Lady Traveller's Guide To Happily Ever After. Victoria Alexander

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      “No. I had already come to that decision.” She squared her shoulders. “I like my life, James. Three years seems a small enough price to pay for my independence and my freedom.”

      “So you’ll do it for the money?” he said slowly. Relief mixed with a tinge of disappointment. Surely he couldn’t expect her to do it for any other reason. Still...it had been a long night and he’d done a great deal of thinking. All about her. Or rather, about them. Although he’d never not thought about her in one way or another through the years.

      In the beginning, he’d gone on with his life as if he’d never married at all. In truth, his drinking, carousing and meaningless encounters with women had increased after Violet left. James blamed it on guilt. It was easy to forget what a cad be was, how he had ruined her life, if he was inebriated or had an anonymous woman in his bed. After he passed the second anniversary of his marriage, the appeal of raucous behavior, random women and drunken stupors began to fade. It was around that time too that Uncle Richard had been struck by a violent but blessedly brief illness and James had begun learning what was required to follow in his uncle’s footsteps. Upon later reflection, he acknowledged that was the true beginning of adulthood.

      Violet raised a shoulder in a casual shrug as if money was as good a reason as any.

      His brow rose. “You needn’t act as if you were doing me a great favor.”

      “Oh, but I am doing you a great favor.”

      “You have as much to lose as I do.”

      She met his gaze directly. “No, I don’t.”

      “Oh?”

      She hesitated then shrugged. “It’s not important at the moment.” She turned and headed toward the stairs.

      “It sounded important.” He strode after her.

      “I’m not going to discuss this now.” She reached the grand stairway and started up. “But I’m not agreeing to this because I have no other choice.”

      “Yes, I’ve heard about your choices,” he called after her.

      Violet Branham, Lady Ellsworth, his wife, might not be aware of it but there had been nearly as much gossip about her over the past six years as there had been about him. He knew the truth about his behavior, but he had no idea if the stories he’d heard about her were accurate. Of course, some came from Duncan, Viscount Welles, who had mentioned running into Violet somewhere in Europe in recent years. Welles was an old friend, one of the very men who had issued the ill-fated challenge to kiss his fiancée on that night six years ago. Even so, the information was not firsthand. Regardless, what James heard about Violet’s behavior had grown increasingly bothersome as his own conduct had become more respectable.

      “My choices?” She swiveled on the stairs and glared down at him. “What do you mean by that?”

      “Never mind.” He waved off her question. Discussing this now was a mistake. After all, they had three years ahead of them. “It doesn’t matter.”

      “I suspect it does matter,” she snapped.

      Apparently, she was not going to let the subject drop. Very well. Let the games begin. “You have not been entirely inconspicuous these past six years. There have been rumors, gossip.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “What, exactly, have you heard?”

      “You said yourself nothing can be done about the past.” It was his turn to adopt an offhand manner, as if none of this was of any significance. “What’s done is done.”

      “Nonetheless, I would like to know what you have heard.”

      “I doubt that.” He turned and strode toward the library. This was not the sort of talk a man had with his wife without the benefit of spirits.

      “You cannot make vague, unsubstantiated charges and then just walk away,” she called after him.

      “Actually, I can.” He stepped into the library, snapped the door closed behind him and crossed the room to the cabinet where Uncle Richard kept convenient bottles of brandy, whiskey and assorted spirits.

      A moment later the door crashed open and he tried not to grin. He’d suspected this new Violet wouldn’t be able to resist continuing the conversation.

      “If you want to start something like this at least have the courage to finish it!”

      James took a bottle of whiskey and poured a glass. “Would you like a glass?”

      “Goodness, James, it’s barely past noon.”

      “If we’re going to start the first day of the next three years reliving our sordid pasts, I for one am going to need fortification.”

      “No doubt.” She moved to him, plucked the glass from his hand and took a sip. “My past is not the least bit sordid, thank you very much.”

      He eyed the glass. “I believe that’s mine.”

      “Not anymore.” She smirked and took another sip. “And I prefer to think of it as clearing the air. If we’re going to spend the next three years together as a happy couple in public, I daresay it’s best to get everything out in the open. To alleviate the possibility of untoward surprises.”

      “We wouldn’t want that.” He poured a glass for himself.

      “I’d rather not appear shocked when some well-meaning acquaintance decides it’s time I was informed of all of my husband’s indiscretions.”

      He sipped his drink and studied her. As curious as he was about the rumors regarding her behavior, he wasn’t at all sure confessing his own transgressions was wise. Fuel on the fire and that sort of thing. “It seems to me, we have a great deal to discuss regarding the past six years. Are you certain you wish to start with this particular topic?”

      “Why not?” A distinct challenge shone in her eyes. “I must say I’m surprised you’ve had the time to pay any attention to rumors about me when there’s been so much gossip about you.”

      His tone sharpened. “One does tend to note gossip about one’s wife.”

      “As one tends to note rumors about one’s husband.” Her voice hardened. “Something like, oh, say, his dalliance with an opera singer.”

      “Or her liaison with a French count.”

      Her teeth clenched. “His affair with an American actress.”

      “Hers with an Italian sculptor,” he said sharply. That tidbit came straight from Welles.

      “His with any number of merry widows!”

      “Hers with some talentless Greek poet!”

      Her eyes widened. Apparently he’d hit the mark with that charge. Not that it gave him any satisfaction. Until now, he wasn’t sure he really believed any of the rumors. This was Violet, after all.

      She choked back a laugh.

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