He snorted in derision when he caught himself thinking this—had he really sunk to the point that arguing with his wife seemed like a pleasant way to pass a meal?

Apparently, he had.

This was what marriage did to a man.

However, when he arrived home, he was informed by Wooton that Lady James had not come down from her bedroom all day.

“Is she ill?” James asked, frowning. Violet was never one to laze about like a lady of leisure, despite the fact that that was, strictly speaking, exactly what she was. She was one of the most energetic people he knew, male or female.

“Price said that her ladyship has not been feeling well since her return from the country,” Wooton said, and though there was no hint of reproach in his voice, James stiffened slightly all the same. Damn Wooton. He had been his father’s butler throughout James’s childhood, and had done the unthinkable—left the employ of a duke to serve a lowly second son—upon James’s marriage. James himself had barely been able to fathom it, though he knew Wooton had always had a fondness for him. Indeed, he had displayed far more concern for James’s well-being during his boyhood than his own father had, though Wooton’s concern was usually expressed in a stern, unyielding, butlerish sort of way. Sometimes, he thought Wooton forgot that he was a fully grown man, and not the lonely boy he had once been.

In any case, when James had returned home late the night before last, Wooton had been waiting by the door, as always, causing James a slight pang of guilt for keeping him up. A ridiculous emotion to feel for one’s butler, to be sure, but Wooton was not as young as he once was—though had James been asked to pinpoint precisely how old Wooton was, he was not at all certain he would have been able to give an answer with any measure of accuracy.

Wooton hadn’t said much upon his arrival beyond a curt, “I am glad to see your lordship in one piece,” and yet James had felt three different sorts of censure from that one remark—for his recklessness, for the unnecessary worry he had caused Violet, and for allowing her to travel halfway to Kent and back without his escort.

Not, James felt like informing Wooton, that Violet would have welcomed his escort on her return to London. In fact, he was relatively certain that had he entered that carriage with her, he would not have emerged in one piece. However, he had not said this—it had been a long day, but he had not yet sunk to the level of having to explain himself to his servants. Even Wooton.

Now, however, James could sense all the unspoken words Wooton was holding back—little wonder that the lady of the house should fall ill after hours of worry and uncomfortable carriage travel. Again, James was tempted to tell his butler that Violet was a sturdy sort, and that he’d never known her to be unduly troubled by carriage travel before, but he knew that all he would receive from the man would be a bland, “Of course, my lord,” so he refrained.

“I shall pay her a visit,” he said to Wooton, handing him his coat, hat, and gloves, and walking decisively toward the stairs. Glancing over his shoulder quickly as he began to ascend the steps, he was satisfied to see a fleeting expression of surprise flick across Wooton’s face. If nothing else, today he had managed to cause his butler to express an emotion, however briefly—any self-respecting Englishman could feel proud of such an accomplishment.

His steps slowed, however, as he approached Violet’s door, and he hesitated. Should he knock, or go right in? He didn’t wish to disturb her if she was asleep, but the idea of walking uninvited into her bedchamber, as though the past four years hadn’t happened . . . No. He rapped softly on the door.

After a moment, Violet’s voice: “Enter.”

Upon opening the door, the first thing that hit him was the smell. The entire damn room smelled like Violet. It made sense, of course—she slept here, for Christ’s sake—but it still caught him off guard, the strength of the scent. Violet smelled wonderful. It was hard to say what exactly her scent was—something floral and warm and uniquely Violet, though not actual violets—but he had spent the past four long years catching mere whiffs of it across the dinner table, and it was overwhelming to be surrounded by it once more. He felt like a starving man who’d been led out of the desert and sat before the most sumptuous feast he’d ever had in his life.

He gave himself a stern, internal shake. Was he going senile? Surely he was young for that.

He was distracted from these less-than-comforting thoughts, however, by the sight of Violet herself. She was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, a book lying open on her lap. She was watching him with a wary gaze.

“Violet,” he said, his voice more formal by far than it had been on the night they met. “How are you feeling?”

She gave a faint cough, then hastily stifled it before responding. “Passable, thank you.” Her voice was equally formal, and he guessed that she was still angry about their ordeal earlier in the week.

“Wooton said you’re not feeling well,” he said, taking a couple of steps forward. The curtains were pulled, dimming the light in the room, but he could see by the flickering light of the fire that she was dressed in a blue morning gown, though she had not gone to the trouble of dressing her hair, which lay in a thick braid over one shoulder. It made her look very young—very like the eighteen-year-old girl he had fallen in love with, in fact.

Had thought he’d fallen in love with, he reminded himself sternly. It wouldn’t do to allow one dratted hairstyle to make him go soft in the head.