“I told her that if she did not leave me be, I’d take to riding in breeches in a gentleman’s saddle.”

He bit back a smile with considerable effort. “I imagine she swooned from horror.”

Violet smirked. “I think I should take it as a compliment that she believed me.”

“Speaking of which,” James said, “you’re dressed for riding.”

“Yes,” she said, taking a sip of tea and casting a brief glance down at her riding habit. “Since I’m feeling so improved today, I thought I might take a ride in Hyde Park.”

James had to hide another grin at this. Violet was a reasonably accomplished rider, but she was not horse-mad by any stretch of the imagination. Her desire to go riding could only be indicative of one thing: she was tired of being confined to her room.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, pasting a concerned look on his face that he hoped was convincing. “I’m not certain the physician would think—”

“I’m getting on a bloody horse this afternoon whether you think it’s a good idea or not,” Violet said through gritted teeth, and James was surprised into silence. While Violet was certainly no shrinking, well, violet, swearing was still a bit much even from her, aside from the occasional muttered curse when she thought no one could hear. Although he supposed, upon a moment’s reflection, that had he been confined to his bed for three days, he might have had a choice word or two to offer as well.

“I am going to drink my tea, and I am going to have a groom make Persephone ready, and then I am going to go riding in Hyde Park. I am entirely uninterested in your thoughts on the matter.”

After this little speech, she dedicated her attention to the cup of tea at—or rather, in—hand, as though she’d never seen anything quite so fascinating, leaving James to make a valiant effort to force back the many questions that rose in his throat, begging to be voiced.

As was so often the case in matters concerning his wife, his will-power failed him.

“Do you recall our wedding day?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands over his stomach. Violet, he was pleased to see, choked slightly on her tea.

“With unfortunate clarity,” she said once she had dislodged the liquid from her windpipe.

“Why unfortunate?” he asked, arching a brow.

Violet straightened in her seat. “It’s difficult to think back so clearly on a day that was such a massive mistake.”

A beat of silence. Then:

“A hit,” he said coolly. “A palpable hit.” He kept his voice bored and disinterested, hoping that it wasn’t obvious that her barb had, in fact, landed. “I myself recollect it a bit differently.”

“Not a mistake, then?”

“No,” he said, his gaze steady on hers. He couldn’t read the look in her dark eyes, but something flickered through them in response to that one word—was it relief? “It is safe to say that many mistakes have been made since, but I do not believe the events of that day can be counted among the tally.” He spoke the words before he entirely knew what he was saying, but realized in an instant that they were true: despite everything, he did not regret marrying Violet. This knowledge felt like a sudden revelation, and one that he did not have the time to examine at present.

She cleared her throat.

“Why do you ask?”

Why had he asked? He mentally floundered for a moment, feeling rather as though he’d waded out into a marsh and was now seeking to find solid ground once more. Ah, yes, there it was. “I was merely curious,” he said, “whether you remembered the part of the vows that mentioned obeying.”

It was remarkable, really, how fast that soft look in her eyes vanished, likely not to be seen again for another four years. It was replaced by a flash of anger equally satisfying to observe, though in an entirely different way.

“Are you going to forbid me to ride in the park, then, husband?” she asked, her voice low and deadly. James knew that that was precisely what she wished him to do, if only so that she might have the pleasure of defying him.

“Not at all,” he said, kicking one heel up to rest upon his desk. “I am merely going to come with you.”

Less than an hour later, James found himself cantering down Rotten Row, Violet at his side. It was not yet the five o’clock hour, meaning that the park wasn’t bursting with aristocrats out to see and be seen the way it would be in a couple of hours, but the weather was fine enough that they were far from alone. Since entering the park, James had seen several acquaintances—men he knew from his club on horseback, married couples in phaetons, and a few clusters of ladies on foot, tiny dogs accompanying them, led by their footmen, of course, not by the ladies themselves.

He and Violet had been largely silent for the duration of their ride, offering little comment other than a few stilted remarks about the weather and their pace. It was so easy, when they were together, for him to weaken, to soak in the simple enjoyment of being in her company once more. But then there would be a moment like this, in which she stifled a cough in her sleeve that he was almost certain was feigned, and he would recollect all at once the game that was afoot, and he would be awash in anger once more. Anger and disappointment—disappointment that she was lying to him again, that she was proving to be just as deceitful as he had accused her of being all those years ago.