Guilty Series (79 page)

“But what about after that? You go your way and I go mine? Then you can have as many lovers as you please, just like before? The only difference being that I shall be free to do the same? Is that how it works, John? If I come back to you, is that how it will be for us, too?”

“I hope not.”

“Without love, how else could it be?”

“To my way of thinking, that depends on you. Are you going to turn me out of bed? Because if you are, I will eventually go get a mistress. It is that simple.”

“How convenient for you that the entire future of our marriage rests with me.”

“So it does.”

She might have laughed at that, except there was nothing amusing about the situation. “And if I am a faithful wife, will you be faithful to me in return?”

The defiance melted away, and sulkiness stole into his face like shadows. He folded his arms. “No man ever answers a question like that.”

“No? Why not?”

“If I say yes, you will not believe me. If I say no,
I ruin any chance of ever getting you into bed again. If I say I don't know, I am condemned for not giving a definite answer. No matter what I say, it's the wrong thing, and I lose.”

“This is not a game! It is not about winning and losing. I want—” She broke off, and amended her words. “No, I
deserve
an honest answer to my question. If I came back to you, and I were a faithful wife who gave you children, would you be a faithful husband to me?”

“I don't know.”

She shook her head, staring at him in disbelief. “You don't know? What sort of answer is that?”

“An honest one! I told you, that is a no-win question for a man. No matter what I answered, it wouldn't satisfy you. Would I do my best to be a faithful husband? Yes. Would I succeed? Again, that depends on you. Can you be a good wife to me? Can you be a loving, affectionate companion? Can I rely on you not to dissolve into tears and shut your bedroom door to me? Can I rely on you not to turn into the unforgiving ice queen when things don't go your way?”

That hurt. She bit her lip, looking at the resentment in his face, resentment directed at her when she did not deserve it. “That is a cruel thing to say.”

“You wanted the truth.”

“For heaven's sake!” She jumped to her feet, truly angry now. “You talk as if I am being unrea
sonable. It is not unreasonable for a woman to expect her husband to be faithful!”

He also stood up. “Nor is it unreasonable for a man to expect his wife to make fidelity worth his while!”

The sound of sobbing from the other side of the closed door interrupted any reply she might have made. Both of them turned as the door opened and Beckham came in, a wailing Nicholas in her arms and a distraught look on her face.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the nanny said to John with a quick curtsy.

Viola was rather relieved by the interruption. She was beginning to understand what he meant about how she might not like his honest answers to her questions. “What is it, Beckham?”

“So sorry, my lady, but I am looking for Mr. Poppin.”

“Oh, dear.” She looked at Nicholas. “Poppin's gone missing, has he?”

“I am afraid so,” Beckham answered. “I know the baby was in here with her grace earlier this evening, so I was hoping they had left Poppin in here.”

Viola took a glance around the library. “I don't see him.”

“Who is Mr. Poppin?” John asked over the child's sobs.

“His favorite toy, my lord,” the nanny explained, and returned her attention to Viola. “I
can't think how I tucked him in without noticing it was missing, but I must have done. He fell asleep without it, he was so tired. But then something woke him, and he must have discovered the toy wasn't there, because he just started crying his little heart out. I don't believe he's going back to sleep without Mr. Poppin.”

Viola looked at the baby, who was sobbing as if the end of the world were at hand. “What's wrong, Nicky?” she crooned, and reached for him. She pressed kisses to his wet face. “Poppin playing hide-and-seek with you again?”

Nicholas would not be soothed by a few little kisses. He wailed louder, and Viola looked at Beckham with a sigh. “We are going to have to find that toy.”

“It seems so, my lady.”

She started to hand the baby back to the nanny, but John's voice stopped her. “May I—” He broke off, clasped his hands behind his back, and looked away. “Never mind.”

Viola looked up at him, studying his profile. There was no anger in his face now. He looked grave and uncomfortable. Almost embarrassed. She could not remember John ever looking embarrassed, and she could not help being curious. “What were you going to ask?”

She watched as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He did not look at her, though he did cast an uneasy glance at the nanny before re
turning his attention to the baby. “I only wondered if I might hold him,” he muttered, “but then I realized it sounded too silly for words.”

“You want to hold Nicholas?” she asked in astonishment, uncertain she had heard him right. Men never wanted to hold babies, especially not those who were wailing at the top of their lungs. But he gave a quick, jerky nod, and she realized he meant it.

“It isn't silly at all,” she said, and stepped closer to her husband. “Here.”

She started to hand Nicholas over to him, but he did not reach out take the baby from her. “I don't know how to do this,” he said, looking suddenly panicky.

She settled Nicholas against her shoulder again to demonstrate. “Just like this. You see?” After a moment he nodded and she turned the baby around. Leaning closer to her husband, she handed the sobbing child over to him.

He took the baby in a way that was tentative, uncertain. She could scarcely believe it. First embarrassment, then uncertainty, from John, of all men. What an odd evening this was turning out to be. He pulled Nicholas against his chest, the baby's bottom resting on his forearm, his hand against the baby's head, holding him in the exact position she had.

At that moment, for the inexplicable reason known only to angels, Nicholas stopped crying.

In the sudden silence, Viola stared at her husband. He looked as if he were holding a miracle in his hands, and she felt the world caving beneath her feet. Arguments and unfair words and expectations dissolved away, and a queer, piercing, painful joy hit her in the chest. She could not move, and she hoped it wasn't Cupid who had just fired that arrow into her heart.

“Bless us all,” murmured Beckham. “You've a way with babies, my lord.”

John pulled back a bit to look into the face of the child in his arms. “Deuce take you,” he said, laughing as if amazed.

The baby stared at him, a frown of puzzlement puckering his brow, as if uncertain what to do in the arms of this stranger. Then, his face still streaked with tears, he smiled and said something unintelligible that sounded suspiciously like a coo of affection.

John pressed his forehead to that of the baby. “If people find out about this, I shall take no end of ribbing at the club. We'd best keep this between ourselves, old chap.”

The baby gurgled in reply, and Viola watched as he lifted one hand to bat at her husband's cheek. John turned his head, blowing air into the baby's palm, making him laugh, seeming to charm Nicholas without any effort at all. Even babies were not immune.

He bounced the child, settling him more firmly
in the crook of his arm, appearing much more comfortable with holding him now than he had a few moments before. “What a handsome fellow you are when you're not crying. You have your mother's eyes, I see. No lady's heart shall be safe twenty years from now.”

The baby stirred and pressed a hand against John's chest, burying his fingers in limp linen ruffles and cravat silk. He made a distressed sound and looked about him, wriggling.

“Not interested in being the heartbreaker of the ton, eh?” John said. “I cannot say I blame you. Women were designed to turn men's entire lives into chaos at every possible opportunity. Best to steer clear as long as you can.”

“That is a terrible thing to say!” Viola protested. “Nicholas, don't listen to him.”

“He won't,” John told her. “We men never steer clear. That would be like compass needles not pointing true north. It's just not possible.”

The baby pushed against John's chest with both hands. “Pop,” he said. “Pop-pop.”

“Yes, I know,” he said with a nod of complete understanding. “Thank you for reminding me of the important business at hand.” He began walking around the drawing room, the baby in his arms, making a great show of looking for Mr. Poppin. As he peered behind the pianoforte, under tables, and between chairs, he continued talking to his nephew in worldly-wise accents. “The devil of
it, my boy, is that women are more important to us than anything else, and they know it. Not that any of the fair sex would ever use this fact against us, mind you.”

He bent at the knees with the baby in his arms, looking under a round rosewood table. “But it's important for a fellow to keep his wits about him.”

He straightened and paused to look at his nephew. “Be especially careful of the no-win question,” he advised the baby, who was staring back at him in grave fascination. “They will get under your skin with that one every time. Mark my words.”

Viola let out her breath in a huff, but John paid no heed. “Of course, in such circumstances,” he went on as he started in her direction, “we often do the worst possible thing—retaliate and say something hurtful.” He paused close to where she stood, and met her gaze. “We always regret it afterward and feel like dogs.”

He resumed his search, walking past her without another word.

She had just gotten an apology. In all the fights they'd had in the nine years they had known each other, John had never given her an apology for anything before. Had never come close. It was still just words, but words that he had never said to her before.

Stunned, she turned around, watching as he cir
cled to the other side of the settee, where he gave a cry of triumph.

“Ah, here we are!” One arm securely around Nicholas, he bent at the knees, going down behind the settee. He came up with a brown, furry toy bear. “Mr. Poppin, I believe.”

With a shout of delight, Nicholas wrapped one arm around the toy. He leaned against John's chest with a hiccup and a gratified sigh, and buried his face against John's neck. His free hand flailed in the air, then patted the man's beard-roughened cheek and finally came to rest in a fist on the silk of his aubergine waistcoat.

Her heart constricted, and she turned her back because it hurt her eyes to look at them. She thought of what he wanted from her and what he was not willing to give in return. Blinking, she stared down at the books scattered on top of the writing desk. A baby was impossible. It had to be impossible. That dream was long gone.

“Well, well, this is an amazing thing,” John said.

She made a show of straightening the books into a pile and forced herself to speak. “What is amazing?”

“There is at least one member of the Tremore family who is on my side.”

She stiffened, trying to prop up her protective walls. “Don't get too conceited over it,” she said, and steeled herself as she turned around to look at
him again. “I hate to tell you this, but Nicholas likes everyone.”

“That may be so, but I am special. I rescued Mr. Poppin.” He kissed the top of the baby's head. “Your aunt doesn't like me, Nicky,” he murmured, “but I know she would listen to you. Put in a word for me, would you? There's a good chap.”

She gestured to Beckham to take the baby. The nanny walked over to John's side. He hesitated, reluctant, but Viola could not bear the sight of him holding the baby any longer. “He ought to be put back to bed, Hammond. It's late.”

“Of course.” He handed the baby over to Beckham, who took the child and departed for the nursery. Nicholas was either too exhausted or too happy at the return of Poppin to feel deprived of his uncle's charm. Not a single sob echoed back to the drawing room from the other side of the closed door.

The silence was awkward and deafening.

He took a step toward her. “Viola—”

“It's very late.” She took a step back and ran into the writing desk behind her.

“It's not that late.” He continued walking toward her with slow, deliberate steps, giving her plenty of time to evade him. For some stupid reason, she didn't.

He came to a halt in front of her. His lashes, thick and dark, lowered a fraction. He took the
braid of her hair in his hand, lifted it to his mouth and kissed it, breathing in deeply. “Violets.”

She began to shake inside, and she curled her fingers around the edge of the writing desk behind her. She thought of all the impossible, romantic dreams of her girlhood, and reminded herself they were dead dreams now.

He moved the braid over her shoulder and let it fall down her back. Then he lifted both hands to her face. He ran his fingers along her cheekbones, lightly traced the sides of her nose, shaped the arch of each of her brows. He pushed his fingers into the hair at her temples and cupped her cheeks, caressing her lips with his thumbs. He did it all without looking into her eyes, keeping his gaze focused on his hands and her features as he touched them. There was deliberation and intent in every move.

Caressing the mole at the edge of her lips with the pad of his thumb, he lowered his other hand to her waist and bunched delicate muslin in his fist. “I did come here for a reason,” he reminded her, and that was when he looked into her eyes. “I came to kiss and make up.”

“You didn't say anything about the kissing part.”

“Tricked you again.” He tilted her chin up and covered her mouth with his.

John's kiss, as potent now as it had been in the
museum, as potent as it had always been, making it so easy to forget that anything else in the world existed. John's hands, so sure, sliding to her hips, pulling her closer, his fingers spreading across her buttocks. John's mouth, coaxing hers to open.