“What you had to do?” she repeated with disdain. “Marry me for my money, you mean.”
“Yes!” he shouted, pushed beyond endurance. “Yes, I married a woman with a dowry and income to save my estates from ruin. I made what I thought was a sensible marriage to a girl I both liked and desired. When that girl turned me out of her bed, trying to manipulate me with tears and guilt, I went elsewhere. In my position, any other man would have done the same.”
“Foolish of me, but I once thought you were better than any other man.”
“I know you did.” He looked at the woman whose face was filled with loathing, and the lovely, vulnerable girl in the doorway flashed through his mind again, a girl with all the lights of the sun in her hair and all the adoration in the world in her eyes. All for him and the pedestal she had put him on. Hating him now because he had fallen off, because he had stopped being a hero and had become a flawed and ordinary man. His flash of anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. “What do you want me to say, Viola?”
“I don’t want you to say anything. I just want you to go away. Bertram has two sons. Let him inherit after you.”
“I cannot. I will not.”
“Then we are back where we started.”
Yes, they were, and he was tired of it—tired of the round and round discussions and tit-for-tat accusations, stony silences and separate beds that kept bringing them back to the same problem. No more.
He hardened his resolve. “We started our life together nine years ago, and circumstances now force us to resume that life. The only point open for discussion is which house we shall do it in. Enderby is six miles out of London, which is less convenient, but my house in town is equipped as if for a bachelor and is therefore somewhat spartan, so—”
“I don’t even know you anymore.” She shook her head, staring at him in horror. “In fact, I never really knew you at all. I cannot live with you as your wife again after all that has happened between us.”
“Nothing has been happening between us. I believe that is the material point.”
“And you expect me to go along with this?”
He met her appalled and angry gaze. “I do not just expect it, Viola. I demand it. Tomorrow is Sunday, so have your trunks packed and ready on Monday. I will be here to fetch you at two o’clock.”
He turned and walked toward the door. He wasn’t halfway across the room before she spoke. “Don’t you see that this will never work?” she called after him, bringing him to a halt. “Don’t you remember what it was like? Living as husband and wife was hell for both of us.”
“Was it?” John turned to look at her, his mind calling forth recollections of the times over the years when they had lived together. But it was not the later years, when they spent a few months together during the season for the sake of appearances that he remembered, for during those times, they had never spoken and almost never saw each other.
No, what came to his mind now when he looked at his wife were the early days. Back then they had scrapped and fought, like any newly wedded pair, probably more than most, in fact, for they both had strong wills and strong opinions. But he didn’t remember their life becoming hellish until she turned him out of bed. He slid his gaze down the length of his wife’s figure, and for the life of him, the only memories he could bring to mind right now were the early ones. The sweet ones.
Her body, so much smaller than his, was still exquisitely shaped, a figure of delicate bones and soft, full curves. That body might be hidden beneath layers of muslin and silk at this moment, but he still remembered what she looked like without all those clothes. It might have been over eight years since he had seen her nude, but there were some things a man just did not forget.
He remembered the perfect shape of her breasts and the flare of her hips. The deep indent of her navel and the dual dints at the base of her spine. The sound of her laughter, the sight of her smile, the cries of her pleasure. He remembered the places he used to kiss that made her melt like butter—her neck, the backs of her knees, the fiddle-shaped birthmark at the top of her thigh. With those memories, he felt his body begin to burn.
“It wasn’t hell all the time,” he murmured. “As I recall, there were some heavenly moments here and there.”
Before she could say a word of reply, he came to his senses and spoke again. “Monday, Viola. Two o’clock. You have that long to make up your mind about where we’re going to live for the remainder of the season.” He opened the drawing room door. “Enderby or Bloomsbury Square.”
“Neither,” she managed to shout just before he stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
Chapter 4
He was delusional. Furious, Viola stared at the closed door, unable to believe what she had just heard. Heavenly moments? After the affairs he’d had, after the hurt she had endured, only John could say something like that, with that knowing look in his eye and that hint of a smile on his face.
Heavenly moments, indeed. She thought of his mistresses and slammed her fist into the palm of her other hand, grinding her teeth with outrage. Heavenly for him, maybe. He had been the one having all the fun.
Even during their courtship, he’d been enjoying himself elsewhere. While she had been savoring their moments together at a ball or party and happily contemplating how wonderful and exciting it was to be in love, he’d been amusing himself with Elsie.
Oh, how it had hurt to find out about that woman. Viola stared at the white panels of the door her husband had just closed, but in her mind she was seeing the pale blue walls of Lady Chetney’s withdrawing room in Northumberland. She was again smelling the sweet fragrance of wassail that had permeated the Chetney’s country house that Christmas. A waltz had been playing in Chetney’s ballroom, she remembered, but it hadn’t been enough to drown out the chattering voices of Lady Chetney’s daughters and their friends.
“…pity Hammond’s in London. We lack for partners tonight and he dances so divinely.”
“Yes, indeed. Waltzing his way across Elsie Gallant’s bed at this very moment, I’ve no doubt. She is a dancer, after all.”
“No, no, he gave up the Gallant woman when he married Lady Viola.”
“Not a bit of it. He still sees her when he goes to London. Gave her a sapphire necklace when he was in town a few months ago, I heard.”
“Paid for the jewels with his wife’s income from her brother, no doubt. After all, Hammond has no money of his own…”
She had not believed them, of course, and tried to dismiss their words as malicious gossip, but the seed of doubt had been planted. Perhaps if she had not gone searching through the steward’s expenditure books, she might never have found the recorded entry for a sapphire and diamond necklace, but she had found it. To this day she could still see the steward’s cramped handwriting in the ledger and feel the shattering of her stupid, trusting heart. That was the day the naive, adoring girl grew up and understood just how duplicitous a man could be.
Do you love me?
Of course I do. I adore you.
Upon his return, John had tried to explain it all away. Yes, Elsie had been his mistress, but he had ended their liaison before the wedding. Yes, he’d given Elsie a necklace in September, but only to pay her off and buy out her contract with him, a contract he vowed he’d entered into before he had ever met her. He had flatly denied sleeping with Elsie after marriage, swearing he had been a faithful husband ever since their wedding day. Even if that had been true, it wasn’t enough, for he had not denied that he’d been with Elsie right up until the day the marriage vows were spoken.
Galling, even now, to think of his duplicity during their courtship, of how he’d told her again and again how he loved her and adored her and wanted her, yet all the while he’d been keeping that other woman. Broke as was, he had somehow managed to pay for Elsie. Men had their priorities, didn’t they?
Her tears and hurt had been met with no understanding, only his biting, sarcastic wit. Her closed bedroom door had not made him realize the
error of his ways. There had been no admission of guilt, no words of love, and no apologies. Instead, he waited a month for her to relent, and when she hadn’t, he walked out on her without a second thought.
Viola’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She’d known most men had mistresses, of course, but until Elsie Gallant, she had never understood that a man could court one woman and sleep with another at the same time. She had never known that mistresses had contracts, and that owing money to a mistress was a debt, like any other debt, and had to be paid, even if a man broke the contract when he got married. Until Elsie, she had never known the sick sense of jealousy or the wrenching pain of heartbreak.
Thanks to John, she knew all about those things now. Thanks to herself, she no longer felt the pain. It had taken a long time to get her imagination to stop forming pictures of him touching Elsie Gallant, only to find that image replaced by each woman who came after Elsie. It had taken years of layering sheets of ice and pride over her heart with each successive mistress he got, until she finally reached the point where she no longer cared what he did or with whom.
Now he wanted to come back. Any why? Not for her, that was certain. No, he wanted to reconcile because he needed something only she could give him. He needed a legitimate son and heir, and she was expected to just forgive and forget.
Her nails were digging into her palms so deeply it began to hurt, and Viola forced herself to unclench her fists. She sat down on the settee and with deliberate, focused effort, worked to rid herself of the hot, smothering outrage that was threatening to destroy the delicate state of contentment it had taken her so long to find. She sat there for a long time, taking deep, steady breaths, until the cool, icy pride that had protected her for so long was once again in place. John could bed any woman he wanted, but that woman would never be her. Never again.
On Monday, John arrived back at Grosvenor Square at precisely two o’clock. By then Viola’s rage was gone and her heart safely back inside her protective block of ice.
She was in the drawing room, seated at Daphne’s writing desk, going over the plans for the annual Fancy Dress charity ball for London hospitals. It was one of the many charities she sponsored, and one of her favorites. She was with her secretary, Miss Tate, going over the menu for the supper that would come after the dancing, when Quimby, Anthony’s butler, announced John’s arrival.
“Lord Hammond, my lady.”
Viola looked up as John entered the drawing room, and a memory sprang to mind of that same sight all those years ago, of John, so dashing and handsome as he would enter Anthony’s drawing room, and how that sight used to make her feel so deliriously happy. Looking at him now, she knew he was more dashing, more handsome than ever. But this time around she felt nothing. Numbness was a wonderful thing.
She stood up, giving a perfunctory curtsy to his bow, then sat back down and returned her attention to Miss Tate, who stood beside her chair. It was rude not to give him her attention, but she did not care. She focused on the menu. “These are the courses the duke’s chef has suggested?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Viola tapped her quill against the rosewood desk with deliberate thoughtfulness, taking a great deal of time to consider the list of dishes before she spoke. “I confess, I am uncertain about the serving of eels, Tate. Lady Snowden is one of our most generous contributors, and she simply cannot abide eels.”
“No surprise there,” John murmured, and sat down in a nearby chair. “Snails suit that lady so much better.”
Beside her, Tate made a choked sound, smothering it when she glanced at Viola. Lady Snowden walked and talked and moved so slowly it was enough to drive one mad, but that was no reason for Tate to reward John by laughing. Viola no longer found her husband’s wit amusing, and she did not expect her servants to find it so, either. She maintained a dignified, disinterested air, deciding it was best to pretend he was not even in the room. “Hmm, I think we shall take eels off the menu and replace them with—”
“Escargot?” he suggested.
She looked up at Tate. “Lobster tornadoes,” she said, handed over the menu, and turned her attention to their next item of business.
“Now, as to the guest lists, Tate, I am going to send you to present mine to Lady Deane for her inspection.”
“Viola, how cruel you are!” John pronounced. “To send poor Tate to face down that odious Lady Deane on her own?”
She gave him a cold stare. “Is this any concern of yours?”
“Yes. I must object to such cruelty to the servants. And to do it on your behalf. Appalling of you, I say.”
“Well, it is not out of cowardice, if that is what you imply,” Viola answered even as she reminded herself that she did not have to explain her actions to him. This was none of his affair. “I will not give her the satisfaction she would gain if I called upon her in person. She is a baron’s wife, well below me in rank, and I will not give her the social coup of my personal attention. Especially since I cannot stand the woman.”
“She’ll do something spiteful to you in return. She’s like that.”
Viola ignored him and returned her attention to her secretary. “Now, Tate, when you present the list, Lady Deane will surely make a fuss about inviting Sir Edward and Lady Fitzhugh. When she does, you must mention as tactfully and apologetically as possible that the Duke and Duchess of Tremore insisted the Fitzhughs be included. That ought to cease any silly squabbles over Sir Edward’s rank and low connections and who should be invited to one of these things and who should not. It’s a charity ball, in heaven’s name. Besides, the Fitzhugh daughters are delightful. Take the very same approach if she objects to inviting the Lawrence girls.”
“Yes, my lady,” Tate said with a sigh. She was clearly not looking forward to being sent forth with the task of presenting Viola’s guest list to the formidable, spiteful Lady Deane.
“Never fear, Tate,” John said, and Viola looked up just in time to see him wink at her secretary. The flirt. “Just keep in mind that Lady Deane wears wool underwear and you’ll do fine. That’s why she’s always so out of sorts, you know. Itchy drawers.”
Tate began to laugh, but to her credit, she smothered it at once, putting her free hand over her mouth.
Viola gave John a frown of reproof, then began to scan her list one last time. “Lord and Lady Kettering, of course. They always contribute a handy sum to the hospitals. The Countess of Rathmore is fine, too. Hmm…Sir George Plowright. That’s all right, I suppose—”
“What!”
She glanced up to see John straighten in his chair with an abrupt move.
“You’re not really inviting that pompous ass, are you?” he asked, staring at her in dismay.
He did not like it, and that fact was enough to make her want to keep the other man on the list. “Why should I not? He is a wealthy man, and he could make a most generous contribution to the hospitals.”
John made a sound of contempt through his teeth and stood up. “I doubt it. He’s as cheeseparing as he is arrogant. Except about his clothes, which show all the money in the world cannot make up for horrid taste.” He came to stand in front of her desk and went on, “I saw him at Brooks’s last night. Mustard yellow trousers and a lurid green waistcoat. Made him look as if he’d had bad fish for dinner.”
She would not be diverted to a discussion of Sir George’s famously hideous wardrobe. She looked up at her husband and set her jaw. “I fail to see how the guest list for my charity ball is any of your affair.”
“Because you are my wife, and since we are reconciling, I am making it my affair.”
“We are not reconciling!”
“To invite Sir George is asking for trouble,” he said with a breezy, infuriating disregard for her words. “You remember that business last year when he and Dylan got into a fistfight. It could happen again. Or it could be me who goes a few rounds with him this time. That would be worse for you, Viola. I know how it would devastate you if Sir George beat me up.”
/> She smiled. “No fear of that,” she said with sickening sweetness. “You are not on the guest list.”
“Yes, I am. Add my name, Tate, and take Plowright’s name off.”
“I am not inviting you! And whether or not I invite Sir George is not your concern. I chose to include him because he is a rich man and the fourth son of a marquess, and hospitals need funds.”
“None of that makes him any less of an ass, Viola.”
She lifted her hands in a gesture of exasperation and began to grind her teeth. Did the man live to make her crazy? “If ordering me about and interfering in my affairs is how you are going to reconcile with me, it is not working.”
He ignored that. “Dylan and I have written a new limerick about Sir George,” he said, leaning down to rest his forearms on her desk. “You used to love my limericks. Would you like to hear it?”
“No.”
He ignored that, too, of course. “There was a knight from the Isle of Rum, who’s always been too quick with his gun. The demireps say his aim’s not astray, he just fires too soon for their fun.”
She would not laugh. Tate’s smothered giggles were making it nearly impossible for her not to, and she pressed her lips tight together. She had to look away from his teasing eyes for a moment before she could get hold of herself. Then she gave him the haughtiest look she could manage. “Stop it, Hammond,” she ordered.
Schoolboy innocence was his response, brown eyes widening as he looked at her, his face so close to her own. “Stop what?”
“Making fun. I am working.” She shook a handful of papers virtuously and returned her attention to her guest list.
“Deuce take it, Viola. Life is supposed to be fun.” He straightened away from her desk and began to laugh. “What is that deliciously wicked line from Jane Austen’s novel? You love Austen—you must remember it. Something about how we live for the joy of making sport for our neighbors, and then laughing at them in our turn.”
Damn the man. Damn him for remembering how much she liked Austen. Damn his smile and his wit and the ease with which he could find the fun in anything. That had always been one of her greatest weaknesses where he was concerned. How he used to be able to make her laugh at snobbish countesses like Lady Deane and pompous asses like Plowright, how he had made her happy in a world filled with malicious gossip and restrictive rules and closed minds. In the smothering atmosphere of staid drawing rooms and rigid manners, he had been a breath of fresh air to her. He made her feel vibrantly alive.
Guilty Series Page 61