Guilty Series (86 page)

“She still does that, my lady. Every year. Even the master has to come stir the Christmas pudding. He never minds, though.”

“Where is my husband this morning?”

“He's with Mr. Whitmore, the steward.”

“I see.” Viola felt a hint of disappointment as the maid placed the tray across her lap, but she knew he had an estate to run, and she understood from having managed things at Enderby that it was a great deal of work, especially since he had been away for the season. She knew she couldn't expect John to have breakfast up here with her every morning. Even back in the early days he hadn't always been able to do that.

“Mind if I draw the curtains, my lady?”

“No, I don't mind.”

Bright sunlight flooded the room as Hill pulled back the draperies. Viola set the tray aside and got up, then walked to the windows. “What a lovely day.”

“Yes. Not raining for a change. The master said to tell you that if you decide to go walking before he gets back, you can't go near the stables. He wants to show those to you himself.”

Viola smiled, her disappointment about breakfast vanishing in an instant. He wanted to show her the horses. “Thank you, Hill. Send my maid in, would you? And tell Miss Tate that I'll want to see her in an hour down in the drawing room.”

“I will.” The girl smiled back at her, gave a curtsy and started for the door. “It's good to have you here, my lady. Everyone's glad you've come home.”

“I'm glad, too,” she said, and meant it.

 

It was a mare, the prettiest chestnut mare she'd seen in a long time. “John!” she cried, laughing with delight as the groom brought the horse to her. “Where did you get her? Tattersall's?”

“About a month ago. Like her?”

“Like her?” She rubbed the mare's nose with her palm. “She's a beauty!” She turned and flung her arms around her husband's neck and kissed him. “Thank you!” she cried, and returned her attention to the mare. “Come on, let's take her out!”

She grasped the reins, John lifted her up, and she swung onto the sidesaddle. When he had mounted his gelding, they set out together. He took her around the estate and the farms, showing her some of the improvements he had made to the estate over the years, and there were many. After that they headed for the downs, their favorite place—the rolling hills of open pasture
land that stretched for miles on Hammond property.

She did what he remembered. As they galloped across the downs, she tugged at her riding hat, pulled it off and tossed it into the air, shaking back her loose hair and letting it fly behind her.

Beside her, John began to laugh. “I love that,” he called to her.

She smiled back at him. “I know.”

They stopped at one of the cliffs at the edge of the downs to rest the horses, and sat on the turf, looking out over the tenant farms that stretched out below them.

“It looks much improved, John. I remember that it was a bit shabby when I came here the first time.”

“It was in far better condition by the time I brought you here than it was before we got married. Before we were wed, it was a horror.”

Viola frowned, thinking it out. “Was that why we stayed in Scotland for so long?”

“Yes. I used your dowry to make things halfway decent for your arrival. I also borrowed a huge sum from your brother to pay off other debts and fix the drains here. Only after that was done did I bring you here.”

“You've done an excellent job, then. Everything seems very prosperous now.”

“It is, and that is because of your money as well as the income from the rents.” He looked over at
her and reached out to take her hand in his. “I wanted you to see what I've done with your income, Viola.”

She lifted their joined hands to her lips, kissing his. “Thank you.”

He looked down over the valley below and gave a short laugh. “The odd thing is, before I came into the title, I hated this place. I never came here.”

She stared at him, not sure she'd heard him right. “But it's your home. It's what you've spent the last nine years salvaging. You hate it?”

“I don't hate it now. I did when I was a boy. It was the coldest house you can imagine. Especially after…” He paused, then shook his head and spoke again. “I saw my mother only half a dozen times a year, whenever she could be bothered to come home from whichever lover she was living with. I barely remember her. My father didn't care. He had plenty of lovers of his own, unless he was too drunk to visit them. Whenever Father was in residence, watching him pass out before the dessert was a common occurrence at our table. When I was a boy, the only thing bearable about this place was leaving it. I always went to Percy's home during the summer holidays.”

Viola didn't speak. It was rare for John to speak of things like this, and she didn't want to spoil the moment by interrupting. She just held his hand and listened.

“Getting sent off to school was the best thing that happened to me,” he told her. “Percy and I went to Harrow, and I seldom saw either of my parents after that. When my mother died, I came down from Cambridge for the funeral, stayed two hours, and left again. I had no desire to be here, and until my father died, I did not come back.”

He turned his head and looked at her. “You've said you didn't know me, and you wanted to. I've never told you things about me because I didn't want you to know what an irresponsible scapegrace I truly was. Your brother was dead right about me, and I thought—” He coughed, looking a little embarrassed. “I knew you disagreed with him and thought I was quite a wonderful fellow. I didn't want you to ever know how untrue that really was.”

He squeezed her hand hard. “When I was at Cambridge, I was so damnably wild. I almost got sent down half a dozen times. I spent every shilling of my quarterly allowance and then some. I got into debt. I gambled, deep stakes. I drank.”

He lifted her hand, kissed it, let it go. “And then there were the women,” he said. “I had mistresses from the time I was fifteen, and I gave them the most lavish gifts you can imagine. What did I care? I'd be a viscount one day. I spent so much money, and I never gave a thought to where it came from. I didn't know, and I didn't want to
know. In other words, I was just like my father, a man I despised.”

It pained her that he talked so disparagingly about himself, and yet she knew there was a great deal of truth in it. If she was ever going to understand him, she had to accept that.

“Because I'd been away from here for so long,” he went on, “I had no idea what sorry shape Hammond Park had gotten into, and to be honest, it never occurred to me to inquire. After Cambridge, I lived at Enderby. Then I went on a Grand Tour. Wherever I was, my father still sent me my quarterly allowance, and I still spent every shilling of it. Then he died of typhoid and I came back to England.”

He reached out, sweeping his arm across the view of the tenant farms in the valley below. “All of that was mine, and what a pathetic legacy it was. Until I got here, I didn't know that if drains don't get repaired, the standing water can cause typhoid outbreaks. My father was not the only one who died. There were dozens of others. As I toured the place, I was shocked by the state of things. Not only the drains, but everything else. My father had bankrupted it. The tenants were in misery, the animals were sick, the fields were un-planted, and the creditors were about to take everything that wasn't entailed.”

Anthony had tried to tell her the state of Hammond's finances and what she was getting, but she
had refused to listen to her brother's warnings. She listened now. “That must have been quite a shock to you,” she said gently.

He pointed down to one of the thatched cottages below. “There was a girl of twelve who lived there. Nan was her name. Her mother had just died, I was told. I was looking over the place, and she stood there in the doorway of that cottage—so ramshackle it was in those days—and she had her baby sister on her hip. She was dirty and thin, and she had on this ragged dress. She asked if I was the new lord, and when I said yes, she gave me this look. She ran her gaze up and down my elegant suit and white linen, then she looked into my eyes, and I saw such contempt in hers that I was shocked. I shall never forget that look in her eyes as long as I live. And what she said. To this day, it haunts me.”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Acorns don't fall far, do they?' and turned her back on me and went inside. That was like a kick in the stomach, and something changed inside me. I knew I had to do something about all this. It was my responsibility. I was the lord.”

“That's when you decided to marry a girl with money.”

He looked at her with defiant eyes, unashamed. “Yes. And I was scared enough and desperate enough that I lied to that girl to win her. I lied to her and I manipulated her with every wile I could
think of, and I let her fall in love with the man she thought I was. I'd do it again, Viola. I don't regret it.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her mouth, a hard kiss, as defiant as the fire in his eyes. He pushed her down into the soft grass and rolled her backward, down into a dip in the turf where they could not be seen from the valley below. He leaned over her and slid one arm behind her head. “I'll never regret it.”

She looked up at her handsome husband, into his proud face. “I don't regret it, either.”

“You don't?”

“No, John,” she said, and meant it. “I don't know quite when I realized it, but I don't regret marrying you. Maybe I realized it that day in the boat when you made up that poem about me.” She smiled and reached up to toy with a lock of his dark brown hair in her fingers. “You always have been a silver-tongued devil.”

His lashes lowered a fraction and he smiled back at her. His hand spread over her hip. “Does this mean I get to steal some kisses today?”

She pursed her lips, pretending to think about it. “That depends. Are you going to make up with me first?”

“No.”

“No?” she repeated, and let her hand fall. “What do you mean, no?” “I am not going to make up.” Even as he said it, he grasped a handful of her broadcloth riding
habit and began pulling the skirt upward. “I did it last time. This time, it's your turn to do the making up.”

He was so outrageous sometimes. “We're supposed to take turns now?”

He nodded, sliding her skirt up her leg. With a huff of pretended vexation, she made a halfhearted effort to jerk her skirt back down, but he managed to maneuver his hand beneath the layers of broadcloth and undergarments. “I'm getting tired of being the only one who ever does this making up business,” he said, caressing her calf above the top of her boot.

“That's because you're always the one doing something wrong.”

“The conceit of the woman!” He slid his palm along her calf, moving in lazy upward circles to her thigh. “Torture me all night by lying there right next to me without even trying to kiss and make up, and you say you've done nothing wrong?”

“One whole night,” she murmured, and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply as that aching warmth started through her, the ache of desire he could always bring with his hands. She was giving in. She'd known she would all along. “How you must have been suffering.”

“More than you can imagine. And was a deuced good sport about it, too.” He moved his hand higher, rubbed his fingers across the top of
her thigh right where her birthmark was. “Come on, Viola. Say you're sorry for torturing me so cruelly.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. She began to laugh. “I'm not sorry.”

John's hand moved between her thighs, and any thought of laughing went out of her head. She moved beneath him with a soft moan, and his fingers brushed the curls between her legs, just enough to torment her. “Say you want to make up.”

She arched upward into his hand, excitement rising as he began to caress her in that exquisite place. “I'm not saying it,” she gasped, her hips moving faster with the strokes of his hand.

“Say it,” he demanded, caressing her over and over, until her arousal climbed to a fever pitch.

“No, no. I shan't.”

“Fine.” He pulled his hand away and rolled onto his back away from her.

“Oh, you are such a tease!” she cried, laughing. She sat up and leaned over him. “You are the one who should be sorry for tormenting me in this wicked way.” She paused, and ran her hand over his chest and down his flat abdomen. “I shall exact my revenge.”

She laid her hand over his groin, felt his erection. He drew in a sharp breath as she began to unbutton his trousers, and he groaned when she took him in her hand.

She made it last. He'd taught her how a long
time ago, and she remembered. She wrapped her hand around him and stroked him until his hips began to thrust upward, then she relaxed her grip, rubbing her finger lightly along the underside of his penis, up and down, just the way she knew tormented him. She brought her mouth close enough that he would feel her breath on his shaft, then she kissed the tip. His hand touched her hair, wanting to keep her there for more of that pleasure, but she sat up, too quick for him.

“All right,” he said, his breath coming hard and fast, “You win. You win. I'll say it first. Let's make up.”

She straddled him, opened over him, took him inside her. She felt him thrust upward, deep into her, again and again. She watched his face in the sunlight as he came, and she felt the joy of it as if it were her pleasure when he cried out her name.

Afterward, she leaned down and kissed him. “Tricked you. Made you say it first.”

“So you did.” He opened his eyes and smiled that heart-stopping smile. He pushed her hair back to caress her face. “I hope to hell you're planning to trick me again tonight.”

J
ohn lost no time in making it clear to the staff at Hammond Park that when the breakfast tray was brought, a simple scratch on the door to announce the fact would be enough, and to place the tray in the corridor. Until the breakfast tray was back outside the door and empty, there were to be no servants coming into the master's room unless the house was on fire. As the days of June went by, he and Viola had breakfast in bed together nearly every morning.

He trounced her at chess every time they played, but let her win at piquet to make up for it. He got his wish and taught her to swim. Naked, by moonlight.

They gave a fete and all the country families came. They had dinner parties for the local gentry. They raced on the downs and he got to see her hair fly back behind her every time. He spent a lot of money on new riding hats for her. He didn't care.

June gave way to July. Slowly, the emptiness in
side John—the emptiness he had never known existed until that night in the rain in Grosvenor Square—began to give way to the contentment he so badly wanted, that he had missed for so long. The cold war of the years gone by seemed far away, and he began to forget that there had ever been a time when Viola wasn't sleeping beside him.

They fought often. Usually because she would insist on talking about things, and he avoided it as often as possible. They always made up, and he liked that part. A lot. No matter how many times they fought, there was no sleeping on a cot in the dressing room.

He loved to tease her because she always fell for it. When she asked him if they could have Dylan, Grace, Anthony, and Daphne come for a house party, he played it for all it was worth.

“No.”

She looked at him over the breakfast tray, wide-eyed and pretty with her hair loose, surrounded by snowy white sheets and pillows. “Why not?”

“Your brother hates me.”

“He doesn't hate you.”

John munched on a slice of bacon. “He would happily cut off my head if he could get away with it.”

“Dylan will be here to keep things civil.”

“Hah! Dylan never keeps things civil. He just sits back and enjoys the fray and laughs.”

“Grace, then. And Daphne.” She pushed the
tray aside and moved closer to him. “Daphne likes you. She's been on your side for ages. Even when I still thought you were a scoundrel, she defended you.”

“She did?” That surprised him, but then he remembered his sister-in-law's face that day when Viola had run off to Enderby.

I know how desperation feels, Hammond.

“I have a great deal of respect for Tremore's wife,” he said, “but it does not alter the fact that your brother loathes me.”

Viola snuggled up to him, kissed his ear. “Maybe it's time the two of you made up.”

He turned his head, let her kiss him. Then he leaned back in bed, looking at her through half-closed eyes. “If I agree to this,” he drawled, “do I get some kind of reward?”

Her hand fluttered to his bare chest and she pressed her lips together, knowing full well she'd already won and trying not to smile about it, playing the game. “What do you want?”

He told her, and she blushed from head to toe. But ten days later the Duke of Tremore and Mr. Dylan Moore and their wives received invitations to spend the last two weeks of August at Hammond Park.

 

The warm, lazy days of August drifted by. Every day, John found some way to make her laugh. He made up the most absurd limericks
for her, and sometimes he read her poetry he'd written. She began to sense his moods and the nature of them, though it was like prying open live oysters to get him to tell her anything of a personal nature. He usually deflected it with a witty comment or a careless change of subject. She learned not to ask such questions, coming to understand he would tell her things when he was ready to do so, and not before. On those rare occasions when he chose to reveal himself in some sort of personal way, it always took her by surprise. One evening when they were in the library and she was going over menu plans for the impending house party, John finally told her about the trifle.

She was reading through the suggestions of Mrs. Miller, shaking her head. “No, no,” she murmured to herself. “This won't do at all.” Viola picked up a quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and crossed out one of the cook's suggestions.

“What won't do?” John asked over the top of his newspaper.

“Pâté. Anthony hates pâté. Always has. The very idea of liver makes him green. I won't subject him to it.”

John laughed. “I'd love to see Tremore turn green.”

“Stop it, John.” She shot him a warning look. “This party is partly so that the two of you can rec
oncile, remember? I should so like it if the two of you became friends.”

“I know, I know.” He gave the sigh of a suffering husband. “No liver, then. What other delights am I going to be deprived of during your brother's visit?”

“There won't be any trifle, if you were worried about that,” she said gently.

“Better not be, or I shall give Miller the sack. She knows better.”

Viola wanted to ask about it but knew he would not tell her. She resumed going over the menu. She crossed off mutton, which she despised, and replaced it with beef fillets. She added a selection of chocolates to be ordered because Daphne liked chocolates. She was contemplating the wine selections when John spoke.

“It was because my sister died.” His voice was so low, she barely heard his words.

“Your sister?” She looked over at him, surprised by a comment that seemed to come out of nowhere. Her husband wasn't looking at her. Instead, he was staring down at his newspaper.

“The trifle,” he said. “It was because of my sister, Kate. I was seven, and I was in the nursery upstairs, eating my dinner when I found out. My nanny was the one who told me. My mother could not be bothered to leave her lover in Paris, and my father was at his mistress's home in Yorkshire. It's
odd, you know,” he added, his voice so terribly soft that the sound of it hurt her heart.

She walked over to his chair, knelt beside it, put her hand on his knee. “What is odd?”

“How things come back to you and tear you up even if they happened years ago. I don't remember anything else about that day, but I remember what dessert I had. I was sitting there staring at that damned bowl, and the only thing I was thinking when my nanny was breaking the news to me was that trifle was Kate's favorite thing in the world, and she wasn't going to get to eat it anymore.”

One hand balled into a fist, crumpling the newspaper. “Even now, I miss my sister,” he said through clenched teeth, as if the words were being torn out of him. He let go of the paper and rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes, a savage, furtive movement with his face turned away from her.

“Kate made everything bearable, you see. It's been twenty-eight years since then, and I know it sounds stupid, but every time I see trifle, the red jam and the yellow custard and the white cream, I am seven years old again, and my parents are hundreds of miles away, and my sister is dead, and I have that awful, sick feeling in my guts.” He did not look at her. Instead, he straightened in his chair, smoothed out the newspaper and pretended to resume reading it as if nothing had happened.

She looked at his stiff, proud profile, and she
thought of why she had fallen in love with him when she was seventeen. For his smile and his wit, for his way of making her laugh. But she wasn't seventeen anymore, and when she looked at him now, she saw none of those things that had mattered to her so long ago. And at that moment, because they were not there, Viola fell in love with John Hammond all over again.

She knew there were no words she could say that would be of any use, so she said none. Instead, she reached over and pulled the newspaper gently away from him. “Come with me,” she said, and took one of his hands in hers.

“Where are we going?”

“Just let me be in charge of things for a change, will you?” She pulled him to his feet and led him upstairs. She lit the lamp in their room and began to undress him. She removed his evening coat and his cravat and tossed them aside. She unbuttoned his waistcoat, his braces and his shirt, and pulled them off one by one. He stood there silent as she undressed him. There was no smile on his lips. His handsome face was grave as he watched her hands roam over his body. He was rigidly still, his muscles hard and tense beneath the light caress of her fingers.

She ran her hands over his naked torso—his wide shoulders and chest, along his abdomen. She sank to her knees and unbuttoned his trousers. He was flagrantly aroused as she took him in her hand.
She kissed the head of his penis, and he breathed in deeply, sinking his hand into the knot of her hair. Head thrown back, he groaned as she parted her lips and took him in her mouth. She stroked him in her palm and sucked him with her mouth. With her free hand, she gently cupped his testes.

He made a rough sound and stopped her. He caught her hands and shoved them away. Gripping her shoulders, he pulled her to her feet. He kissed her hard and his hands began tugging at her skirts, pulling them up, quick and desperate, out of control.

Tossing up yards of silk and muslin, he wadded her skirts between them, then he gripped her buttocks in his hands and lifted her. “Wrap your legs around me,” he ordered, and when she did, he impaled her against him as he pressed her back against the wall.

“Oh God, oh God,” he groaned, and thrust into her hard—once, twice. Then he came, tremors running through his body as he climaxed.

He held her there, pressed to the wall, gulping in air. Then, slowly, he lowered her to her feet. He caught her in a frantic hold, tight against him, kissing her hair. “Viola,” he whispered. “My wife. My wife.”