Guilty Series (81 page)

Her eyes narrowed. If she were a lioness, he'd
have claw marks. As it was, she settled for a fierce scowl. “What are you doing here?”

He tried to look apologetic. “It is my house.”

That did not seem to cut any ice with Viola. She pointed to the door behind him. “Get out of my room.”

He did the opposite. Stepping away from the closed door, he looked about him, pretending a great deal of interest in the furnishings. “Is this your room? Oh, but what am I thinking? It's been painted pink. Of course it's your room.”

He started across to the door leading into his own bedchamber, then stopped and looked at her. “You did not paint my room pink, did you?”

“I wish I had thought of it.”

John let out his breath on a sigh of relief that was only half feigned. “Enjoy your nap, darling. I shall see you at dinner. Are we keeping country hours or town hours? Never mind, I shall inquire of Hawthorne. Would you like to play chess after dessert, or would you prefer piquet?”

She began shaking her head. “Oh, no. Oh, no. You are not staying.”

He pretended to be puzzled. “Did you want to return to town and stay at Bloomsbury Square? Personally, I'd rather we stay here for the remainder of the season. So much less gossip.”

She put her face in her hands. “God hates me. He must, to set you upon me in this manner.”

He made a sound of mock distress as he opened the door to his own room. “You make me sound like the plagues of Egypt.”

She lifted her head. “How apt a description of you!” she cried as she followed him and started pushing him through the doorway. “I could not have chosen better. Will you please leave?”

Deciding not to push his luck, he allowed her to propel him through the doorway. “I'm going,” he said, and turned around to look at her. “What did you choose for dinner? Nothing too awful, I hope.”

She smiled sweetly. “Hemlock.”

“Ah, my favorite.”

The door slammed in his face. He lingered there, waiting.

After a moment he heard what he'd been waiting for on the other side of the closed door. “Insufferable man!”

With a chuckle, he pulled the bell for Stephens and began to change for dinner.

S
ure John would follow her to Enderby, Viola had spent the first few days here on tenterhooks, looking out the front windows of the villa every few minutes, fully expecting to see his carriage. But after a week had passed with no sign of him, she had come to think perhaps he had finally given up on reconciling, and that was when the unthinkable had happened.

She began to miss him.

Especially at night, sitting by the fire as she remembered those passionate moments in the library at Grosvenor Square. She'd even begun to dream about him, about his kiss and his touch, an aggravating development, and one that if he ever learned of it, would be excessively mortifying.

At dinner that evening she kept her head lowered, studying him in quick, surreptitious glances as he sat at the head of the long dining table. Odd to see him there. Odd to have him in this house
she had come to regard as her own. But it wasn't hers, of course. As he had reminded her earlier, it was his. And he was the master of it.

What do you want, Viola?

His question echoed through her mind. A few weeks ago her answer had been simple and succinct: go away. Now, she didn't know what the answer should be. Her reprieve was at an end, but that wasn't what kept her silent while he tried to make conversation. It was her own confusion. And frustration. He couldn't even make her the simple promise of fidelity. She was angry with herself because she knew if he made that promise, she was prepared to believe it, and that probably made her twice a fool. Thinking of that evening in the library made her feel more muddled than ever.

And scared. She didn't want to be hurt. She didn't want to believe him, find happiness with him again, only to sit across a tea table from yet another one of his mistresses next season.

What do you want, Viola?

She still wanted what she had always wanted: love and devotion and children. John was only prepared to give her one of those. That was not enough, and she could not understand why he thought her expectation of fidelity unreasonable. It wasn't unreasonable at all, damn him, especially when he demanded it of her.

Suddenly, John put his fork down with a clink. “This just isn't going to work.”

She looked up from her apple tart. “What isn't going to work?”

“Spending my meals talking to myself.”

“I don't feel much like talking.”

“I can see that. What's wrong, Viola?”

Her bite of apple tart was sawdust in her mouth and she took a swallow of water to wash it down. “Where—” She broke off, cleared her throat, glanced at the servants hovering nearby, then back at her plate, unable to look at him. “I understand Stephens had your bed made up.”

“Did you have a different location in mind for me to sleep?” he asked bluntly.

“John!” Her dreams of the past two days came rushing back with a vengeance and she blushed, casting a pointed glance at Hawthorne and the two footmen, who were standing by the sideboard.

He looked at her down the long length of the dining table for several seconds. “Hawthorne?”

The butler stepped forward. “Yes, my lord?”

“Take the footmen and leave us. I'll call you if you're needed again.”

The butler bowed and withdrew, the footmen behind him. She watched them go in dismay. “We aren't finished eating. Why did you dismiss them?”

“Because I wanted to talk without you using them as an excuse not to do so, of course.”

“You want to talk?” That sounded completely unbelievable. “You?”

He leaned forward in his chair and took a sip of wine. “I've been thinking about what you said the other night. You said you don't want a cold sham of a marriage. The sort most people have, where we have a child or two, then go our separate ways. That's what my parents had, and I don't want it that way, either. I think there is only one way to prevent it. We have to become friends.”

“What?” This was becoming more astonishing by the moment.

He nodded. “Yes. It is clear that we have spent over eight years at cross purposes, with no real knowledge of each other. You don't trust me, and I admit, you have good reason. I am suggesting the way to remedy that is for us to become friends.”

“I have never heard anything more absurd,” she scoffed. The idea of being friends with John sounded as likely as pigs sprouting wings. “You and I friends? Where did you get such a notion?”

“Dylan.”

“Dylan?”

“Believe it or not, yes. He suggested it. He likes us both, he said, and he is getting a bit tired of the two of us being so at odds. He would love to be able to invite both of us to dinner at the same time, so he's hoping we make peace. He thinks if we become friends with each other, everything will work out between us.”

She couldn't help regarding that with skepti
cism. “I never knew Dylan was such an optimistic fellow,” she said dryly.

“He is a father now. He has to be optimistic.”

“Now that he is happily settled and is a father, he can't go on scandalous escapades with you.”

“It wouldn't matter, because I don't do that sort of thing anyway. Not anymore.”

“Please don't try to tell me that you've seen the error of your ways and won't go slumming in Temple Bar any longer, because I shan't believe you.”

“I wouldn't say never, but I haven't done it lately. I haven't wanted to for a long time. Despite the urging of my wilder friends, I have been spending most of my free nights at my club. In case you hadn't noticed, I am not much of a subject for gossip this season.”

That was true, but she couldn't help wondering how long it would last.

“It's odd,” he went on, “but since Dylan got married, we have become closer friends. We used to be just acquaintances who caroused the brothels together or sat at the same gaming table, but it is different this year. I do occasionally go on a wild spree of drinking with Lord Damon and Sir Robert, I admit, but it's Dylan I see the most of.”

“What do you and Dylan do if you don't visit the brothels and the gaming hells?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Fence, mostly. We meet at Angleo's nearly every day.”

“I envy you that,” she confessed as she ate her last bite of apple tart and cream. “I always wanted to learn to fence when I was a girl, but I wasn't allowed.”

“Why not?”

“Madame Dubreuil's Academy in Paris was the most prestigious in Europe, I'll have you know. Girls learning athletic sport?” She put on a face of shock and horror. “Never!”

He grinned. “What did you do?”

“Carried books on our heads when we probably should have been reading them. You see, it was deemed more important to learn the feminine art of walking gracefully than learning Greek or history or mathematics. I became most accomplished at walking. And at piano and watercolors and embroidering cushions.”

“But no fencing?”

“No, alas.”

He looked at her and a hint of mischief came into his face. Even from where she sat she could see the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. “Want to learn?”

She frowned, perplexed. “Learn to fence, you mean?”

“Yes.” He stood up and came down the length of the table. He moved behind her chair. “You've finished your dessert. Come on.”

“Come on?” she repeated, twisting around to look up at him. “Where?”

“For a fencing lesson.” He began pulling her chair out from the table. “You said you wanted to learn.”

“When I was a girl! That was a long time ago, John.”

“I know at twenty-six you're ready for the grave. But I think we have time to squeeze in a few fencing lessons first.” He grasped her arms and pulled her to her feet. “Look at it this way. You hate me, isn't that right?”

“Yes,” she said at once.

“Well, then, this is your perfect opportunity to stab me with a sword.”

It only took her two seconds to make up her mind. “What are we waiting for?”

“I knew that idea would appeal to you.” He tilted his head and kissed her neck, but he slipped away before she had the chance to even chastise him for it. “Is my old fencing gear still in the attic?” he asked as he started out the door.

“I don't know,” she answered, following him out of the dining room and down the corridor to the stairs. “Is that where you kept it before?”

“When I was a boy.”

They went up to the attic and found that his boyhood practice foils were still there, tucked away in a wooden crate.

He pulled them out, took one and gave the other to her. He stood her in the large, empty space in the center of the attic and faced her. “Do
what I do,” he told her, and when he lifted his left hand high, slightly behind him, she did the same. He pointed his sword at her with his right hand, and she pointed hers at him.

“Good,” he said. “Now watch me.”

He stepped forward with one foot, bending his knee, and thrusting the sword in his hand forward. The cushioned tip touched her just under her ribs.

Viola tried to do what he did but encountered a problem almost at once. “I can't do that,” she complained. “My skirt gets in the way.”

He straightened, grinning at her. “Well, if your skirt is really a problem—”

“No,” she said before he could finish his thought.

“But if you just took it off—”

“No! Put that possibility out of your mind.”

“That possibility is
never
out of my mind.” He turned away. “But if you are going to be prudish about these things, we shall have to think of another solution.”

He put down his foil and crossed the room to an old trunk. “There used to be costumes in here when I was a boy,” he told her as he opened it. “For Fancy Dress parties and putting on plays and such.”

Rummaging through the pile of old clothes, he pulled out a pair of trousers. “Mine,” he ex
plained. “When I was about fourteen. They should fit you.” He pulled an old white linen shirt out of the trunk and tossed both garments to her.

She caught them in her arms and waited, but he didn't move to turn his back. “John, if you want to be friends, you have to be nice.”

“I could be very nice to you,” he said, a world of meaning in those words and the way he said them.

“That isn't what I meant! Turn around.”

He gave a heavy sigh and obeyed. “I'll be honorable about this,” he told her over one shoulder as she removed her lacy shawl collar, “although it is most unfair. My own wife and I can't even have a peek at her petticoats.”

“You've peeked at plenty of petticoats,” she shot back as she unfastened the buttons down the front of her bodice. “You don't need to see mine.”

She slid out of her dress and undergarments and kicked off her slippers, then pulled on the trousers and shirt. “All right,” she said, buttoning the shirt. “You can turn around.”

He took one look at her in his boyhood clothes and chuckled. “They look much better on you than they ever did on me,” he said and walked back to the center of the room.

She rolled up the shirtsleeves and turned up the trousers at the hem, then slid her feet back into her slippers and picked up her foil.

They faced each other, blades pointed as they
had been a few moments before, and this time she was able to step forward, bend her knee, and thrust the blade just as he had demonstrated.

“That is called a lunge,” he told her. “Do it again, only this time aim for somewhere on my torso.”

She bit her lip, tilted her head to one side, considering. She lowered her gaze.

“Somewhere fair,” he said at once.

Viola took a step forward, thrusting with her foil toward his stomach, and as she did so, he brought his blade up to block her move. “That,” he told her, “is a parry.”

She straightened with a nod. “I see.”

“Good.” He faced her, sword pointed. “Hate me, do you?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then. Here's your chance to express it.” He gestured with his blade. “Have at me. Stab away.”

She looked at him, at the challenge in his eyes, and she lifted the sword, pointing it at him. She mirrored his stance and thrust again, but her jab was halfhearted, and he evaded her simply by turning sideways.

“Pathetic,” he said, shaking his head. “You're not trying.”

“I don't want to accidently hurt you.”

He gave a shout of laughter. “I'll just bet you don't.” He gestured with his blade. “Come on. Try
again. It might help if you think of all the reasons why you hate me. Why do you hate me, anyway?”

“Why?” She stared at him. “How can you even ask me that? So many reasons, I can't list them all!”

“Then tell me. Show me.”

She made another jab at him, harder this time.

“Better,” he said, blocking her move with nothing more than a flick of his wrist. “Keep going. Why do you hate me?”

“You lied to me before we got married, that's why.” She struck at him with the foil. He parried her again.

“Very good,” he said. “You just might have a knack for this.”

“You make an appealing target.”

“I thought I would.” He beckoned her to continue. “Don't stop now. I want you to get all those resentments out in the open once and for all.”

“Is that what this is about?” she asked, lunged again and missed him altogether. “You think this will solve everything?”

“No.” He thrust with his blade, but very slowly, giving her plenty of time to defend herself by bringing her foil up as he had showed her. “But it is a start.”

They both stepped back.

“So,” he said, “I told you I loved you before we got married, and that was a lie, and that's why you hate me?”

“Not only for that. There's Elsie.”

“Oh, yes, Elsie.” He nodded, sounding so infuriatingly calm that she wanted to throw the sword at him. Instead, she jabbed her foil in his direction, pulled back when he parried her, and without waiting did it again. Their swords clashed together.