After kissing Diana’s and Emily’s hands in turn, James turned to Sophie. “Lady Fitzwilliam,” he said, bowing over her hand, everything in his manner entirely correct. The flirtatiousness of the day before was entirely absent and Violet realized, with a slight pang, that he truly had taken her words to heart. She felt her resolve waver for a moment—she was beginning to feel slightly awful about what she was about to do. Or, to be more accurate, what Sophie was about to do.
“I feel I owe you an apology,” James continued, straightening. “My behavior in the park was not that of a gentleman, and entirely inexcusable.”
“Not at all, my lord,” Sophie replied, and Violet nearly started, so entirely foreign was the seductive note that she heard in Sophie’s voice. “There is nothing to apologize for.”
James blinked. “Nonetheless,” he said, his voice less assured, “I deeply regret any discomfort I may have caused—no lady deserves to be treated in such a fashion.”
Sophie laughed, and the sound was tinkling, flirtatious, not at all like her natural laugh—and James knew it. His face was slowly draining of color.
“Lord James,” Sophie continued as James struggled for words, “you’re looking very well this evening.”
“As are you, my lady,” James managed gallantly, the expression on his face akin to that of an animal facing an unpredictable predator at close range. “It is an unexpected delight to see you again so soon.”
“I assure you, my lord, the pleasure is all mine,” Sophie purred—purred? Violet was impressed. In a different life, she thought, Sophie could have had a brilliant career on the stage.
In a feat of impressive timing, no sooner had this thought crossed her mind than she heard Penvale’s name called; Lord Julian Belfry approached.
“My lord, I was not aware that you frequented these sorts of events,” Diana said after Belfry had greeted each group member in turn and been introduced to Sophie.
“I don’t, normally,” Belfry said, looking extremely handsome—and extremely unconcerned by the whispers he had undoubtedly left in his wake as he cut across the ballroom. “However, I found myself lacking other plans for the evening, and I thought the company here might prove . . . entertaining.” His tone was casual, but Violet didn’t miss the unmistakable look of interest he cast in Emily’s direction. Emily, looking so beautiful in a prim white dress with her shining golden curls that it was almost laughable, really. Emily, who—unless Violet was very mistaken—cast a look of her own in Belfry’s direction, her cheeks coloring under his regard.
Violet looked at James at the precise second that he looked at her, an eyebrow arched, and for a moment they seemed to understand each other so perfectly that it was as though no time had passed, as though the past four years were a dream, as though it was the first year of their marriage once more, when Violet felt, even in a crowded room, that she and James were somehow alone together.
James broke eye contact first, his attention having been drawn by the sound of his own name.
“. . . have heard that you are a skilled dancer,” Sophie was saying, as Violet, too, directed her attention back to the group. “I should be absolutely bereft if you were to deny me the chance to experience your skill for myself.” She gave James a rather assessing glance, one that clearly indicated that dancing was not the only one of his skills she would like to experience. Violet had to bite the inside of her cheek to refrain from laughing out loud at the look on her husband’s face. She leaned closer—was he actually blushing?
“I would, of course, be honored if you would save me a spot on your dance card, Lady Fitzwilliam,” James said, since it was really the only polite thing he could say under the circumstances. When a lady practically begged a man to dance with her, no gentleman could refuse her.
“Lovely,” Sophie said brightly. “I think a waltz would do nicely, don’t you? It’s so . . . intimate.” She hesitated ever so slightly before the last word. James cast a frantic look around the ballroom, tugging at his collar as though his cravat were knotted too tightly.
This was, Violet decided, the best evening she’d spent in years.
This was, James was utterly certain, the bloody worst evening he’d spent in years. He adjusted his collar again, feeling as though he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs—and was it just him, or was the ballroom