“I can’t believe you managed to convince me to marry you,” Violet said after a moment’s silence.

Just like that, the lightness of the moment vanished. “I seem to recall the situation being quite neatly managed,” he said shortly.

Violet’s face, which had been if not quite smiling then definitely amused, suddenly turned serious. “I know what you think you recall,” she said, her gaze never leaving his. “And I know that you will never consider, for one second, that you might not have been the only one neatly managed that day.”

James opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated a moment, suddenly uncertain. He had nursed his anger on this issue for so long that he tended to reach for it instinctively; however, there was nothing in Violet’s expression at the moment except sorrow, and it gave him pause. He searched for words, not entirely certain what he planned to say, but before he could speak, she let out a faint cough. A swell of anger rose within him, his doubts vanishing. Hadn’t he just apologized for the bloody horse accident and his behavior following it? Did she still mean to continue with this ridiculous ruse?

It was infuriating, truly. And, furthermore, it was the perfect example of why he could not trust her. Did she realize that, he wondered? Did she see how perfectly she was proving him right?

Before he could make any sort of reply, he heard his name being called. Jeremy approached on horseback. And riding next to him was—James squinted, though he had a sinking feeling he already knew—

Oh, Christ. It was Sophie Wexham.

Although he supposed that she wasn’t, in fact, Sophie Wexham anymore. She was Lady Fitzwilliam Bridewell. She was also a widow, and this was her first Season out of mourning.

A fact of which Jeremy had wasted no time in taking advantage.

James wasn’t entirely certain how long they’d been carrying on together—a couple of months, he thought. In truth, he found it an odd match. The Sophie Wexham that he and West had known did not seem the type who would find Jeremy’s brand of cheeky charm all that appealing.

But of course James hadn’t spoken to her—other than to offer a bland pleasantry at a ball or musicale—in years. He had no idea how she had changed since her marriage or widowhood.

He wondered if she was still in love with his brother. For both their sakes, he rather hoped not.

As Jeremy and Lady Fitzwilliam drew closer, James and Violet reined in their mounts. “Is that—” Violet murmured under her breath.

“Indeed,” James replied, equally quiet.

“Rather brazen of them to be out together on Rotten Row, isn’t it?”

“They’re on horseback, not in a closed carriage,” James pointed out. Violet didn’t even dignify this with a response, merely giving him a dubious look.

“Audley! Lady James!” Jeremy called as he drew up beside them. “How . . . unexpected.” His tone was mild, but James could practically see the waves of curiosity rolling off him. James couldn’t entirely blame him—to see himself and Violet out on what was, to all appearances, a cordial afternoon ride was highly unusual these days.

“Jeremy,” James said. “Lady Fitzwilliam.”

Lady Fitzwilliam was still every inch as beautiful as she’d been when James had first met her, at some London ball or another. She had golden curls and brown eyes and some of the longest eyelashes he had ever seen. Sitting easily atop her mount next to Jeremy, the sunlight streaming behind her, she looked glorious—and James gave hearty thanks that his brother was not there to see her. It would have been rather too much for West to bear, James suspected.

“Lord James,” she murmured. “It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”

“Indeed it has, my lady,” he agreed. “I do hope you’ll allow me to express my condolences on your husband’s passing.”

“Thank you.” Lady Fitzwilliam’s lips pursed slightly, then softened back into their usual smooth curve.

“You must be pleased to be back out in society,” Violet said.

“Yes,” Lady Fitzwilliam said after the merest hesitation. “It’s very . . . invigorating.”

“Lord Willingham’s company does tend to have that effect,” James said dryly; the flush that swept over her face made him immediately regret his words. In truth, he was surprised to see her with Jeremy today—from what precious little Jeremy had told him, he’d been under the impression that their liaison was drawing to an end. Not that he was terribly surprised by that development—she really didn’t seem at all in the usual line of Jeremy’s lovers. She in fact seemed far more like someone James himself would take up with, were he the trysting sort.

And, just like that, he had an idea.

A brilliant idea.

A brilliant, awful idea.

Did he dare? He glanced sideways at his wife, the memory of her patently false cough echoing in his mind.

Oh, he did dare.

“My lady,” he said, all of these thoughts coalescing within him in an instant. “Should you ever have need of anything, you know that you must call upon . . . us.” He paused for a fraction of a second before saying the word us, just long enough for all present to realize that what he really meant was me.

Jeremy frowned at him.

Violet stiffened.

And Lady Fitzwilliam . . . She arched a brow, her gaze flicking between him and Violet lightning-fast. She must certainly have heard the rumors swirling about the state of their marriage—said rumors being quite numerous, of course. While one could never credit the ton with an extraordinary amount of collective intelligence, it could not help but notice when one of the great love matches of the past decade turned into a chilly marriage of cordial strangers instead.