Keeping only the report from his steward, which he could read in the carriage on his way to Grosvenor Square, and the invitation, which he would ask Viola about before replying, he left the breakfast table. Instructing Pershing to place the bills on Stone’s desk for the secretary to pay when he returned, John went upstairs to bathe and shave.
As his valet assisted him with his morning routine, John tried to anticipate what Viola’s next move was likely to be. His wife could be as unpredictable as the weather, but if he had to guess, he thought it most likely that she would refuse to see him and force him to go to the House of Lords to get her back. But when he arrived at Grosvenor Square that afternoon, he found that she was not refusing to see him, nor agreeing to see him. Instead, she had left town.
“Where?” he asked, looking into the pretty, violet eyes of the Duchess of Tremore, who had been the one to impart this news.
The duchess did not answer for a moment. Instead, she stirred her tea, her head tilted in consideration as she studied him from behind her gold-rimmed spectacles. “Before I decide to answer that, I would like to ask you a question, Hammond.”
“Certainly.”
“If Viola refuses to return to you, is it really your intention to petition the House to force her back?”
He smiled a little. “Duchess, I sometimes think even the House of Lords could not make my wife do what she does not want to do,” he said, trying to make light of it.
The duchess did not seem satisfied by that. Instead, she continued to look at him with all her placid equanimity. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to think of how to answer her when he did not know what the answer was. He gave his sister-in-law the most direct, honest reply he could. “I refuse to accept the possibility that she will not return to me,” he answered. “I reject it utterly and completely.”
“And how long will you reject it?”
He set his jaw. “Until I make her see sense and reject it, too.”
“That may be a long time.” She tapped the tiny silver spoon against the side of her cup and set it on the rim of the saucer beneath it.
He could not argue with that. Tight-lipped, he nodded. “Yes.”
“Love is not the basis of your determination to win Viola back.”
Was that an accusation? A condemnation?
Before he could decide, she took a sip of tea and spoke again. “Viola is at Enderby.”
The duchess’s sudden capitulation surprised him, and though he tried not to show it, she noticed. “You did not expect that, did you?”
“No, Duchess. I did not.”
“In instigating a search for your wife, you would have inquired at Enderby first, and the servants would have told you she was there. They are paid by you, after all.”
“Is that the only reason you told me?”
Those pretty lavender-blue eyes widened. “What other reason could there be?”
“There has to be one. You risk your husband’s wrath by even sitting down to tea with me.”
“True.” She did not seem worried about that, and he suspected that this serene and mild-mannered lady held the duke’s haughty heart in the palm of her hand. Such was the inexplicable nature of love. “If you hurt Viola again, Tremore will most likely challenge you to a duel. He would kill you quite cheerfully, believe me.”
“And you?” he asked, genuinely curious. “Do you share his animus for me?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
He forced a laugh. “I cannot think why not.”
“No?” There was compassion in her face as she looked at him, and that made him shift uncomfortably in his chair. “I know how desperation feels, Hammond. Unlike my husband and my sister-in-law, I have been without money and means, and it was the most terrifying moment of my life. I would have done anything—anything, mind you—to rid myself of that terror. If fortune had not put the Duke of Tremore and a ship passage to England in my path, I might easily have been forced to marry for money.” She paused. “Or worse.”
“I am glad that did not happen,” he said, and meant it wholeheartedly.
“You have another ally besides myself, you know.” She smiled a little. “My son has taken quite a liking to you, I understand.”
He smiled back at her, remembering Nicolas and Mr. Poppin. “Heard about that, did you?”
“From Beckham.”
“He is a fine boy, Duchess.” As he said the words, John felt envy begin to burn his insides, the same envy that had seared him while he stared out the window of this very room and watched the Tremore family walk in the park. His smile faded and he turned his head away from the compassionate eyes of his sister-in-law. “A very fine boy.”
“Thank you.” She stood up. “I hope you are sincere in your desire for a real marriage and a family, Hammond. If not, God help you.”
John rose as well. “Because your husband will challenge me to a duel?”
“No,” she answered at once. “Because I will save Anthony the trouble and fire a pistol shot into you myself. For blind stupidity, if nothing else.”
“I believe you mean that,” he murmured, noting the sudden hardness in her face.
“I do mean it.” She held out her hand to him.
“Then you may put your mind at ease, Duchess,” he said, and bent over her hand to kiss it. Straightening, he went on, “Because I am sincere. Obstinate as well, I grant you. Cynical, certainly. A bad husband, perhaps. But also sincere.”
“I hope so, for your sake and for Viola’s.”
He departed, not knowing quite why he had the duchess’s good opinion, but grateful for it. He went home to Bloomsbury Square, but made no move to pack for Enderby.
He was not about to take anything for granted. Viola had clearly decided not to fight a legal battle with him, but she was not ready to give in. The night before in Tremore’s library made that perfectly clear. In light of that, he knew his best move was to give his wife a bit of room to breathe. His absence, he thought wryly, might make her heart grow fonder—for a change.
John allowed a week to pass. Then, accompanied by his valet and a pair of footmen, he went to Enderby, arriving there an hour before dinner. His arrival caused a bit of fluster, for the master of Enderby hadn’t put in an appearance on this estate in years and had sent no word ahead that he would be arriving. He inquired of Hawthorne, Enderby’s current butler, where Viola might be.
“I believe Lady Hammond is taking a nap, my lord. Shall I show you to the drawing room while I inquire?”
“Expect me to sit like a visitor and cool my heels in my drawing room, Hawthorne?” he asked softly, smiling.
The butler flushed a deep red, pained by his inadvertent blunder. “No, my lord,” he said stiffly.
“Good.” John saw no need to embarrass the fellow further. “Have my things sent up to my room, will you? And show my valet, Stephens, the way of things here at Enderby. Introduce him about, show him the laundry rooms, give him the meal times and such. You know what to do, of course.”
Looking profoundly relieved not to be dressed down by a master he had never met, Hawthorne nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
John turned away and started up the wide, curving staircase, one hand on the wrought-iron rail. Though Enderby was one of his estates, it had become Viola’s primary residence over the years, and since their complete separation two years before, her only residence. He spent most of the year at Hammond Park, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been here—four years at least. But he’d spent a lot of his childhood here, and after Cambridge, this had been his home up until his father’s death. He remembered exactly where the bedchambers were.
Viola had done a great deal to the house, he noticed as he mounted the stairs. It was as feminine as a house could be, all pastels and flowers. His father would turn in his grave if he knew, John thought, and he tried to take some comfort in that.
He stopped at the door of Viola’s room, opened it, then stepped inside without making a so
und. He saw that she was indeed taking a nap. He came into the room and shut the door behind him.
The sound caused her to stir, and she made a murmur in her sleep but did not waken. She turned onto her side, facing him, and loose tendrils of hair fell over her face. She looked all tawny and golden, like a sleepy lioness.
He gave a cough, and she stirred again. Slowly, she opened her eyes.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
“You!” She was off the bed in an instant, fully awake.
He reminded himself that he’d pushed her too hard too fast that night a week ago. A light, offhand approach was best. “I was going to curl up with you and kiss you awake, but you woke up too soon.” He shook his head in disappointment. “A devilishly good plan spoiled.”
Her eyes narrowed. If she were a lioness, he’d have claw marks. As it was, she settled for a fierce scowl. “What are you doing here?”
He tried to look apologetic. “It is my house.”
That did not seem to cut any ice with Viola. She pointed to the door behind him. “Get out of my room.”
He did the opposite. Stepping away from the closed door, he looked about him, pretending a great deal of interest in the furnishings. “Is this your room? Oh, but what am I thinking? It’s been painted pink. Of course it’s your room.”
He started across to the door leading into his own bedchamber, then stopped and looked at her. “You did not paint my room pink, did you?”
“I wish I had thought of it.”
John let out his breath on a sigh of relief that was only half feigned. “Enjoy your nap, darling. I shall see you at dinner. Are we keeping country hours or town hours? Never mind, I shall inquire of Hawthorne. Would you like to play chess after dessert, or would you prefer piquet?”
She began shaking her head. “Oh, no. Oh, no. You are not staying.”
He pretended to be puzzled. “Did you want to return to town and stay at Bloomsbury Square? Personally, I’d rather we stay here for the remainder of the season. So much less gossip.”
She put her face in her hands. “God hates me. He must, to set you upon me in this manner.”
He made a sound of mock distress as he opened the door to his own room. “You make me sound like the plagues of Egypt.”
She lifted her head. “How apt a description of you!” she cried as she followed him and started pushing him through the doorway. “I could not have chosen better. Will you please leave?”
Deciding not to push his luck, he allowed her to propel him through the doorway. “I’m going,” he said, and turned around to look at her. “What did you choose for dinner? Nothing too awful, I hope.”
She smiled sweetly. “Hemlock.”
“Ah, my favorite.”
The door slammed in his face. He lingered there, waiting.
After a moment he heard what he’d been waiting for on the other side of the closed door. “Insufferable man!”
With a chuckle, he pulled the bell for Stephens and began to change for dinner.
Chapter 13
Sure John would follow her to Enderby, Viola had spent the first few days here on tenterhooks, looking out the front windows of the villa every few minutes, fully expecting to see his carriage. But after a week had passed with no sign of him, she had come to think perhaps he had finally given up on reconciling, and that was when the unthinkable had happened.
She began to miss him.
Especially at night, sitting by the fire as she remembered those passionate moments in the library at Grosvenor Square. She’d even begun to dream about him, about his kiss and his touch, an aggravating development, and one that if he ever learned of it, would be excessively mortifying.
At dinner that evening she kept her head lowered, studying him in quick, surreptitious glances as he sat at the head of the long dining table. Odd to see him there. Odd to have him in this house she had come to regard as her own. But it wasn’t hers, of course. As he had reminded her earlier, it was his. And he was the master of it.
What do you want, Viola?
His question echoed through her mind. A few weeks ago her answer had been simple and succinct: go away. Now, she didn’t know what the answer should be. Her reprieve was at an end, but that wasn’t what kept her silent while he tried to make conversation. It was her own confusion. And frustration. He couldn’t even make her the simple promise of fidelity. She was angry with herself because she knew if he made that promise, she was prepared to believe it, and that probably made her twice a fool. Thinking of that evening in the library made her feel more muddled than ever.
And scared. She didn’t want to be hurt. She didn’t want to believe him, find happiness with him again, only to sit across a tea table from yet another one of his mistresses next season.
What do you want, Viola?
She still wanted what she had always wanted: love and devotion and children. John was only prepared to give her one of those. That was not enough, and she could not understand why he thought her expectation of fidelity unreasonable. It wasn’t unreasonable at all, damn him, especially when he demanded it of her.
Suddenly, John put his fork down with a clink. “This just isn’t going to work.”
She looked up from her apple tart. “What isn’t going to work?”
“Spending my meals talking to myself.”
“I don’t feel much like talking.”
“I can see that. What’s wrong, Viola?”
Her bite of apple tart was sawdust in her mouth and she took a swallow of water to wash it down. “Where—” She broke off, cleared her throat, glanced at the servants hovering nearby, then back at her plate, unable to look at him. “I understand Stephens had your bed made up.”
“Did you have a different location in mind for me to sleep?” he asked bluntly.
“John!” Her dreams of the past two days came rushing back with a vengeance and she blushed, casting a pointed glance at Hawthorne and the two footmen, who were standing by the sideboard.
He looked at her down the long length of the dining table for several seconds. “Hawthorne?”
The butler stepped forward. “Yes, my lord?”
“Take the footmen and leave us. I’ll call you if you’re needed again.”
The butler bowed and withdrew, the footmen behind him. She watched them go in dismay. “We aren’t finished eating. Why did you dismiss them?”
“Because I wanted to talk without you using them as an excuse not to do so, of course.”
“You want to talk?” That sounded completely unbelievable. “You?”
He leaned forward in his chair and took a sip of wine. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night. You said you don’t want a cold sham of a marriage. The sort most people have, where we have a child or two, then go our separate ways. That’s what my parents had, and I don’t want it that way, either. I think there is only one way to prevent it. We have to become friends.”
“What?” This was becoming more astonishing by the moment.
He nodded. “Yes. It is clear that we have spent over eight years at cross purposes, with no real knowledge of each other. You don’t trust me, and I admit, you have good reason. I am suggesting the way to remedy that is for us to become friends.”
“I have never heard anything more absurd,” she scoffed. The idea of being friends with John sounded as likely as pigs sprouting wings. “You and I friends? Where did you get such a notion?”
“Dylan.”
“Dylan?”
“Believe it or not, yes. He suggested it. He likes us both, he said, and he is getting a bit tired of the two of us being so at odds. He would love to be able to invite both of us to dinner at the same time, so he’s hoping we make peace. He thinks if we become friends with each other, everything will work out between us.”
She couldn’t help regarding that with skepticism. “I never knew Dylan was such an optimistic fellow,” she said dryly.
“He is a father now. He has to be optimistic.”
“Now that he is happily settled and is a father, he can’t go on scandalous escapades with you.”
“It wouldn’t matter, because I don’t do that sort of thing anyway. Not anymore.”
“Please don’t try to tell me that you’ve seen the error of your ways and won’t go slumming in Temple Bar any longer, because I shan’t believe you.”
“I wouldn’t say never, but I haven’t done it lately. I haven’t wanted to for a long time. Despite the urging of my wilder friends, I have been spending most of my free nights at my club. In case you hadn’t noticed, I am not much of a subject for gossip this season.”
That was true, but she couldn’t help wondering how long it would last.
“It’s odd,” he went on, “but since Dylan got married, we have become closer friends. We used to be just acquaintances who caroused the brothels together or sat at the same gaming table, but it is different this year. I do occasionally go on a wild spree of drinking with Lord Damon and Sir Robert, I admit, but it’s Dylan I see the most of.”
“What do you and Dylan do if you don’t visit the brothels and the gaming hells?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“Fence, mostly. We meet at Angleo’s nearly every day.”
“I envy you that,” she confessed as she ate her last bite of apple tart and cream. “I always wanted to learn to fence when I was a girl, but I wasn’t allowed.”
“Why not?”
“Madame Dubreuil’s Academy in Paris was the most prestigious in Europe, I’ll have you know. Girls learning athletic sport?” She put on a face of shock and horror. “Never!”
He grinned. “What did you do?”
“Carried books on our heads when we probably should have been reading them. You see, it was deemed more important to learn the feminine art of walking gracefully than learning Greek or history or mathematics. I became most accomplished at walking. And at piano and watercolors and embroidering cushions.”
“But no fencing?”
“No, alas.”
He looked at her and a hint of mischief came into his face. Even from where she sat she could see the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. “Want to learn?”
Guilty Series Page 73