Fortunately, he had enough business to keep him occupied for much of the day, though he often found his thoughts wandering to linger unhelpfully on the curve of Violet’s cheek or the sound of her laugh. In truth, he had found it difficult to spare any attention for the business of the stables at Audley House of late. When he and Violet had first quarreled, the stables had been a welcome distraction, occupying his time and energy so that he could not linger overmuch on the ruins of his marriage. Now, however, he frequently found himself feeling an odd sort of disconnect from the business that consumed his life, motivated only by the vague desire to prove to his father that he could make a success of this endeavor.

Upon his return home, he lingered over a glass of brandy in the library, reading a lengthy letter from the estate agent at Audley House before finally, as the light filtering through the windows took on the particular rosy glow of evening, heading upstairs to dress for the night’s entertainment.

At the appointed hour he was back downstairs, fully decked out in black and white evening attire, resisting the urge to tap his foot impatiently. After five years of marriage, he still failed to understand what precisely it was about women’s toilettes that required so much bloody time.

He had made the mistake of voicing this question to Violet once. He had never done so again.

He was distracted by a clearing of the throat at the top of the stairs. He looked up and watched as the lady in question descended the staircase.

Magnificent seemed such a woefully inadequate adjective.

She wore a gown of midnight blue, the bodice cut low enough to draw his eye immediately to her décolletage—though, hell, perhaps his eye would have been drawn there anyway. He was, after all, a man. Even he, who knew nothing about ladies’ fashions, could see that this dress had been lovingly tailored to nip at every curve of Violet’s body. Her dark hair was piled high in a gleaming mass atop her head, and her dark eyes seemed to burn out of the pale perfection of her face, her gaze never leaving his as she slowly descended.

He realized that his mouth was open, and he snapped it shut instantly. It was maddening that one woman should have so much sway over him, but some corner of his mind still capable of intelligent thought suggested that perhaps he should accept it as his lot in life, and merely enjoy it.

She descended the final step, then gave a tiny, delicate cough, and he rapidly amended his previous statement.

It was maddening that the woman who should hold him in thrall would be, of all the women in London, one as stubborn and infuriating as Violet.

Even as she fished a delicate, lace-edged handkerchief out of her bodice—and, damn it, she must have put it there on purpose, knowing that he’d be unable to tear his eyes away from this production—her gaze did not leave his face. She coughed into said handkerchief—which was currently the object of considerable envy on his part—and there was something knowing, something ever so slightly daring in her expression, and instantly, he knew.

He knew that she knew.

Or rather, he knew that she knew that he knew.

It was enough to give any man a headache, truly.

Given the events of the past week, he was not even entirely certain that he could be classified as sane any longer—sane men did not engage in lengthy wars of attrition with wives pretending to have illnesses with fluctuating degrees of severity—but, dash it, he knew this much: Violet knew that he knew that she wasn’t really ill.

Her gaze was all practiced innocence, wide brown eyes framed by impossibly dark lashes—eyes that had once made him wish he was the poetic type, so that he could compose an ode to them.

“James,” Violet said, taking a step toward him, a note of amusement in her voice.

James did not allow her the opportunity to say more. He took three quick steps forward, seized her by the waist, hauled her against him, and kissed her.

And, just as when he had kissed her the day before, his immediate thought was to wonder how, precisely, it was that he had gone for so long without doing so. Before he had met Violet, he would have said that he enjoyed kissing, that it was a diverting stop on the road to greater pleasures. But with Violet, kissing was not merely a stop along a well-trodden path. It was a destination all its own.

He could feel this kiss . . . well, everywhere. In the warmth of her skin, burning through the fabric of her dress where his hands gripped her waist. In the softness of her lips as he kissed them, his tongue darting out to trace their seam, slipping inside her mouth as she opened it with a slight gasp. In the softness of her breasts, pressed against his chest, making him itch to slide his hand up, cup them.

So he did.

Violet gasped into his mouth once more at the touch and pressed herself more firmly against his hand as he caressed the curve beneath his palm, his hands frustrated by the layers of fabric separating him from the warmth and smoothness of her bare skin. Their mouths grew desperate, tongues tangling, and Violet arched her neck with a low moan, allowing James access to the long, pale column of her throat, upon which he traced delicate designs with his tongue. In his breeches he was stiff and aching, and it was only with difficulty that he resisted the urge to roll his hips against hers.

Violet slid her hands into his hair and pulled his mouth back to her own, her lips possessing his with a frenzy and ardor that nearly undid him. It was as some vague corner of his mind began to wonder about retreating upstairs that she seemed to recall herself, tearing her mouth away from his.