The Marriage Bed (22 page)

He stared down into his plate and idly pushed kidneys and bacon around with his fork. If he'd been thinking at all last night, which was doubtful, it had been about taking advantage of the blessed opportunity he'd been given as quickly as possible. He probably should have gone more slowly— wooed, coaxed, eased her into her bedroom upstairs. But he hadn't. And then he had compounded the problem by getting autocratic and reminding her that the three weeks were up. If she didn't come with him today, he'd have to go to the House, for he could not back down. Even then, when they were living together, he would still have to do some serious wooing to get her into bed.

He dropped his fork into his plate with an exasperated oath. No man should have to put up with this from his wife. Most other men in his situation would drag her into the marriage bed and get on with it. But what other men would do didn't help him. He wasn't that sort of fellow, never had been.

Christ
. He wanted a willing wife.
A passionate wife.
Was that too much to ask?

She said she could not trust him. He hadn't pointed out that trust went both ways and so did the ability to inflict hurt. He could have promised Viola that he would never go to any woman's bed but hers, but he wasn't going to make that promise unless he could trust her not to spurn him when she was angry. He would not be the victim of any woman's sexual blackmail, and that was what she had done to him, even if she could not see it. How could they ever get past that?

He thought of Dylan Moore's suggestion to him that he and Viola become friends. It seemed an insane idea, but then,
Moore
was rather mad, always had been.

John
sighed and sat back, looking at the little glass pots of jam on the table.
Blackberry and apricot.
Hammond
Park
.

Those days had been shoved to the back of his mind long ago and had lingered there for years like other hazy, half-forgotten dreams of his youth. Yet now they called to him, beckoning him back to a time when he had been content, even happy. He'd made Viola happy, too. He was certain of it. There had to be a way to bring all of that back. He was no longer content to believe it had been lost forever.

Become friends.

John
sat up straight in his chair, staring at the jam pots. Perhaps
Moore
was on to something. He and Viola had been friends once. That was what they'd had back then, that summer in
Scotland
and that autumn in Northumberland. They had been lovers, too, and fought and scrapped like lovers, but they had laughed and had fun, and he'd been more pleased with his choice of a wife than he could have ever imagined. Then it had all gone wrong.

He wished—God, he wished—they could be like that again, and that he was having breakfast in bed with her right now, kissing blackberry jam off her face. Just now that seemed a dismally remote possibility.

"The morning post, my lord."

Surprised, he looked up as Pershing set a stack of correspondence by his plate. It was usually
John
's secretary who brought his letters. "Where's Stone today?" he asked the butler.

"Mr. Stone has the measles. Upon the advice of his brother-in-law, who is a physician, he has removed himself to his sister's home in Clapham until he is no longer infectious to others. Mr. Stone said he bitterly regrets that he will be unable to be of service to your lordship for the next ten days."

"Send him a note, and assure him I prefer an absent secretary to a sick household. Tell him to stay in Clapham until he is fully recovered."

"Yes, my lord." The butler withdrew.

John
glanced through his letters, sorting them as he went.

An invitation to both Lord and Lady Hammond to dine at the home of Lady Snowden.
The Countess of Snowden was clearly more optimistic this morning about the state of his marriage than he was. A note from
Tattersall's
confirming that the new mare he'd purchased two weeks earlier had been delivered to his estate in Northumberland. He'd bought the horse for Viola. It was a spirited four-year-old thoroughbred with breathtaking speed, but given the current state of things, he didn't think he'd be racing horses on the downs with his wife until this particular mare was tottering into her grave. Since the note needed no reply, he tossed it into the fire that burned in the grate nearby, and continued working his way through the stack of correspondence.
A report from his steward on things at
Hammond
Park
.
A bill from his tailor, and another from his boot maker, both for the costume he was wearing to Viola's charity ball, a ball to which he had still not received an invitation from his wife.
Another letter from Emma Rawlins.

He paused over the folded, sealed square of delicately perfumed paper. He had to admire the lady's persistence. How many letters was this now?
A dozen, at least.
The first few he had read— an apology for her possessiveness, then a reproof for his cool reply, then a scathing condemnation of his inattention. After those, he had ignored the rest, not bothering to read them or reply. He heard she had sold the cottage he'd given her and was living in
France
. Hoping she remained there, he tossed her latest letter into the fire unopened.

Keeping only the report from his steward,
which
he could read in the carriage on his way to
Grosvenor
Square
, and the invitation, which he would ask Viola about before replying, he left the breakfast table. Instructing Pershing to place the bills on Stone's desk for the secretary to pay when he returned,
John
went upstairs to bathe and shave.

As his valet assisted him with his morning routine,
John
tried to anticipate what Viola's next move was likely to be. His wife could be as unpredictable as the weather, but if he had to guess, he thought it most likely that she would refuse to see him and force him to go to the House of Lords to get her back. But when he arrived at
Grosvenor
Square
that afternoon, he found that she was not refusing to see him, nor agreeing to see him. Instead, she had left town.

"Where?" he asked, looking into the pretty, violet eyes of the Duchess of
Tremore
, who had been the one to impart this
news.

The duchess did not answer for a moment. In-stead, she stirred her tea, her head tilted in consideration as she studied him from behind her gold-rimmed spectacles. "Before I decide to answer that, I would like to ask you a question,
Hammond
."

"Certainly."

"If Viola refuses to return to you, is it really your intention to petition the House to force her back?"

He smiled a little. "Duchess, I sometimes think even the House of Lords could not make my wife
do
what she does not want to do," he said, trying to make light of it.

The duchess did not seem satisfied by that. Instead, she continued to look at him with all her placid equanimity. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to think of how to answer her when he did not know what the answer was. He gave his sister-in-law the most direct, honest reply he could. "I refuse to accept the possibility that she will not return to me," he answered. "I reject it utterly and completely."

"And how long will you reject it?"

He set his jaw.
"Until I make her see sense and reject it, too."

"That may be a long time." She tapped the tiny silver spoon against the side of her cup and set it on the rim of the saucer beneath it.

He could not argue with that. Tight-lipped, he nodded. "Yes."

"Love is not the basis of your determination to win Viola back."

Was that an accusation?
A condemnation?

Before he could decide, she took a sip of tea and spoke again. "Viola is at
Enderby
."

The duchess's sudden capitulation surprised him, and though he tried not to show it, she noticed. "You did not expect that, did you?"

"No, Duchess. I did not."

"In instigating a search for your wife, you would have inquired at
Enderby
first, and the servants would have told you she was there. They are paid by you, after all."

"Is that the only reason you told me?"

Those pretty lavender-blue eyes widened. "What other reason could there be?"

"There has to be one. You risk your husband's wrath by even sitting down to tea with me."

"True." She did not seem worried about that, and he suspected that this serene and mild-mannered lady held the duke's haughty heart in the palm of her hand. Such was the inexplicable nature of love. "If you hurt Viola again,
Tremore
will most likely challenge you to a duel. He would kill you quite cheerfully, believe me."

"And you?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Do you share his animus for me?"

"No," she said. "I don't."

He forced a laugh. "I cannot think why not."

"No?" There was compassion in her face as she looked at him, and that made him shift uncomfortably in his chair. "I know how desperation feels,
Hammond
. Unlike my husband and my sister-in-law, I have been without money and means, and it was the most terrifying moment of my life. I would have done anything—anything, mind you—to rid myself of that terror. If fortune had not put the Duke of
Tremore
and a ship passage to
England
in my path, I might easily have been forced to marry for money." She paused.
"Or worse."

"I am glad that did not happen," he said, and meant it wholeheartedly.

"You have another ally besides
myself
, you know." She smiled a little. "My son has taken quite a liking to you, I understand."

He smiled back at her, remembering Nicolas and Mr.
Poppin
. "Heard about that, did you?"

"From Beckham."

"He is a fine boy, Duchess." As he said the words,
John
felt envy begin to burn his insides, the same envy that had seared him while he stared out the window of this very room and watched the
Tremore
family walk in the park. His smile faded and he turned his head away from the compassionate eyes of his sister-in-law.
"A very fine boy."

"T
hank
you." She stood up. "I hope you are sincere in your desire for a real marriage and a family, Hammond. If not, God help you."

John
rose as well.
"Because your husband will challenge me to a duel?"

"No," she answered at once. "Because I will save Anthony the trouble and fire a pistol shot into you
myself
.
For blind stupidity, if nothing else."

"I believe you mean that," he murmured, noting the sudden hardness in her face.

"I do mean it." She held out her hand to him.

"Then you may put your mind at ease, Duchess," he said, and bent over her hand to kiss it. Straightening, he went on, "Because I am sincere. Obstinate as well, I grant you.
Cynical, certainly.
A bad husband, perhaps.
But also sincere."

"I hope so, for your sake and for Viola's."

He departed, not knowing quite why he had the duchess's good opinion, but grateful for it. He went home to
Bloomsbury Square
, but made no move to pack for
Enderby
.

He was not about to take anything for granted. Viola had clearly decided not to fight a legal battle with him, but she was not ready to give in. The night before in
Tremore's
library made that perfectly clear. In light of that, he knew his best move was to give his wife a bit of room to breathe. His absence, he thought wryly, might make her heart grow fonder—for a change.