No, he amended. That wasn’t fair, either. He’d been very angry that day, had felt very betrayed, and he’d be the first to admit—though never had he admitted this to Violet, he realized—that he’d spoken too harshly. Once his anger had cooled, he’d realized that he’d reacted somewhat out of proportion to the facts. On the day of their argument, he had learned that she had been involved in her mother and his father’s plot to meet him out on that damned balcony at that long-ago ball.

And it had stung—still did sting, if he were being entirely truthful. He had worked hard for his entire adult life, which at that point was admittedly relatively brief, to distance himself from his father, to become an independent man, in control of his own life and destiny. And yet, in a matter of such importance as his marriage, he had been manipulated like a pawn on a chessboard. But now, with some distance, he could admit that his accusations of Violet that day—that she was a conniving girl who’d married him for his position—had been unfair. She had been eighteen, in her very first Season, and he knew from personal experience how domineering Lady Worthington could be. It stung that he had been deceived in such a fashion, but it was not so unforgivable as he had once believed.

No, what was unforgivable was her refusal to admit to her own complicity. She had first disavowed any knowledge of his father and her mother’s scheme, before changing her story, claiming that she’d scarcely known about their ruse longer than he had. By that point, her words hadn’t mattered; he didn’t trust her to tell him the truth, and even if she were being honest now, the fact remained that she had still kept her knowledge secret from him, no matter the duration of her deception—and that her first instinct, upon being accused of doing so, was to lie. That was what maintained that rift between them, as far as he was concerned. Perhaps he was a fool, but he believed that by the time they had wed, Violet had truly come to love him—no one was as good an actress as all that. And he thought that he could have forgiven her for betraying his trust—once. But when she had lied in the face of discovery, had denied all knowledge of their parents’ plotting—that was what he could not forgive.

And that was why this fresh deceit of hers, with its bloody coughing and swooning and malingering, was so damned irritating.

And he was determined to get even.

“Is Willingham planning to host his hunting party next month?” Violet broke into his thoughts, not looking at him as she spoke, keeping her attention focused firmly ahead of her. This gave James the luxury of admiring her profile, which was so lovely it made his heart clench. Her cheeks were flushed by the fresh air, and tiny wisps of dark hair had escaped her braids to curl against her fair cheeks and throat. He was suddenly possessed by so strong a desire to reach out and stroke his finger down her cheek that he tightened his fist around the reins, causing his horse to shy slightly at the pressure. He hastily loosened his grip and saw her glance sideways at him, still awaiting an answer.

“Yes,” he said belatedly. “I believe he is. I trust you will be accompanying us, as usual?”

Violet’s refusal to visit the country didn’t extend to all country houses, merely their own; it was James’s distinct impression that she had no objection to being at a country house party, full of friends, other ladies with whom she might converse—it was just the idea of visiting Audley House with only her husband for company that she found distasteful. She had accompanied him to Jeremy’s estate each August for a visit that usually stretched at least a week longer than planned. For all his other faults, Jeremy was an excellent host, and his shooting parties were among the more coveted invitations among the ton.

Violet hesitated. “I don’t know. I suppose it all depends on my health.” She gave a small cough at the end of this sentence, stifling it so quickly that James might not have noticed it at all if he hadn’t been looking.

Which she was clearly aware that he had been.

Had he been less annoyed, he might have been tempted to applaud.

“Of course,” he said, striving to keep a note of sarcasm out of his voice. As was so often the case with Violet, however, his emotions were a bit closer to the surface than he liked this afternoon. “I shouldn’t want you to suffer any sort of a relapse. Although,” he added, as though giving the matter great thought, “I do wonder if the fresh country air might do you some good. Perhaps we would do better to depart London immediately—we could allow you to convalesce at Audley House and then join Jeremy in Wiltshire once you were feeling improved.”

For the first time in his life, he wished he had a beard, if only so that he might stroke it thoughtfully. On second thought, however, that might be laying it on a bit thick.

“I don’t believe I would find a stay at Audley House terribly restful,” Violet replied. “It’s rather difficult to rest peacefully when one is constantly worrying about one’s husband breaking his neck on the back of an untrained horse, you see.” Her spine was rigid and she did not look at him as she spoke, her gaze fixed on the path ahead of them. In profile, her expression appeared carefully blank, but he could tell that her jaw was clenched tightly.

“My dearest wife, you seem to have forgotten that I am not a man prone to making the same mistake twice.”

She snorted then, the sound thoroughly unladylike.

“It seems to me that you are in fact a man prone to repeating the same mistake over and over again for his entire life.” She gave him a sideways glance as if to measure his response, and James fought to keep his facial expression neutral.