Guilty Series

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  He stirred. “I’ll go,” he said, and backed up a step. “I can see you wanted to go to bed early.”

  “You don’t have to leave.”

  What was she saying? But the words were out of her mouth now. She could not take them back, and she tried at once to qualify them. “I mean…you are cold and ought to get warm first. If you don’t, you could catch a chill, and…and…that would be bad.” Her voice trailed off.

  John turned back around. “Do you want me to stay?”

  She looked down, acutely self-conscious. She did, God help her. “Yes.” She looked up and saw him smile. “For a while,” she amended at once.

  His smile got wider, the wretched man.

  She sat down on the settee. “I thought we might talk about things.”

  The smile vanished, and he groaned, lifting his gaze heavenward. “Lord help me. First standing out in the rain, and then talking about things.” He gave a sigh and pulled off his wet coat. “I don’t suppose those things will be easy things? Irish politics, for instance? Or how to lessen poverty within the British Empire? Or what the ramifications would be of repealing the Corn Laws?”

  How did he manage it? He could always find a way to make her smile. She sat down on the settee, and after draping his coat onto the back of a chair by the fire, he sat down beside her. “What do you want to talk about?” he asked.

  She thought a moment. “I don’t quite know,” she said with a little laugh that sounded just as nervous as she suddenly felt. “I always thought if we ever sat down and talked, I’d have plenty to say, but now I am at rather a loss.”

  “We used to find many things to talk about.”

  “And argue about.”

  “True enough.” He shot her a wry look. “That hasn’t changed, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I noticed.” She paused, then said, “We have been married almost nine years, and yet, I do not know you, John, not really. In many ways I do not understand you. I don’t believe I ever did. During our courtship and the early days of our marriage, I was always open with you. I told you so many things about myself, my family, and the things I want and like and what I think. But whenever I asked you things about yourself—what your childhood was like, or how you felt about—oh, I don’t know—anything personal, you would always make some offhand joke and change the subject.”

  “And?”

  “You may be my husband, but you are a stranger to me. I feel as if we should remedy that but I do not know how. If I ask you things, will you tell me?”

  “About my childhood? It was a nightmare. Enough said. Believe me, you don’t want to hear it, and I certainly cannot bear to talk of it. And anyway, isn’t it more to the point to be talking about us?”

  “If I ask you anything about us and you don’t wish to discuss it, you will divert the conversation.”

  He didn’t speak for a moment, then said, “No, I won’t. Ask your questions. Fire away.” He leaned back against the sofa and turned his head to look at her. “Be warned. I cannot guarantee you will like my answers, but they will be honest ones. Fair enough?”

  Faced with exactly what she had asked for, Viola thought a moment, wondering just how blunt her questions should be. But he’d said she could ask him anything, so she was going to take advantage of the opportunity. “Did you love any of your mistresses? Any of them?”

  “No.”

  “Did you love me, John?” She already knew the answer, but she had never heard him admit it. She wanted to hear it from him. “When you asked me to marry you, and you told me you loved me, did you mean it?”

  “I…” He rubbed a hand over his eyes and let out his breath on a sigh. Then he lowered his hand and met her eyes. “No.”

  There it was. The stark and brutal truth. He did not try to explain his actions or justify them. This was the answer she had expected, a confirmation of what she had known for over eight years, but even now it had the power to hurt her. Still, better an honest, hurtful answer than a lie. She’d had enough of those.

  “Do you—” She hesitated. Asking him questions was so much harder than she had thought it would be. She sucked in a deep breath and tried again. “Do you have any children by any of the women you’ve had?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. There are ways to prevent…there are sheaths a man can use. They don’t always work, but—” He broke off and stirred beside her, uncomfortable. “God, Viola, do not ask me to discuss things like that with you. I cannot do it.”

  “Many people say Peggy Darwin’s youngest son is yours, even though Darwin claimed him.”

  John moved closer to her. “No, Viola, no. I told you, he is not mine. I know that rumor has been flying around for years, but it is not true.”

  “Because of these…sheaths that don’t always work?”

  “And because I can do arithmetic. Peggy and I broke off our liaison a year before William was born, and no child takes twelve months to come out of the womb. No woman has ever come to me with word of a child by me.”

  Even though she knew he could be lying, she believed him. She chose to believe him, and with that choice came a profound sense of relief.

  “May I ask a question?” He paused, then said, “You loved me. Why?”

  Taken aback, not only by the question but also by the sudden intensity in his voice as he asked it, she stared at him. “Why did I love you?”

  “Yes, why? I mean, you didn’t even know me. Even nowadays, as you said, we don’t know each other. Yet, you tell me that you loved me. That is something I find baffling, Viola. Why on earth did you ever fall in love with a bloke like me?”

  He was frowning, and there was something in his face, something that reminded her of a schoolboy who was waiting for an explanation of a complicated mathematical problem. He was expecting an answer that made sense. She lifted her hand helplessly. “Heavens, I don’t know. I suppose because you made it so easy. Whenever I was with you, everything in the world was good and right, and I was happy. The sky was bluer and the grass was greener—” She broke off, looked away. “That sounds silly, I know, but it’s how I felt. I can’t tell you why, but I did love you.” She swallowed painfully and looked at him. “I loved you more than my life.”

  He reached up one hand to touch her face, spreading his palm across her cheek, his fingertips stirring the hair at her temple. “I never meant to hurt you, Viola. God, if you believe nothing else I ever say, believe that. When we married, I hoped to be content. That’s all one can really expect from life anyway. But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? Being content?”

  She moved away from him. “If you’ve ever been in love, you shouldn’t have to ask that question.” Struck by her own words, she studied him at the other end of the settee, and the few feet she had just put between them seemed like miles. “Have you ever been in love?”

  He looked away. “No.”

  Perhaps he was incapable of loving anyone. She did not say it, but that unspoken conclusion hung in the air. She turned, leaning back against the settee, and stared straight ahead. “You’ve never been in love with me or any other woman. You certainly are not in love with me now. So give me one good reason why I should consider coming back to you. Other than I am your wife and I have no choice and our society lives by certain rules.”

  “All right.” He began moving toward her, easing his way across the settee to her side. “Because I make you laugh. Because when I kiss you, you get all soft and shivery, and I like that. I have always liked that.” He put his arm around her, ignoring the way she stiffened. “Because whenever I touch you, everything in the world goes away, and it is only the two of us. Because even when we are fighting, half of my mind is trying to figure out how to get you out of your clothes. That is as honest an answer as I can give you.”

  She would not be beguiled by it. “You never feel these things, of course, with any of the other women you’ve had.”

  “It is not the same.”

  �
��How is it different?”

  He made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Because no other woman in the world ever makes me so insane that I want to smash my head through a window.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “Because you are my wife, I am your husband. Because I want children, Viola. I think you want them, too.”

  “What you mean is that you want an heir.”

  “No, that is not what I mean.” He must have realized how unbelievable that sounded, given that was his whole reason for trying to come back to her, and he amended his answer at once. “I mean, I need an heir, yes, but I want children. Isn’t that what marriage is for?”

  “Because marriage is a sensible decision,” she said, a dreariness coming over her as she spoke.

  “For me and for most of the people we know. Not everyone looks at marriage the way you do, Viola. It isn’t always about love. That is one of those rules that govern our lives.”

  He was right about that. She thought of the titled families they knew. Anthony and Daphne were an exception—for most couples of their acquaintance, marriage was not about love. It was about alliance and securing heirs, then going on to lead separate lives and have lovers of one’s own choosing. She saw the future stretched out before her—a future that she had thought to avoid when she married John—a loveless marriage.

  She could take lovers, she supposed, to ease the wretched loneliness, if she wanted them, but she could not imagine being touched by any other man but John. Still, something prompted her to ask the question. “The rules apply to us, too, I suppose? I mean, I could be like Peggy Darwin and take a lover of my own, if I wanted one.”

  “No, you could not!” The words came out of him with unexpected force, as explosive as gunshots in the room.

  “But you could. In fact, you already have. That’s hardly fair.”

  “Too bad.” Turning, he looked at her, defying fairness. “My heir, Viola, no other man’s. That’s part of the rules, too.”

  “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 unreasonable. 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 returning 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 ba
by’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.”