“Then you should have had a footman put them right again!” His voice echoed through the corridor, and she wanted to take a step back. But she held her ground.
“Do not raise your voice at me, Your Grace,” she said, quietly but firmly. “I was only trying to do this myself, without having to create more work for the servants. I didn’t realize it would be so tricky to climb up the ladder.”
James took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he had a strange look on his face, like he was trying to force himself to remain calm.
“You’re right,” he muttered, his voice thick. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you. It was most ungentlemanly. But there is a reason we have trained staff, so they can help in areas they are most skilled in.”
Violet waited for more of an explanation, but when it didn’t come, she took a cautious step towards him.
“Are you upset with me for rearranging the portraits? I know you weren’t sure you wanted to donate some, but with this redecoration, I am merely trying to highlight your illustrious family line.”
“I don’t care about that, Violet,” James said distractedly.
His eyes had just landed on the portrait that she had been hanging, and his expression darkened once again.
“My illustrious line,” he spat. “Such good men from whom I descend.”
Violet looked down at the portrait. It depicted a man who looked remarkably similar to James, although older and with a much more unpleasant look on his face. She had a feeling she knew who he was.
“Your father?” she ventured.
Her husband nodded curtly.
Violet looked at the portrait again, then made a decision. “We don’t have to hang it if you don’t w?—”
“I was in the middle of some important work when I heard the calls for help,” James interrupted. “I must return to my study. I wish you a good day. And please, I beg you, have a footman do that.”
He hurried out of the hall, leaving Violet to stare after him, confused and shaken.
Later that night, James was sitting at the desk, writing a letter to Phineas, when a knock sounded at the door. He checked his pocket watch—it wasn’t yet time for his valet to undress him—before he realized that the knock hadn’t come from the main door. It had come from the door that connected his chamber to the Duchess’s.
His throat suddenly dry, he set aside the letter. “Come in,” he called a little hoarsely.
The door opened, and Violet appeared in the doorway. She wore a pale pink dressing gown that made her ivory skin and dark hair appear even more beautiful, and James found his throat growing even drier.
“Your Grace,” she murmured. “May I come in? I wanted to speak with you about what happened earlier today.”
“Yes, of course, come in,” James said, motioning for her to enter. She did, then stood with her back pressed against the wall, hovering nervously.
“About earlier,” she began slowly. “I’m sorry for hanging the portraits myself. You were right, I should have had a footman do it. It was reckless and dangerous to do it by myself.”
James set down his pocketwatch and stood up. “Please don’t apologize, Violet,” he said, approaching her slowly. “My anger earlier was misplaced. I should not have yelled at you like I did. The truth is, I wasn’t angry. I was scared.”
As he said the words, James realized that this might be the first time in his life that he had admitted to feeling afraid. It felt good to open up to someone, to say what he was actually feeling.
“I understand,” Violet murmured, her eyes soft. “I was scared, too. It’s hard to admit, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” James chuckled softly. “It is. Usually, when I’m angry, I just push the feeling down and pretend to be amused or charming. It worked well for me in the past.”
“I’ve noticed that about you,” she noted, her eyes raking over his face. “It’s a mask you wear. Although today, you were angry, not amused.”
“Yes, I was.” James considered this. “When I saw you hanging there, my first thought was that you could have died. I couldn’t have born that. So once you were safe, it was easier to be angry at you and blame you than confront the fear.”
Violet swallowed. He watched the movement, the way her throat bobbed, and he felt a strange longing to stroke the delicate skin of her neck. Of course, he restrained himself.
“Well, thank you for coming to my rescue,” she said. “It was much appreciated.”
James smiled. “You’re welcome. Did you get the portrait re-hung?”
