Guilty Series (76 page)

Viola shook her head. “I am not going. I cannot abide Sarah Monforth. I shall claim the vapors and stay home.”

“I have more reason to dislike Lady Sarah than you do,” Daphne said, laughing. “Anthony almost married her instead of me.”

“A thought which still makes me shiver when I think on it,” Viola said.

“Neither of you have cause to dislike Lady Sarah,” Anthony protested. “I didn't marry the woman after all.”

“Dear brother, even that blessed fact is not enough to make me like her. Daphne, I say we should both stay home. We could play piquet and get tipsy on madeira.”

“And leave Lady Sarah an open field to flirt with my handsome husband?” Daphne asked with mock severity. “Never!”

“As if it would matter.” Anthony pressed a kiss to the top of his wife's head. “I shall return by seven o'clock to fetch you.” He walked away, leaving the two women alone.

“Are you really going to abandon me to Lady Sarah and stay home?” Daphne asked.

“Yes. I intend to spend a quiet evening.” She
kissed the top of her nephew's head. “Nicholas shall keep me company. He is a better conversationalist than Lady Sarah.”

Daphne laughed. “When you say things like that, I almost feel sorry for the woman. I am so glad you never took a dislike to me!” Something past Viola's shoulder caught her attention, and she made a sound of dismay. “Oh, Viola, there goes your bonnet!”

Viola turned and saw that the spring breeze was sending her hat tumbling across the grass. She handed Nicholas back to his mother and ran after it. She had to chase it for quite a few yards but was finally able to catch it by the brim just before the wind whipped it out of her reach again.

Breathless, she returned to her seat beside Daphne.

“You'd best put it on,” her sister-in-law advised, patting baby Nicholas on the back as Viola sat down beside her.

“I shan't!” Instead, she put the bonnet in her lap, wrapping the ties securely around her fist. “With this wind, I should have to use my hat pin, and that would surely give me a headache.”

“You do loathe hats. You are forever taking them off.”

I remember how you'd always tear off your hat and toss it up in the air, laughing.

She had forgotten about that, about riding horses on the downs with John. She had forgotten
so many things. The blackberry jam. The way he kissed her neck. The way he used to trap her in corners and steal kisses from her. The way he made her laugh. The hot desire in his eyes. How much he could hurt her.

“One of your blossoms is torn.” Daphne shifted Nicholas to her other shoulder and reached over to touch the shredded edge of one of the purple and yellow pansies that trimmed her bonnet. “I don't believe it can be mended.”

Viola stared down at the bouquet of silken blossoms. Violas. Her namesake flower. She'd had them in her wedding bouquet. “Some things can never be mended,” she whispered.

“Perhaps we should go shopping tomorrow so you can get a new one. You can accompany me to Bell's while we are out.”

Viola's fingers clenched around the brim of her hat. “The drapers?”

“I heard they had some fine velvets just now. I wanted to have a look at them.”

The image of a pretty woman in a red hat laughing over bolts of velvet flashed through her mind. “They are not so very fine.”

“Have you seen them, then?”

“Hammond and I were in Bell's this afternoon.” She paused. “Lady Darwin was there. That was why John and I quarreled. She was his mistress four years ago.

“He has no mistress now. He broke from Emma
Rawlins, and I heard she has gone to France.”

“It doesn't matter, Daphne. He'll just find someone else. He always does. And then I will have to see her, and hear people talk about her, as I have all the others.” Viola could feel Daphne's steady gaze on her, and she sighed. “It should not have hurt to see Lady Darwin in Bell's today, but it did. The look on her face. She was in love with him once. I know it. And I know she is in the past, but it still hurts, Daphne. It hurts every time. With every woman. Yet he expects me to begin living with him again as if none of that ever happened.”

Daphne was silent for a long moment, patting Nicholas's back and staring dreamily into space through her gold-rimmed spectacles. After a moment she returned her gaze to Viola and asked a wholly unexpected question. “Would it be so very terrible living with Hammond again?”

Viola stared at her sister-in-law, astonished. “After what he has done, how can you ask me that?”

“I know all about Lady Darwin, and Emma Rawlins, and all the other women, but would it be possible for you to put that behind you? Can the two of you not make a fresh start? Begin anew?”

She didn't want a fresh start. Or a new beginning. She did not want John. He wasn't worth the pain. “One cannot have a fresh start with a man who is a liar and a philanderer,” she said, trying to
harden her heart again. “He has proven himself unworthy of trust time and again.”

“Trust takes time, something you two have had little of, apparently, despite being married nearly nine years. Perhaps time is what you need to find common ground and learn to live amicably.”

Viola stirred on the bench, feeling prickly and defensive. She tugged at the torn pansy, ripping it out of the bouquet. “Hammond and I have no common ground and we never lived amicably, even when I still had romantic stars in my eyes about him. We fought all the time.”

When we weren't making love.

She made a fist around the silk flower in her gloved hand, thinking of the topsy-turvy days when she and her husband had lived together—the passionate quarrels and the equally passionate reconciliations. She did not want to fight with Hammond, but she did not want to make up with him, either. And she most certainly did not want to talk about him.

Daphne, however, seemed determined to have a conversation on the topic. “Both of you are older, wiser now than you were then. Is there no way the two of you could just learn to get along?”

“Is that what a marriage is?” she asked, looking at her sister-in-law. “Merely getting along?”

Daphne's violet eyes were grave behind her spectacles. “Believe it or not, yes, most of the time. Not very romantic, I suppose, but true.”

Getting along with Hammond not only sounded unromantic. It sounded impossible. “You are happily married. You don't understand.”

“I understand your pride, and you have good reason to mistrust him after what he did. But men have pride, too, a great deal of it. Hammond more than most, I suspect. And he is certainly not one to wear his heart on his sleeve.”

“He does not have a heart.”

“I think he does. He hides it well. He is, in fact, a great deal like me.”

“What? That is nonsense!”

“It is true. You are very different from me, Viola, for you are openly affectionate and trusting toward every person you meet. Until they give you a reason not to be. Then you can be—pardon me for saying this—you can be as cold as winter in Scotland.”

That stung. It echoed John's description of her. She swallowed hard. “You are saying I am unforgiving? That I am…that I am some sort of ice queen?”

“I am saying your passions are very strong and long lasting. You see things in very stark terms. Black or white. Good or bad. Right or wrong. Friend or foe. Not everyone is like you, dearest. I am not. I have the impression the viscount is not. We are both more moderate, I think, than you. More temperate. We have just as much pride. We simply express it differently. Usually by hiding how we feel.”

“I cannot believe you compare yourself with him. You are nothing like him! You would never lie. You would never toy with someone's affections. You would never be unfaithful to those who love you. You would not walk away from difficult situations. If you wronged and wounded another person, you would acknowledge it and regret it and try to make up for it. I know Hammond better than you, and you don't know what you're saying.”

Daphne put a hand on her shoulder. “You loved him once. I know that much.”

Tightness squeezed her chest, and she grimaced. “That, I believe, is common knowledge. That makes it all the more mortifying to be played the fool, does it not?”

The baby stirred in his mother's arms, and Daphne resumed stroking his back. “It must be hard on a man,” she said thoughtfully, “to be despised by a woman who once loved and adored him so much, to watch her turn her back on him. Turn him out of bed.” She met Viola's gaze over the sleeping baby's head, her cheeks pink. “The physical side of…of…things is very important to a man, Viola. Even more important than it is to us. I think you already know that.”

She could not believe what she was hearing. “Are you taking Hammond's side?”

“I am not taking his side. I am
seeing
his side.”

That her dearest friend in the world would take Hammond's part was too much to endure. “He
has no side,” she flared, “at least not a justifiable one. He was a fortune-hunting scoundrel. He lied to me, he walked out on me, and he has been with woman after woman after woman. And society blames me for all of it.”

“Not all of it. Society has its share of condemnation for him, too. I have heard the talk. There are many who deem Hammond less than a man for not dragging you to bed and forcing an heir on you long ago. Having his masculinity called into question would be a very hard thing for a man to endure, I should think. Hammond acts as if he doesn't care what others say of him, but I imagine he covers a lot of his feelings that way.”

Viola rubbed the side of her neck with irritation, thinking of those passionate moments in the museum. “I don't see why anyone would question his masculinity. With all the women he's had, he hardly needs to prove it.”

“Is it so difficult to imagine why he turned to those other women?”

Peggy and I consoled each other, and believe me, we both needed consolation.

“You are being cruel, Daphne. Cruel to say this is my fault!”

“I did not say any such thing,” Daphne answered with her usual calm equanimity. “I am merely speculating on what a man like Hammond might have thought and felt during the past eight years. I do not know him well, and I could be com
pletely wrong about his character. Anthony would say I was, for to his mind, Hammond should be hanged, drawn, and quartered for doing anything to hurt his baby sister. Your brother worships the ground you walk on, you know that.”

“Anthony hates Hammond because Anthony is a very good judge of character. Better than I am, obviously.”

“Really?” Daphne smiled. “You are the one who looked at a plain, shy young woman with low connections and thought she would be a much better wife for your brother than Lady Sarah Monforth. Anthony didn't see me in a favorable light at all, if you remember.”

“It did take him a bit of time to come around to my way of thinking. But I was right about you.”

“If you were right about me, then perhaps you are a better judge of character than you think. You fell in love with Hammond, and even though you were young, I cannot believe you were ever a fool. He must have had some good qualities, and you must have sensed them in his character, or you would never have fallen in love with him in the first place.”

“I fell in love with him when I knew nothing of his character.” She shook her head impatiently. “It hardly matters anyway. I am not in love with him now. That love is gone, and once love is gone, you cannot get it back.”

“I did. I fell in love with Anthony twice.”

“Daphne, stop this. I do not want to be in love.
Not with Hammond. Not ever again. I don't want it, I tell you!”

Her raised voice woke the baby, who stirred and began to cry.

Viola had a most stupid desire to do the same. “All this talk of love is pointless,” she said in a more moderate tone.

“And what of the other purpose of marriage?” Daphne asked as she rocked the baby and tried to soothe him back to sleep. “What about children, Viola? Do you not want children?”

That question felt like a knife going in. She had long ago resigned herself to never having children of her own, had come to accept it. “Society blames me for Hammond's lack of an heir. Do you blame me, too?”

“It is not a question of blame, dearest. I simply asked if you want children.”

“Of course I did!” she cried, stung. “I always wanted them. All my life, I had known what I wanted. I used to dream of it—a wonderful husband to love who loved me, and we'd have a whole brood of children. When I married John, I thought I was getting my dream come true.” She choked and her eyes began to blur. “That was when I a stupid, romantic girl.”

“There is nothing stupid about wanting a husband and children to love. You have the husband already. He wants children, too. Viola, have you stopped to think that this might be your second
chance to have your dream come true?”

“With Hammond?” She shook her head. “No, Daphne, no. Even if I did ever develop some…some renewal of affection for that man—which is highly doubtful—what difference would it make? He doesn't love me. He never has and he never will, and I don't love him anymore, and I never will. And that's all there is to that.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. Besides, even if love has nothing to do with it, even if marriage is all about getting along, Hammond and I are doomed by that alone. Let's not talk of it anymore.”

Thankfully, Daphne let the matter drop, but in her own mind, Viola could not stop thinking about it.

She and Hammond would never be able to just get along. Because he still made her weak in the knees when he kissed her neck or touched her cheek. Because if she gave him an inch, he'd always take a mile. Because if she let herself believe in his smile and his laugh and that heated look in his eyes, she would be deceived again. If she let him take her to bed, she would run the risk of falling in love with him again. All of that could only lead to one conclusion. Her broken heart. Again.