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 successful. “But one must do what is necessary in the face of illness.”

“I assure you, husband—”

“And broth!” Violet had never heard someone sound so delighted at the prospect of broth. James paused thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should be writing this down—I wouldn’t wish to forget anything by the time Price arrives.”

“Somehow, I think you’ll manage,” Violet said darkly under her breath. She had forgotten how sharp his ears were, however, for he shot her a grin at this—and her breath caught in her throat.

“More blankets,” James said decisively. Her brief feeling of tenderness passed. “And perhaps a hot-water bottle or two.” He stood with his hands on his lean hips, surveying her the way a general might survey his troops, his brow slightly furrowed, clearly deep in thought.

“It’s July!” Violet wailed, forgetting entirely that she was supposed to be frail and weak.

“You’re right.” James paused, suddenly serious. He turned to the window, which was cracked slightly, letting in the warm breeze from the back garden. “This window needs to be closed—we can’t have unhealthy airs waft in and weaken you further.”

Violet narrowed her eyes at him, assessing. Something was . . . odd. This level of solicitousness should be gratifying, but it merely had the effect of thoroughly rousing her suspicions. It made no sense, his rapid-fire transition into a version of James that she had never seen before. Even in their happiest moments, he had never fussed over her like this. It had been one of the many things she had found so freeing about marriage, after years of her mother’s ceaseless attentions. He had treated her like an adult, not like a recalcitrant child. He had made it perfectly clear that he saw her as his equal, and it had been . . . liberating. Like taking a full breath of clean air after being trapped inside a smoky cupboard.

Nothing about that man squared with the behavior of the one currently fidgeting with her curtains. It was strange. Something wasn’t right.

As she was contemplating this, he whirled around, a feverish glint in his eye that instantly had her on her guard. “I have realized,” he said dramatically, “what you truly need.”

She was nearly certain that she was not going to like the answer to her following question. “And what is that?”

“Your mother!” He rubbed his hands together, looking pleased with himself. “There is nothing like the warmth of a maternal embrace to set an invalid on the path to health.”

Violet was temporarily struck dumb with horror. She scarcely knew where to begin. For a start, she had never received an embrace from Lady Worthington that could be deemed anything approaching warm—indeed, on the rare occasion the countess felt duty-bound to offer some show of physical affection to her only daughter, the resulting display more closely resembled a monarch offering a hand for a lowly peasant to kiss than any sort of moment of familial tenderness.