Jeremy eyed him for a moment.

“Then might I remind you, Audley, that all that business with your brother was six years ago, and the lady married in the interim.”

James opened his mouth to reply, but Jeremy wasn’t finished speaking.

“Might I also remind you that it’s no good acting wounded on your brother’s behalf, when you and West are barely on speaking terms these days.”

“I hardly think that’s any—”

“You never think anything is my concern,” Jeremy cut in sharply. “Not if there’s the least chance that you might be in the wrong. It’s much easier to be tight-lipped about it and then no one has to tell you when you’re being a bloody idiot.”

“A bit of the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” James drawled, in a tone that he knew would irritate Jeremy further. “Or perhaps the pot calling the kettle a pot?”

“What exactly do you mean to do here?” Jeremy asked, leaning forward. Anger was etched into all the lines of his body, though James wasn’t sure it would have been obvious to anyone other than himself or Penvale. “Flirt with Sophie at every turn? You’ll destroy her reputation.”

“Funny,” James said, “I rather thought you were doing a perfectly good job of that already.”

“We’ve been discreet,” Jeremy said defensively, and James couldn’t argue with that, because it was true. Jeremy was, in fact, usually discreet in his carryings-on with married ladies, and he had taken extra care with Lady Fitzwilliam these past few months. James had actually been a bit impressed by how little gossip swirled around their liaison.

At the moment, however, James was disinclined to be charitable. “Regardless, I hardly think that one conversation in Hyde Park compares to months of sharing a bed. Does West know about the two of you?” he asked, as though the thought had just now occurred to him.

“If he does, he’s never spoken of it,” Jeremy said tightly. “But I doubt he’d extend the same courtesy to you, were you to continue this ridiculous flirtation.” He stood suddenly, a clear signal that he wished James to leave. “As you well know, Sophie and I are ending our liaison,” he announced. “That was why we were in the park this afternoon—I meant to discuss it with her, before we encountered you and Violet. Afterward, she beat me to it. We don’t suit—don’t know why I ever thought we would, really.” He looked at James evenly the entire time he spoke. “But I hold her in very high regard, and don’t wish to see you make a fool of her out of some misguided attempt to convince yourself that you’re not still in love with your wife.”

James shoved his chair back and stood. “I’m not—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Audley,” Jeremy said wearily, and walked James to the door of his study. “But do have a care with your brother, by the by. If he catches wind of you sniffing round Sophie’s skirts, there will be hell to pay.”

The devil of it was that Jeremy was correct. It had been years now—more than six—but his brother and Sophie Wexham had at one point been very much in love. Miss Wexham had been in her third Season when she’d met West, who had been twenty-four. It must be a family failing, James mused. Falling disastrously in love at an inappropriately young age.

Sophie Wexham was beautiful and clever, and had a dowry that made every fortune hunter of the ton look twice—but she had never quite taken, as James had once overheard one dowager say. Her bloodline was far too new—her family’s title only stretched back one generation, and many of the older aristocratic families turned up their noses at Viscount Wexham and his daughters. The Marquess of Weston, as heir to the ancient and venerable duchy of Dovington, ought not to have looked twice at such an upstart chit.

But he had.

More than twice. They’d met at a musicale and had spent a good portion of the evening in whispered conversation about the crimes against Mozart being committed. One would think it difficult to fall in love while trying not to stuff one’s fingers into one’s ears, but West and Sophie seemed to have managed it. By the end of the evening, they were entirely in one another’s thrall.

So it continued for the rest of that Season—they danced twice at every ball, West called on Sophie at her parents’ town house with almost laughable frequency, and they went for long rides together in Hyde Park. A marriage seemed inevitable—there was even betting at White’s as to when the engagement would be announced.

And then there had been West’s curricle accident.

Such a silly thing to alter the course of one life and end another one.

West had impulsively challenged Jeremy’s elder brother David, the Marquess of Willingham, to a race, during which the curricles overturned on a sharp corner, killing David instantly and shattering West’s leg. He was bedridden for months, and in the days following the accident had been gripped with a fever that had very nearly killed him.

When he was well enough to rejoin society—though society had a rather difficult time recognizing the formerly reckless and charming Marquess of Weston in the somber gentleman who had taken his place—it was to find that his beloved Sophie had married West’s childhood friend Fitzwilliam Bridewell.

Three years later, Lord Fitzwilliam was dead—killed in battle on the Continent. Lady Fitzwilliam was a widow at the age of twenty-four. Through all of this—the six years that spanned West’s long recovery, Sophie’s marriage, her widowhood, her mourning, and her reentrance into society—James had never once heard his brother utter her name.