The Marriage Bed (14 page)

"No, you won't." Her eyes squeezed shut. "I know you too well to believe that. You'll just take more liberties."

"Only if you don't say no."
He fiddled with the collar button, unfastening it, then pulled the lacy shawl away, exposing the skin of her throat and shoulders above the wide, rounded neckline of her dress.

"What are you doing?" She made a grab for the collar, but he dropped it to the floor.

"Taking those liberties.
You dither too long." He bent his head and kissed the bare skin along the side of her throat, inhaling the soft, familiar scent of her. She let out her breath in a little, fluttering sigh.
Her neck, her weak spot, his opportunity.
He blew warm laughter against her throat, loving it.

Footsteps echoed on stone, and the voices of a man and woman floated to them from far away. It had obviously occurred to some other man that a museum had plenty of opportunities to get his woman alone.

"You have to let me go," Viola whispered, but not so forcefully this time. "Someone will see us."

Undeterred by something as trivial as faraway voices, he trailed kisses along the curve of her neck and shoulder as he slid his hand down. "They'd have to come all the way down the gallery, and we'll hear them in plenty of time. Besides—" He broke off, forgetting whatever he'd been about to say as his palm curved around the full, round shape of her breast and she gave a little gasp. Layers of fabric impeded him, but his memory of his wife's luscious shape was perfectly clear. The excitement inside him rose like the tide and he forgot whatever he'd been about to say.

She slid her hand between them, curling her fingers around his wrist as if to pull his hand down.
He stilled, tense, waiting in agony with her breast against his palm.
He remembered the rules they had established long ago. Whether he got his kiss or no, if she stopped him, he stopped.
But not before.

Her hand moved
,
her palm flattened over his, not quite pressing his hand to her breast, but almost.
Tacit encouragement.
No stopping yet.

John
shaped her breast through the fabric with his hand, his fingertips brushing back and forth over the bare skin just above the rounded neckline of her gown. He tasted her throat in countless little nibbles, all the way up to her cheek.

Her breath was coming faster now, and she twisted in his arms. "Someone will see us," she moaned softly, sounding aroused and miserable and angry all at once. "Oh,
John
, someone will see."

"Better kiss me quick, then."

She made a wordless sound and turned her face toward him, giving him what he wanted. Her mouth touched his and opened, sending shimmers of pleasure through his body. Her hand lifted to spread across his cheek. Her kid glove felt smooth and cool on his skin, her mouth hot and sweet. He closed his eyes, savoring a delight so long forgotten, and yet so familiar. This was Viola; he remembered her taste as he kissed her, he remembered the puffy fullness of her lower lip as he sucked it, he remembered the perfect line of her teeth as he explored them with his tongue.

She broke the kiss suddenly, turning her face away. She stirred in his hold and made a faint sound—a protest, maybe.

Past the blood pounding through him, and her soft little objection, he heard something else, the tap of footsteps turning to come down the gallery toward them, and
John
knew he was out of time.
At least for today.

Wrenching himself away, he pressed one last quick kiss to the side of her neck, pulled back and let her go. He bent to pick up her shawl collar and hat from the floor and handed them to her. As the footsteps came closer, he straightened his cravat and leaned out of the niche to have a peek, striving to force down his arousal and regain a semblance of sanity. An elderly, stooping gentleman in a dusty black suit and spectacles was coming toward him. Beside him,
John
could hear the rustle of straw and fabric as Viola shoved on her hat, donned her collar, and straightened her rumpled clothes.

"At last!"
John
exclaimed, and stepped partway out of the niche. "We have been wandering around forever, trying to find our way, and now here is someone to assist us."

The old man stopped and squinted, peering down the length of the gallery. "Is there someone with you, sir?"

"My wife and I were looking for the new collection of weapons and armaments. We seem to have gotten lost."

"I should say you have. It isn't down this way at all."

John
schooled his features into
buffle
-headed perplexity. "Isn't it?" He turned his head in Viola's direction. "Sorry, dearest. I seem to have led us astray."

He got a none-too-gentle kick in the leg for that remark.

"Did you not get a map when you came in?" the man asked.

"Map?"
John
pressed his fingers to his forehead as if he were trying to think. "No, I don't believe we did."

"I am Mr. Addison, the assistant director of antiquities." He beckoned with one hand. "I shall direct you and your wife to the armaments."

"I say, that's awfully kind of you."
John
glanced into the niche and held out his hand to Viola, adding in a whisper, "Collar button."

She fastened it, glaring at him as if this was
all his
fault. She stuck her chin up to the level of hauteur befitting a duke's sister, brushed back several loose tendrils of hair that had fallen over her face, then put her hand in his and stepped out into the gallery.

"Why, bless me!" the elderly gentleman exclaimed, "Lady Hammond!"

"Good day, Mr. Addison." She was trying to sound dignified,
John
knew, but there was still a flush in her cheeks, a breathless edge to her voice, and a rumpled quality to her appearance, in which he took a great deal of satisfaction.

"Lost, again, my lady?" Mr. Addison shook his head at her.

She gave the feeble smile of the dim-witted female that only fooled old men and stupid young ones. "It's this new wing, sir. It confuses me."

"I keep telling you to always take one of the maps with you when you go wandering about the museum," he said, answering her smile with an indulgent one of his own. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "Your husband accompanying you today, I see."

John
bowed. "Lord Hammond," he introduced himself when Viola failed to do so.

"A pleasure, my lord.
Come this way to see the armaments."

They followed a few feet behind Mr. Addison as he led them out of the gallery.

"That was close,"
John
murmured in her ear, laughing softly, exhilarated by the whole experience, especially the gratifying passion he'd aroused in his wife, which had been his goal for the entire afternoon. "I haven't had this much fun in years."

She sniffed. "Don't expect to have any more of it," she whispered back.
"Not with me, at least.
I have no intention of letting you trick me again."

"No?" He cast a sideways glance at her and grinned. "Now that's a challenge I can't resist."

He was good at other things, too. She touched her fingers to her mouth, feeling the delicious warmth of his kiss all over again even as she reminded herself he was good at kissing because he'd done so much of it. That true and painful reminder didn't help. It only made her feel more muddled and agonized.

What had happened yesterday? She closed her eyes, thinking of those stolen moments in the
mu
seum
, and she knew the answer. She'd lost her head, just like the naive girl of nine years ago.

So long since
John
had touched her like that, but time hadn't made a difference to the way she responded to him. Time hadn't shored up her pride enough to take away the excitement of his hands and his mouth.

She wrapped her arms around herself and opened her eyes. Looking at her reflection, she saw all her confusion and misery looking back at her, and she did not understand her own mind or her own heart. What was wrong with her? Pride had held her together through heartbreak, kept her head high when he turned to other women, helped her pretend to him and to the world that she didn't care what he did, enabled her to find satisfaction in a life of charity work and good friends. Where had all her pride been yesterday?

He would hurt her again if she let him. He would. The deceptions of pulling her into empty corridors and stealing kisses might be harmless ones, but she knew he could lie with his heart in his eyes about the things that mattered
most,
and she always wanted to believe him. That was what frightened her. How easy it was to believe him.

Do you love me?

Of course I do. I adore you.

A knock on the door interrupted her, and at her call to come in, Daphne entered the
modiste's
dressing room, wearing her costume of Cleopatra. "Well?" she asked, smoothing the heavy tresses of her black wig. "What do you think?"

I think I am losing my mind.

With an effort, Viola pushed the museum outing of the previous afternoon out of her mind. It was all right to lose her mind as long as she didn't let him steal her heart. She turned to her sister-in-law, relieved by the distraction, and smiled. "Did Cleopatra wear spectacles?"

Daphne made a face. Laughing, she said, "I shall not be wearing them to the ball, dearest! What do you think of the costume?" She toyed with the wide, jeweled collar above her flowing white gown. "Is it too silly of me to choose something like this?"

Viola looked at her best friend in the world, thinking of the woman Daphne had been when they met two years before—shy
, so uncertain of herself, so much in love with Anthony and trying so hard to hide it. She was different now. Having her love returned so passionately by her husband and the responsibilities of her role as the Duchess of
Tremore
had taken away much of Daphne's shyness and replaced it with a measure of self-confidence. But there were moments, like this one, when the shy woman Viola had first met did come peeping through.

"It isn't silly in the least," Viola assured her. "Why should you think it so?"

"I have always wanted to be Cleopatra," Daphne confessed. "I am just uncertain I can be convincing in the role. Even if it is only for a Fancy Dress ball, we are supposed to act out our parts all evening."

"You look very queenly to me," Viola said, laughing. "And Anthony seems willing to be your Marc
Antony
. He'd take on the entire
Roman Empire
if you asked him to."

Daphne's mouth curved in a smile that was a bit reminiscent of a cat with the cream jug. "True. I rather like it that way, too. He told me once I have all the power over him because women have all the power in the world over men if only we exercise it properly. It took me a long time to understand what he meant."

Viola sighed. "If you understand it, explain it to me," she said wryly. "
I
could do with some of that power just now."

Her sister-in-law's smile faded, and Daphne looked at her with a hint of compassion.

Viola couldn't bear that. She turned in a pirouette. "What do you think of me as a French marquise?"

"I think you look lovely.
As always."

"T
hank
you, but what of the costume? Is it
auhentic
?"

Daphne tilted her head. "If you wish to be truly authentic, you will have to powder your hair."

Viola smoothed the dark blue velvet of her over-skirt. "Won't that make rather a mess?"

"At least they don't make it with sugar any longer."

"Hair powder was made with sugar? But wouldn't that attract all manner of insects?"

"That was a drawback, certainly."

"How awful."
Though if that would keep
Hammond
at bay, it might be worth a try.
She reminded herself that she wasn't going to think about him anymore. "Does the overskirt hang correctly at the hem?" she asked, turning in a circle again. "It seems a bit crooked."

"It's the hoops, I think, not the sack." Daphne adjusted one of the wide side hoops. "If you don't want to worry about powdering your hair, you could go as a Greek princess of two thousand years ago. Then you could wear a cone of fat on your head instead of hair powder."

"Fat?"
Viola faced the mirror again and looked at her sister-in-law's reflection. "Why on earth would I wear fat on my head?"

Her horrified expression made the other woman laugh again. "The fat was perfumed, and in the heat, it would melt, releasing the fragrance."

"You know the most extraordinary things, Daphne. T
hank
you for the suggestion, but I shall stay with what I have. I cannot imagine what Lady Deane would have to say if I showed up at the ball with perfumed fat on my head." Viola smoothed the overskirt over the hoops at her hips. "Since you know so much, dear sister, how do I avoid getting powder on this dark blue velvet?"

"Wear a wig. Most people did eighty years ago."

"No, it will just get hot and make my head itch. I hate that."

"So that is why you are forever taking off your hats! Now I understand."

A scratch sounded on the door, and
Mirelle
,
London
's most fashionable
modiste
, entered the dressing room.
"Your grace.
Lady Hammond." She curtsied to Daphne and then to Viola. "I hope you like your costumes? Is there anything you would wish to alter? I am at your disposal."

"I like mine exceedingly well," Daphne said.

The
modiste
clasped her hands together, gratified. "Your grace is most kind." She turned to Viola. "And you, my lady?"

"
Mirelle
, what does one use for hair powder?
Talc?"

"They make a very fine hair powder for wigs nowadays, my lady. Barristers and judges use it, you see. You could powder your hair with that. But if I may be allowed to give my opinion on the matter, it would be a shame to cover your hair with powder. It is a lovely color, and with the pale blue silk and dark blue velvet, most beautiful, most alluring."

Those passionate moments in the museum flashed through her mind again, and Viola felt her cheeks heating at the mortifying memory. She wasn't certain she wanted to be alluring. It was too dangerous. "T
hank
you,
Mirelle
."

"I agree with her," Daphne put in. "No woman of any era would cover hair the color of yours with powder."

"Then I won't wear it." She told herself it was because powder was messy. The fact that
Hammond
had always liked the color of her hair had nothing to do with it. She pressed a hand to the low-cut, heavily boned bodice of embroidered, pale blue silk. "But we have another problem. It is a ball, and I shall never be able to waltz or country dance in this. No wonder they only danced the minuet in my great-grandmother's day." She glanced at
Mirelle
. "Can you have the waistline let out a bit?"

"Only a little bit, or it would spoil the line of the bodice, you see."

"Let out as much as you can,
Mirelle
. I shall be unable to breathe otherwise." She considered her choice one last time,
then
nodded. "I do like the gown very much. The embroidery is lovely."

"I am always pleased to be of service, my lady."

Mirelle
departed and an assistant helped Viola dress once again in her own clothes. After that, she and Daphne left the
modiste
. "
Mirelle
was right, you know," Daphne said as they stepped into Anthony's barouche. "You do look stunningly beautiful in that gown."

Viola leaned back against the carriage seat beside her sister-in-law and gave her a look of chagrin. "There are many beautiful women in the world, Daphne, but beauty is not enough to make a husband faithful. What is?"

Daphne wrapped an arm around her shoulders in an affectionate hug. "I don't know, darling. I just don't know."

"Neither do
I
," she whispered. "I wish I did."