Guilty Series (72 page)

He paused, his mouth only a few inches from hers. “I wouldn't want you to spend the whole afternoon with purple jam on your face. I mean, what would people say? I could kiss it off for you.”

She fought to come to her senses. “What a noble and gentlemanly offer, but this is a public place.”

“That doesn't matter if two people are married.”

“It didn't matter to you when we
weren't
married.”

He laughed low in his throat, bringing his lips another inch closer, and she began to panic. She brought her palm up between them, pressing it flat against his chest to stop him before he could kiss her. “Am I not safe from your advances even in public?”

“You are not safe from my advances anywhere.”

She froze. So did he. Both of them remained motionless, suspended by her hand and her hesitance. His chest was a hard, muscular wall beneath her palm, and she imagined that she could feel his heart pounding as hard as hers. A fancy of her imagination, perhaps, for his white linen shirt and coffee-colored waistcoat made it impossible to be certain if that were true, but there was no mistaking the desire in his eyes. So long since he had looked at her that way, so long since she had wanted him to.

She didn't want him. Not anymore.

“This is not proper.” She frowned at him, striving to be that icy goddess she knew he despised. “Hammond, you forget yourself.”

“Viola, you are not really going to make me mind my manners, are you?” he asked. “Not when you have blackberry jam all over your mouth.”

“I am.” She lifted her fingers from his chest to her lips and wiped at the sticky jam he'd placed there before he could take this game any further.

“You just made it worse,” he told her, his voice grave, his mouth smiling. “You've smeared it, and now you have a big purple streak on your face.” He lifted his hand and his fingers traced a line just beneath her cheekbone. “Right there.”

She drew in a sharp breath. How long had it been since John had touched her like this, tender and wanting? Over eight years, and yet it still made a thrill run though her, as if no time had passed at all. “People are watching us,” she whispered, desperate.

His fingers caressed her cheek. His lashes lowered as he looked at her mouth. “If they are watching us, then let's give them something worth staring at.” His voice sounded thick, heavy, echoing the way she felt.

He was a cad. He was.

He touched her lips with his, and a weightless sensation dipped inside her. For a brief instant she felt as if she were falling.

So, so long. She had forgotten all of this: how he used to dab blackberry jam on her mouth just to kiss it off. Forgotten what his kisses tasted like, what his touch felt like. He was making her remember things she did not want to remember, things that had given her so much joy.

Hadn't she learned a thing? None of this was
real. He was manipulating her to get what he wanted, just as he had done during their courtship. John had taught her the bitterest lesson a woman could learn about men. That his love and his desire were not the same thing. She would not be fooled this time around.

With that vow, she came to her senses. She jerked back, shoving his hand aside as she scooted back on the blanket, giving herself the breathing room she needed. She took a frantic glance around, and it confirmed her worst fear. “People are talking about us right now.”

“Saying horrible things, of course.” He did not pursue her, but instead leaned back, resting his weight on his elbows, seeming much more at ease than she. “Kissing one's own wife, especially in public, is the height of bad taste. My friends will never let me hear the end of it. I'll try to keep my wits about me next time you have jam on your face.”

“I don't suppose you could simply refrain from putting it there?”

“But Viola, that wouldn't be any fun.”

“I know life is always fun for you.”

“God, I hope so. Should it not be?”

It had been fun for her once, too, when she'd been with him, but her life wasn't like that anymore. Contented, yes. Busy, yes. Satisfying, yes. With some moments of happiness and moments
of sadness. But not fun, not exhilarating, not heady and exciting. Not like with John.

She dipped one corner of her serviette in her champagne glass to moisten it, then rubbed the linen vigorously against her cheek. After a moment she looked at him. “Is it gone? And don't lie to me.”

“It's gone. But you rubbed so hard, you have a rash.”

Balling the serviette, she threw it at him. She was tempted to take another glance around to see if she could identify some of the faces of those watching them, but she refrained. She would hear the gossip soon enough, and so would everyone else. By tomorrow morning everyone in his circle of acquaintance and hers would know Hammond had been seen kissing his wife in public, and they would know Lady Hammond hadn't been fighting very hard to stop him. And they would say it was about time she took her husband back into her bed and learned to be a proper wife.

Viola, however, had no intention of doing either.

C
ovent Garden Opera House was once again popular after several years of turmoil, and many peers of consequence had renewed their subscriptions for boxes there. Because Dylan Moore was England's most famous composer, because he had recently published a new symphony, and because he was conducting his new symphony himself, the theater was filled to the rafters for his concert on Tuesday night.

Hammond had a box, but it was Viola who most often used it. Seated with her this evening were the two daughters of Sir Edward Fitzhugh and three of the Lawrence sisters. Viola had made these arrangements on purpose, for John had sent her a note on Saturday, stating his intent to sit with her for Dylan's concert. She had sent a reply back at once, informing him she had already filled the seats and he would have to sit elsewhere. Then, of course, she'd gone on a frantic
search for the extra person or two she needed to keep him away.

“This is so exciting,” Amanda Lawrence, Dylan's sister-in-law, murmured to her over the squeaky sounds of the orchestra as they tuned their instruments. “My sister told me Dylan has not conducted in years.”

“I am excited to see it, too,” Viola confessed. “I have only seen him conduct once myself, and that was years and years ago. I was at school in France, and my brother came to visit me. Dylan was on a tour of Europe at that time, and Anthony took me to the concert.”

Amanda glanced at her program. “His symphony comes after the intermission. Do you know anything about this other composer, Antoine Renet? He is presenting a violin concerto.”

“I have not heard much of his music,” she answered as bells began to ring, the call for people to take their seats. A few minutes later ushers dimmed the lamps, and the first part of the concert began.

Viola gave it only the most superficial attention, her mind preoccupied. She was fully aware of the discreet stares directed her way from behind opera glasses. It had been four days since her picnic with John, and by now everyone in London society was discussing the amazing reconciliation of Lord and Lady Hammond.

At intermission, the Fitzhugh and Lawrence
girls went to get ices, but Viola remained in her seat. When her companions returned, Amanda was not with them, and her youngest sister, Jane, explained to Viola, “I saw her being introduced to a pair of very handsome men by your sister-in-law, the Duchess of Tremore. One of them looked quite entranced with her.” She laughed. “We didn't want to spoil things by interrupting.”

The bells rang again, announcing that the second half of the concert was about to begin, but Amanda still had not returned. Viola leaned forward over the rail and glanced sideways toward Anthony's box, thinking perhaps Daphne had invited Amanda to sit with them after intermission.

“Looking for me?”

The unmistakable sound of her husband's voice had her turning in her chair, and she watched in dismay as John sat down in Amanda's vacant seat. “What are you doing?”

“Joining you, of course.” He leaned back in the chair and smoothed his perfectly tied cravat, smiling at her. There was such a complacent expression on his face, she wanted to bash him with her fan. He was as handsome as ever, looking quite the dashing man about town in his dark blue evening suit, silver silk waistcoat, and white linen shirt, but his good looks and heart-stopping smile didn't negate the fact that he was her greatest irritant.

“You cannot sit with us, Hammond.”

“Of course I can. This is my box, after all.”

She ignored that truthful, ghastly fact. “I told you, I filled the seats. You have to leave.”

“Leave? I couldn't possibly, my dear. Dylan is a friend of mine, too, you know, and I wouldn't miss the chance to see him conduct for all the world. He's nervous as a cat on hot bricks, by the way. I saw him backstage a short while ago. He said to give you his regards.”

“What happened to Amanda?”

“Who?”

“Grace Moore's sister,” she said, and jabbed her fan in his direction. “The young lady who was sitting here before you usurped her seat. Miss Amanda Lawrence.”

“Ah, yes, Miss Lawrence.” He pointed to their left and up one tier. “She has moved into Hewitt's box.”

“What?” Viola groaned and pressed her fingers to her forehead, feeling a headache coming on at yet another reminder of what her life was going to be like until she got this absurd reconciliation idea out of her husband's head. He was going to be the proverbial bad penny, turning up no matter how she arranged things to prevent it. He seemed to live for the purpose of making her life a mess, for it had been a mess ever since she had danced with him on a ballroom floor and fallen in love.

“The Duchess of Tremore was kind enough to
make me acquainted with Miss Lawrence during intermission,” John explained, “and I introduced her to Lord Damon. He took one look at her and invited her to sit with his family. His father, aunt, and two sisters seemed to favor the idea, for they did have an empty seat. Wasn't that a coincidence?”

She lifted her head but did not look at him. “A most amazing coincidence, one arranged by you, no doubt.”

“Not a bit of it. Lady H has a cold. Even I, as calculating and devious a fellow as I am, and as determined as I am to have the pleasure of your company—even I cannot give a marchioness the sniffles. As to the rest, Damon took one look at Miss Lawrence, saw that blond hair and those hazel eyes, and he was lost, poor fellow. Had an expression on his face rather like a stunned sheep. I've never seen him look like that before, but since I've always had rather a passion for a certain hazel-eyed blonde myself, I can't blame him for losing his head to one almost as pretty.”

She refrained from pointing out that his preferences hadn't stopped him from enjoying the company of quite a few redheads and brunettes over the years. “Lord Damon is a wild and undisciplined fellow of the worst description!” she said instead. “He carouses around with
you
.”

“That is a most despicable offense, I grant you,
but Lord Damon is also the eldest son of a marquess. Think what a coup such a marriage would be for the sister of a country squire from Cornwall like Miss Lawrence. Very sensible match, I'd say.”

“Sensibility being the most important thing in a marriage,” she shot back, remembering his words about why he had chosen her. “Love, of course, has nothing to do with it.”

“I wouldn't say that. Damon looked like a man in love to me,” he said, ignoring the barbed reference to himself and his marriage choice. “Besides, you seem to have taken on the project of launching Grace's sisters into good society, and I am helping you help them. How can you complain when I've just introduced one of them to a future marquess?”

“I promised Dylan last autumn that I would introduce his wife's sisters into good society, but they do not need suitors like Lord Damon. As a future marquess, he might be a marriage coup, but he is a disaster for happiness. Amanda is a sweet girl.”

“Just what Damon needs to steady him.”

“Really?” she countered smoothly. “That didn't work for you.”

“I didn't marry a sweet girl.”

“Thank you so much. If you are trying to win me over with compliments like that one, save your breath.”

The lamps were dimmed once again. Relieved
by the distraction, Viola leaned over the rail, watching as Dylan Moore stepped into the orchestra pit, took his place at the podium, bowed to the audience, then turned to face the orchestra. If Dylan was nervous, it didn't show.

John moved forward in his chair and leaned closer to her, resting his forearms on the rail. His shoulder touched hers. “I didn't marry a sweet girl,” he repeated in a murmur beside her, “because I didn't want a sweet girl. I wanted a passionate one.”

“You wanted a rich one, you mean.”

“No, I
needed
a rich one.” He didn't sound the least bit ashamed of himself. “I wanted a passionate one. And that was what I had, until she forgot what passion was all about.”

“How cruel you are!” she cried. But her words were spoken just as the music began, and that was a blessing, for with the deep opening notes of the symphony played by a one hundred piece orchestra, no one else could have heard her words. She leaned even closer to her husband, but kept her gaze on the concert below. “If I forgot passion,” she told him in a harsh whisper, “that is your fault.”

“Yes, it is.”

The quiet admission startled her, and she turned her head to look at him. He was so close her lips almost touched his, but she couldn't seem to move away. “John, that is the first time I have
ever heard you admit any culpability for our mess of a marriage.”

“Yes, well, it's awfully hard for a man to admit he's wrong about anything. It's due to lack of practice, of course. Because we're almost never wrong.”

She pressed her lips together.

“Ah,” he murmured, “I almost got a smile there, didn't I?”

“No.” She turned away. “You're imagining things again.”

“Am I?” His knuckles brushed her cheek, and she almost jumped in her chair. She clenched her carved ivory fan tight in one hand and curled the fingers of her other hand around the carved railing in front of her, tense and wary, acutely aware of the stares they were getting as he moved his hand to the back of her neck. His fingertips traced feather-light circles at her nape. His lips brushed her ear.

“Don't. People are watching us.”

Being John, he ignored that. “If you have forgotten all about passion, and it is my fault, then I need to rectify my mistake, don't you think?”

“John—” She broke off, forgetting whatever she'd been about to say as he kissed her ear and his thumb began to caress the line of her jaw.

“I could think of all sorts of ways to remind you,” he went on. “If you let me.”

She closed her eyes. Why was he doing this to
her? She had forgotten passion, it was true, but it was all coming back to her now with a vengeance. She was over him now, and she did not want to remember that passion she'd once had for him. She did not want to remember making love in the mornings with him, and racing horses with him, and how he could make her smile and laugh just by being near. She did not want to feel that sort of dizzying happiness ever again. It was too painful when it ended.

She opened her eyes and deliberately turned her head in his direction, but she did not look at him. Instead, her gaze sought out one particular box among the many that ringed the second tier of Covent Garden. Sure enough, Lady Pomeroy was there, and the sight of the dark, striking beauty was enough to dampen any passion John might being trying to evoke in her now. How many times during that woman's amour with John had some clueless hostess forced Viola to sit across from Anne Pomerey at tea or cards? Viola's safe, icy shell, a familiar friend that had protected her for so long, wrapped itself around her now. “You know far more about the passions and pleasures of lovemaking than I, Hammond,” she said. “You've had so much more practice.”

Though she was not looking at him, she knew both her words and the direction of her gaze had hit their mark. Beside her ear, she heard his sharp, indrawn breath. His hand slid away from
her cheek and he leaned back in his chair without a word.

Safely numb again, she leaned back in her seat as well, letting go of the rail and loosening the tight, tense grip she had on her fan. Her gaze moved to the stage below and she tried to concentrate on that. But as much as she hoped for the success of Dylan's performance, as sure as she was that it would be a triumph, she could not have judged any of that for herself, since the only thing she could seem to hear was John's voice promising passion when she knew passion was not enough.

When the symphony ended with a final, rollicking flourish of strings, horns, and cymbals, the crowd was on its feet at once, roaring with approval. Viola stood up as well, only then coming out of her reverie. Applauding along with everyone else, she watched as Dylan turned and bowed to the audience, and she was so happy for her friend that for a moment she forgot her own troubles.

Until John reminded her. Amid the curtain calls, he leaned close to her again. “No matter what I have to do, I will make you remember how passion felt, Viola. The passion we once had. More than that, I will make you feel it again. I swear it. I shall see you on Thursday. Two o'clock. It's your turn to decide where we go this time.”

He was gone before she had the chance to reply. She stared down at the milling crowds below and
had a sinking feeling her husband would succeed. That was exactly what she was afraid of.

 

On Thursday, John found himself regretting the fact that he had allowed Viola to choose their outing this time. He groaned. “You're not serious.”

“Oh, but I am.” She gave him a smile of triumph as she stepped up into his carriage. “I want to spend the afternoon at Anthony's museum. I heard him mention this morning that he would be there all day.” Her smiled widened. “He can give us a tour himself. Won't that be nice?”

It was going to be hell. He settled himself beside her on the carriage seat, trying to find a way out of this. “Viola, history bores you to tears.”

“It used to bore me. I have broadened my interests.”

“To include Roman antiquities?”

“Yes.” She looked at him, cool, composed, and oh-so-pleased with herself. “This may come as a shock to you, but I have managed to make quite a full and satisfying life for myself without you. I have developed interests in many things.”

That might very well be true, but he didn't believe for a second that she had chosen Tremore's museum because she had developed a fascination for Romano-British pottery shards. No, she had selected the museum because her brother was sure to be there and would watch his every move like a hawk, haughty and hostile, and making it
impossible for him to do any serious wooing of his wife. And she knew it, too.