“Goats?” Violet repeated blankly.

“Goats,” James confirmed with a nod. “They’re healthy sorts of creatures, aren’t they?”

“Er,” Violet said, words momentarily failing her.

“If Switzerland is good enough for a goat, it’s good enough for you,” he declared grandly.

“How very romantic,” she murmured, privately wondering if perhaps an actual physician should be summoned to examine him. “But I don’t have the slightest desire to go to Switzerland, goats or no. I’m certain that it’s very lovely, but I don’t think that’s quite necessary yet.”

“Well, a second physician certainly is.” His tone was flat, and any trace of lightness that she might have seen in him was suddenly absent. He crossed his arms over his chest, and the only wildly inappropriate thought she seemed capable of summoning was that his doing so did very enticing things to the muscles in his arms.

“James, I don’t want another physician,” she said, only slightly belatedly. She sat up straight again, and again his eyes dropped to her chest. She really must find a different nightgown to wear, she determined—or perhaps not, on second thought, given the wicked light that gleamed in his eyes as he looked at her. “I do not feel terribly poorly, truly,” she added before adding a faint cough as punctuation. She didn’t want to be bedridden—and she certainly didn’t want an actual physician to come and tell him she was perfectly healthy—but it wouldn’t do to seem too much recovered.

“Briggs seemed to think that my condition would vary wildly by the day,” she improvised, hoping that James knew nothing at all about the course of the illness, and cursing her own foolishness in not doing a bit of research. “He said there was no reason I shouldn’t carry on with my usual activities on the days I felt up to it.”

“You’re in bed,” he pointed out. “In the middle of the day. Clearly, you don’t feel up to much of anything. Unless this is an invitation?” he added, and, to her fury, she found herself blushing. Her mind was instantly filled with memories she had done her best to suppress over the past four years, so as not to drive herself mad. Memories of bare skin, entangled limbs, the warmth of James’s mouth on unspeakable parts of her body.

“I’m a bit fatigued, is all,” she managed, and before she even realized what she was doing, she had reached out to place a hand over his own. He froze, his eyes looking down at their hands.

It was not that she had never touched him over the course of the past four years. A polite bow and a formal kiss on the hand were not uncommon, and he had helped her in and out of many a carriage. But those were scripted touches, ones deemed acceptable—even necessary—by society. This was sudden, unplanned, for them and them alone.

And it still felt so right.

Before she could think better of it and remove her hand, he had turned his palm-up, capturing hers in the grasp of his much larger hand. His grip was firm, his skin very warm against her own. She didn’t dare look up at his face, instead directing her comments to their linked fingers.

“I’m certain I shall be feeling better in the morning, so there’s no need to concern yourself overmuch. In fact, Diana has invited us to the theater with her tomorrow, and I should like to attend.”

“The theater?” he repeated slowly, and she risked a glance upward, to find that she was being surveyed with a narrow-eyed gaze. He looked . . . suspicious. Suspicious was not good. “A bloody physician has just told you you have consumption and you want to go to the theater?”

“Well,” Violet hedged, thinking fast—or at least, as fast as was possible when half of her attention was still devoted to the feeling of his hand clutching hers. “It’s tomorrow, not today. And I do think I am improving already.”

“This is ridiculous,” he said, dropping her hand. “I am going to send for Worth at once for a second opinion, and then, if he confirms this quack’s diagnosis, we can consult with him on a plan of treatment.”

“Considering how my concerns and wishes were not given any thought during your recent health scare,” she said through gritted teeth, “I find it a bit rich that you are attempting to be so high-handed about all of this.”

He stilled, and gave her a long look that she could not interpret. She refused to be the one to break first, though, and met his eyes evenly. His green gaze traveled the length of her body, leaving a trail of heat in its wake; Violet found herself feeling exposed, vulnerable, as though every secret and desire within her were laid bare for his perusal. She was irritated to find that she would very much like him to do considerably more than look at her. With his slightly mussed hair, the color still high in his cheeks from fresh air, he was dangerously enticing.

“I see,” he said at last, and there was something in the way he said it that she did not like at all, though at the very least it dragged her thoughts away from the lustful direction they had veered toward. He swore under his breath. “This is why men refuse to marry. It’s not worth the bloody trouble.”

“And those charming words, spoken at the bedside of your beloved wife, are the reason that I am disinclined to take your concerns into account, my lord,” Violet said, an edge to her voice.

“I am leaving,” he announced abruptly.

Violet sniffed. “As you wish.”