Sophie leaned forward slightly. “In flirting with him? Or did you have something else in mind now?”

Violet picked up her own tumbler, still partially full, and downed its contents in a single, gasping gulp before setting it down on one of the spindly tables that seemingly littered all ladies’ sitting rooms in England. “I thought I wanted to punish my husband. But more than that, I want to make him want me again.”

Violet felt her cheeks warm at her own daring in speaking so frankly, but she might as well lay all of her cards on the table.

“I rather think he already does.”

“But I think you might prove useful to my cause.” Violet hesitated for a moment, as James’s words—spoken to her once after he’d observed her convince Emily to smuggle three abandoned kittens from Violet’s home ( James was allergic) to her own, where she fostered them for the better part of a month before her mother discovered them—flitted into her mind.

You know, Violet, people will do as you ask even if you don’t browbeat them into it.

Those words had, predictably, led to a rather spectacular row on their part—followed, Violet recalled, her cheeks heating, by a rather spectacular reconciliation on the Aubusson rug in the library—but she was forced to admit that there’d been some ring of truth in them.

“If, that is, you are willing,” she amended hastily. “I already berated my husband once today for damaging your reputation; I wouldn’t like to do the same, even inadvertently.”

Sophie’s mouth quirked up at the corners. “I rather think I’ve already damaged it myself, haven’t I? Carrying on with a notorious rake like Lord Willingham does tend to create a bit of a scandal.”

Violet was surprised to hear Sophie admit it so bluntly. “Not so very great a scandal,” she said carefully. “I’ve only heard the faintest whisperings about it, in truth—Lord Willingham has been uncharacteristically discreet.”

“In any case, that’s all finished now,” Sophie said.

“I don’t mean to ask very much of you,” Violet said. “I merely want to teach James one last lesson. I want him to realize that he wants me, just as I want him . . . and I want him to be afraid that I won’t be waiting for him when he does.”

“I really should stay out of this,” Sophie replied, sounding as though she were enjoying herself thoroughly. “And yet, I’m compelled. Something about the idea of tormenting an Audley brother . . .” She trailed off for a moment, a dreamy expression upon her face. She then directed a steady gaze at Violet and leaned forward, intent. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

Eleven

The Rocheford ball was one of the highlights of the end of the London Season—not that James had much time for it this year. He was still feeling distinctly rattled by his quarrels with West and Violet—and even more so by the distinct knowledge that they were in the right. Being correct was something he usually prided himself on, but in this case, he somehow felt that he’d come out in the wrong, and he wasn’t entirely certain what to do about it.

He could say he was sorry, but James disregarded this idea almost instantly. He had already apologized to Violet for his behavior in the park—and for his conduct at the Blue Dove, for that matter. Anything more would be excessive. Although, if another apology ensured the chance to kiss Violet again . . .

He had tried to put that kiss out of his mind, but it was difficult. He was, after all, a healthy man of just eight-and-twenty who had been sleeping in an empty bed for far too long. As a result, he had spent much of the night reliving the taste of her, the smoothness of her tongue tangling with his own, the feeling of all of her soft curves pressed intimately against him.

He knew that much of society must assume that he had taken a mistress and was just remarkably discreet about it—it was certainly what he would have assumed of a man in his position. And yet, he never had. The idea had occurred to him—particularly on long nights when he was feeling particularly in want of feminine companionship. But he had never seriously entertained the idea, because the thought of bedding another woman after he had experienced the joy of making love to Violet was, quite simply, profoundly unappealing.

Jesus Christ. She had ruined him. Perhaps she should be apologizing to him.

And West . . .

Well, perhaps he should apologize to West. God knew that his life would be easier if he were engaged in only one long-standing row.

With all of this on his mind, James hardly placed the Rocheford ball high on his list of priorities the following morning when he awoke. He skipped his morning ride, having rather soured on Hyde Park, and instead dressed and headed to the breakfast table, not certain whether he hoped Violet would be there. The table was unoccupied, but midway through his meal, a footman delivered a note.

“From her ladyship,” the footman clarified, although James recognized the handwriting immediately. He tore it open, not knowing what he expected—an apology? A stinging rebuke? A request for a damned physician to come examine her allegedly delicate lungs? But instead he found a simple reminder of the ball that evening, and a request that he be ready to escort her there at eight o’clock.

“Not too ill to go to a ball, I see,” he muttered, crumpling the note in his hand. He was dimly aware that he was speaking to a plate of kippers and eggs, and spared a passing mournful thought for the shreds of his dignity.