“Hammond, whatever is the matter?” she asked as he continued to stare at her while arousal coursed through his body, thick and and warm.
“I remember that sound,” he murmured. “I always loved the way you laugh.”
Her laughter stopped. Her smile faded. The grandfather clock began to chime, and she looked away. “Four o’clock already?” she said, and started toward the door. “You had best show me the rest quickly. Lady Fitzhugh’s dinner party begins at eight, and I must return to Grosvenor Square and change.”
He forced down the lust that had flared up so suddenly, but could not stop hearing that low, throaty chuckle in his mind as they started up to the second floor. Viola’s erotic laugh. How could he ever have forgotten the sound of it and what it did to him?
At the second floor, he turned left and led her down a short corridor. “Our suite of rooms is here,” he said, opening a door about halfway down the corridor. “This one will be yours. Mine adjoins it.”
Viola hesitated a moment, then stepped into the bedchamber. She glanced around at the grayish-blue walls, darker blue draperies and walnut furnishings, but expressed no opinion of the room.
“Repaint if you like,” he said, following her through the doorway and moving to stand beside her. “I know you do not care for blue walls,” he went on, glancing at her as he spoke, “so—”
He broke off, watching her as she stared straight ahead, saw the sudden hardness in her face and the way her brows drew together. He heard the rustle of straw and looked down to see that she was clenching the brim of her hat so tightly the straw was crumpling in her gloved hand.
Following her gaze across the room, he realized she was looking through the doorway into his bedchamber. He returned his attention to her as she stared at the bed itself, a wide comfortable affair with thick feather mattresses, fat down pillows, and maroon velvet coverlet. There was no mistaking the pain in her face.
He felt impelled to speak. “Since I have lived here, no woman has slept in these rooms, Viola.”
She turned away without replying and walked to the walnut armoire. Her back to him, she opened it and began to examine the empty interior as if it were a matter of vast importance.
He wished he could think of something to say that would make her laugh again. He wished she would say something—talk about the furnishings, mention she liked the Gainsborough on the wall, say that yes, she would repaint this room—anything. When she did speak, her question caught him completely off guard.
“What is your intention, Hammond?” she asked without turning around. “When the three weeks are over, and if I do not fight you in the House, and if we resume a life together, are you going to begin imposing your husbandly rights immediately?”
He blinked. “What?”
“It’s a straightforward question.” She faced him, but lowered her chin at once. She stared at the carpet beneath her feet, tapping the hat in her hand against her thigh. When he did not reply, she looked at him. “Are you?”
Christ. John let out his breath in a slow sigh. The brutal truth that had kept them apart—that making love with him would be as distasteful to her now as it had been throughout most of their marriage—was one he kept shoving out of his mind. Even the other day, when she’d asked for time to get used to the idea of living with him again, he hadn’t wanted to think about that. But now, standing in the bedchamber that would be hers, faced with a question like that, asked like that, it was something he could no longer shove aside to think about later.
He’d known resuming a life together was going to be awkward and difficult, but to have her looking at him as if she were actually afraid, and asking when he intended to start imposing his husbandly rights…how the hell was any man supposed to answer a question like that?
John rubbed a hand over his face, utterly at a loss. Viola, timid about making love? He couldn’t believe it.
He thought again of the early days of their marriage, and though it had been a long time, the uninhibited way Viola had once made love with him was something he had never forgotten, something that made her contempt for him so much harder to bear. Looking at her now, he felt dismay hit him like a kick in the stomach. What if he could never make her feel that way again? What sort of life would they have?
“God, Viola,” he said, forcing the words out past the sudden sick fear that clenched his guts, “is it all gone? All of it?”
She frowned in perplexity at the question. “What do you mean?”
“There was a time when all I had to do was look at you, or you would look at me, and we were racing for the nearest bed.”
She winced and glanced away. “Don’t.”
“There used to be sparks between us,” he went on. “And fire. I remember how you used to love it when I touched you. God knows, I loved it when you touched me.” As he spoke, he could feel desire rising up again, the desire that had been burning deep within him like banked coals when he’d heard her laugh again. “It was good with us once. Remember?”
Her face suffused with color, her chin quivered. She did not look at him.
He pushed, knowing he had to make her remember what it had been like back then. “Hot and wild and good. I can’t believe you’ve forgotten how it felt when we made love. The ache, the burn, the bliss—”
“Stop it!” she cried, and threw her hat at him.
The bonnet swirled into his chest, bounced off, and fell to the floor in a flutter of straw, silk, and feathers. He stepped over it, his thoughts, words, and memories setting his body on fire. “Are we now reduced to talking about the way we make love as something I will impose on you? Is there none of that magic left between us? Do not tell me we destroyed it all.”
“I didn’t destroy anything!” she burst out. “You did.”
John didn’t give a damn right now who was to blame or for what. She could still arouse him as quick as lighting a match, and he had to find out if he could still do the same to her. If he couldn’t, there was no hope. As he took another step closer, she took one back, hitting the open armoire behind her.
“You said the other day that our life together was hell,” he went on, pulling up long-buried memories as he spoke. “But when I look back, I don’t think of it that way. I remember how much fun it was. I remember you always liked making love in the mornings best, and how we used to eat breakfast in bed. Blackberry jam was always your favorite.”
She turned as if to flee, but he was in front of her before she could. Enough running away for both of them. He brought his arms up on either side of hers, trapping her, gripping the shelf of the armoire behind her. He leaned down closer to her, inhaling a soft, delicate fragrance he needed no time to recognize. Violets. She still smelled like violets.
He thought of the mornings so long ago when he’d wakened to that scent and her warmth filling his senses. He closed his eyes, breathing in, images of the past flashing through his mind—their wedding journey into Scotland and three months at a secluded cottage there, making love and more love, with her tawny hair falling across his face like golden sunlight. Autumn in Northumberland and the massive mahogany bed at Hammond Park, snowy muslin sheets, the scent of violets and Viola all around him. Lust coursed through his body as he thought of all those mornings when he’d kissed blackberry jam off her lips for breakfast. Perhaps she was right about their life together being hell, because right now his body was getting hotter than hellfire. But it was a lovely way to burn.
“I remember how bad you are at chess,” he went on, his eyes closed, saying anything he could think of about those early days. “I remember racing horses on the downs with you, and how you’d tear off your hat and toss it up in the air, laughing. And how much I always liked the way you laugh.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Even though you look like an angel, you’ve got a laugh lustier than any courtesan could ever have.”
“You should know.”
He ignored that. “I remember cat and dog fights and making up afterward.” He fixed his gaze o
n her pretty pink mouth with its full lower lip and that tiny mole at the corner. “Making up was the best part.”
Her remembrances of their early married life did not seem as delicious as his, for her mouth thinned to a tight line. She folded her arms and her eyes narrowed. She was giving him that look—the withering glare of the disdainful goddess about to strike him dead with a lightning bolt. “Your memory is flawed, Hammond.”
“I don’t think so.” He bent closer to her and tilted his head to the side. “Come on, Viola,” he murmured and pressed his lips to her neck. “Let’s make up.”
He felt her shiver, and he smiled against her skin, a rush of relief surging through him. “You still like it when I do that, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” she snapped. “I don’t like anything about you. Not anymore.” She unfolded her arms, flattened her palms against his chest and pushed at him.
He pulled back and looked into her face. The goddess was nowhere to be seen, and in her place, by God, was a woman. True, she was a woman whose face was filled with outrage, hurt, confusion, desperate panic, even hate. But John also saw something else there, something he had not seen for eight long, cold years. A hint of desire.
“Haven’t we been at war long enough?” he murmured, bringing his mouth closer to hers. “Can we not call a truce?”
Her palm came up under his chin, pushing his face away. “I want your word, Hammond.”
“My word?” he asked against her gloved fingers. He lowered his chin to kiss her palm, and she jerked her hand away.
“Before I even consider living with you again, I want your word of honor as a gentleman that you will never impose your husbandly rights on me by force.”
John froze, those words stopping him more effectively than anything else she could have said or done. He straightened and tilted his head back, expelling his breath in a sigh as he looked at the ceiling. Life would be so much simpler, he thought wryly, if God had blessed him with a compliant wife. A biddable wife. A wife who would just do what she was told and like it. But he didn’t have that kind of wife. Instead, he had Viola—who was beautiful, spoiled, and imperious. Viola, who still hated him after eight years, but could still make him rock-hard with one tiny laugh. With a supreme effort, he banked the fires inside himself once again and returned his gaze to hers. “You long ago branded me a liar and a faithless husband and a cad. Why is my word worth anything to you now?”
“It’s the only card I have to play. And…” She paused to take a deep breath, staring into his ruffled shirtfront. “I am hoping that your word of honor as a gentleman actually means something to you.”
“And so you can fling my promise and my honor in my face at moments like this.”
She did not affirm or deny it, but that did not matter. He would never use force with her, and she knew it damn well. She was afraid, but not of him. She was afraid of herself. Now he understood that timidity she’d displayed earlier. Both of them were aware of that fine line where a man and a woman could stop lovemaking or they could complete the act, and she was afraid she would soften, afraid that with time, she would let him take her to that fine line, maybe even over its edge. She wanted a way out, a way to still resent him and make him the villain at any point she liked, even the morning after. She was afraid there might be a morning after. He grinned.
“Why are you smiling?”
He wiped the grin off his face. “I will not force you, Viola. I never have, and I never will. Since you seem to need my word of honor as a gentleman, you have it.”
He saw a flash of satisfaction in those big, expressive hazel eyes.
“Think you’ve won a victory, do you?” he asked lightly.
“Yes.”
“Think my promise gives you all the control, do you?”
Her jaw set. “Yes.”
“You’re right. It does. And I don’t mind in the least. I always enjoyed letting you be on top.” He ducked his head, kissed the side of her neck once more, and stepped back.
“I had best return you to Grosvenor Square or we shall both be late for our engagements.” He turned away, leaving her spluttering. “Well, come on, Viola,” he urged over his shoulder. “You did say Lady Fitzhugh’s dinner party was at eight. And you know it always takes you hours to get ready for a party.”
“Where are you going tonight?” she demanded, following him out of the room. “Temple Bar?”
John paused and looked at her. He grinned again. “Do you have a better suggestion of how I should spend my evening?”
She halted beside him and lifted her chin a notch, every inch the duke’s sister. “Go to all the brothels you please,” she said, looking at him with haughty dignity. “It doesn’t interest me in the least where you go or what you do or what woman you do it with.”
“That relieves my mind,” he said, and started down the stairs. “I should hate for you to ruin your evening fuming and fretting about it.”
Right behind him, she fired back, “Don’t worry, I won’t!”
During the ride back, she did not say a word, but now John didn’t mind her silence. He said little himself, too astonished by what had just happened to come up with conversation.
He was jubilant and pleased and completely stunned. All the coldness with which she had kept him at bay for so long was a sham. Deep down, underneath her hurting heart and wounded pride, she still felt desire for him. She might still hate him, she might still want to slap his face or tell him to go to the devil, but something had changed between them today. She had softened. Just a little, only for a moment, but she had softened.
It was amazing. He and Viola had been combustible as flint and powder during their courtship and those early months of marriage, loving and fighting with equal abandon. But after everything had fallen apart, they had never been together, except a few short weeks at the height of the season.
Even when forced to be under the same roof, they had seldom seen one another, nodding politely as they passed each other in the corridors like ships in the night. She had shown him in every possible way she couldn’t bear even the sight of him, and he had believed it.
They had become strangers. He even reached the point where it no longer bothered him to know how the girl who once adored him had become the woman who despised him. He’d been sure nothing but a miracle could bring back the fire they’d had.
But today, in a single instant, everything had changed. Some of the old, scorching desire had returned, and there was no going back.
Viola knew it, too. Knew he was as determined to have his way as she was to have hers, knew that she had only two weapons with which to fight him—his promise and her pride.
Formidable weapons, both of them, but they were not going to win her the war. He intended to have a son, and that meant regaining the willing, passionate wife he’d had in the beginning. Passion was something Viola still possessed in abundance. Willingness was another story. To succeed in this, he had to keep fanning the spark of desire that he now knew was still inside of her, fanning it until it was burning out of control.
It would not be easy. Viola was just as passionate in her rage as she was in her desire, just as stubborn in hate as she had been in love. Seducing her would require all the ingenuity he possessed.
He had to make it fun. That was what they’d had once and lost—the fun. The laughter and desire and the sheer pleasure of the other’s company. He had to find a way to bring all of that back.
When they reached Tremore House, he walked with her into the foyer, where they paused just inside the door and a maid took Viola’s damp pelisse and bonnet. “Good day, Hammond,” she said, and started to turn away.
“Viola?” When she stopped and looked at him, he added, “I will see you again on Friday. We are going on an outing.”
“An outing? Where?”
He smiled. “You’ll see. Be ready at two o’clock.”
Being Viola, she could not just go along without some sort of objection. “Why do you get to choos
e where we go on these outings?”
“Because I am the husband and you vowed to obey me?” When she did not look suitably impressed by that, he added, “Because I have a particular plan in mind.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“We’re going on a picnic.”
“A picnic?” She looked at him as if he’d gone mad.
“You always loved picnics. It used to be one of our favorite things. And two o’clock is the perfect time to go. You always get hungry around three.”
“Do I not have any say in this?”
“No, but you can choose where we go next time. And yes, there is going to be a next time. And another next time, and—”
“Oh, very well,” she said crossly. “When you get something in your head, there is just no reasoning with you.”
“And you said we have nothing in common anymore.”
She turned away with a sound of exasperation and started up the elegant, wrought-iron staircase. He watched her go, and when he saw her touch her fingers to the side of her neck, he wanted to laugh with exultation. Viola still got all shivery when he kissed her neck. Damned if that wasn’t some kind of miracle.
Chapter 6
On Friday, Viola prayed for rain.
Since John had said they would go on a picnic, she hoped for inclement weather. God, however, seemed as indifferent to her wishes as her husband had been. Unlike the day they’d gone to his house in Bloomsbury Square, this particular day was bright and beautiful, the April afternoon warm and pleasant. It was the perfect day for a picnic.
Going on such an outing with him filled her with dismay. Picnics had been one of their favorite activities years ago, and there were too many memories associated with them, memories of when their life together had been good. She never went on picnics anymore. And when he told her where he planned for them to have this picnic, her reluctance to go multiplied tenfold.
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