“He did not have his hands all over me,” Violet snarled. “We were dancing a waltz. It is a dance that necessitates physical proximity, but that is all it was—a dance!”
“You are so naive,” James shot back. “You don’t understand how men use that dance to take liberties with women.”
“If it were so scandalous, it would not have been approved by our hosts! Even the matrons of Almack’s have allowed the dance there!”
“Then they are being as naive as you are.”
“Stop calling me naive!” Violet said shrilly.
Several of the dancing couples turned to look at them. Other onlookers had also begun to raise their eyebrows, and Violet could see them whispering to each other out of the corner of her eye.
But she didn’t care. James had no right whatsoever to call her naive.
“I am not naive, nor am I the kind of woman who would let a man take advantage of her,” she asserted, not bothering to lower her voice. “I have stood up for myself my whole life, and if a man were taking liberties with me on the dance floor, I would know it. You malign a perfectly kind gentleman simply because it bruises your ego that he would dance with your wife.”
“Be quiet,” James snarled. “You are making a scene.”
“I am not the one who made a scene!” Violet practically shouted. “You are the one who interrupted us quite rudely and then gave poor Mr. Bellsworth the cut direct!”
James’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Violet had the impression that he didn’t like that she’d pointed out how ungentlemanly he had behaved.
But when he spoke, it was with forced calm. “You are right,” he said. “I should not have interrupted you like that. The way I spoke with Mr. Bellsworth was rude, and I shall apologize.” He gave her a cold, condescending smile. “There, is that good enough for you? Will you stop making a spectacle of yourself now?”
But Violet was too angry to see reason. She was sick of it all—sick of the stress in her life; sick of her father’s threats; sick of never knowing when she would be kidnapped by gangsters or ambushed by her father; and, most of all, she was sick of James.Sick of hating him, sick of wanting him, and sick of the fact he wouldn’t just kiss her again.
“You know what?” she snarled. “I wish Mr. Bellsworth would have taken liberties with me. At least that would mean someone wants me, since you clearly don’t!”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you ran away!” she shouted. “You ran away from me and what happened between us and hid behind ‘business’ and ‘cleaning up the duchy’ like you always do, when in reality you are just afraid to let anyone get close!”
Then she turned on her heel and stormed across the ballroom.
The crowds seemed to part for her, but she barely even noticed how many people grew quiet as she passed by them and then began whispering.
To hell with them all. They turned a blind eye when my father made our lives a living hell. I don’t owe them anything.
James watched his wife storm away from him with a mutinous look on his face. He was torn. Part of him wanted to go after her, but he wasn’t sure exactly what would happen if he did.
I’ll either kiss her again in front of everyone or rage at her. Neither would be particularly dignified.
Not that he had any dignity left. Everyone had seen their fight, and all around him, he could see people whispering behind their fans and gloved hands. Some were even openly staring.
Well, she deserved every word I said! The way that man was touching her… and she let him!
On some level, James knew he was being unfair, that his wife was far too much the pinnacle of propriety to ever let such a thing occur, but it was hard for him to think reasonably. The feeling that had flared in his chest when he’d seen her in the arms of another man had been so fierce and so furious that it had made it hard to think straight.
“Your Grace,” an urgent voice said next to him, and James looked around to see Rosalie approaching him, a worried look on his face. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” he snapped, then corrected himself. “Excuse me, Miss Rosalie. It was merely a disagreement between myself and your sister.”
“Ahhh.” She looked at him with a strange, knowing look in her eyes. “A lovers’ quarrel?”
“Certainly not!” he huffed. “Besides, I don’t see how it is any concern of?—”
“Well then, go after her!” Rosalie said.
“What?”
