Chapter 5

Chapter Five

" I don't understand her," James sighed as the tip of his foil sank into the soft padding that lined the fencing room at Angelo's .

He reacted quickly, pulling out the foil and pivoting to see where his fencing partner, Nathan Goldwin, had gotten to.

Nathan, of course, the vastly superior swordsman, was already raising his foil again, ready to go. Had this been a real duel, James would've been dead by now. But Nathan rarely took advantage of his experience to land blows.

"Your wife?" Nathan asked as he waited for James to get back into position. "Do you need to understand her?"

"Preferably, yes," James said. He righted himself, took a deep breath, and then brought his foil back into the en garde position. "I imagine that understanding one's wife leads to a happier marriage."

"Don't most men enjoy a mysterious woman?" Nathan enquired.

"I don't. There is enough mystery in my life. The last thing I want is for my home to become another place of confusion and miscommunication."

"Well, what don't you understand about her?"

Nathan was standing very still. Not even his eyes moved as he asked this question. It was this that made him such a lauded fencer. He never gave away where he was going to strike next. He was unpredictable.

Then again, he was like that in all things. Although the cousins had grown up together and were as close as two people could be, in many ways, James felt as if he still didn't know him.

Maybe it's my lot in life not to understand people.

"She wants to make my townhouse nicer," he explained.

Nathan looked nonplussed. "So? Isn't that the nature of many women, to decorate houses and make them into family homes?"

"Yes, but…" James struggled to articulate his feelings. "She wants to do it herself. She doesn't just want to direct servants to do her bidding. That's odd, isn't it?"

"Perhaps."

Then, without warning, Nathan struck. It was a quick strike to James's right, and he had to move quickly to parry in time. Despite his best efforts, his form was sloppy as he hurried to defend himself.

Focus.

"Maybe she's bored," Nathan mused as he slashed again with his foil. This time, James parried a bit better. "She wants a project."

"I don't like it," James grumbled. "My mother used to try and make our house more into a home as well, and it only angered my father. To me, houses are just places to eat and sleep, nothing more. I'd prefer if she found a project outside the house."

"She's a duchess now," Nathan pointed out. "Her job is to run your household. But regardless of her projects… I think that there are other ways to ensure that you have a happy marriage."

"What do you mean?" James asked, frowning. "If you have any secrets on how to make a marriage work—although seeing as how you are a perennial bachelor, I can't imagine that you do—please share them."

Nathan paused, and James used the respite to step away from him and find his footing again.

"You know what I mean," Nathan said, smirking slightly. "There are many methods a husband might use to ensure a long, blissful marriage. And I know you have skills in that department if the merry widows of Mayfair can be trusted."

"Upon my honor!" James pretended to be offended. "This is my wife we're speaking of, Goldwin. You ought to know better than to implicate a man's wife in such licentious talk."

Nathan laughed. "It's going well, then?"

James grimaced, and suddenly the urge to fence left him entirely. He lifted his foil and wiped his brow, which was already sweating quite heavily.

"Do you mind if we take a break?" he asked. "I could use a drink."

"Of course." Nathan tucked away his foil, and then he and James left the fencing area together.

At the benches, they stopped and collected their towels, and James motioned for a footman to bring them glasses of water.

They sat down on the benches to watch the other fencers, and Nathan glanced at James, his brow slightly furrowed.

"So… it's not going well, then?" he asked. "In that department, I mean."

"Is it so obvious?"

"Well, I know you're lousy at fencing, but you usually don't give up quite that easily. So I was left with the conclusion that it was our conversation that was causing you distress."

James gritted his teeth. He couldn't discuss this with Nathan. No one could know about his arrangement with Violet. Otherwise, they might be able to find a way to annul the marriage. Then, he would lose the inheritance his father had made contingent on his marriage, as well as the ability to protect Violet and her sister.

But he had to say something to Nathan. Otherwise, he might go crazy by keeping it all in.

"I don't think that the Duchess and I are compatible in that department," he said, at last. "It is not her fault—it's mine. Don't ask me why. And you are not to tell a soul, of course. But I don't expect that we will have a very loving marriage."

"I see," Nathan murmured gravely, although it was clear from his expression that he didn't mean it. "And what shall you do? I cannot imagine you ever being unfaithful to your wife."

"Indeed not!" The idea alone was enough to make James bristle.

"Then you must resolve the matter," Nathan urged. "No matter what it takes. Otherwise, you are in for a tortuous life, my friend."

James wanted to groan. Nathan was right—he was in for a tortuous life if he truly meant to live platonically with his beautiful, beguiling wife. Because what he'd said was true—he would never be unfaithful to her. It was not in his nature, not after the way his father had acted towards his mother. But that meant…

He didn't like to think what that meant.

"Let's talk about other things," he said, trying to put this terrible thought out of his mind.

"As you wish."

The footman brought water, and James thought briefly of asking for something stronger, for his mood had soured.

"I don't have time to be thinking about my difficulties with my wife," he said, before he took a sip of water. "Not when there are still so many problems in the duchy."

"Ahh, yes, your great project to rid the duchy of your father's cronies. How is it going?"

"Not well," James sighed. "Actually, I have been meaning to speak with you about this. There are rumors that there is a rise in dog fighting in parts of the duchy. I have to make sure this practice ends, of course. It is one of the cruelest sports I have ever known. You still have contacts at Scotland Yard, don't you? I was wondering if you could ask them to look into the matter for me." He gave his cousin a meaningful look. "To see if a certain gang member is behind it."

Nathan nodded. "I can ask, although I haven't worked with Scotland Yard in some time. I'll reach out to my contacts, but I can't promise anything."

"Thank you."

The two men sat on the benches for another moment, silently watching the other sparrers. James found himself yearning to talk to Nathan more openly about Violet, to get his opinion on things she had said, on her reactions. But he didn't want to come across like a lovesick, untried lad. Especially since he was certainly not lovesick.

Nathan, however, seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because he said, "You're going to have to find something more interesting than dog fights, however, if you want to be distracted from someone as beautiful as your wife."

James wanted to argue, but once again, Nathan was right. Even bloodthirsty dog fights couldn't banish her from his mind.

When he arrived back at his townhouse, James was in desperate need of a bath, a drink, and some peace and quiet. He needed to think. About the dog fighting, not about how Violet had looked the day before, covered in mud, her hair disheveled, and her cheeks pink with embarrassment and exertion. She had looked so beautiful, so healthy and strong.

Most women of his acquaintance were not so competent. They would never be seen mucking around in the mud, pulling weeds. But there Violet was, pulling up weeds to make his home more beautiful.

It attracted him and shamed him at the same time. He should have taken better care of his home. He had neglected it, as he'd been focused on righting his father's wrongs.

If James thought he was going to get any peace and quiet at home, he was sorely mistaken. The moment he walked up the path to the house, he could hear loud bangs coming from inside.

"What on earth?" he muttered to himself, quickening his pace.

The butler answered the door with a consternated expression on his face. "It's Her Grace…" he said by way of explanation. "She is… redecorating."

James stepped into the hall and saw exactly what the butler meant by that.

The hall was filled with men hauling canvases out of every room and packing them into large crates. James recognized many of these canvases. They were paintings that he had collected or inherited, works of art that he or his forefathers had purchased either as investments or for aesthetical reasons. And now they were being piled into crates and nailed in.

At the center of all of this, of course, orchestrating the stripping of his home, was his wife.

"What on earth is happening in here?" James thundered.

The men, at last, stopped what they were doing and looked up at him. Violet, who was standing in the middle of the room, talking to a man holding a clipboard, turned around as well. To his vexation, she didn't look remotely embarrassed as she took in his shocked and appalled expression.

"Ahh, you're home," she said. She turned back to the man with the clipboard and said, "Yes, I agree, these ought to be donated. They're valuable, and we could get a fair price for them, but it would be better for the duchy—not to mention the world—if we showed our generosity by donating them. A museum would undoubtedly want them, but I think that a charity might be?—"

"You didn't answer my question," James cut her off, stopping behind her.

He was more than a little irritated that she was currently giving away some of his possessions for free without even consulting him. He might have had something to say on which paintings to give away—although he already knew he would have said, None of them.

"Oh, yes," she said, sparing him a glance. "I'm organizing our paintings."

" My paintings," James corrected.

Violet raised an eyebrow. "I thought it was our home, no?"

"Well—"

"And you must have noticed that you have far too many paintings. The whole house is cluttered. Not to mention mismatched. Your taste is good, I'll give you that. Some of these paintings are of the highest quality, and expensive, undoubtedly. But they are arranged in a very odd way, with the best ones hidden in corners and the worst ones on display in the center of the rooms. So I'm taking it upon myself to organize everything."

James put his hands on his hips. Truthfully, he didn't care that much about his paintings, but he still said, "What if I wanted to keep the pieces you're throwing away?"

He reached into the crate in front of them and took out a painting at random, to prove his point. Unfortunately, the moment he glanced at it, he knew it would not help him win their argument.

The painting was of a poker game between several gentlemen, each with a redder and more jowly face than the next. It could have been a depiction of a real scene, except that James could not imagine three men being so ugly in real life that anyone would ever paint a portrait of them—even if it was commissioned.

"Ahhh," he murmured as he stared down at the painting. "You see, this one is an important depiction of gentlemen relaxing. I believe that my father purchased it directly from White's when they decided to redecorate at the turn of the century."

"Well, I can see why they would redecorate if that was on their walls," Violet commented tartly.

But James had committed to defending the painting, which meant he wasn't going to give up without a fight.

"How harsh of you! But then you clearly do not understand the importance of the brushwork here." He pointed to a random spot beneath the cards. "You can see that the artist was trained in Paris and is a master of his craft. It's an important part of the realist—err, the hyper-realist movement that started in the Austrian Empire, I believe, before making its way to Paris and then England."

James had no idea what he was talking about, and from the sardonic expression on his wife's face, she knew it.

But instead of challenging him, she feigned a look of intrigue and leaned closer to the painting.

"Indeed, I think you're right," she murmured. "This is a masterwork! And it deserves a much higher place of honor in our home than you were giving it in the scullery. " She smiled at him, and he flushed. "Why don't we hang it above your bed, since you admire it so much? And since, as you say, it is so priceless?"

"I—" James didn't know what to say. She had completely outwitted him.

Smiling devilishly, Violet turned to the man with the clipboard. "Make sure that this fine example of Austrian hyper-realism is hung above His Grace's bed."

"Very good, Your Grace," the man said, bowing low.

James had no option but to watch as several men hauled the painting up the stairs to hang it—to his horror—in his bedchamber, right above his bed.

When he looked back at his wife, she had a smug smirk on her lips. His resolve hardened at once.

Well, if she can have her fun, then so can I.

Leaning close to her, he gave her his most dashing, rakish smile. "You know, with such a fine portrait above my bed, I rather think you will be tempted to come see it sometime."

"Meaning what?" Violet asked quickly, reddening.

James smiled and shrugged. "Meaning that you will want to see your handiwork up close, I am sure. You have not been to my bedchamber yet, Your Grace."

To his slight surprise, she did not at all look amused. She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. "No, I haven't, and that is precisely how you wanted it. And I now see that it was indeed for the best."

"I didn't mean to offend?—"

"Oh, didn't you? Because from the looks of it, you very purposefully wanted to irritate me once you knew that you could not object to my dismantling of your egregious painting collection."

"I thought you said I had good taste!"

"I was being kind. Your taste is mediocre at best."

James had to work hard not to laugh. Violet looked so beautiful when she was angry, her face pink and her eyes sparkling, that the last thing he wanted to do was ruin it by laughing.

"Then I suppose I should be the one who is angry," he said instead, enjoying watching her irritation mount. "After all, I was only jesting, and you said that to wound me."

"Well, I do not care for jesting!" Violet snapped. "And I have to wonder why you are so determined to infuriate me. You must stop."

James leaned even closer to her so that his lips almost touched her ear. "But I cannot," he murmured. "Not when you look so pretty when you're mad."

He chuckled and then left her standing there in the hallway, looking as if she wanted to attack him. But her ire would have to wait. He had a bath to get to.