Guilty Series

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “He won’t,” John told her. “We men never steer clear. That would be like compass needles not pointing true north. It’s just not possible.”

  The baby pushed against John’s chest with both hands. “Pop,” he said. “Pop-pop.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said with a nod of complete understanding. “Thank you for reminding me of the important business at hand.” He began walking around the drawing room, the baby in his arms, making a great show of looking for Mr. Poppin. As he peered behind the pianoforte, under tables, and between chairs, he continued talking to his nephew in worldly-wise accents. “The devil of it, my boy, is that women are more important to us than anything else, and they know it. Not that any of the fair sex would ever use this fact against us, mind you.”

  He bent at the knees with the baby in his arms, looking under a round rosewood table. “But it’s important for a fellow to keep his wits about him.”

  He straightened and paused to look at his nephew. “Be especially careful of the no-win question,” he advised the baby, who was staring back at him in grave fascination. “They will get under your skin with that one every time. Mark my words.”

  Viola let out her breath in a huff, but John paid no heed. “Of course, in such circumstances,” he went on as he started in her direction, “we often do the worst possible thing—retaliate and say something hurtful.” He paused close to where she stood, and met her gaze. “We always regret it afterward and feel like dogs.”

  He resumed his search, walking past her without another word.

  She had just gotten an apology. In all the fights they’d had in the nine years they had known each other, John had never given her an apology for anything before. Had never come close. It was still just words, but words that he had never said to her before.

  Stunned, she turned around, watching as he circled to the other side of the settee, where he gave a cry of triumph.

  “Ah, here we are!” One arm securely around Nicholas, he bent at the knees, going down behind the settee. He came up with a brown, furry toy bear. “Mr. Poppin, I believe.”

  With a shout of delight, Nicholas wrapped one arm around the toy. He leaned against John’s chest with a hiccup and a gratified sigh, and buried his face against John’s neck. His free hand flailed in the air, then patted the man’s beard-roughened cheek and finally came to rest in a fist on the silk of his aubergine waistcoat.

  Her heart constricted, and she turned her back because it hurt her eyes to look at them. She thought of what he wanted from her and what he was not willing to give in return. Blinking, she stared down at the books scattered on top of the writing desk. A baby was impossible. It had to be impossible. That dream was long gone.

  “Well, well, this is an amazing thing,” John said.

  She made a show of straightening the books into a pile and forced herself to speak. “What is amazing?”

  “There is at least one member of the Tremore family who is on my side.”

  She stiffened, trying to prop up her protective walls. “Don’t get too conceited over it,” she said, and steeled herself as she turned around to look at him again. “I hate to tell you this, but Nicholas likes everyone.”

  “That may be so, but I am special. I rescued Mr. Poppin.” He kissed the top of the baby’s head. “Your aunt doesn’t like me, Nicky,” he murmured, “but I know she would listen to you. Put in a word for me, would you? There’s a good chap.”

  She gestured to Beckham to take the baby. The nanny walked over to John’s side. He hesitated, reluctant, but Viola could not bear the sight of him holding the baby any longer. “He ought to be put back to bed, Hammond. It’s late.”

  “Of course.” He handed the baby over to Beckham, who took the child and departed for the nursery. Nicholas was either too exhausted or too happy at the return of Poppin to feel deprived of his uncle’s charm. Not a single sob echoed back to the drawing room from the other side of the closed door.

  The silence was awkward and deafening.

  He took a step toward her. “Viola—”

  “It’s very late.” She took a step back and ran into the writing desk behind her.

  “It’s not that late.” He continued walking toward her with slow, deliberate steps, giving her plenty of time to evade him. For some stupid reason, she didn’t.

  He came to a halt in front of her. His lashes, thick and dark, lowered a fraction. He took the braid of her hair in his hand, lifted it to his mouth and kissed it, breathing in deeply. “Violets.”

  She began to shake inside, and she curled her fingers around the edge of the writing desk behind her. She thought of all the impossible, romantic dreams of her girlhood, and reminded herself they were dead dreams now.

  He moved the braid over her shoulder and let it fall down her back. Then he lifted both hands to her face. He ran his fingers along her cheekbones, lightly traced the sides of her nose, shaped the arch of each of her brows. He pushed his fingers into the hair at her temples and cupped her cheeks, caressing her lips with his thumbs. He did it all without looking into her eyes, keeping his gaze focused on his hands and her features as he touched them. There was deliberation and intent in every move.

  Caressing the mole at the edge of her lips with the pad of his thumb, he lowered his other hand to her waist and bunched delicate muslin in his fist. “I did come here for a reason,” he reminded her, and that was when he looked into her eyes. “I came to kiss and make up.”

  “You didn’t say anything about the kissing part.”

  “Tricked you again.” He tilted her chin up and covered her mouth with his.

  John’s kiss, as potent now as it had been in the museum, as potent as it had always been, making it so easy to forget that anything else in the world existed. John’s hands, so sure, sliding to her hips, pulling her closer, his fingers spreading across her buttocks. John’s mouth, coaxing hers to open.

  One of her hands came away from the desk, lifted to his unshaven cheek and touched skin rough like sand. Her lips parted. The strands of his hair were like damp, heavy silk in her fingers as she slid her hand to the back of his head and deepened the kiss.

  His tongue met hers and his hands tightened on her hips, holding her imprisoned against the desk as he tasted her. The kiss stung, burning where his beard stubble rubbed the skin around her mouth. Mornings with John, erotic images that had taunted her for years, images she had finally thought forever buried, came raging back to taunt and tease her now. Images of his hands touching her in the morning sunlight in a big mahogany bed at Hammond Park ran through her mind, sending electrifying excitement pulsing through her body now, impelling her to press her body closer to his. Her arm came up around his neck.

  He made a rough sound against her mouth and broke the kiss. He leaned sideways and with a sweep of his arm cleared the desk, sending the stack of books toppling off the side and onto the floor. Then his hands cupped her buttocks and he lifted her to set her on the desk.

  He reached for the sash wrapped around her waist, untying the bow with a hard, quick tug. He parted the edges and pulled her dressing robe apart. His fingertips touched her breasts through her nightgown, brushing back and forth over the hardened nipples. Pleasure rose within her, pleasure long forgotten, pleasure that made her gasp and shiver with excitement. Her hand tightened in his hair and she pulled him closer, guiding his head down to her breast.

  He laved the tip of her breast with his tongue, dampening the muslin. His hand came up to embrace her other breast, his thumb and forefinger closing to tease her nipple through the thin fabric. Sharp sensation rose with each pull of his mouth and each roll of his fingers as he suckled her and touched her and teased her through her nightdress.

  She cradled his head in her hands, trying to pull him even closer. She was lost in the hot, demanding urgency of his hands and his mouth. It had been so long since she had felt John’s hands on her, so long since she had felt this wild, sensual drive. She could hear the soft, hushed sounds that came from her own t
hroat, sounds of desperate want and aching need. She heard herself moan his name.

  He straightened, moving one hand to the top of her nightdress. He began slipping pearl buttons free as he used his other hand to yank the hem of the nightgown upward, above her knees. “God,” he groaned against her throat, “how I’ve missed this.”

  Missed what? Having a woman?

  Those questions sprang into her mind, and with them came reality, as cold as ice water washing over her. Good lord, what was she doing?

  She stiffened as his hand moved between her thighs, and she clamped her legs tightly together, putting a stop to this madness before it went any further. “No, John,” she gasped, seizing his wrist. “No.”

  He went rigidly still, his hand wrapped around her inner thigh, his harsh breathing mingling with hers. “Viola.” His hand stirred against her hold, slid up her thigh an inch or two.

  She pushed at his wrist. “Let me go.”

  He hesitated, and it was that moment of reluctance that galvanized her. “Let go, let go, let go!”

  Panicking, desperate, she slammed her palm into his shoulder, shoving him. She twisted sideways, hurling herself off the desk, stumbling over the hem of her robe in her haste to get away from him. “Out of my mind,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I must be out of my mind. What am I, a glutton for punishment?”

  “Viola—”

  The sound of his voice had her coming to a halt a few steps away from him. She whirled around, wrapping her robe around her body to shield every part of it from his view. “I cannot believe how easily I make a fool of myself over you and how often.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead, once, twice, three times, wondering what happened to the brains inside. “I can be so, so stupid.”

  He looked at her, still breathing hard, his face conveying a disbelief quite different from hers. He took a step toward her, reached for her, tried to touch her.

  She evaded him, moving farther out of reach. “I can’t even blame you for it. That’s the worst part. It’s not as if you lied to me this time or anything. You have admitted that you have never loved me. You could not even promise to be faithful to me. Yet thirty minutes later I was ready to lay my body down for you to take. Where on earth are my brains? Where is my self-respect?”

  “Self-respect?” He rubbed his hands over his face, gulping deep breaths of air. “God, woman, your self-respect isn’t the problem. Neither are your brains. It’s your timing.”

  “Eight years without you, building my own life,” she went on, ignoring him, lecturing herself, “and after only a few outings with you and a couple of stolen kisses, I am behaving as wantonly as one of your bawds.”

  “You are my wife! There is nothing bawdy about wanting to make love with your husband. And you wanted to, damn me if you didn’t. Why did you stop?” He raked his hands through his hair and turned away with another oath. “Hell, Viola,” he said over one shoulder, “sometimes I despair of ever understanding you.”

  “I would like you to leave.”

  He walked across the room, putting even more distance between them. His back to her, he straightened his clothing while she straightened hers. Neither of them spoke. After a few moments he walked over to the chair where he had left his coat earlier in the evening. He put it on. “The three weeks are up. I shall come for you tomorrow at noon. You’d better decide tonight which house you want to live in. If you don’t, Tremore can expect a demand from the House of Lords the day after.”

  She started to refuse, but when he turned around to face her, she closed her mouth and gave it up. There was defiance in his face now, defiance of her wishes, challenge in the lift of his brows, pride in the grim, determined set of his jaw. She knew that countenance very well. Arguing was pointless.

  “I gave you my word,” he reminded her in a hard, tight voice, and added, “I want a willing mate, so you needn’t worry about having to lay your body down for me to take. Far be it from me to treat you like a bawd.”

  Bowing, he left her.

  All very well for him to tell her not to worry. Worry wasn’t really her problem. It wasn’t worry that gnawed at her. It wasn’t worry that made her insides twist with dread and made her want to board the next ship headed for France.

  It was how the man who had hurt her so much, the man she ought to despise, could hold a crying baby in his arms and make him laugh. It was how he could still make her laugh, too, even after all he had done. It was how he could make her melt into a puddle when he kissed her and how he could light her on fire when he touched her. She wasn’t a foolish girl anymore, but she still wanted that man. She could fall in love all over again with that man. It would be so, so easy. Easy to say yes and give him what he wanted, having nothing in return. Not even a promise he would be faithful.

  No, she wasn’t worried. She was terrified.

  Chapter 12

  It wasn’t until the cold light of day that John’s desire and anger simmered down to a point where his brain began to work again and he could think clearly. And he had to think. He had to figure out what his next move should be.

  He stared down into his plate and idly pushed kidneys and bacon around with his fork. If he’d been thinking at all last night, which was doubtful, it had been about taking advantage of the blessed opportunity he’d been given as quickly as possible. He probably should have gone more slowly—wooed, coaxed, eased her into her bedroom upstairs. But he hadn’t. And then he had compounded the problem by getting autocratic and reminding her that the three weeks were up. If she didn’t come with him today, he’d have to go to the House, for he could not back down. Even then, when they were living together, he would still have to do some serious wooing together into bed.

  He dropped his fork into his plate with an exasperated oath. No man should have to put up with this from his wife. Most other men in his situation would drag her into the marriage bed and get on with it. But what other men would do didn’t help him. He wasn’t that sort of fellow, never had been.

  Christ. He wanted a willing wife. A passionate wife. Was that too much to ask?

  She said she could not trust him. He hadn’t pointed out that trust went both ways and so did the ability to inflict hurt. He could have promised Viola that he would never go to any woman’s bed but hers, but he wasn’t going to make that promise unless he could trust her not to spurn him when she was angry. He would not be the victim of any woman’s sexual blackmail, and that was what she had done to him, even if she could not see it. How could they ever get past that?

  He thought of Dylan Moore’s suggestion to him that he and Viola become friends. It seemed an insane idea, but then, Moore was rather mad, always had been.

  John sighed and sat back, looking at the little glass pots of jam on the table. Blackberry and apricot. Hammond Park.

  Those days had been shoved to the back of his mind long ago and had lingered there for years like other hazy, half-forgotten dreams of his youth. Yet now they called to him, beckoning him back to a time when he had been content, even happy. He’d made Viola happy, too. He was certain of it. There had to be a way to bring all of that back. He was no longer content to believe it had been lost forever.

  Become friends.

  John sat up straight in his chair, staring at the jam pots. Perhaps Moore was on to something. He and Viola had been friends once. That was what they’d had back then, that summer in Scotland and that autumn in Northumberland. They had been lovers, too, and fought and scrapped like lovers, but they had laughed and had fun, and he’d been more pleased with his choice of a wife than he could have ever imagined. Then it had all gone wrong.

  He wished—God, he wished—they could be like that again, and that he was having breakfast in bed with her right now, kissing blackberry jam off her face. Just now that seemed a dismally remote possibility.

  “The morning post, my lord.”

  Surprised, he looked up as Pershing set a stack of correspondence by his plate. It was usually John’s secretary who brought his let
ters. “Where’s Stone today?” he asked the butler.

  “Mr. Stone has the measles. Upon the advice of his brother-in-law, who is a physician, he has removed himself to his sister’s home in Clapham until he is no longer infectious to others. Mr. Stone said he bitterly regrets that he will be unable to be of service to your lordship for the next ten days.”

  “Send him a note, and assure him I prefer an absent secretary to a sick household. Tell him to stay in Clapham until he is fully recovered.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The butler withdrew.

  John glanced through his letters, sorting them as he went.

  An invitation to both Lord and Lady Hammond to dine at the home of Lady Snowden. The Countess of Snowden was clearly more optimistic this morning about the state of his marriage than he was. A note from Tattersall’s confirming that the new mare he’d purchased two weeks earlier had been delivered to his estate in Northumberland. He’d bought the horse for Viola. It was a spirited four-year-old thoroughbred with breathtaking speed, but given the current state of things, he didn’t think he’d be racing horses on the downs with his wife until this particular mare was tottering into her grave. Since the note needed no reply, he tossed it into the fire that burned in the grate nearby, and continued working his way through the stack of correspondence. A report from his steward on things at Hammond Park. A bill from his tailor, and another from his boot maker, both for the costume he was wearing to Viola’s charity ball, a ball to which he had still not received an invitation from his wife. Another letter from Emma Rawlins.

  He paused over the folded, sealed square of delicately perfumed paper. He had to admire the lady’s persistence. How many letters was this now? A dozen, at least. The first few he had read—an apology for her possessiveness, then a reproof for his cool reply, then a scathing condemnation of his inattention. After those, he had ignored the rest, not bothering to read them or reply. He heard she had sold the cottage he’d given her and was living in France. Hoping she remained there, he tossed her latest letter into the fire unopened.