Guilty Series (66 page)

“If it bothers you to be stared at, you could just leave,” she suggested. “I am sure there are many places in London that would be far more amusing for you. Besides, showing up at Kettering's ball after declining the invitation is the height of bad taste.”

They passed a pretty redhead in pale green silk, who gazed at him with imploring eyes. Though John pretended he had not seen her, Viola immediately assumed the worst.

“So Emma Rawlins is your reason for being here?” she said. “The gossips have been speculating for weeks that you ended it with her, but they were obviously wrong. God,” she choked, “how you must enjoy humiliating me.”

“I live for it,” he answered at once, her contempt having its usual affect on him—impelling him to employ his most sarcastic wit. “I pull the wings off of flies, too. Though, I confess, torturing helpless kittens is my favorite. Truly good sport, that.”

She let out her breath in an angry huff and started to pull away from his side, but he would not let her. He crossed his arm over his chest, using his free hand to grip hers and hold her to his side. He was keeping tight rein on his own emotions, striving not to think about the letter in his pocket, striving to keep his pain at bay. A quarrel with Viola would send him over the edge.

“Stop trying to pick a fight with me and listen,” he murmured. “I have business in the North
and need to leave at first light, business I must discuss with you ere I go. I have to speak with you in private.”

“Have a private meeting with you? Not a chance of it.”

She stared to pull away again, and he tightened his grip. “It is important, Viola. Very important, and it involves you.”

She turned her head and studied him for a moment, then gave a reluctant nod. “Very well, but you will have to wait. I am engaged for the next dance. Let go of me.”

She pulled against his hold again, and this time he released her. Bowing, John watched her walk away. The rigid set of her shoulders made him appreciate yet again the depth of her animosity for him. He thought of the letter in his pocket and what it meant, and hoped she did not loathe him beyond all amendment. If she did, his life had just become a living hell.

 

Why had he come? The question kept running through Viola's mind as she moved through the steps of the dance. She felt off balance, baffled, uneasy. It had been years since John had felt the need to discuss anything with her. What was there for them to talk about now? And why tonight?

As she danced with her partner, she kept glancing around the ballroom, her gaze seeking him out in the crowd, unable to quite believe he was really
here. Yet his presence was not her imagination. He'd said that important news had brought him here, but as usual, she could discern nothing by his face or demeanor. He stood amid a group of people, talked and smiled and looked as if he hadn't a care in the world, though Viola knew from long and bitter experience that if that were so, he would be anywhere but here. And there had been something tense and hard in his voice, which was uncharacteristic of his usual careless air.

She turned her attention away from her husband and tried to concentrate on simply getting through the steps of the dance. She should know by now that any attempts to understand John or his actions were useless. A hint of the old pain twisted in her heart, and that surprised her, for she thought she had vanquished that long ago.

She fought to regain the icy composure that had served her for so long, the protective shell that shielded her from the pain of his lies and his women, but her uneasiness grew with each passing moment until it became an almost unbearable tension. She could hear the buzzing hum of speculations about his presence all around her and feel the astute gazes of London's greatest gossips glancing back and forth among herself, her husband, and Emma Rawlins. By the time the quadrille ended twenty minutes later, she was a mass of jangled nerves.

She had barely returned to her place beside her
brother Anthony and his wife Daphne before her husband was there to take her arm again. Amid the astonished stares and whispers, Viola and John left the ballroom together.

He took her into Kettering's library and closed the doors behind them. Thankfully, he did not keep her in suspense any longer. The moment the doors were closed, he turned toward her and came to the point. “Percy is dead. So is his son.”

Viola sucked in a deep breath of shock. “How? What happened?”

“Scarlet fever. They are having a virulent outbreak of it in Shropshire. I received an express just this evening.”

She shook her head, trying to assimilate this bit of news. Percival Hammond, her husband's cousin and best friend, was dead. Without thinking, she reached out and put a hand on his arm. “I am so sorry,” she said, and meant it. “I know he was like a brother to you.”

John shook off her touch as if it burned and walked past her. She turned to stare at his back, wondering why she had bothered to express her sympathy. She should have known he would never welcome it.

“I have to go to Whitchurch for the funeral,” he said over his shoulder.

“Of course. Do you…” She paused, dismay filling her at the question she could not quite bring herself to ask. Surely he did not expect her to ac
company him. She forced herself to speak. “Are you here to ask me to go with you?”

He turned around to look at her. “God, no!” he replied with such vehemence that she winced, though she had not expected any other answer. He saw her expression and exhaled a sharp sigh. “I did not mean that the way it sounded.”

“Did you not?”

“No, damn it. I was actually thinking of your welfare. You've never had scarlet fever. If you accompanied me, you could catch it.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling awkward all of a sudden. “I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” he cut her off. He rubbed four fingers across his forehead, looking suddenly tired. “It doesn't matter, so for once let's not quarrel,” he said, and let his hand fall to his side. “I don't expect you to go.”

Viola could not help feeling relieved, but she was still uneasy, knowing there was more to come. If his purpose had been to tell her of his cousin's death, he could have dashed off a note to her before departing for Shropshire, especially since she hardly knew Percival Hammond. She studied her husband for a moment, waiting, but he remained silent, staring past her into space.

“Is that the reason you came tonight?” she prompted. “To tell me this news in person?”

He returned his gaze to hers. “His son is dead,
too, Viola. This changes everything. You must realize that.”

Those words and their impact hit her with all the force of a blow. Her composure faltered and she stared at him, feeling suddenly sick and unable to hide it. “Why should this change anything?” she asked, hearing a note of shrillness enter her voice. “You have another male cousin. Bertram is a Hammond, and he will be the one to inherit the title and estates instead of Percy.”

“Bertie? That useless twit can't even tie his own cravat,” John said, making short shrift of her words, justifying the apprehension that was turning her insides to knots. “Because of our estrangement, I was resigned to leaving my estates in Percy's care, for I know he would have managed them as meticulously as I do, and his son would have done the same. Bertie is a different matter altogether. He is a ne'er-do-well and a spendthrift, as worthless as my own father was, and it will be a cold day in hell before he ever gets his greedy hands on Hammond Park or Enderby or any of my other estates.”

“Can this discussion not wait until you return?” she asked, desperate to divert the conversation until she had time to think. “Your cousin is dead. Can you not even grieve for him? Do we have to discuss legal matters of inheritance right now?”

His face was suddenly implacable, a rare coun
tenance for a man whose charming, devil-may-care demeanor was well known. It was a look she recognized, one she had seen several times during the first six months of their marriage, one she had never been able to get around. “My first duty is to my estates,” he said, refusing to be diverted. “Bertie would be their ruin, frittering away every sovereign in my coffers and undoing nine years of my hard work. I will not let it happen, Viola.”

Dread seeped into her bones like the chill of winter as she looked into her husband's brown eyes, watching them take on the hardness of amber.

“When I return from Shropshire,” he went on, “the separation between us will end. You will be my wife not only in the legal sense of the word, but the literal and moral sense as well.”

“Moral sense?” Fury and desperation choked her, and it took several seconds before she could speak again. “You telling me about moral sense. Is that supposed to be amusing?”

“I know wit is one of my talents,” he drawled, “but I simply cannot manage it today. These circumstances warrant a discussion of duty, and alas, that is never amusing.”

“What does your duty have to do with me?” she asked, but she knew. Oh, God, she knew.

“I am speaking of your duty as my wife and as my viscountess.”

There was a buzzing in her brain, and she felt as if she might faint for the first time in her life.

“Yes,” he said, seeming to read her mind as if she were an open book. “I realize how unpalatable my touch is to you, but I need a son, Viola. And I intend to have one.”

H
e meant it. Heaven help her, he meant it. Viola stared at her husband, appalled, his declaration pounding through her mind like the beat of a drum. He wanted an heir. Now, after all these years, he wanted an heir. After the pain and humiliation she had endured, the social censure and blame heaped upon her for his lack of a son, after all the women he had enjoyed, now he expected to come back into her life, into her bed?

“Not in a thousand years,” she said and turned to leave.

He put his hands on her shoulders to stop her. “An heir is crucial, Viola, and you know it. Without Percy, I need a son of my own.”

“You already have a son,” she reminded him and wrenched free. “Lady Darwin's youngest boy is your son. Everyone knows that.”

“I know that is the rumor, but in this particular instance, the rumor is false.” When she made a
sound of disbelief, he went on, “And even if it were true, it would not signify. I need a legitimate heir.”

“Why should I care what you need?”

“Like it or not, you are my wife, I am your husband, and circumstances now force us to do what our positions demand.”

“Your circumstance and your position force me to do nothing. I am not your brood mare. Our marriage is a farce and always was. I see no reason to change that now.”

“No reason? You are a peeress, the sister of a duke and the wife of a viscount. You know the rules that govern our lives, Viola.”

She met his gaze with a determination equal to his, and she could almost hear the clash of their wills like the clang of two sabers. “I may have to be your wife in name, but I do not have to be your wife in deed. Damn the peerage, damn the rules, and damn you.”

“Damn me all you like, but we are taking up residence together when I return from the North. Decide whether you would rather stay at our villa in Chiswick or move to my town house in Bloomsbury Square. If you choose the town house, notify Pershing and have your things sent there while I am gone.”

“You and I under the same roof? Heaven forbid!”

“The same roof, Viola, the same dinner table.” He paused and gave her a heated, knowing look. “The same bed.”

“If you think…if you really…if you believe…if—” She broke off, too angry to stop spluttering. The idea of him making love to her after all the other women he had bedded was so galling, so intolerable, she could hardly speak. Taking a deep breath, she fought for self-possession and tried again. “If you think I will ever let you touch me again, you are insane.”

“Like it or not, lovemaking is how sons are made. There is nothing insane about it. Married couples do it every day, and from now on so shall we. About damn time we did, if you ask me, since not making love created this whole mess between us in the first place.” With that, he bowed, turned away and strode toward the door.

She stared at his broad back as he walked away. “God, how I despise you.”

“Thank you for informing me of that fact, darling,” he shot back. “I hadn't noticed.” He paused at the door with his hand on the knob and turned slightly toward her. His face was in profile, his head lowered, one lock of his brown hair falling over his forehead. After a moment, he looked at her, and to her surprise, no easy, careless smile came to his lips. When he spoke, he made no flippant remark. “I never meant to hurt you, Viola. I wish you could believe that.”

If he wasn't such a cad, she might have fancied a hint of regret in his expression and sincerity in his
words. But he was a cad, he was a liar, and he had never loved her. Any sign of regret was gone before she could be sure it had ever even been there.

“You cannot really mean to do this. You know how I hate you, yet you expect me to take you to my bed now?”

“A bed is the most comfortable place,” he said, “but if you've another suggestion, I am willing enough. I know it has been a long time, but as I recall, adventurous lovemaking was one of our favorite pastimes.”

She made a sound of outrage, but before she could express it in words, he was gone.

The arrogance of the man. Seething, she began to pace the library, her animosity toward him so powerful at this moment that she could scarcely believe her feelings for him had once been quite the opposite.

When she had first set eyes on John Hammond nine years ago, it had been like something out of a novel. Across a crowded ballroom, he had looked her way, he had smiled, and her entire life had changed.

Twenty-six, he'd been then, and the handsomest man she had ever seen, with eyes the color of brandy and the body of a man skilled at sport. He had just come into his title the previous year, but had he been a tradesman instead of a viscount, she would not have cared. That night on a ball-
room floor, she had fallen helplessly in love with that strong, handsome man, her seventeen-year-old heart captured by his devastating smile.

Loath as she was to admit it, he was even more physically attractive now than he had been then. Unlike most other men in their middle thirties, he hadn't started getting stout or bald. Not John. He still had the body of a Corinthian, and maturity had only made him stronger. Beneath the broadcloth of his evening suit, his chest and shoulders looked wider than ever, his long legs even more muscular. He still had that thick, unruly dark brown hair, the only change a hint of gray at his temples. He still had eyes like cognac, but there were lines around them now. Laugh lines other women had put there.

So many other women.

Viola sank down in a chair, swamped by a bitterness she hadn't felt for years. As baffling as it seemed now, she had loved him, and with a power beyond all reason. She had married him because she thought the sun rose and set each day just to shine on him. What a fool she had been.

He told her he loved her, but that had been a lie. He had married her not for love, but for her money. All her love wasted on a man who did not love her in return, a man whose mind had decided he needed a wife of means, but whose heart had never belonged to her.

Viola stood up. All of that was in the past. She
had long ago accepted his perfidy and her own folly. While he had provided himself with a string of mistresses over the years, she had spent her time building a life of her own. A contented life. A life of charity work and good friends and serenity. A life that did not include him. She had no intention of allowing that to change. Her marital duties and her husband could both go to the devil, where they belonged.

 

“‘Fear no more the heat o' the sun; nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, home art gone, and ta'en thy wages…'” John's voice suddenly failed him, and he paused for a moment, staring down at the open volume of Shakespeare in his hands. He tried to continue, but couldn't seem to make his mouth form words.

He glanced away and stared at the crumbling gray ruins of Castle Neagh in the distance. He and Percy used to play among those ruins in the summer holidays, acting out sieges and battles. John felt a queer, heavy tightness within his chest, thinking of those days. Thinking of Harrow. And Cambridge. Rowing in the boat races every May Week. And how Percy had always gone along with him, following him through every boyhood scrape and every youthful adventure, every joy and every pain. Even falling for the same girl hadn't broken their friendship.

Your cousin is dead. Can you not even grieve for him?

Viola's words echoed through the silence all around him, penetrating his muddled senses. Grieve? So unfair of her to ask that question. He ached with grief, but to spill it out all over the place in front of people was unthinkable. His emotions were private, hidden by a veneer he had spent his entire life perfecting. Viola was so different; she displayed what she thought and felt openly. He didn't understand that. He never had.

A slight cough brought him back to the task at hand. John drew a deep breath and caught stern hold of himself. Everyone was waiting. With all the discipline he possessed, he found his place in the words from
Cymbeline
and continued, “‘Golden lads and girls all must, as chimney sweepers, come to dust.'”

Snapping the book closed with one hand, he bent and reached for a handful of dirt with the other. He held it over the coffin in the grave, listening to the vicar recite from the Book of Common Prayer.

Ashes to ashes. Percy was dead. He held the dirt over the casket, but he could not drop it onto the polished surface. His hand began to shake, and he tightened his fist around the damp soil in his grasp. He turned on his heel and walked away from the silent mourners, breathing deeply of the cold spring air.

When he reached the ruins of Castle Neagh, he
walked around to the other side of the tumbledown turret. Still clenching the dirt in one fist, he tossed the book of Shakespeare aside. Memory guiding him, he placed his free hand on one of the stones, a loose one. Curling his fingers around its crumbling edges, he pulled it out of the castle wall.

Sure enough, it was still there, the niche he and Percy had made behind the stone. Their secret place, where they used to hide things—snuff and pipe tobacco, naughty sketches, things like that. He'd hidden Constance's chemise there once, he remembered, a pretty, lacy thing of delicate muslin with yellow daffodils embroidered on it. He'd stolen the garment off the clothesline at her house one summer day when they were thirteen and hidden it in here. To his amazement, Percy had laid him out with a blow right across the jaw for that. Twelve years later, John had danced at their wedding.

He put the lump of dirt in the niche, crumbling it into a little pile. It seemed right, somehow, to put it there, not drop it over the wooden shell that encased Percy's now lifeless body.

John stared at the niche and the small mound of dirt for a long time, and the burning in his chest deepened, grew thicker and heavier, until he couldn't stand it. He shoved the stone back into place, turned around and leaned against the rough stone wall, sucking in deep breaths of air.
He sank down to the ground and lowered his head into his hands, swamped by grief and a sudden, terrible loneliness.

Percy had always been a brick—a sensible fellow with sound judgment. He would have been good to Hammond Park, and Enderby, and the other estates of the viscountcy. He would have taken care of them, preserved them for the next generation of Hammonds. He'd known Percy would always be there, at his back, ready to take on a responsibility that because of his own disastrous marriage he had not fulfilled.

The security of that knowledge had given him the convenient luxury of avoiding what was truly his responsibility and always had been—providing an heir. Given that he had not been able to stomach the idea of forcing his wife to an act that had become so repugnant to her, John had seen Percy and Percy's son as the only option for the viscountcy. It had never occurred to him that his cousin, his best friend, one of the few people in the world he trusted, would die, that his son would also die. That the next viscount would be Bertram, of all men.

Everything in John rebelled against that thought. He had to have a son of his own or see everything he had spent a decade salvaging go to ruin once again. He and Viola had to find a way to come together and rediscover the spark of desire that had been so explosive between them in the
beginning. It didn't have to last long—if it did, they would probably destroy each other—but it had to be long enough to have a son.

“Percy always did like Shakespeare. Thank you.”

Constance's soft voice interrupted his thoughts, and John lifted his head an inch, staring at the black bombazine skirt of Percy's widow, the braided trim of black silk at her hem. Mourning clothes. That hot tightness in his chest came rushing back, and he turned his face away, striving for composure.

“They used to call him Owl at school, I remember,” he muttered. “He always had his head in a book and had to wear spectacles to read.”

“And the other boys teased him mercilessly about it. He told me the story of how three of them took his glasses once and broke them. He said when you found out what they'd done, you went flying after them in a fury. That was the only time he ever saw you lose your temper.”

“Percy was right behind me, believe me, and did his fair share to square things up. We beat them to a pulp, and almost got sent down because of it. Afterward, they still called him Owl, but they never broke his spectacles again.”

Constance sank down on the grass beside him. “What did they call you, John?”

He turned and looked at the woman he and Percy had both known since childhood, remembering the girl both of them had fallen in love with
that summer they were thirteen. Constance had been the first girl John had ever kissed. About her, he had written some of the worst poetry ever conceived. About her, he'd had every erotic fantasy a boy could invent. He had stepped aside when she married Percy that autumn nearly ten years ago, pretending for their sakes that it hadn't hurt. But it had taken a lot of drink, a lot of sleepless nights, and a lot of pretty women to get over Constance.

He looked into the gray eyes and tearstained face of his childhood love and saw his own grief mirrored back at him. Yet he knew it was far worse for her, for she had lost both her husband and her son. He focused his mind on the trivial subject that might keep both of them from shattering. “My nickname was Milton.”

“That's right. I had forgotten.” She took out her hat pin and pushed back her black straw hat, letting it fall down her back. The sun gleamed on her dark reddish-brown hair, making it look like satin-finished mahogany. “Why Milton?” she asked. “It doesn't suit you at all.”

He forced himself back once again to nicknames from Harrow. The mundane seemed comforting just now, comforting and safe. “But it does suit me. Very well, in fact. Didn't Percy ever tell you how I acquired it?”

“Strangely enough, he didn't.” She paused, then said, “It's odd, all the things about your spouse's life you don't know. After ten years of
marriage, I thought I knew everything there was to know about my husband, but I was wrong. The past few days, so many people have been telling me stories about him. Some of them I knew, of course, but some I had never heard before. So many stories—” Her voice broke and tears glistened on her dark lashes, threatening to spill over.