“At least they don’t make it with sugar any longer.”
“Hair powder was made with sugar? But wouldn’t that attract all manner of insects?”
“That was a drawback, certainly.”
“How awful.” Though if that would keep Hammond at bay, it might be worth a try. She reminded herself that she wasn’t going to think about him anymore. “Does the overskirt hang correctly at the hem?” she asked, turning in a circle again. “It seems a bit crooked.”
“It’s the hoops, I think, not the sack.” Daphne adjusted one of the wide side hoops. “If you don’t want to worry about powdering your hair, you could go as a Greek princess of two thousand years ago. Then you could wear a cone of fat on your head instead of hair powder.”
“Fat?” Viola faced the mirror again and looked at her sister-in-law’s reflection. “Why on earth would I wear fat on my head?”
Her horrified expression made the other woman laugh again. “The fat was perfumed, and in the heat, it would melt, releasing the fragrance.”
“You know the most extraordinary things, Daphne. Thank you for the suggestion, but I shall stay with what I have. I cannot imagine what Lady Deane would have to say if I showed up at the ball with perfumed fat on my head.” Viola smoothed the overskirt over the hoops at her hips. “Since you know so much, dear sister, how do I avoid getting powder on this dark blue velvet?”
“Wear a wig. Most people did eighty years ago.”
“No, it will just get hot and make my head itch. I hate that.”
“So that is why you are forever taking off your hats! Now I understand.”
A scratch sounded on the door, and Mirelle, London’s most fashionable modiste, entered the dressing room. “Your grace. Lady Hammond.” She curtsied to Daphne and then to Viola. “I hope you like your costumes? Is there anything you would wish to alter? I am at your disposal.”
“I like mine exceedingly well,” Daphne said.
The modiste clasped her hands together, gratified. “Your grace is most kind.” She turned to Viola. “And you, my lady?”
“Mirelle, what does one use for hair powder? Talc?”
“They make a very fine hair powder for wigs nowadays, my lady. Barristers and judges use it, you see. You could powder your hair with that. But if I may be allowed to give my opinion on the matter, it would be a shame to cover your hair with powder. It is a lovely color, and with the pale blue silk and dark blue velvet, most beautiful, most alluring.”
Those passionate moments in the museum flashed through her mind again, and Viola felt her cheeks heating at the mortifying memory. She wasn’t certain she wanted to be alluring. It was too dangerous. “Thank you, Mirelle.”
“I agree with her,” Daphne put in. “No woman of any era would cover hair the color of yours with powder.”
“Then I won’t wear it.” She told herself it was because powder was messy. The fact that Hammond had always liked the color of her hair had nothing to do with it. She pressed a hand to the low-cut, heavily boned bodice of embroidered, pale blue silk. “But we have another problem. It is a ball, and I shall never be able to waltz or country dance in this. No wonder they only danced the minuet in my great-grandmother’s day.” She glanced at Mirelle. “Can you have the waistline let out a bit?”
“Only a little bit, or it would spoil the line of the bodice, you see.”
“Let out as much as you can, Mirelle. I shall be unable to breathe otherwise.” She considered her choice one last time, then nodded. “I do like the gown very much. The embroidery is lovely.”
“I am always pleased to be of service, my lady.”
Mirelle departed and an assistant helped Viola dress once again in her own clothes. After that, she and Daphne left the modiste. “Mirelle was right, you know,” Daphne said as they stepped into Anthony’s barouche. “You do look stunningly beautiful in that gown.”
Viola leaned back against the carriage seat beside her sister-in-law and gave her a look of chagrin. “There are many beautiful women in the world, Daphne, but beauty is not enough to make a husband faithful. What is?”
Daphne wrapped an arm around her shoulders in an affectionate hug. “I don’t know, darling. I just don’t know.”
“Neither do I,” she whispered. “I wish I did.”
John knew that in the seduction of one’s wife, desperate measures were required. And he also knew he would be forced to endure a certain amount of suffering.
He stayed away from Grosvenor Square for a few days, telling himself that his absence might make her miss him, but the truth was, he needed time to get his own desire back in check. Memories of the museum, of the taste of Viola’s mouth and the soft, delicious feel of her in his arms invaded his dreams all three nights he stayed away, and dominated his thoughts for all three days. But it was a sweet sort of suffering.
Monday afternoon he decided he was in control enough to see her again, but this time he doubted he would be able to steal a few kisses in a shadowy corner. Today, his fate was to endure a different sort of torture. He intended to take Viola shopping.
His suggestion that she redecorate the house in Bloomsbury Square had not been met with the enthusiasm he had hoped for, but if she began selecting things for the house, she might begin to feel a part of it, and that could only help his cause. He also knew how much his wife loved to shop.
When John called for Viola at Grosvenor Square that afternoon, he once again suggested the idea of shopping for their house in town, but he found that his idea was still not meeting with any enthusiasm on her part.
“I don’t want to go,” she said, and sat down on the settee in Tremore’s drawing room. “I don’t feel well.”
“Did anyone ever tell you what a bad liar you are? Put on a bonnet, fetch your reticule, and let’s be on our way.”
“I told you I do not want to redecorate your house.”
“It’s yours, too. I pledged my troth when we got married, remember? With all my worldly goods, I thee endowed, and all that.”
She folded her arms. “You didn’t have any worldly goods.”
“I had estates. A title. A few horrid paintings of previous viscounts. What, those didn’t count?”
“Why don’t you take Lady Pomeroy shopping? She loves Bond Street, and she loves spending Pomeroy’s money.”
John studied her, and he knew she was flinging Anne in his face to drive him away.
He could tell her about Anne, he supposed. Opening up the topic was akin to stepping into a pit of snakes, for he’d surely get bitten. He could tell her what an empty amour it had been, an easing of physical needs and nothing more, but he doubted that would make any difference. Talking about it might only make things worse. They would end up in a fight for certain, and what good would it do to rehash the whole thing anyway? His affair with Anne had been over five years ago. The future was what mattered. Besides, no sane man ever jumped into a snake pit.
“Would you prefer to walk to Bond Street or take my carriage?” he asked mildly.
She made a sound of impatience, stood up, and walked to the fireplace. “I told you I don’t want to go shopping,” she said over her shoulder.
“Viola, you love visiting the shops, and you know how much I hate it. I thought you would jump at the chance to torture me with testing the comfort of chair cushions and picking out Turkish carpets. Not to mention the jewelers, where you can sweet-talk me into spending an outrageous sum for a perfectly useless bauble of rubies and diamonds you can show off to your friends.”
She turned around. “I do not need any jewels from you,” she said coolly. “And as for the rest, I told you before I have no desire to spend my income from Anthony on your house, even if you are the one who has control of that income.”
She was determined to fight with him today, but he was just as determined not to let that happen.
“If you don’t wish to shop, then we’ll do something else.” He thought for a moment. “What if we go calling on all our friends? That would
be amusing. We could sit on their settees and hold hands like sweethearts. Married couples never hold hands, especially us. What a shock they will get.”
“I am not going to call on my friends and hold hands with you!”
“Oh, very well, if you are going to be so unromantic.” He gave her a wicked grin. “We could go back to your brother’s museum. I heard there are some very delicious Roman frescoes tucked away somewhere that nobody but the antiquarians are allowed to see. You’re Tremore’s sister, so we could get in to have a look at them. Let’s do that.”
She turned her face away. “I don’t think so.”
“I understand they’re quite erotic,” he went on, and realized she was blushing. He began to laugh and stepped in front of her, ducking his head to look her full in the face. “Dash it, Viola, you’ve already seen them, haven’t you? Snuck in and had a peek when big brother wasn’t looking?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Her cheeks got pinker, and he knew he was right. The thought of Viola sneaking into Tremore’s museum to look at erotic pictures sent his hopes soaring higher.
“Curiosity got the better of you, did it?” he teased. “I wish I’d thought to look at them the other day when we were there. What were they like? Were they so very wicked? Come on, Viola,” he coaxed in the wake of her silence. “You can describe them to me. I am your husband, after all.”
She remained silent, blushing furiously, and he knew those frescoes must be very erotic indeed. No wonder Tremore and his wife liked mucking around their estate in Hampshire, digging up those antiquities. John glanced down the length of his wife’s body, started imagining some erotic images himself, and lost what little interest he had in taking her shopping.
“You know, the more I think on it,” he said, “the more I like the idea of going back to Tremore’s museum. There’s probably nothing shown in those frescoes we haven’t done anyway. In fact, if the room they’re in has a lock on the door, we could try some of—”
“All right, all right!” she cried, lifting her palms toward him as if to stop any more of his words. “We shall go to Bond Street, for heaven’s sake!”
She turned away and strode out of the drawing room, her pale yellow silk skirt and lacy petticoats churning up behind her heels with the force of her strides.
“But I’ve changed my mind,” he called after her, laughing. “I want to go to back to the museum with you and look at the naughty frescoes.”
“Not a chance!” she shot back over her shoulder as she left the room. She returned a few minutes later, a straw bonnet trimmed in purple and yellow pansies on her head and an embroidered reticule in her gloved hand. Pausing in the doorway, she said, “Well, come along then,” and vanished, starting toward the stairs without waiting for him.
It was only a distance of two blocks from Grosvenor Square to Bond Street. Since she had expressed no preference and it was such a fine day, he suggested they walk. She agreed, but when he offered her his arm, she did not take it, and they walked toward Bond Street side by side without touching. Two footmen followed a discreet distance behind, ready to carry packages for them if necessary.
When they turned onto Bond Street, she paused, and he halted beside her. “What do you wish to buy?” she asked.
“I have no idea. This is your territory, not mine. The only shops I frequent are boot makers and booksellers. And occasional visits to my tailor.” He made a open-handed gesture to the street before them. “Lead the way.”
She glanced around, thinking for a moment. “Perhaps Bell’s would be a good place to start.”
“Bell’s?”
“Drapers. I heard they have some very beautiful new velvets, and you need new draperies in several of the rooms. The ones you have are a bit down-at-heel.” She tapped one gloved finger against her lips, considering. “Although, you might want to have some of the rooms repainted first. We’ll have to see.”
A memory struck him and he began to laugh. “Remember when you started redecorating Hammond Park?” he asked as they resumed walking. “You painted the master chamber that deep red color, and you hated it once it was done. I loved it and wanted to keep it like that. We had a huge row over it.”
“And you won,” she answered, pausing before the drapers shop, waiting as he opened the door. “You usually did in those days,” she added over her shoulder as she walked through the door. “It’s galling to think how many times I gave in to you.”
He followed her inside the crowded shop. “I don’t know,” he murmured beside her. “I rather liked having to sweet-talk you into seeing things my way. If I recall, it always took quite a few kisses to persuade you to my side. That was the fun part.”
“I wish you would stop bringing up things like that!”
She blushed again, making him laugh as he followed her to a long counter where sample swaths of velvet were laid out in piles. This season’s most fashionable colors, no doubt. He halted slightly behind her, looking over her shoulder at the fabrics.
“Does it bother you when I mention how we used to kiss and make up?” he asked softly, so the ladies milling about would not hear.
She looked up at him in exasperation. “Must you hover beside me like a shadow?” she asked, and took a sideways step away from him.
“Not going to answer that, I see.” He circled the counter, moving to stand opposite her. “You know, you are as prickly as a chestnut today.”
“I have five good reasons,” she shot back in a whisper. “No, six, if you count Elsie.”
He did not respond to that. Instead, he held up a swath of moss green velvet, knowing she was fond of that color. “What about this?”
Viola looked at it, head tilted to one side. “It would be nice in your library,” she said after a moment. “With those butter-colored walls and all the leather books, it would look quite attractive. What do you think?”
“Do you like it?”
She looked down at the fabrics spread over the table. “It does not matter if I like it.”
“It matters to me, Viola.”
She did not reply. She stood with her head bent, rubbing velvet between her gloved fingers.
“Do you like it?” he repeated.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, sighed, looked at him. “Yes, yes, I like it. All right?”
A small concession, but he’d take it. He grinned. “I knew you would. That’s why I picked it.”
“How would you know I liked it?”
“You like green. I remembered. Rather good of me, don’t you think?”
“You needn’t look so pleased with yourself.” With that, she lapsed into silence, broken only by an occasional inquiry as to his opinion about various fabrics.
They made their way along the counter, and she continued to speak in such impersonal terms it was as if he had hired her to decorate his house. He wanted a smile, a laugh, a kiss. Damn it all, he wanted to please her.
When he spied a swath of fabric in a color she loathed, that gave him an idea, and he grabbed the piece of velvet. “I’ve changed my mind about having that green in the library,” he said. “I want this instead.”
She looked up, stared at the fabric in his hands, then looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What?”
John strove to seem serious. “Yes, I like this one much better than the green.”
“It’s orange,” she said in horror.
He looked at it, pretended to think the matter over, then looked at her again, all wide-eyed innocence. “I like orange. What’s wrong with orange?”
“I hate it! It’s an awful, lurid color.”
“But, Viola, I like it.”
Her expression became downright mulish. “Our library is not going to have any orange!”
“At last!” he cried, and tossed the swath in the air, earning himself stares from the matrons around them and a baffled look from her. “A victory at last.”
She cast an uneasy glance around. “What are you talking about?”
He
grinned at her, and he didn’t give a damn if every lady in Mayfair was in the shop. “You called it our library.”
She jerked her chin, looked sideways. “I did not,” she muttered.
“You did,” he said, “and you can’t take it back.”
She returned her gaze to his. “That was a trick, Hammond,” she accused. “You don’t really want orange, do you?”
“Of course not. But it doesn’t change the fact that you called it our library. You know what that means?” He gave her a triumphant look. “I get a point.”
“A point? What are you talking about?”
“If I get enough points, I win.”
“Points, indeed. Are we playing another game, then?”
“The same game. It’s called ‘Winning Viola.’”
Despite her best efforts, a tiny hint of a smile touched her mouth. “So I am to be the prize in this game as well as your competitor?”
“Well, yes. How many points do I need to win?”
She made a sound that might have been a laugh, but she pressed her fingers to her lips, smothering it at once. After a second or two she lowered her hand and once again began sorting through the samples on the counter.
“How many, Viola?
“Thousands and thousands.”
“Not fair. Give me a number.”
“All right.” She paused, then said, “Eighteen thousand, seven hundred forty-two.”
“It that all? You are being far too easy on me. That means, of course, I get another point.”
That made her look up again. “Whatever for?”
“If you really hated me as much as you keep saying you do, you’d have told me I needed a million points at least. See how this game works?”
“You are so outrageous!” She held up piece of fabric in a sort of beige color with gold leaves embroidered into it. “What do you think of this for your music room?”
“What about this instead?” He held up a swath of lavender velvet, and though he once again tried to look serious, this time he couldn’t quite manage it.
She smiled, wider this time. “Lavender, John? Surely not for the music room. But it would be the perfect color for your bedchamber.”
Guilty Series Page 67