Guilty Series

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  She groaned and fell back against the burled walnut headboard. “I give up,” she moaned. “You are never going to leave me alone.”

  “Now you are starting to see sense,” he said, and plucked the handful of letters out of her hand. He tossed them onto the floor and picked up the jam pot and a knife. “Blackberry jam, Lady Hammond?”

  He glanced at her, and she looked so beautiful in the morning sunlight, with her braid coming loose and a hint of pink in her cheeks, he caught his breath. Her nightgown was a delicate muslin affair, so thin he could see the swell of her breasts above the bedclothes, the pucker of her nipples and the faint outline of her aureoles. That was enough to arouse him in an instant, and he knew she’d better give in soon. Too many chaste breakfasts in bed with her would drive him mad. He forced his gaze up to her face.

  She sensed what he was thinking and looked away, the blush in her cheeks deepening. She shifted her hips on the bed, and just that tiny move almost sent him over the edge. She wanted him, she did. God, he hoped she did.

  But he didn’t intend to make the same mistake twice. If he pushed too hard, too fast, she’d run again. He looked down at the tray of food and focused on that, trying not to remember how she looked without a nightgown. He scooped jam onto the knife, set down the pot and picked up a slice of hot buttered toast. After spreading the jam over the slice, he held it out to her, waiting. She bit her lip, wavering, and stared down at the toast for a long moment before she took it with a sigh.

  Gratified, he spread jam on another slice for himself. He picked up his fork and began to eat from the plate of eggs and bacon on his lap, watching her from beneath lowered lids, waiting, hoping for an opportunity.

  She took another bite of toast, and John thanked God for blackberry jam. He set down his fork and inched a little closer to her on the bed. She went still, holding her toast poised in midair, staring at him, her hazel eyes wide.

  He moved even closer. “You have jam on your face.”

  She looked away. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” he murmured. “Don’t try to make you want me?” He reached out and touched the bit of jam at the corner of her mouth, then ran his fingers back and forth across her lips, smearing it. The jam was sticky, her mouth so soft. “Sorry,” he said, his voice a bit unsteady, “but I can’t help myself. I want you, and I want you to want me back. I want that so badly, in fact, I’m going a bit mad. That’s why I’ve been standing out in rainstorms and going shopping. That’s why I’m trying to talk about things.” He took a deep breath. “And that’s why I leased a house with a pink drawing room. Even back then, even when things between us were as bad as they could get, I still had a little scrap of hope that one day you’d live with me again.”

  Her lower lip quivered against his fingertip. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You used to want me, Viola,” he said, stroking her mouth. “Every day for breakfast. Don’t you remember? And it was fun, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was.” Her lips brushed against his fingers as she spoke. She reached up, her hand closing around his wrist, but she did not push him away or turn her face aside. “It was fun for a while.”

  He gently pulled his hand from her grasp and slid it to the back of her neck. The sticky jam on his fingers caught the strands of her hair. He leaned in and pulled her toward him at the same time, making them meet halfway. “You know when things went wrong with us?” he asked, pausing with his face only two inches from hers. “They went wrong when it wasn’t fun anymore. When we didn’t do our favorite things, and I couldn’t make you laugh.”

  “There are some things fun and laughter can’t fix, John.”

  “I know.” He looked at her jam-smeared mouth. Desire was coursing through him with such force, he didn’t know how much longer he could contain it. “That’s what kissing is for.”

  “Is it all that simple for you?” she asked. “That easy?”

  “Yes. I think you just make things complicated.” He had to kiss her. Just once, then he’d let her go. His hand tightened on her neck and he pulled her that last inch closer. His lips touched the corner of her mouth, tasting jam on her skin, and the pleasure was so intense, the longing so great, it took everything he had not to shove the tray out of the way and move on top of her. He sat utterly still, fighting the aching need in his body, holding back, waiting, breathing in deeply of violet warmth as he tasted blackberry jam on Viola’s mouth.

  She turned her face away, breaking the kiss.

  He knew he had to let her go. Now, while he still could. She wasn’t ready yet, and he didn’t want to send her running away again. He let his hand fall from her neck and leaned back, striving to ignore the agony of being fully aroused with no relief in sight. He picked up his fork and resumed eating eggs and bacon.

  She did the same, not looking at him, but at the plate in her lap.

  They were almost finished eating before John felt able to put on a casual air and attempt ordinary conversation. “So, are you going to show me what you’ve done to the place?” he asked. “I mean the outside, mind you,” he went on, and gestured to their surroundings with a slice of bacon. “Not this feminine floral fantasy you’ve made of the inside.”

  “After that comment, you can take your own walk around,” she told him around a mouthful of toast. “By yourself.”

  “But if I’m by myself, I can’t trap you anywhere and steal more kisses,” he pointed out, and popped the bacon into his mouth, thinking that stealing any more kisses from her today without some clothes coming off would probably destroy him.

  She ate her last bite of toast and jam. “Exactly.”

  “You love my kisses, and you know it,” he said lightly, and stood up. Taking the tray, he turned and set it on a nearby table. “I’ll have you swooning over me by dinnertime. Get dressed. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  “I have never swooned over you,” she pointed out as she brushed crumbs from her nightgown. “Never.”

  He bent over her, placing one hand on each side of her hips. The mattress dipped with his weight as he leaned close. “Not yet, but the day is long,” he said, and kissed her quick before she could stop him. He straightened and turned away, heading for the door. “The night is even longer.”

  “Lovely,” she groaned, sounding as if she were the one about to endure a day of torture. “That’s just lovely.”

  Viola gave him a tour of the villa, showing him some of the things she had done. He liked the boxwood maze she’d put in the gardens, was highly indignant that she’d torn down the ramshackle boathouse by the river, and he loved the new stables she’d had built the previous year. He also expressed his approval for the new granary.

  “You’ve done an excellent job here,” he told her, and stopped beside the millpond, looking out over the water. “You’ve made some very fine improvements. Everything looks shipshape and Bristol fashion.”

  “Thank you.”

  Something caught his attention and he paused. Viola watched as he crossed to the wooden quay that stood out over the millpond. Beside the quay, a rowboat bobbed in the water. “The oars are in the bottom,” he said. “Let’s take it out. We can go across the pond and down the stream.”

  Viola felt her insides clench with apprehension, and she searched for an excuse. “It’s a bit too chilly to go out on the water.”

  “Chilly? Not a bit. It’s a lovely afternoon. Besides, we’re not going swimming.” He pulled off his coat and tossed it aside.

  “I don’t want to go rowing.”

  “I’ll do the work,” he said. “You just have to sit in the stern and look beautiful while I pull the oars, gaze at you, and recite some Shelley.”

  She watched as he pulled off his cravat, unbuttoned the three buttons of his shirt, and took off his waistcoat. He knelt on the quay, leaning over the boat to retrieve the oars, and her fear increased. “No, John,” she said. “I don’t want to go.”

  “It’s the least you can do after you tore down my boathou
se. Be a sport, Viola. It’ll be fun.”

  She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. “John, I am not getting in that boat!”

  The sharp rise of her voice caught his attention. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Why not? Do you get sick in a boat?”

  She pressed a hand to her tummy and felt as if she were going to be sick, sick with fear. Wordlessly, she shook her head.

  He watched her for a moment, then set down the oars and crossed the quay back to her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t swim!”

  He laughed. “Is that all?”

  “All?” She was truly panicking now. “What if the boat tips over? I could drown.”

  “You’re not going to drown.” He stopped laughing and reached out to cup her cheek in his hand. “I am a very good swimmer.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “The pond is shallow, and the stream is very slow and meandering. Besides, nothing will happen to you if the boat tips over because I’ll be there.” He leaned down and kissed her. “You just have to trust me,” he said, and grabbed her hand. “Come on. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

  “I’m sure I’m going to hate this,” she moaned as he led her to the rowboat.

  One foot planted on the planks, he put his other foot in the boat and pulled it right up against the wooden quay. “I’ve got it steady,” he told her. “Just get in.”

  She took a deep breath, grabbed a handful of her skirt to keep it out of the way, and stepped gingerly into the boat, holding onto his hand for dear life. She eased herself down in the stern of the rowboat, and when he let go of her hand, she gripped the wooden sides, hoping she didn’t mortify herself by throwing up.

  He sat down in the boat, untied the rope to free it from its moorings, and grabbed the oars. Holding them with one hand, he shoved the boat away from the quay, then locked the oars into the stops, glanced behind him, and began rowing her across the pond.

  “You have to tell me whenever we are coming to a bend in the stream,” he told her as he pulled the oars with smooth strokes, gliding the boat through the water at a rapid clip. “I’ll use the oars to steer.”

  “You’re coming up on the mouth of the stream now,” she answered, looking past his shoulder. “To your left.”

  He glanced behind him, guiding the boat as he rowed, maneuvering it onto the stream that meandered off into the thicket of weeping willows and birches. When they came to a long, straight stretch, he turned to look at her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “Not feeling sick or nervous anymore?”

  She lied. “No.”

  “You see? First fencing, now boats. Pretty soon I’ll be giving you swimming lessons.”

  She looked at him in horror. “No, you won’t.”

  “Yes, I will.” He pulled on the oars. “Naked,” he added. “By moonlight.”

  Heat washed over her. She looked past him, chin in the air, pretending to look for bends in the stream, pretending she wasn’t blushing all the way down to her toes. “You have a vivid imagination.”

  “Yes,” he agreed with fervor. She knew he was still looking at her, and she knew what he was imagining. “Yes, I do.”

  The stream was slow and he rowed easily against the mild current. His body was powerful and his motions smooth and fluid. It was almost hypnotic to watch him, and as the boat journeyed along the stream, she had to keep reminding herself to watch where they were going. “You row very well,” she said.

  “This isn’t rowing,” he said. “When it’s two oars like this, it’s sculling. Rowing is with one oar.”

  “Well then, you scull very well. Row well, too, I imagine.”

  “I should. I’ve had enough practice. I did both at Harrow and Cambridge.” He leaned back with another pull of the oars. “I was lead oar for our team in the boat races on the Cam every May Week all four years I was at Cambridge.”

  “Did you win?”

  “Usually.” He began to laugh. “Percy was our coxswain, and a good one, too. He was so methodical, he could set the pace better than anybody.”

  “You must miss him.”

  The laughter faded from his face and he stopped rowing. The boat stopped moving forward and began to drift, but he didn’t seem to notice. He leaned on his oars, bringing the tips out of the water. She waited, thinking he might talk about his cousin, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned his head, staring at the bank of the stream and the woods beyond, lost in thought.

  “John, what are you thinking about?”

  “I miss him so much, it hurts.” He shook his head as if to clear his mind, then started rowing again. “Let’s talk about something pleasant. We’re supposed to be having fun today. We might as well put my university education to work. What poet would you like to hear? Pick a romantic one, then I can be torrid and passionate and make you want me.”

  She wondered if he had done this before, taken a woman out in a boat and recited passionate poetry. She took a deep breath and tamped down the flare of horrid jealousy. “John, you don’t have to recite poetry to me.”

  “No fairer face than hers I see, none other is so dear. Precious moments of my life are these, whenever she is near.”

  The carelessly uttered lines were unfamiliar, but the look in his eyes was one she knew well. She had already seen it twice today, over toast in her room and just a moment before when he talked about swimming lessons. Each time, it got easier to believe it might mean more than simple desire. She swallowed hard and looked away. “I don’t recognize that verse.”

  “I’d be very surprised if you did.” His voice was wry. “Since I just made it up.”

  Startled, she returned her gaze to his face. “What, just now?”

  He nodded. “I used to write poetry all the time.”

  “I never knew that. I mean, I know about the limericks you and Dylan are always coming up with, but I didn’t know you wrote poetry.”

  “I never knew you didn’t know how to swim.” His lashes lowered. “Speaking of which, we should start those swimming lessons very soon. The millpond here is shallow enough for you to stand in. Perfect place. We could start tonight.”

  “And I think we should go back to the house. It must be nigh on three o’clock by now, and I want to bathe and change before dinner. We’re keeping country hours,” she reminded him, “so dinner is at five.”

  He tilted his head, looking at her. “Do we have a bathtub big enough for two?”

  “No, we do not.”

  He began to laugh at the firm primness of her voice, but he didn’t say anything more about it. He glanced behind him and used one oar to turn the boat around.

  He rowed with the current, and neither of them spoke. Her mind kept repeating the lines of that bit of poetry he’d made up. Her head kept telling her he wasn’t sincere. Her heart didn’t want to listen.

  “Since you didn’t seem suitably impressed by my last poem about you, I have another one for you,” he said, breaking the silence. He stopped and lifted the oars out of the water, and in the still water of the pond, the boat stopped moving. “Alimerick.”

  She saw that teasing gleam in his eyes. “A limerick about me?”

  “There’s a woman I know from Hampshire, with a smile that beguiles a man sure. Her gold hair is a prize, like mud are her eyes, and her kiss is a pleasure for damn sure.”

  “What?” She straightened on the plank seat, feeling a bit indignant, despite the part about her kiss being a pleasure. “My eyes are not the color of mud!”

  “They are the exact same color.” He pointed to the nearby bank of the millpond. “Like that. Greenish-brown. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he added as she made a huff of vexation. “Very English, I think. And rather poetic.”

  “Poetic?” She folded her arms. “Poets are supposed to compare women’s eyes to stars and sky and things like that. If comparing my eyes to greenish-brown mud is part of your plan to seduce me, it is not working.”

  The
tease went out of his eyes. He pulled the oars out of the stops and dropped them into the bottom of the boat with a thud. He moved toward her, and she caught her breath at the sudden intensity in his countenance. He slid to his knees in front of her and put a hand on each side of her hips, curling his fingers around the back edge of the plank seat.

  He leaned forward and brushed his lips lightly, briefly, against hers. “How about this?” he asked. “Is this working?”

  She began to quiver inside. “No,” she said, and pressed her lips together against the caress of his.

  “Viola, be fair,” he murmured against her mouth. “I know I said your eyes were like pond mud, but I also said your gold hair was a prize. And your kiss was a pleasure.” He nipped at her lips. “So give me some of that pleasure right now and kiss me.”

  She turned her face aside. “I’m not going to kiss you,” she said, and spoiled her pretense of hurt feelings by laughing. “No, no, you ruined your chance with that part about the mud.”

  He began to laugh with her, a low, deep chuckle in his throat. “But English pond mud is very pretty,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “I like it.”

  His hands slid beneath her, and with a suddenness that startled her, he hauled her forward onto his knees. Not expecting the move, she twisted in his hold with a shriek of laughter, sending the boat rocking. “John, stop it!” she cried, struggling as he turned her sideways on his lap. The boat rocked again, tipped too far, and overturned, sending both of them tumbling into the pond.

  Viola felt water rush over her head, smothering her laughter. She flailed her arms in sudden panic, disoriented and unable to see anything in the murky depths. But then John’s hands were on her arms, hauling her up to a standing position. “I’ve got you,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “I’ve got you.”

  She sucked in gulps of air and clutched at the wet folds of his shirt, panic receding as she realized John was holding her tight against him, her feet were on the bottom of the pond, and the water was only up to her armpits.