Guilty Series (78 page)

What was love? Poets wrote about it, people like Moore made music out of it, everyone was constantly falling in love or talking about it or suffering for it, but what was it?

He thought of Moore. Of all the men in the world, he would have picked Dylan as the one man who would never marry. Yet, he had. He had married his mistress. John could not fathom what it was about Grace that had caused England's most notorious rake to fall in love with her. She was a beautiful woman, certainly, and a kind, loving sort of person. But Moore was mad about her, crazy in love with her in a way that was almost frightening in its intensity.

John's carriage pulled up to the curb. He started toward it, then stopped, and on impulse waved the vehicle away and decided to walk home. It was a long way, but he felt like walking. The evening was cool and the bracing air felt good against his skin. He could always pick up a hansom cab if it started to rain.

There were different kinds of love, he supposed.

He thought of his sister, Kate, dredging up memories of when he was a small boy, vague memories of her hugs and her laughter and the terrible hole inside him when she died. He had loved his sister. He knew that much.

He thought of Percy and Constance, friends he had always cared about, who always cared about him, friends whose affection and trust were beyond question. He had spent a lot of time not thinking about Percy, because when he did, it hurt like an open wound. It hurt because he had loved his cousin like a brother. He loved Connie, too, with an affection and respect he gave to very few, but had he ever been in love with her? He thought of her words to him at Percy's funeral, and knew the answer had to be no. When she married his cousin instead of him, he had gone on a seven day drinking binge, whored around for several months, and gotten over it. If that was real love, true love, did a person recover so easily with such shallow methods? Surely not.

Ahead of him the sidewalk broadened into a wider thoroughfare, and that sight brought him out of his reverie. He came to a halt, and realized he was going the wrong way. He should have turned east at Brook Street, but instead he'd turned west and now was staring straight at the imposing wrought-iron gates that surrounded the park at Grosvenor Square.

Damn. Hadn't he had enough of this place? If he had any brains, he'd leave now, walk away, go find himself a woman who would welcome him into her bed.

But instead of turning around, John ventured forward into the square until he was at the park
gates. He wrapped his hands around the bars, staring between them at the place beside a wrought-iron bench where his wife had been holding Nicholas a week ago today.

He thought of his parents, who had never had any love, nor even affection, between them, and the irony of how his marriage had turned out was not lost on him. The coldness of his mother and father toward one another was something he remembered from his boyhood with vivid clarity, and despite all his efforts these last nine years to be as unlike his father as possible, he had managed to make his marriage exactly the same loveless sham his father's had been.

It began to rain, a light drizzle that dusted his coat and dampened his linen. The air was decidedly chilly now, and he knew it was stupid to stand here. He should go back before the rain changed from a light drizzle into a downpour and he got soaked.

He turned around, but instead of leaving, he leaned back against the iron bars and stared up at the lamplit drawing room of Tremore House. A glint of gold hair passed the window. Viola's hair.

He thought of the girl she had been nine years ago, the open, vulnerable, passionate girl who had adored him in a way she had defined as love. He had wondered then, and he wondered now, how anyone could fall in love in one night, after two dances and a bit of conversation, without any
knowledge of the other person. That couldn't be love because it wasn't real. He hadn't trusted it then. He didn't trust it now.

He knew from the start he'd had a power over her, but to this day he did not understand it. He did not understand her. Against the wishes of her brother, knowing he was stone broke, knowing he was irresponsible, knowing his wild, ne'er-do-well reputation, she had married him three months after meeting him, when no woman with sense would have married him at all. Because she had loved him. He thought of Percy down on his knees in the mud threatening suicide if Connie didn't marry him. All because he'd loved her.

John raked a hand through his wet hair and rubbed rain off his face. What was it about love that made people lose all their common sense?

He remained standing by the park for a long time, lost in drizzle and mist, looking up at the windows of Tremore House, and for the life of him, he could not find an answer.

V
iola went to bed early. Anthony and Daphne had gone to a ball, but she had a headache and decided to stay home. She took a warm bath, drank a cup of the cook's willow bark and peppermint tea, dressed in her nightclothes, and crawled into bed at nine o'clock. But though the tea soothed her head, falling asleep proved more difficult. Accustomed to the late hours of the season, she could not fall asleep. After an hour of tossing and turning, she gave up and went downstairs in search of Quimby. She told the butler she would be in the library and asked him to have a dish of ordinary tea prepared for her and sent up.

She then went to the library, accompanied by a footman who made up a fire for her against the damp chill in the air. His task done, the footman departed, and Viola took a book from one of the shelves. She curled up in a corner of the settee, thinking to read until she got sleepy.

But she had no chance to get sleepy. The steam had not even cooled on her tea, and she was only on page two of a Dumas novel, before a voice interrupted her. “Hullo, Viola.”

Startled, she looked up to find John in the doorway. She snapped her book shut and jumped to her feet. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting warm and dry.” He leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb, and as she watched him, she realized how disheveled he looked. He was not in evening clothes. He was still dressed in a morning suit. It was rumpled and damp from the light rain outside. His hair curled at his collar the way it always did in damp weather, and his linen was limp. He had not even shaved. The shadow of beard on his face was something she hadn't seen for years. Not since the days when they had slept together and she woke every morning to the raspy feel of his cheek against her shoulder.

She had spent all week avoiding him, and now, just at the moment she let her guard down, here he was. She knew she ought to tell him to leave, but instead she just looked at him, remembering the burn of beard stubble on her shoulder when he used to kiss her awake.

He might have come to get warm, but she was beginning to feel the heat, and it had nothing to do with the fire in the grate. She brushed back a tendril of hair that had come loose from her braid and curled her toes into the lush softness of the
carpet beneath her bare feet, keenly aware of her own state of dishabille. “Quimby should have announced you.”

“Don't be cross with Quimby. He is a most excellent butler. He tried to tell me you were not at home, but I knew that wasn't true. Since your brother isn't here to prevent it, I pulled rank on the butler and came upstairs anyway. Terribly rude of me, but there it is.”

“How did you know I was home?”

“Because I've been down by the park for the past two hours. I saw you in the drawing room earlier, just as it was getting dark, before the maids drew the curtains.”

“Two hours!” Viola stared at him in astonishment. “By the park, in this weather? Whatever for?”

“Can't you guess?” He straightened away from the door and came into the library, but stopped some distance from where she stood. “I was working up the nerve to come and say let's make up.”

He wanted to make up. She knew what that meant. He looked sorry. She knew that meant nothing. Before she could speak, he did.

“When we quarreled, you said you don't trust me, and you have every right. I just—” He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if trying to think of what to say next. “I just wanted to see you.”

“That's what you came up here to say?”

“Yes.” He smiled a little. “Very tame, I know, especially after spending two hours in the rain working on it, but I was getting cold.”

That warmth began spreading through her like warm honey, and she tried to remind herself it was all just words. He could say anything and make it sound like God's truth. How could she ever believe anything he said? She wanted to believe it, though. She did.

The seconds ticked by. The clock struck half past ten.

He stirred. “I'll go,” he said, and backed up a step. “I can see you wanted to go to bed early.”

“You don't have to leave.”

What was she saying? But the words were out of her mouth now. She could not take them back, and she tried at once to qualify them. “I mean…you are cold and ought to get warm first. If you don't, you could catch a chill, and…and…that would be bad.” Her voice trailed off.

John turned back around. “Do you want me to stay?”

She looked down, acutely self-conscious. She did, God help her. “Yes.” She looked up and saw him smile. “For a while,” she amended at once.

His smile got wider, the wretched man.

She sat down on the settee. “I thought we might talk about things.”

The smile vanished, and he groaned, lifting his
gaze heavenward. “Lord help me. First standing out in the rain, and then talking about things.” He gave a sigh and pulled off his wet coat. “I don't suppose those things will be easy things? Irish politics, for instance? Or how to lessen poverty within the British Empire? Or what the ramifications would be of repealing the Corn Laws?”

How did he manage it? He could always find a way to make her smile. She sat down on the settee, and after draping his coat onto the back of a chair by the fire, he sat down beside her. “What do you want to talk about?” he asked.

She thought a moment. “I don't quite know,” she said with a little laugh that sounded just as nervous as she suddenly felt. “I always thought if we ever sat down and talked, I'd have plenty to say, but now I am at rather a loss.”

“We used to find many things to talk about.”

“And argue about.”

“True enough.” He shot her a wry look. “That hasn't changed, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“I noticed.” She paused, then said, “We have been married almost nine years, and yet, I do not know you, John, not really. In many ways I do not understand you. I don't believe I ever did. During our courtship and the early days of our marriage, I was always open with you. I told you so many things about myself, my family, and the things I want and like and what I think. But whenever I
asked you things about yourself—what your childhood was like, or how you felt about—oh, I don't know—anything
personal
, you would always make some offhand joke and change the subject.”

“And?”

“You may be my husband, but you are a stranger to me. I feel as if we should remedy that but I do not know how. If I ask you things, will you tell me?”

“About my childhood? It was a nightmare. Enough said. Believe me, you don't want to hear it, and I certainly cannot bear to talk of it. And anyway, isn't it more to the point to be talking about us?”

“If I ask you anything about us and you don't wish to discuss it, you will divert the conversation.”

He didn't speak for a moment, then said, “No, I won't. Ask your questions. Fire away.” He leaned back against the sofa and turned his head to look at her. “Be warned. I cannot guarantee you will like my answers, but they will be honest ones. Fair enough?”

Faced with exactly what she had asked for, Viola thought a moment, wondering just how blunt her questions should be. But he'd said she could ask him anything, so she was going to take advantage of the opportunity. “Did you love any of your mistresses? Any of them?”

“No.”

“Did you love me, John?” She already knew the answer, but she had never heard him admit it. She wanted to hear it from him. “When you asked me to marry you, and you told me you loved me, did you mean it?”

“I…” He rubbed a hand over his eyes and let out his breath on a sigh. Then he lowered his hand and met her eyes. “No.”

There it was. The stark and brutal truth. He did not try to explain his actions or justify them. This was the answer she had expected, a confirmation of what she had known for over eight years, but even now it had the power to hurt her. Still, better an honest, hurtful answer than a lie. She'd had enough of those.

“Do you—” She hesitated. Asking him questions was so much harder than she had thought it would be. She sucked in a deep breath and tried again. “Do you have any children by any of the women you've had?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. There are ways to prevent…there are sheaths a man can use. They don't always work, but—” He broke off and stirred beside her, uncomfortable. “God, Viola, do not ask me to discuss things like that with you. I cannot do it.”

“Many people say Peggy Darwin's youngest son is yours, even though Darwin claimed him.”

John moved closer to her. “No, Viola, no. I told you, he is not mine. I know that rumor has been flying around for years, but it is not true.”

“Because of these…sheaths that don't always work?”

“And because I can do arithmetic. Peggy and I broke off our liaison a year before William was born, and no child takes twelve months to come out of the womb. No woman has ever come to me with word of a child by me.”

Even though she knew he could be lying, she believed him. She chose to believe him, and with that choice came a profound sense of relief.

“May I ask a question?” He paused, then said, “You loved me. Why?”

Taken aback, not only by the question but also by the sudden intensity in his voice as he asked it, she stared at him. “Why did I love you?”

“Yes, why? I mean, you didn't even know me. Even nowadays, as you said, we don't know each other. Yet, you tell me that you loved me. That is something I find baffling, Viola. Why on earth did you ever fall in love with a bloke like me?”

He was frowning, and there was something in his face, something that reminded her of a schoolboy who was waiting for an explanation of a complicated mathematical problem. He was expecting an answer that made sense. She lifted her hand helplessly. “Heavens, I don't know. I suppose because you made it so easy. Whenever I was with
you, everything in the world was good and right, and I was happy. The sky was bluer and the grass was greener—” She broke off, looked away. “That sounds silly, I know, but it's how I felt. I can't tell you why, but I did love you.” She swallowed painfully and looked at him. “I loved you more than my life.”

He reached up one hand to touch her face, spreading his palm across her cheek, his fingertips stirring the hair at her temple. “I never meant to hurt you, Viola. God, if you believe nothing else I ever say, believe that. When we married, I hoped to be content. That's all one can really expect from life anyway. But that wasn't enough for you, was it? Being content?”

She moved away from him. “If you've ever been in love, you shouldn't have to ask that question.” Struck by her own words, she studied him at the other end of the settee, and the few feet she had just put between them seemed like miles. “Have you ever been in love?”

He looked away. “No.”

Perhaps he was incapable of loving anyone. She did not say it, but that unspoken conclusion hung in the air. She turned, leaning back against the settee, and stared straight ahead. “You've never been in love with me or any other woman. You certainly are not in love with me now. So give me one good reason why I should consider coming back
to you. Other than I am your wife and I have no choice and our society lives by certain rules.”

“All right.” He began moving toward her, easing his way across the settee to her side. “Because I make you laugh. Because when I kiss you, you get all soft and shivery, and I like that. I have always liked that.” He put his arm around her, ignoring the way she stiffened. “Because whenever I touch you, everything in the world goes away, and it is only the two of us. Because even when we are fighting, half of my mind is trying to figure out how to get you out of your clothes. That is as honest an answer as I can give you.”

She would not be beguiled by it. “You never feel these things, of course, with any of the other women you've had.”

“It is not the same.”

“How is it different?”

He made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Because no other woman in the world ever makes me so insane that I want to smash my head through a window.”

“Not good enough.”

“Because you are my wife, I am your husband. Because I want children, Viola. I think you want them, too.”

“What you mean is that you want an heir.”

“No, that is not what I mean.” He must have realized how unbelievable that sounded, given that
was his whole reason for trying to come back to her, and he amended his answer at once. “I mean, I need an heir, yes, but I want children. Isn't that what marriage is for?”

“Because marriage is a sensible decision,” she said, a dreariness coming over her as she spoke.

“For me and for most of the people we know. Not everyone looks at marriage the way you do, Viola. It isn't always about love. That is one of those rules that govern our lives.”

He was right about that. She thought of the titled families they knew. Anthony and Daphne were an exception—for most couples of their acquaintance, marriage was not about love. It was about alliance and securing heirs, then going on to lead separate lives and have lovers of one's own choosing. She saw the future stretched out before her—a future that she had thought to avoid when she married John—a loveless marriage.

She could take lovers, she supposed, to ease the wretched loneliness, if she wanted them, but she could not imagine being touched by any other man but John. Still, something prompted her to ask the question. “The rules apply to us, too, I suppose? I mean, I could be like Peggy Darwin and take a lover of my own, if I wanted one.”

“No, you could not!” The words came out of him with unexpected force, as explosive as gunshots in the room.

“But you could. In fact, you already have. That's hardly fair.”

“Too bad.” Turning, he looked at her, defying fairness. “My heir, Viola, no other man's. That's part of the rules, too.”