Guilty Series (82 page)

“When I found out about her, it devastated me. I couldn't bear to sleep with you anymore. So you walked out on me! I hate you for abandoning me.”

“I waited a month, sleeping alone, being driven mad by the fact that you were in the next room and wouldn't let me sleep with you. You wouldn't relent. You just cried a lot.”

“You waited a month before you left. How big of you, to wait a whole month.” With those words, she felt as if a torrent had been unleashed. Using the sword he had given her, she gave vent to what she felt, taking stabs at him with both the blade and her tongue. “You left without a word. You just packed your things and took off. No good-bye, no note! I was so in love with you, I would have forgiven you for Elsie eventually, but you never gave me the chance. You never even tried to see my side. You broke my heart and didn't care.”

She drew back. “Two months later, you showed up here. You wanted to make up. Of all the arrogant, conceited—” She broke off and struck again. Their foils clanged together—once, twice, three times. She pulled back, panting.

“I wasn't just saying that,” he told her, shaking
back his hair, “and I wasn't feeling conceited, believe me, especially when you slapped me right across the face and told me to go to the devil.”

“But you didn't go to the devil, did you?” She lunged at him, he parried her again. “You went to Jane Morrow. I can only assume you didn't want to make up all that badly.”

“If that was what you assumed, you were wrong.” He moved onto the offensive, thrusting his blade at her, but slowly, giving her plenty of time to defend herself against the move.

“Was I?” she countered, hitting his foil, almost wishing she'd struck him instead. “You had such a fine way of showing me how much regard you had for our marriage.”

“Jane meant nothing to me,” he said, and straightened. “Nor I to her.”

“So, you devastated me a second time for someone who meant nothing to you. How lovely. I suppose you used her to forget about me?”

“Actually, yes.”

She laughed in disbelief. “And Maria Allen? Another balm for your wounded male pride?”

“If you want to put it that way.” He took a deep breath and lowered his foil. “You probably won't believe this, but I wanted to reconcile with you then, too. At Brighton.”

She stared at him in astonishment. “Brighton? What are you talking about?”

“Two years ago, when I followed you down to
Brighton. Remember? And what did you do? You saw me, gave me one contemptuous look that would have frozen any man's blood, told me to go back to my whores, then turned your back and walked away. You left town before I could even unpack my trunk and ran to your brother.”

“My departure from Brighton didn't stop you from finding Maria, did it?”

“No. And yes, I got in a duel over her. You want to know why? Nothing very noble, I admit, but I'll tell you. I was the latest in a long line of Maria's lovers when her husband decided he didn't like being cuckolded anymore. He called me out and we shot each other in the shoulder for the sake of honor. Stupid, I grant you, but true.”

“And what happened then, John?” she cried. “I went to Hammond Park. Out of concern for you, though God only knows why! When I got there, you were in bed. Loss of blood, the doctor told me. I asked you if you were going to be all right, and what did you say? You said, ‘Sorry to disappoint you, darling, but I'm going to live. Maybe you should get some arsenic.'” She stabbed at him and missed. “I was so afraid you were going to die. And then you said that to me.”

“After Maria, what did you want me to say?” he asked. “Something along the lines of, ‘Sorry, old thing, messed it all up again, but if you stay, I'll make it up to you.' Is that what I should have said? Would anything have been the right thing to say?”

“Words are not what mattered to me! It's the things you've done that matter. Did you ever once give a thought to what life has been like for me, John? Seeing all your other women and knowing you would rather be with any of them than with me?”

“That is not true. I would rather have been with my wife. The woman who should have been the mother of my children, the woman who should have been in my bed and wasn't there. Who made it clear as crystal she loathed me, would never stop loathing me, and couldn't bear to be anywhere near me.”

“Do you think that justifies what you did?”

“I am not trying to justify any of the things I've done. I am trying to
explain
why I did them.”

The very calmness of his demeanor, the fact that he was not getting defensive and fighting back only made her hurt even more. She lifted the foil in her hand and struck out, going on the attack. She struck at him again and again. He parried each of her movements with an ease that was almost leisurely, but he also moved backward, allowing her to be the aggressor and drive him across the room.

“I hate you for all those women, and I don't care about your reasons for going to them!” she cried as she lunged at him and lunged again. “I hate you for all those other women you have kissed and touched and made love to, women to whom you
gave the things that were supposed to be for me and only me!”

His back hit the wall, and she struck one more time, thrusting her blade right at his heart. He didn't even try to block the move, and took the hit square in his chest. “I hate you, John,” she said, and drew back, panting. “For taking my love for you and destroying it. And for making no more than two halfhearted attempts to reconcile. And for coming back now just because you need something from me that no other woman can give you.”

Out of breath, she lowered her arm and dropped the foil. It clattered to the floor. The image of him in front of her began to blur. “Most of all, I hate you for making me hurt all over again,” she choked, “when I had finally gotten over you.”

She turned away, but of course, he wouldn't let her leave. She heard his blade drop to the floor, just before she felt his hands close over her arms. He was not even winded, damn him.

“You said you wanted to understand me better, and that's why I've tried to explain things,” he said. “I cannot do more than that about what is in the past. I am not walking away again, and I'm not letting you do that, either. This time, we are going to find a way to live together without annihilating each other. That's why we have to be friends.”

She shook her head. “It's impossible.”

“Why?”

She pulled against his hold, and he let her go.
She didn't answer him, for it was a waste of breath and she was already exhausted. Instead, she walked down the stairs with him right behind her, and neither of them spoke until they reached the door of her room. She paused there and turned toward him. “Good night, John.”

“Why is it impossible, Viola? You always want to talk about things, so talk. Why is it impossible for us to be friends?”

She sighed with frustration. “Because, well, because—” She stopped as he reached up to tuck a loose tendril of her hair behind her ear. She pushed his hand away. “Friends have trust, and I don't trust you.”

“I will have to earn your trust, then, won't I?”

He was being so damned reasonable. It was always dangerous when John was reasonable. She licked her lips. “You are doing this to trick me,” she accused. “Trick me into bed.”

He crossed his fingers. “Is it working?”

“No. It will never work again.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”

“Not a thing.” She turned around and reached for the knob of her bedroom door, wanting desperately to get away. “Because I still hate you.”

“No, you don't. Not anymore.” He closed his hand over hers to stop her from opening the door. “That night at Grosvenor Square, when I came in out of the rain to see you, you let me stay. That's
when I knew you didn't hate me anymore.” His hand over her hand, he leaned closer. His body brushed against hers, just barely, but enough that Viola's heart began to pound in her chest as if they were fencing again. He kissed her hair, then her temple, then her cheek. “You don't hate me, and if we become friends, you never will.” He pressed his lips to her ear. “See how this works?”

That quiver began in her tummy, the quiver of fear and hurt mixed with the desire, and she felt as if she were drowning in her own confused emotions.

“I am going to make you trust me,” he murmured. His hand caressed the back of hers where she gripped the doorknob. “I am going to make you stop being afraid.”

She closed her eyes. “I'm not afraid of you.”

But she was. Oh, she was.

He knew it, too. “Now who is the liar?” he asked, and kissed her ear, then let go of her hand and stepped back. “Good night, Viola,” he said, and started toward his own door a bit farther down the corridor.

She went into her room and shut the door. As Celeste helped her change into nightclothes, she listened to the low murmur of his voice in the room beside hers as he spoke to his valet.

He was right. She didn't hate him anymore. She lost her grip on her hate and her resentment a little bit more every time they talked, feeling more of
the old magic every time he smiled, every time he made her laugh, every time he did something nice, every time he kissed her. And without her hate, she had no shield. No weapons. She was out in the open, unprotected and vulnerable.

What had happened to her pride? Viola climbed into bed and hugged her pillow, huddling into a tight ball of misery. Pride, she thought, was all very well, but it made for a lonely life.

If she and John became friends, she would fall for him again, and he knew it. If they were friends, it was only a matter of time before she started to believe him again, believe he was sincere, believe that he cared, believe that he might, one day, love her when he had never loved anybody in his life. If she began to believe in him again, she would slide all the way down, right into his bed, heart in her hands for him to take all over again. And God help her after that because if he walked away again, it would smash her heart into a thousand pieces.

T
he following morning, Viola did not come down to breakfast, and John decided to take breakfast to her instead. He went to the kitchens, and upon learning that no food had been sent up to her, loaded two trays with some of her favorites and his and took them to her room.

When he opened the door, he found her sitting up in bed, reading her letters, which had come in the morning post. “What are you doing?” she cried as he entered the room, followed by a pair of maids.

“What does it look like?” he asked, gesturing to one of the maids to put the tea tray on the bedside table. He took the tray of food from the other maid and waved both servants out of the room. “I'm bringing you breakfast in bed.”

“You can't do this. You can't invade my privacy this way.”

“Silly to tell me I cannot do what I have already done,” he said as the door closed behind the
maids, leaving them alone. He sat on the edge of her bed, set the tray on her lap, and poured tea for them both. “Besides, it is my house.”

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 fo
cused 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 ba
con. “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, unbut
toned 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 boathouse. 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.”