“What did the doctor say, Violet?” The words were terse and clearly enunciated.

“Didn’t he tell you? Or did you not speak to him?” She was hesitating, and she wasn’t certain why. Hadn’t she looked forward to the chance to see the look on his face when he learned of her supposed illness? Wasn’t this the revenge that she had wanted? And yet, it was proving less satisfying than she had expected. James was behaving so very strangely, and she found difficulty summoning the words.

It was one thing to concoct a (thoroughly half-baked, to use Lord Julian’s words) scheme; it was quite another to lie to the face of the man she had once promised before God and a church full of people to love and cherish. She’d mentally crossed her fingers when she’d gotten to the bit about obeying, but the rest of the vows she had meant wholeheartedly. The fact that for the past four years he had believed her to be (at best) a liar by omission and (at worst) conniving and manipulative did not make the telling of this lie any easier. She didn’t relish the idea of being as untrustworthy as he had unfairly believed her to be.

“I did speak to him,” James said, his expression unreadable. “But I was rather curious to hear what he told you.”

“Well,” Violet said again, “as I said, he was very interested in—”

“Your lungs, yes, I know,” James said, and she was perversely pleased to hear the note of impatience in his voice. As ever, she counted it a victory whenever she managed to crack his cool facade, even for a moment.

“Consumption!” Violet burst out, and then clapped her hand over her mouth as though doing so would somehow take back the word that lingered between them. She hastily turned this movement into a small coughing fit—not one of her best, though, if she were to offer an honest evaluation of her performance.

“Yes,” James said after her coughs had subsided. His tone was odd, and she gave him a long look. He met her gaze evenly, and she felt trapped, pinned to the pillows behind her by its strength. “Well,” he said, standing up, his manner suddenly businesslike, “I suppose if this physician of yours is to be believed, then we had better start packing our bags.”

This was not the reaction Violet had been expecting.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Our bags,” James said slowly, enunciating each word clearly. “I don’t suppose you plan to travel in that nightgown, lovely as it is?” Violet sat up straight, and his eyes dropped to her breasts. She was tempted to cross her arms over her chest, but the heat of his gaze kept them still at her sides. She chanced a quick glance down, wondering what had caught his attention, and realized that her sudden motion had caused the thin fabric to press against her chest in interesting ways. She leaned back slightly, letting him look his fill. She was not above admitting that it was thoroughly gratifying.

“You were saying?” she asked after a moment, feeling that this had gone on quite long enough. Although she had to admit, it considerably soothed her ego—she had wondered more than once if James had found comfort in someone else’s arms during the years of their estrangement, but this seemed a tick in the box of evidence in the negative. Breasts were all very well, but no man who was enjoying bedsport on a regular basis looked at a pair with such an expression of wistful longing.

He wrenched his eyes away from the sight and blinked twice to refocus his attention on her face.

“Packing?” she prodded gently.

“Ah, yes.” He took a step back, and his voice had returned to its usual distant tone. “Packing. You see, I understand that on the Continent they have sanitariums that offer rest cures for consumption, so it seems that we should pack your bags and make arrangements to leave immediately.”

“To go where?” Violet asked warily.

“Switzerland.”

“Switzerland!” She shoved back the blankets that covered her—it was too bloody warm in this room, anyway—and came up onto her knees. “I’m not going to Switzerland!”

“If this physician of yours is correct, and you have consumption, then I don’t see that you have much choice.” James looked around the room thoughtfully. “Shall I ring for Price immediately, or would you like to take a nap first? I know it’s been a trying day for you.” He reached out, placed a hand on her forehead. “And you are starting to feel feverish.”

Violet swatted his hand away; playing the invalid was all well and good, but she was hardly prepared to be carted off to some patch of grass on the Continent. “I certainly am not! I’m just warm from being trapped in bed all day in the middle of the summer.”

He tsked once, now reaching out to press the back of his hand against her cheek. “That’s what you would say if you were truly feverish, so I don’t know that I should trust your word in this regard.” He paused, looking at her thoughtfully. Unlike when he’d been evaluating her a moment before, there was nothing remotely amorous in his eyes now.

“I am not going to bloody Switzerland!” Violet half shrieked. Belatedly remembering she was supposed to be ill, she offered a sort of hacking swoon that resulted in a not-terribly-graceful collapse back onto her pillows.

“I’m not certain I should respect your wishes in this case,” James said, eyeing her with a show of concern. “Switzerland’s supposed to be very healthy. All that Alpine air. And the goats.”