The Marriage Bed (12 page)

She couldn't help it. She smiled as she watched him take half his scone in one bite, a scone piled high with both cream and jam.
"You poor man.
You look as if you are suffering terribly."

He nodded agreement with that as he swallowed the bite in his mouth. "I am suffering. You know I prefer apricot over blackberry." He wiped a dab of jam and cream from one corner of his mouth with his thumb, then licked it off,
then
looked at her. "But blackberry does have its advantages."

She saw what was in his eyes, and her mind and her body and her heart all recognized it. That heated, knowing look. She tensed as she watched him set the uneaten half of his scone aside, but she could not seem to move away as he began easing his body forward on the blanket, moving closer to her. His hip grazed hers. "You have jam all over your mouth."

"You're making that up," she accused, her mouth full. She touched her fingertips to her mouth, verifying for herself that he was teasing as she swallowed her bite of scone. "I do not have jam on my face."

John
reached back behind him, his forearm brushing her ankles as he scooped a dab of jam from the pot onto his finger. He then turned toward her and touched the corner of her mouth. "Yes, you do."

This was a game, their game, the one they used to play years ago. During those picnics, if no one was looking, he would dab jam on her mouth, then kiss it off. When they were married, it had become part of their morning ritual.
Breakfast in bed and blackberry jam and making love.
He had spoken of it yesterday, and today, he was reminding her again, making her remember how she had once felt about him, dredging up things she had forced herself to forget.

You always liked making love in the
mornings
best.

He leaned forward, bringing his mouth close to hers, that knowing look still in his eyes, and it suddenly seemed as if her attempts to be cold and frozen were futile. Something in the brandy brown depths of his eyes could still make her feel languid and warm, something tender in that smile could still spread heat through her body and soften her like butter in the afternoon sun. He leaned closer.

She hated him. She did.

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 run, 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.

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."

"T
hank
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.