“James,” she said, and he was pleased to hear the slight pant in her voice, the unevenness of her breathing a sign of the same desire that coursed through him, setting his blood on fire, every nerve in his body jangling. “We can’t,” she said simply, and reached up a hand to smooth her hair, which had escaped from their interlude with remarkably little damage done.

“I apologize,” he said, in tones of exaggerated politeness. “I was undone by your beauty.” The words were not untrue, but he knew that Violet would take them for rank flattery and disregard them—which was, he told himself, all for the best. Better that she should never know what the sight of her in that gown did to him.

What the sight of her every day did to him.

He reminded himself, quite sternly, that she was leading him on a merry chase—reminded himself of the realization that had prompted the rash and most certainly unwise action of kissing her in the first place.

And yet, in that moment, with the taste of her still on his lips, he would have played hound to her fox quite happily for the rest of his days.

That was it. He had finally lost all reason and dignity whatsoever. This, apparently, was what marriage did to a man. Or, at the very least, marriage to Violet. He somehow thought that marriage to, say, Lady Emily Turner, would be an entirely different and altogether more restful experience.

As though sensing his thoughts, the source of his aggravation shot him a narrow look.

He adopted a look of practiced innocence, causing her gaze to narrow even further.

Despite the turmoil of his thoughts, despite his complete and utter inability to work out how the bloody hell he felt about his wife at any given moment, it was still all he could do to refrain from grinning at her, and he realized in a rush how much he had missed this—had missed teasing her, needling her.

Kissing her.

He offered his wife his arm, which she took graciously.

And yet, as he escorted her out to the carriage, as they rattled over the cobblestone streets of London, he could not stop his thoughts from returning to one simple truth:

He wished very badly to kiss her again.

The evening was a success, and they’d only just arrived.

Violet managed to resist congratulating herself with great difficulty—oh, very well, she didn’t entirely resist, only so much could be expected from a lady—as she swept into the glittering Rocheford ballroom on her husband’s arm.

She wasn’t at all certain what had brought on such an ardent display from James as the one at the base of their staircase half an hour earlier, but she decided to call it a success nonetheless. Whatever his reasons for kissing her—and a small, easily distracted part of her couldn’t help wishing that she knew what those reasons were, so that she might attempt to coax a repeat performance out of him—that he had done so was undeniable proof of that fact that she was so anxious to drive home:

He still wanted her. Quite desperately.

Now she only had to gently prod him into action. Fortunately, she had Sophie to help her in this regard.

The minor, insignificant fact that her traitorous body had responded to his kisses and caresses as kindling to a spark was immaterial. Of course she still wanted him. She had already admitted as much, had she not? That was not relevant to the matter at hand. She was there not to prove her own desire, but his.

To make him realize it—even if doing so required making him suffer a bit. And to make him rue the day he had ever thought he could suppress that desire, or forget it, or ignore it.

She scanned the ballroom as she and James entered. This ball would no doubt be given that highest of compliments tomorrow—being described as a terrible crush. In one quick survey of the room, Violet saw two dozen people she knew. Hundreds of candles glimmered in sconces on the wall and from chandeliers overhead, reflecting off the sparkling jewels at the throats and on the wrists of the ladies below. Along one wall was a long table groaning under the weight of bowls of punch and lemonade, and discreet servants circulated amongst the guests, offering the same on trays. Couples assembled on the dance floor, and the opening strains of a minuet could be heard.

Upon a second perusal of the room, however, she groaned quietly—one of the familiar faces she spotted was her mother’s.

“Something wrong?” James murmured.

“My mother is here,” she said in an undertone. “Over by the refreshment tables.” Lady Worthington, dressed in a blue satin gown a few shades lighter than Violet’s own, was chatting animatedly with Baroness Highgate, one of her mother’s dearest friends and a notorious gossip. Violet could not think of a conversation she would less like to be a part of at the moment; she watched as Lady Worthington took a sip of lemonade and gave a polite smile.

“Fortunately for us, I see Jeremy and Penvale on the opposite side of the ballroom,” James said, steering her firmly away from said refreshment tables. Violet prayed her mother hadn’t heard their names announced, but she rather thought that might be too much to hope for. Lady Worthington had inconveniently good hearing.

“Audley,” Penvale said as James and Violet approached. “Violet,” he added, in a much lower tone of voice—Violet had given both Penvale and Jeremy leave to use her given name years ago, but this was scandalously familiar enough that they were quiet about doing so in public. “You’re looking very . . . healthy,” he added, giving her what she supposed he intended to be a look heavy with meaning.