Guilty Series (74 page)

Past the blood pounding through him, and her soft little objection, he heard something else, the tap of footsteps turning to come down the gallery toward them, and John knew he was out of time. At least for today.

Wrenching himself away, he pressed one last
quick kiss to the side of her neck, pulled back and let her go. He bent to pick up her shawl collar and hat from the floor and handed them to her. As the footsteps came closer, he straightened his cravat and leaned out of the niche to have a peek, striving to force down his arousal and regain a semblance of sanity. An elderly, stooping gentleman in a dusty black suit and spectacles was coming toward him. Beside him, John could hear the rustle of straw and fabric as Viola shoved on her hat, donned her collar, and straightened her rumpled clothes.

“At last!” John exclaimed, and stepped partway out of the niche. “We have been wandering around forever, trying to find our way, and now here is someone to assist us.”

The old man stopped and squinted, peering down the length of the gallery. “Is there someone with you, sir?”

“My wife and I were looking for the new collection of weapons and armaments. We seem to have gotten lost.”

“I should say you have. It isn't down this way at all.”

John schooled his features into buffle-headed perplexity. “Isn't it?” He turned his head in Viola's direction. “Sorry, dearest. I seem to have led us astray.”

He got a none-too-gentle kick in the leg for that remark.

“Did you not get a map when you came in?” the man asked.

“Map?” John pressed his fingers to his forehead as if he were trying to think. “No, I don't believe we did.”

“I am Mr. Addison, the assistant director of antiquities.” He beckoned with one hand. “I shall direct you and your wife to the armaments.”

“I say, that's awfully kind of you.” John glanced into the niche and held out his hand to Viola, adding in a whisper, “Collar button.”

She fastened it, glaring at him as if this was all his fault. She stuck her chin up to the level of hauteur befitting a duke's sister, brushed back several loose tendrils of hair that had fallen over her face, then put her hand in his and stepped out into the gallery.

“Why, bless me!” the elderly gentleman exclaimed, “Lady Hammond!”

“Good day, Mr. Addison.” She was trying to sound dignified, John knew, but there was still a flush in her cheeks, a breathless edge to her voice, and a rumpled quality to her appearance, in which he took a great deal of satisfaction.

“Lost, again, my lady?” Mr. Addison shook his head at her.

She gave the feeble smile of the dim-witted female that only fooled old men and stupid young ones. “It's this new wing, sir. It confuses me.”

“I keep telling you to always take one of the maps with you when you go wandering about the
museum,” he said, answering her smile with an indulgent one of his own. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Your husband accompanying you today, I see.”

John bowed. “Lord Hammond,” he introduced himself when Viola failed to do so.

“A pleasure, my lord. Come this way to see the armaments.”

They followed a few feet behind Mr. Addison as he led them out of the gallery.

“That was close,” John murmured in her ear, laughing softly, exhilarated by the whole experience, especially the gratifying passion he'd aroused in his wife, which had been his goal for the entire afternoon. “I haven't had this much fun in years.”

She sniffed. “Don't expect to have any more of it,” she whispered back. “Not with me, at least. I have no intention of letting you trick me again.”

“No?” He cast a sideways glance at her and grinned. “Now that's a challenge I can't resist.”

V
iola stared at herself in the mirror of the modiste's dressing room without seeing her reflection or the costume she intended to wear to the charity ball. All she could see was her husband's wicked smile. An outrageous man, he really was, using all manner of tricks and wiles on her just like he used to do, and as he had said, she always fell for it. She would have to watch her step better in the future. He was so good at beguiling her.

He was good at other things, too. She touched her fingers to her mouth, feeling the delicious warmth of his kiss all over again even as she reminded herself he was good at kissing because he'd done so much of it. That true and painful reminder didn't help. It only made her feel more muddled and agonized.

What had happened yesterday? She closed her eyes, thinking of those stolen moments in the mu
seum, and she knew the answer. She'd lost her head, just like the naive girl of nine years ago.

So long since John had touched her like that, but time hadn't made a difference to the way she responded to him. Time hadn't shored up her pride enough to take away the excitement of his hands and his mouth.

She wrapped her arms around herself and opened her eyes. Looking at her reflection, she saw all her confusion and misery looking back at her, and she did not understand her own mind or her own heart. What was wrong with her? Pride had held her together through heartbreak, kept her head high when he turned to other women, helped her pretend to him and to the world that she didn't care what he did, enabled her to find satisfaction in a life of charity work and good friends. Where had all her pride been yesterday?

He would hurt her again if she let him. He would. The deceptions of pulling her into empty corridors and stealing kisses might be harmless ones, but she knew he could lie with his heart in his eyes about the things that mattered most, and she always wanted to believe him. That was what frightened her. How easy it was to believe him.

Do you love me?

Of course I do. I adore you.

A knock on the door interrupted her, and at her call to come in, Daphne entered the modiste's
dressing room, wearing her costume of Cleopatra. “Well?” she asked, smoothing the heavy tresses of her black wig. “What do you think?”

I think I am losing my mind
.

With an effort, Viola pushed the museum outing of the previous afternoon out of her mind. It was all right to lose her mind as long as she didn't let him steal her heart. She turned to her sister-in-law, relieved by the distraction, and smiled. “Did Cleopatra wear spectacles?”

Daphne made a face. Laughing, she said, “I shall not be wearing them to the ball, dearest! What do you think of the costume?” She toyed with the wide, jeweled collar above her flowing white gown. “Is it too silly of me to choose something like this?”

Viola looked at her best friend in the world, thinking of the woman Daphne had been when they met two years before—shy, so uncertain of herself, so much in love with Anthony and trying so hard to hide it. She was different now. Having her love returned so passionately by her husband and the responsibilities of her role as the Duchess of Tremore had taken away much of Daphne's shyness and replaced it with a measure of self-confidence. But there were moments, like this one, when the shy woman Viola had first met did come peeping through.

“It isn't silly in the least,” Viola assured her. “Why should you think it so?”

“I have always wanted to be Cleopatra,” Daphne confessed. “I am just uncertain I can be convincing in the role. Even if it is only for a Fancy Dress ball, we are supposed to act out our parts all evening.”

“You look very queenly to me,” Viola said, laughing. “And Anthony seems willing to be your Marc Antony. He'd take on the entire Roman Empire if you asked him to.”

Daphne's mouth curved in a smile that was a bit reminiscent of a cat with the cream jug. “True. I rather like it that way, too. He told me once I have all the power over him because women have all the power in the world over men if only we exercise it properly. It took me a long time to understand what he meant.”

Viola sighed. “If you understand it, explain it to me,” she said wryly. “I could do with some of that power just now.”

Her sister-in-law's smile faded, and Daphne looked at her with a hint of compassion.

Viola couldn't bear that. She turned in a pirouette. “What do you think of me as a French marquise?”

“I think you look lovely. As always.”

“Thank you, but what of the costume? Is it authentic?”

Daphne tilted her head. “If you wish to be truly authentic, you will have to powder your hair.”

Viola smoothed the dark blue velvet of her overskirt. “Won't that make rather a mess?”

“At least they don't make it with sugar any longer.”

“Hair powder was made with sugar? But wouldn't that attract all manner of insects?”

“That was a drawback, certainly.”

“How awful.” Though if that would keep Hammond at bay, it might be worth a try. She reminded herself that she wasn't going to think about him anymore. “Does the overskirt hang correctly at the hem?” she asked, turning in a circle again. “It seems a bit crooked.”

“It's the hoops, I think, not the sack.” Daphne adjusted one of the wide side hoops. “If you don't want to worry about powdering your hair, you could go as a Greek princess of two thousand years ago. Then you could wear a cone of fat on your head instead of hair powder.”

“Fat?” Viola faced the mirror again and looked at her sister-in-law's reflection. “Why on earth would I wear fat on my head?”

Her horrified expression made the other woman laugh again. “The fat was perfumed, and in the heat, it would melt, releasing the fragrance.”

“You know the most extraordinary things, Daphne. Thank you for the suggestion, but I shall stay with what I have. I cannot imagine what Lady Deane would have to say if I showed up at the ball
with perfumed fat on my head.” Viola smoothed the overskirt over the hoops at her hips. “Since you know so much, dear sister, how do I avoid getting powder on this dark blue velvet?”

“Wear a wig. Most people did eighty years ago.”

“No, it will just get hot and make my head itch. I hate that.”

“So that is why you are forever taking off your hats! Now I understand.”

A scratch sounded on the door, and Mirelle, London's most fashionable modiste, entered the dressing room. “Your grace. Lady Hammond.” She curtsied to Daphne and then to Viola. “I hope you like your costumes? Is there anything you would wish to alter? I am at your disposal.”

“I like mine exceedingly well,” Daphne said.

The modiste clasped her hands together, gratified. “Your grace is most kind.” She turned to Viola. “And you, my lady?”

“Mirelle, what does one use for hair powder? Talc?”

“They make a very fine hair powder for wigs nowadays, my lady. Barristers and judges use it, you see. You could powder your hair with that. But if I may be allowed to give my opinion on the matter, it would be a shame to cover your hair with powder. It is a lovely color, and with the pale blue silk and dark blue velvet, most beautiful, most alluring.”

Those passionate moments in the museum
flashed through her mind again, and Viola felt her cheeks heating at the mortifying memory. She wasn't certain she wanted to be alluring. It was too dangerous. “Thank you, Mirelle.”

“I agree with her,” Daphne put in. “No woman of any era would cover hair the color of yours with powder.”

“Then I won't wear it.” She told herself it was because powder was messy. The fact that Hammond had always liked the color of her hair had nothing to do with it. She pressed a hand to the low-cut, heavily boned bodice of embroidered, pale blue silk. “But we have another problem. It is a ball, and I shall never be able to waltz or country dance in this. No wonder they only danced the minuet in my great-grandmother's day.” She glanced at Mirelle. “Can you have the waistline let out a bit?”

“Only a little bit, or it would spoil the line of the bodice, you see.”

“Let out as much as you can, Mirelle. I shall be unable to breathe otherwise.” She considered her choice one last time, then nodded. “I do like the gown very much. The embroidery is lovely.”

“I am always pleased to be of service, my lady.”

Mirelle departed and an assistant helped Viola dress once again in her own clothes. After that, she and Daphne left the modiste. “Mirelle was right, you know,” Daphne said as they stepped into Anthony's barouche. “You do look stunningly beautiful in that gown.”

Viola leaned back against the carriage seat beside her sister-in-law and gave her a look of chagrin. “There are many beautiful women in the world, Daphne, but beauty is not enough to make a husband faithful. What is?”

Daphne wrapped an arm around her shoulders in an affectionate hug. “I don't know, darling. I just don't know.”

“Neither do I,” she whispered. “I wish I did.”

 

John knew that in the seduction of one's wife, desperate measures were required. And he also knew he would be forced to endure a certain amount of suffering.

He stayed away from Grosvenor Square for a few days, telling himself that his absence might make her miss him, but the truth was, he needed time to get his own desire back in check. Memories of the museum, of the taste of Viola's mouth and the soft, delicious feel of her in his arms invaded his dreams all three nights he stayed away, and dominated his thoughts for all three days. But it was a sweet sort of suffering.

Monday afternoon he decided he was in control enough to see her again, but this time he doubted he would be able to steal a few kisses in a shadowy corner. Today, his fate was to endure a different sort of torture. He intended to take Viola shopping.

His suggestion that she redecorate the house in Bloomsbury Square had not been met with the en
thusiasm he had hoped for, but if she began selecting things for the house, she might begin to feel a part of it, and that could only help his cause. He also knew how much his wife loved to shop.

When John called for Viola at Grosvenor Square that afternoon, he once again suggested the idea of shopping for their house in town, but he found that his idea was still not meeting with any enthusiasm on her part.

“I don't want to go,” she said, and sat down on the settee in Tremore's drawing room. “I don't feel well.”

“Did anyone ever tell you what a bad liar you are? Put on a bonnet, fetch your reticule, and let's be on our way.”

“I told you I do not want to redecorate your house.”

“It's yours, too. I pledged my troth when we got married, remember? With all my worldly goods, I thee endowed, and all that.”

She folded her arms. “You didn't have any worldly goods.”

“I had estates. A title. A few horrid paintings of previous viscounts. What, those didn't count?”

“Why don't you take Lady Pomeroy shopping? She loves Bond Street, and she loves spending Pomeroy's money.”

John studied her, and he knew she was flinging Anne in his face to drive him away.

He could tell her about Anne, he supposed.
Opening up the topic was akin to stepping into a pit of snakes, for he'd surely get bitten. He could tell her what an empty amour it had been, an easing of physical needs and nothing more, but he doubted that would make any difference. Talking about it might only make things worse. They would end up in a fight for certain, and what good would it do to rehash the whole thing anyway? His affair with Anne had been over five years ago. The future was what mattered. Besides, no sane man ever jumped into a snake pit.

“Would you prefer to walk to Bond Street or take my carriage?” he asked mildly.

She made a sound of impatience, stood up, and walked to the fireplace. “I told you I don't want to go shopping,” she said over her shoulder.

“Viola, you love visiting the shops, and you know how much I hate it. I thought you would jump at the chance to torture me with testing the comfort of chair cushions and picking out Turkish carpets. Not to mention the jewelers, where you can sweet-talk me into spending an outrageous sum for a perfectly useless bauble of rubies and diamonds you can show off to your friends.”

She turned around. “I do not need any jewels from you,” she said coolly. “And as for the rest, I told you before I have no desire to spend my income from Anthony on your house, even if you are the one who has control of that income.”

She was determined to fight with him today, but he was just as determined not to let that happen.

“If you don't wish to shop, then we'll do something else.” He thought for a moment. “What if we go calling on all our friends? That would be amusing. We could sit on their settees and hold hands like sweethearts. Married couples never hold hands, especially us. What a shock they will get.”

“I am not going to call on my friends and hold hands with you!”

“Oh, very well, if you are going to be so unromantic.” He gave her a wicked grin. “We could go back to your brother's museum. I heard there are some very delicious Roman frescoes tucked away somewhere that nobody but the antiquarians are allowed to see. You're Tremore's sister, so we could get in to have a look at them. Let's do that.”

She turned her face away. “I don't think so.”

“I understand they're quite erotic,” he went on, and realized she was blushing. He began to laugh and stepped in front of her, ducking his head to look her full in the face. “Dash it, Viola, you've already seen them, haven't you? Snuck in and had a peek when big brother wasn't looking?”

“Don't be absurd.” Her cheeks got pinker, and he knew he was right. The thought of Viola sneaking into Tremore's museum to look at erotic pictures sent his hopes soaring higher.