The Marriage Bed (2 page)

"
Hammond
," she said with a curtsy.

He bowed in return. "Lady Hammond," he answered, taking the gloved hand she held out. He touched his lips to her knuckles through the fabric, then released her hand and turned so she might take his arm.

She hesitated, but after a moment, placed her hand on his arm. It was the barest touch, but enough. In view of society, she had to play the compliant wife, and both of them knew it, but in private Viola
was
seldom compliant.
One of the privileges of being a duke's sister.

Her brother stood nearby, and
John
could feel the hostile gaze of the Duke of
Tremore
on him like the blasting heat of a coal furnace. But when he greeted the other man, his brother-in-law's
demeanor
was as cold as Viola's had been. No wonder.
Tremore
viewed his baby sister as an angel.
John
was in a position to know better. Viola might look as if she should have a halo over her head, but her nature was a very human one indeed.

Tremore
, in
John
's opinion, had been most fortunate in his own choice of wife. Though not the most beautiful of women, the duchess was one of the most placid, tactful ladies of his acquaintance, and her
demeanor
was far less hostile than her husband's. "
Hammond
," she said, holding out her hand.

"Duchess."
He bowed over her gloved fingers. "You look well," he added as he straightened. "I was gratified to hear your son came into this world healthy and strong."

"Yes, and that was nearly ten months ago,"
Tremore
answered for her through clenched teeth, underlining the fact that since the child's birth,
John
had never once come to see his nephew. He had not even gone to the christening.

John
, being a man possessed of both his common sense and his sanity, never put himself through visits with his brother-in-law if he could help it. "A strong, healthy child is a blessing for any man," he said. "And a son ensures that your estates are secure. Duke, you are a most fortunate man."

John
's own lack of an heir was a point not lost on
Tremore
, who looked away. Feeling Viola's hand tighten on his arm,
John
allowed her to pull him away from the duke and duchess.

"Why are you here?" she demanded in an angry whisper as they walked arm in arm along one side of the room.

"For a reason that cannot be explained in whispers at a crowded ball.
Smile, Viola, or if you cannot manage it, at least be polite. Everyone is staring at us."

"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.

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. T
hank
fully, 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."