In that instant, James felt like more of a cad than he ever had done in his entire twenty-eight years of life. He had always considered himself a gentleman, someone who respected women and treated them with the courtesy they deserved. He had always looked askance at men who belittled female intelligence, able to see their derision for what it truly was: insecurity. And yet, in less than a minute, Violet had shown him what an utter prick he was.

In truth, he had not given overly much consideration to Lady Fitzwilliam’s feelings the day before; he had been able to tell from a quick glance at her face as he was speaking that she knew he was not serious in his flirtation, and that knowledge had been sufficient to ease his conscience. In that moment, it had been enough; now, however, he saw that it should not have been. She was a widow; she might or might not still be in love with his brother; and, beyond all that, she was a woman, with feelings and thoughts of her own. And he had treated her abominably.

Violet was right—and so was West, and so, God help him, was Jeremy. He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face, suddenly exhausted by the entire bloody mess that he and Violet had created. At that moment, he would have given every shilling he possessed to go back a week and undo every word he had spoken to Violet outside that damn tavern.

Actually, he’d have liked to go back four years and undo every word he’d said to her that fateful morning when he had discovered her conversing with his father. At the time, all he’d felt was betrayal—betrayal at the hands of the person he’d trusted most in the world, the only person, in fact, that he had ever truly trusted with the deepest, most important parts of himself. Now it all seemed less important.

“Well?” Violet asked, her voice sharp. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

James lowered his hands and looked at her. Her cheeks were flushed; a curl of dark hair lay against her neck, in striking contrast to the creamy perfection of the skin behind it.

He dragged his eyes upward, meeting her gaze directly. “I’m sorry.”

She blinked. Under different circumstances, he would have found it amusing—she had clearly been preparing for a fight, and his capitulation had caught her completely by surprise. He watched as she clutched at the threads of her composure. “I—of course you are,” she said, clearly attempting to put her best face forward. “As you should be.”

He took a step closer to her, all but erasing the distance between them. “I will send Lady Fitzwilliam a note of apology today,” he said. He noticed that at this proximity, she had to tilt her head back to look up at him as he spoke. It was one of the thousand tiny details he had unlearned about her over the past few years, now presented for him to memorize anew. “I owe her an apology in person, of course, but I would not risk her reputation by calling on her.”

“A bit late for such consideration, don’t you think?” Violet asked, her eyes narrow. He spared a moment’s longing contemplation of the normally round shape of the eyes in question—he had found them narrowed upon his person so often of late that he had almost forgotten what they looked like in their natural state.

“Entirely,” he conceded, and had the pleasure of watching her face register her surprise once again. “But as I cannot undo the past, I am merely going to do the best I can in the present.”

It was then his turn to be surprised as, with absolutely no warning, she burst into laughter.

She raised a hand to cover her mouth, the move doing little to contain the peals of unladylike laughter. She took a step back from him, even as she seemed to be making largely futile attempts to contain her mirth.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, but was unable to say more as another fit of giggles overtook her. For his part, James found himself less irked at being laughed at than he might have expected. It had been so long since he had seen her laugh that he could only stand and drink in the sight, his eyes greedily consuming the details that had grown fuzzy in his memory.

She attempted speech once more. “You just seem so absurdly serious—it really all sounded a bit ridiculous . . .”

James was dimly aware that he was being mocked, but he seemed unable to be overly much bothered. And then, without really giving the matter much thought at all, he did the only thing that, in that precise moment, seemed at all reasonable—or perhaps even possible.

He kissed her.

And the moment his lips descended on hers, all reason fled.

The only vague thought that flitted through his head as his lips moved over hers was that he’d forgotten. He’d forgotten how soft her mouth was as it brushed against his own. She seemed momentarily startled by his kiss, her entire body freezing in the instant that he first touched her. But then, suddenly, it was as though she melted all at once, kissing him back with a fervor that matched his own. His tongue darted out, teasing at the corner of her mouth, and her lips parted. This, too, he had forgotten: the precise feeling of her tongue tangling with his own, the strength with which her hand moved to the back of his neck, cradling his head in her palm as she kissed him.

He slid both of his hands to her waist, pulling her more firmly against him. Each spot where their bodies touched felt suddenly alive, as though every single nerve was sparking at the friction. He could feel himself stiffening and, rather than stepping back to put some much-needed distance between them, he let his hands drift down to cup her bottom, keeping her pressed tightly against him so that there was no space between them, nothing but warmth and desire.