his manner suddenly businesslike, “What can I do to assist you? More pillows?” He peered behind Violet’s shoulder, as though to assess the current status of her cushioning. “Yes, more pillows, I think.”
“I have eight pillows,” Violet said, but James did not seem to hear her, given that he was already walking briskly toward the bellpull to ring for Price.
“Now,” he said, turning back to her. “I believe you need some tea.”
“I’ve already had tea.”
“More tea. And some milky toast,” he added. Was Violet imagining the slightly gleeful look in his eyes?
“I hate milky toast,” she gritted out. “Passionately.”
“Yes, I know,” James said, adopting an expression that Violet assumed he meant to be apologetic but which wasn’t quite