Violet looked at James at the precise second that he looked at her, an eyebrow arched, and for a moment they seemed to understand each other so perfectly that it was as though no time had passed, as though the past four years were a dream, as though it was the first year of their marriage once more, when Violet felt, even in a crowded room, that she and James were somehow alone together.

James broke eye contact first, his attention having been drawn by the sound of his own name.

“. . . have heard that you are a skilled dancer,” Sophie was saying, as Violet, too, directed her attention back to the group. “I should be absolutely bereft if you were to deny me the chance to experience your skill for myself.” She gave James a rather assessing glance, one that clearly indicated that dancing was not the only one of his skills she would like to experience. Violet had to bite the inside of her cheek to refrain from laughing out loud at the look on her husband’s face. She leaned closer—was he actually blushing?

“I would, of course, be honored if you would save me a spot on your dance card, Lady Fitzwilliam,” James said, since it was really the only polite thing he could say under the circumstances. When a lady practically begged a man to dance with her, no gentleman could refuse her.

“Lovely,” Sophie said brightly. “I think a waltz would do nicely, don’t you? It’s so . . . intimate.” She hesitated ever so slightly before the last word. James cast a frantic look around the ballroom, tugging at his collar as though his cravat were knotted too tightly.

This was, Violet decided, the best evening she’d spent in years.

This was, James was utterly certain, the bloody worst evening he’d spent in years. He adjusted his collar again, feeling as though he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs—and was it just him, or was the ballroom overwarm? He didn’t know why the ton insisted on having these damned events in the middle of summer—who could possibly think it a good idea to cram hundreds of perfumed peacocks into a single room, along with hundreds of candles, during one of the warmest months of the year? He needed air. He needed a drink.

He needed Lady Fitzwilliam to remove her hand from his arm.

He felt like a boy of fourteen again, one with no experience of women, flustered by the first girl to cast an appraising look in his direction. This was a bloody disaster.

It was entirely his own fault.

What the hell had he been thinking, flirting so outrageously with Lady Fitzwilliam in Hyde Park? He’d thought, deep down, that West and Violet were correct, that his primary concern should be any potential damage he had done to her reputation, and he had felt like an utter cad once he’d come to his senses in this regard—but now, too late, he realized another danger.

That she might take him up on his implied offer.

He never would have expected it of her, in truth. He’d never thought her the slightest bit interested in him as anything other than West’s studious younger brother, but apparently the years that had passed since he’d last seen her had had quite a transforming effect.

Unless . . .

He went cold as another unpleasant thought struck him.

He and his brother bore a strong physical resemblance—everyone commented on it. Could she possibly be setting her cap for him out of some desire to use him as a sort of standin for West? It was an appalling prospect—and not terribly flattering, at that.

He dimly registered that Lady Fitzwilliam was still speaking to him, but he interrupted her, manners be damned.

“Lemonade!” he burst out, sounding like an imbecile.

Lady Fitzwilliam blinked at him. Casting a quick glance at the surrounding group, he saw Penvale and Jeremy raise their eyebrows. Diana smirked. And Violet . . .

Violet looked as though she were trying hard not to laugh.

And that was when he knew. He knew that Violet was somehow behind this.

The realization did him little good at that precise moment, however, because he had just uttered the word lemonade aloud, apropos of nothing, and some faint part of his mind—the reasonable, rational part that, until the past fortnight, had usually made up the majority of his brain—realized that some elaboration upon this comment was likely required.

“It is very warm this evening,” he said smoothly. “I thought a glass of lemonade might not go amiss. Don’t you think, Lady Fitzwilliam?” He did not allow her the opportunity to respond. “Please allow me to fetch one for you. It would be a delight, I assure you.”

Lady Fitzwilliam gave a sort of wistful little sigh. “How very thoughtful you are, my lord.” Her hand tightened slightly on his arm. “And so capable. It is most . . . illustrative.”

James had never realized that the word illustrative could contain such a wealth of illicit meaning. It was a rather—dare he say it?—illustrative moment.

That was it. He had finally taken leave of his senses.

“I shall fetch your lemonade, Lady Fitzwilliam,” he said expansively, removing her hand from his person at last, but placing a gallant kiss upon it before releasing it. “The sooner I retrieve it, the sooner I may return to you.” He turned to Violet. “Dearest wife. You are looking a bit pale. Would you like to walk with me to the refreshment tables? I think a bit of movement might do you some good.”

“I should be happy to accompany Lady James on a turn about the room while you fetch her a lemonade,” Belfry said with the merry air of one who was observing a particularly entertaining bit of theater. He let out a soft “oof!” as soon as he made this offer, and James was nearly—although not quite entirely—certain that Diana had elbowed him in the stomach.