Guilty Series (71 page)

“You should know.”

He ignored that. “I remember cat and dog fights and making up afterward.” He fixed his gaze on her pretty pink mouth with its full lower lip and that tiny mole at the corner. “Making up was the best part.”

Her remembrances of their early married life did not seem as delicious as his, for her mouth thinned to a tight line. She folded her arms and her eyes narrowed. She was giving him that look—the withering glare of the disdainful goddess about to strike him dead with a lightning bolt. “Your memory is flawed, Hammond.”

“I don't think so.” He bent closer to her and tilted his head to the side. “Come on, Viola,” he murmured and pressed his lips to her neck. “Let's make up.”

He felt her shiver, and he smiled against her skin, a rush of relief surging through him. “You still like it when I do that, don't you?”

“No, I don't,” she snapped. “I don't like anything about you. Not anymore.” She unfolded her arms, flattened her palms against his chest and pushed at him.

He pulled back and looked into her face. The goddess was nowhere to be seen, and in her place,
by God, was a woman. True, she was a woman whose face was filled with outrage, hurt, confusion, desperate panic, even hate. But John also saw something else there, something he had not seen for eight long, cold years. A hint of desire.

“Haven't we been at war long enough?” he murmured, bringing his mouth closer to hers. “Can we not call a truce?”

Her palm came up under his chin, pushing his face away. “I want your word, Hammond.”

“My word?” he asked against her gloved fingers. He lowered his chin to kiss her palm, and she jerked her hand away.

“Before I even consider living with you again, I want your word of honor as a gentleman that you will never impose your husbandly rights on me by force.”

John froze, those words stopping him more effectively than anything else she could have said or done. He straightened and tilted his head back, expelling his breath in a sigh as he looked at the ceiling. Life would be so much simpler, he thought wryly, if God had blessed him with a compliant wife. A biddable wife. A wife who would just do what she was told and like it. But he didn't have that kind of wife. Instead, he had Viola—who was beautiful, spoiled, and imperious. Viola, who still hated him after eight years, but could still make him rock-hard with one tiny laugh. With a supreme effort, he banked the fires inside himself
once again and returned his gaze to hers. “You long ago branded me a liar and a faithless husband and a cad. Why is my word worth anything to you now?”

“It's the only card I have to play. And…” She paused to take a deep breath, staring into his ruffled shirtfront. “I am hoping that your word of honor as a gentleman actually means something to you.”

“And so you can fling my promise and my honor in my face at moments like this.”

She did not affirm or deny it, but that did not matter. He would never use force with her, and she knew it damn well. She was afraid, but not of him. She was afraid of herself. Now he understood that timidity she'd displayed earlier. Both of them were aware of that fine line where a man and a woman could stop lovemaking or they could complete the act, and she was afraid she would soften, afraid that with time, she would let him take her to that fine line, maybe even over its edge. She wanted a way out, a way to still resent him and make him the villain at any point she liked, even the morning after. She was afraid there might be a morning after. He grinned.

“Why are you smiling?”

He wiped the grin off his face. “I will not force you, Viola. I never have, and I never will. Since you seem to need my word of honor as a gentleman, you have it.”

He saw a flash of satisfaction in those big, expressive hazel eyes.

“Think you've won a victory, do you?” he asked lightly.

“Yes.”

“Think my promise gives you all the control, do you?”

Her jaw set. “Yes.”

“You're right. It does. And I don't mind in the least. I always enjoyed letting you be on top.” He ducked his head, kissed the side of her neck once more, and stepped back.

“I had best return you to Grosvenor Square or we shall both be late for our engagements.” He turned away, leaving her spluttering. “Well, come on, Viola,” he urged over his shoulder. “You did say Lady Fitzhugh's dinner party was at eight. And you know it always takes you hours to get ready for a party.”

“Where are you going tonight?” she demanded, following him out of the room. “Temple Bar?”

John paused and looked at her. He grinned again. “Do you have a better suggestion of how I should spend my evening?”

She halted beside him and lifted her chin a notch, every inch the duke's sister. “Go to all the brothels you please,” she said, looking at him with haughty dignity. “It doesn't interest me in the least where you go or what you do or what woman you do it with.”

“That relieves my mind,” he said, and started down the stairs. “I should hate for you to ruin your evening fuming and fretting about it.”

Right behind him, she fired back, “Don't worry, I won't!”

During the ride back, she did not say a word, but now John didn't mind her silence. He said little himself, too astonished by what had just happened to come up with conversation.

He was jubilant and pleased and completely stunned. All the coldness with which she had kept him at bay for so long was a sham. Deep down, underneath her hurting heart and wounded pride, she still felt desire for him. She might still hate him, she might still want to slap his face or tell him to go to the devil, but something had changed between them today. She had softened. Just a little, only for a moment, but she had softened.

It was amazing. He and Viola had been combustible as flint and powder during their courtship and those early months of marriage, loving and fighting with equal abandon. But after everything had fallen apart, they had never been together, except a few short weeks at the height of the season.

Even when forced to be under the same roof, they had seldom seen one another, nodding politely as they passed each other in the corridors like ships in the night. She had shown him in
every possible way she couldn't bear even the sight of him, and he had believed it.

They had become strangers. He even reached the point where it no longer bothered him to know how the girl who once adored him had become the woman who despised him. He'd been sure nothing but a miracle could bring back the fire they'd had.

But today, in a single instant, everything had changed. Some of the old, scorching desire had returned, and there was no going back.

Viola knew it, too. Knew he was as determined to have his way as she was to have hers, knew that she had only two weapons with which to fight him—his promise and her pride.

Formidable weapons, both of them, but they were not going to win her the war. He intended to have a son, and that meant regaining the willing, passionate wife he'd had in the beginning. Passion was something Viola still possessed in abundance. Willingness was another story. To succeed in this, he had to keep fanning the spark of desire that he now knew was still inside of her, fanning it until it was burning out of control.

It would not be easy. Viola was just as passionate in her rage as she was in her desire, just as stubborn in hate as she had been in love. Seducing her would require all the ingenuity he possessed.

He had to make it fun. That was what they'd had once and lost—the fun. The laughter and de
sire and the sheer pleasure of the other's company. He had to find a way to bring all of that back.

When they reached Tremore House, he walked with her into the foyer, where they paused just inside the door and a maid took Viola's damp pelisse and bonnet. “Good day, Hammond,” she said, and started to turn away.

“Viola?” When she stopped and looked at him, he added, “I will see you again on Friday. We are going on an outing.”

“An outing? Where?”

He smiled. “You'll see. Be ready at two o'clock.”

Being Viola, she could not just go along without some sort of objection. “Why do you get to choose where we go on these outings?”

“Because I am the husband and you vowed to obey me?” When she did not look suitably impressed by that, he added, “Because I have a particular plan in mind.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“We're going on a picnic.”

“A picnic?” She looked at him as if he'd gone mad.

“You always loved picnics. It used to be one of our favorite things. And two o'clock is the perfect time to go. You always get hungry around three.”

“Do I not have any say in this?”

“No, but you can choose where we go next time. And yes, there is going to be a next time. And another next time, and—”

“Oh, very well,” she said crossly. “When you get something in your head, there is just no reasoning with you.”

“And you said we have nothing in common anymore.”

She turned away with a sound of exasperation and started up the elegant, wrought-iron staircase. He watched her go, and when he saw her touch her fingers to the side of her neck, he wanted to laugh with exultation. Viola still got all shivery when he kissed her neck. Damned if that wasn't some kind of miracle.

O
n Friday, Viola prayed for rain.

Since John had said they would go on a picnic, she hoped for inclement weather. God, however, seemed as indifferent to her wishes as her husband had been. Unlike the day they'd gone to his house in Bloomsbury Square, this particular day was bright and beautiful, the April afternoon warm and pleasant. It was the perfect day for a picnic.

Going on such an outing with him filled her with dismay. Picnics had been one of their favorite activities years ago, and there were too many memories associated with them, memories of when their life together had been good. She never went on picnics anymore. And when he told her where he planned for them to have this picnic, her reluctance to go multiplied tenfold.

She froze, hand poised to take her gloves from the maid who stood beside her in the foyer, and she stared at her husband, horrified. “Where?”

He gave a shout of laughter, his amusement inexplicable to her under the circumstances. There was nothing amusing about this as far as she was concerned.

“You needn't look as if I've asked you to run naked along the Mall,” he said.

“Hammond, really!” she admonished him, and shot a pointed, sideways glance toward the maid and footmen who stood by the front door.

“We are only going to Hyde Park,” he said, still laughing.

“That means a carriage ride on the Row.” She was appalled, and showed it. “Together.”

“I fail to see what you find so distressing.”

“You and I out riding together in an open landau?” She began to feel sick. “On a day such as this, half the ton will be there,” she pointed out. “
Everyone
will see us together.”

“We are married, Viola. It isn't as if we need a chaperone.”

Unimpressed, she glared at him as she took her gloves from the maid and yanked them on. “You are the reason chaperones were invented. You always were.”

He grinned at that, looking so pleased by her words that she wanted to take them back at once. “I did think of all sorts of ingenious ways to get you out from under your brother's eye, didn't I?”

“I do not want to go out on the Row with you.”

“Why not? Afraid people will see me kissing your neck?”

That was exactly what she was afraid of. Viola felt her neck begin to tingle. “Hammond, stop saying things like that,” she ordered with another, even more pointed glance at the servants nearby. “It is not decorous. Besides, that doesn't concern me in the slightest.”

“No?”

“No. Because I'm not going.”

“What's wrong, Viola? You don't want to show all our acquaintances we have reconciled?”

“We have not reconciled! And I am not going to go gallivanting around Hyde Park with you, giving people the impression that we have.”

“Since we are not living together yet, that is hardly a concern.”

“If you meant what you said about making certain we receive the same invitations, the gossip will spread fast enough, I daresay. I have no desire to fuel it in this manner. I am not going.”

“If you do not come with me…” He paused and glanced at the servants, then leaned close to her ear and murmured in a voice too low for anyone but her to hear, “If you do not come with me, I will drag you out and put you in the carriage myself. Any of the duke's neighbors walking in the square will see me do so, and since I can only assume you will fight me every step of the way, they
will know our reconciliation is not going well. Does that suit you better?”

“You gave me your word you would not use force,” she reminded him in a fierce whisper.

“No, I gave my word I will not use force to get you into bed,” he murmured in reply. “To my mind, anywhere else is fair game.”

“I am now able to add brute to my list of descriptions for you.”

“Yes, well, as I told you before, brute strength does come in handy from time to time.”

Viola had no doubt he would follow through on his threat, and she reminded herself that waiting him out was her strategy. After a while he would tire of this game and go away.

“Let's be on our way, then,” she said, and turned to the door. When a footman opened it, she stepped outside, adding, “The sooner we go, the sooner it will be over.”

“There's the Viola I remember,” he said, following her out the front door. “Spirited, adventurous, ready to try anything.”

His landau was standing at the curb. He assisted her into the open carriage, then followed her, settling himself beside her on the seat of roll and tuck red leather. On the floor at their feet were a picnic basket and a leather sack.

They used to picnic all the time in their courting days. Chaperones present, of course, but as he had reminded her earlier, he had always managed to
steal her away for a quick, passionate kiss or two, fueling her awakening desire for him with those precious, stolen moments. It had worked like a charm, and he thought it would work again.

He was attempting to bring back their courting days, hoping it would renew her affections for him, but with the added luxury of being able to touch her and kiss her without having to spirit her away from watching eyes. They were married. He could be as bold as he liked, and he knew it.

Just as she had predicted, Hyde Park was crowded. Carriages and people on horseback crowded Rotten Row, and the slow traffic made their journey into the park seem excruciatingly slow to Viola. She could see people leaning closer together, whispering, no doubt speculating about the sight of Lord and Lady Hammond out together side by side.

She hated being the subject of talk, and she had endured more than her share of stares, whispers, and rumors over the years. There was some scrutiny that came with being the sister of a duke, but it was Hammond's mistresses and exploits that had made her one of society's favorite targets. She knew there were many who viewed her as responsible for his lack of an heir. Through years of quiet, restrained living and impeccable, decorous behavior in response to the gossip, she had finally succeeded in becoming such a dull topic to society that they had ceased to discuss her, much to her
relief. Now, thanks to John's absurd desire to reconcile, her name was once again being spread all over the scandal sheets.

Both of them nodded greetings to their acquaintances as they passed them, for politeness demanded that sort of acknowledgment, but John did not stop the carriage at any point, much to her relief. It was not until they reached a less crowded part of the park that he had his driver pull the carriage over and come to a stop.

The pair of footmen who had accompanied them carried the picnic items and followed behind as John led her to a grassy, shaded spot beside a small pond. “Will this do?” he asked her.

They did not have any real privacy, for there were still many people strolling by, and any who knew them would stare and whisper, but it was as quiet as any spot in the park was likely to be on a day like this. It would do well enough.

When she nodded, the pair of footmen laid out the blanket for them. She sat down, her ivory-white silk skirt billowing out around her. She tucked it in a bit to make room for John, and he sat down on the blanket opposite her as the servants laid out plates, silver, and linen.

Viola stared down at her hands and took a great deal of time pulling off her gloves as these picnic preparations were made.

“Viola?”

She forced her gaze up. “Hmm?”

“It doesn't matter what people think.”

“It does matter.”

“Well, it doesn't do to show it.”

She took another look around. “By tomorrow, the odds at the clubs will no doubt be in your favor. And everyone will applaud you,” she added, galled by the notion, “for finally making your shrewish, disobedient wife do her duty.”

“If that's what they'll be saying, then they don't know you very well, do they?”

“Because I'm going to win our little war?”

“No. Because you're not a shrew.” He began to laugh. “Disobedient is a whole other story.”

Damn him and his self-deprecating charm. He could say anything, do anything, and yet there were times when he could make her want to smile. She looked away and did not reply.

After the footmen had placed the picnic basket and the leather sack beside John, he waved them away, and they stepped back a respectful distance, far enough to be out of earshot but still close enough to respond promptly should they be needed for anything.

John untied the drawstrings on the leather pouch and pulled out a bottle of wine, a bottle dripping with water from the melting ice in which it had been packed.

“Champagne?” She raised an eyebrow. “Laying it on a bit thick for me, aren't you, Hammond?”

“Very,” he agreed as he pulled a champagne
glass from the basket. He popped the cork on the bottle and poured some of the sparkling liquid into the tall crystal flute.

“What else did you bring?” she asked as he handed the glass to her, too curious about the contents of the basket to pretend she wasn't. “Oysters, perhaps?” she guessed. “Or, since we have champagne, did you bring chocolate-dipped strawberries?”

He shook his head and set the champagne aside. “No, no, something much better, something you love more than either of those. Scones.” He reached into the basket and pulled out a bowl of the round, golden brown pastries and set them on the blanket. He then brought out a small pot of jam.

She adored scones and jam. Another of her favorite things. John seemed to remember so much about her, and she realized that was his biggest advantage. There were too many things about her he knew—how hungry she always got at this time of day, what foods she loved, how delightful it used to be when he kissed her neck.

“I have no doubt,” she murmured with a sigh, “that the jam you brought is blackberry?”

He opened the tiny pot, peered inside with a thoughtful glance, then looked back at her, a smile curving one corner of his mouth. “You know, I believe it is blackberry,” he said, trying to act surprised by the discovery. “Your favorite kind. What a coincidence.”

“This is a blatant ploy to soften me,” she accused. “To make me like you again.”

To make me fall in love with you again.

“True,” he agreed lightly as he set aside the jam and poured champagne for himself. He leaned back opposite her, his weight resting on one arm, his legs stretched out beside her own, his pose one of complete indifference to the fact that she found him utterly transparent. “Is it working yet?”

“Yet?” She frowned at him and took a sip of champagne. “You are assuming that your victory is only a matter of time? Awfully cocky of you to think I can be won over with such ease, especially when you employ such shallow tactics as picnics and champagne.”

He paused, giving her a look of pretended bewilderment. “Does that mean you don't want any scones?”

She pressed her lips together, head tilted to one side, pride wavering as she glanced at the pastries in the basket. “Did you bring the cream?”

“Of course.” He set aside his glass and produced another jar.

She capitulated. “Pass me a scone,” she said, and set her glass of champagne on one of the plates beside her lap.

He sliced the round pastry lengthwise for her and handed her both halves along with a spoon. “I knew bribery would win out.”

“On the contrary,” she said as she used the
spoon to slather clotted cream onto the pastry in her palm. “I am not fooled. The scones, the jam. The champagne.” She took a hefty bite of her scone. “None of it will do you a bit of good.”

“Viola, take pity on me,” he said as he prepared a scone for himself. “Look at what I am forcing myself to endure in order to win you over.”

She couldn't help it. She smiled as she watched him take half his scone in one bite, a scone piled high with both cream and jam. “You poor man. You look as if you are suffering terribly.”

He nodded agreement with that a she swallowed the bite in his mouth. “I am suffering. You know I prefer apricot over blackberry.” He wiped a dab of jam and cream from one corner of his mouth with his thumb, then licked it off, then looked at her. “But blackberry does have its advantages.”

She saw what was in his eyes, and her mind and her body and her heart all recognized it. That heated, knowing look. She tensed as she watched him set the uneaten half of his scone aside, but she could not seem to move away as he began easing his body forward on the blanket, moving closer to her. His hip grazed hers. “You have jam all over your mouth.”

“You're making that up,” she accused, her mouth full. She touched her fingertips to her mouth, verifying for herself that he was teasing as she swallowed her bite of scone. “I do not have jam on my face.”

John reached back behind him, his forearm brushing her ankles as he scooped a dab of jam from the pot onto his finger. He then turned toward her and touched the corner of her mouth. “Yes, you do.”

This was a game, their game, the one they used to play years ago. During those picnics, if no one was looking, he would dab jam on her mouth, then kiss it off. When they were married, it had become part of their morning ritual. Breakfast in bed and blackberry jam and making love. He had spoken of it yesterday, and today, he was reminding her again, making her remember how she had once felt about him, dredging up things she had forced herself to forget.

You always liked making love in the mornings best.

He leaned forward, bringing his mouth close to hers, that knowing look still in his eyes, and it suddenly seemed as if her attempts to be cold and frozen were futile. Something in the brandy brown depths of his eyes could still make her feel languid and warm, something tender in that smile could still spread heat through her body and soften her like butter in the afternoon sun. He leaned closer.

She hated him. She did.