“Meaning?” His tone was cool.

“Meaning,” she said, and her voice was not as calm as it had been a moment before, “that if you are going to insist on losing faith in someone the moment you see the slightest possibility that they have wronged you, then you are going to have a very frustrating life.”

“As opposed to my life as it is now, which is all sweetness and light?”

“If you already find your life frustrating, darling, I would suggest that you have only yourself to blame.” She had gotten herself back under control, and this was delivered in a tone of perfect smoothness that he assumed was carefully calculated to enrage him.

He hated that she knew him so well—and that if her goal was to rattle him she was succeeding.

He reined in his horse sharply and reached out a hand to seize the reins of her horse as well. Persephone shied at the sudden firm touch, and reared ever so slightly on her hind legs. Violet was a competent horsewoman and adjusted her seat with ease, in no danger of falling.

And yet, that did not stop James’s arm from reaching out, as if of its own volition, to wrap around her waist and steady her. She stiffened in surprise; he knew he should loosen his grip, but he found himself unable to do so. In the blink of an eye, Persephone had all four hooves planted firmly on solid ground once more. Violet was entirely secure within the saddle . . .

And still, James could not let go.

He was obsessed, suddenly, with the curve of her trim waist beneath his hand, the warmth of her skin even through the many layers of her clothing and his gloves. He was seized with a wild, reckless desire to reach out his other hand and lift her bodily onto his horse, to sit snug before him in the saddle, her back pressed against his chest and his arms tucked around her.

This fantasy lasted but a moment, but was so vivid that he dropped his arm from her waist as though he had been stung by a bee. Violet let the rough motion pass without comment. For once.

“I assume you had some reason for halting us so abruptly?” she remarked, and James, with great difficulty, brought his mind back to the conversation at hand. He raked a hand through his hair in frustration, and did not miss the way Violet’s eyes followed the movement.

“If I find my life frustrating,” he said after a moment, having gathered his wits as best he could, “I promise you that living in the same home as you does nothing to make it less so.”

The words were harsh, and he very nearly regretted them—certainly would have if anything like hurt had flickered across Violet’s expression. But her eyes narrowed and her mouth flattened into a thin line, and he felt the same rush that he always experienced whenever he succeeded in provoking her.

“Of course,” she said stiffly. “Of course you give up on your marriage, on your relationship with West, but none of it is your fault. Of course.”

James gave an internal howl of outrage—give up? He gave up? It was utter nonsense.

“I don’t think my relationship with my brother is any of your concern.” He sounded like a pompous ass, even to his own ears.

“Oh, of course not,” Violet said. “What am I but your wife, after all? Or had you forgotten?”

“As if you’d let me,” he muttered.

“Funny,” she replied, her eyes flashing, “you seemed to have little difficulty doing so last week.”

“Violet—”

“Of course it wouldn’t even occur to you to send your wife a note that you’d been injured,” she continued, ignoring him. “Silly me to even expect such a courtesy. After all, we wouldn’t want your wife of all people to worry about you. Your wife who for years has been telling you that she wishes you’d leave the running of those stables to others. Your wife certainly doesn’t have any right—”

“Enough about the bloody accident!” he shouted, more forcefully than he had intended. He glanced around quickly, but they were far enough away from other riders that no one seemed to have heard his outburst. Belatedly, he realized that they were still standing stock-still in the middle of the path, and he gave his horse a nudge with his heel, spurring him into motion. Violet followed suit, and they continued at a measured pace down the path, James uncomfortably aware that he had just raised his voice at a lady in public. He might roll his eyes at society and its many dictates, but he liked to think that he had some semblance of good manners.

Just not with his own wife.

He inhaled deeply. “I apologize that you were alarmed by Penvale’s note,” he said after a moment. “And I apologize for my words at the Blue Dove. I may have spoken . . . hastily.”

Violet turned her head to look at him suspiciously, as though she suspected some sort of trap.

James exhaled in frustration. “For Christ’s sake, I’m trying to apologize and the best you can do is blink at me like an owl?”

The corner of Violet’s mouth twitched. “How flattering.”

“A very attractive owl, of course.”

Violet arched a brow. “Indeed?”

“Yes,” James said, by now quite certain that continued speaking on his part would only lead to more trouble, and yet somehow unable to stop. “A very fine specimen—”

“Specimen?”

“—of owlishness—”

“Owlishness?”

“The best sort of owl, really.” He managed to force his mouth shut, just barely resisting the temptation to clap a hand over it for good measure. He had some dignity left, after all.