The Marriage Bed (10 page)

"You said the other day that our life together was hell," he went on, pulling up long-buried memories as he spoke. "But when I look back, I don't think of it that way. I remember how much fun it was. I remember you always liked making love in the
mornings
best, and how we used to eat breakfast in bed. Blackberry jam was always your favorite."

She turned as if to flee, but he was in front of her before she could.
Enough running away for both of them.
He brought his arms up on either side of hers, trapping her, gripping the shelf of the armoire behind her. He leaned down closer to her, inhaling a soft, delicate fragrance he needed no time to recognize.
Violets.
She still smelled like violets.

He thought of the mornings so long ago when he'd wakened to that scent and her warmth filling his senses. He closed his eyes, breathing in, images of the past flashing through his mind—their wedding journey into Scotland and three months at a secluded cottage there, making love and more love, with her tawny hair falling across his face like golden sunlight. Autumn in Northumberland and the massive mahogany bed at
Hammond
Park
, snowy muslin sheets, the scent of violets and Viola all around him. Lust coursed through his body as he thought of all those mornings when he'd kissed blackberry jam off her lips for breakfast. Perhaps she was right about their life together being hell, because right now his body was getting hotter than hellfire. But it was a lovely way to burn.

"I remember how bad you are at chess," he went on, his eyes closed, saying anything he could think of about those early days. "I remember racing horses on the downs with you, and how you'd tear off your hat and toss it up in the air, laughing.

And how much I always liked the way you laugh. He opened his eyes and looked at her. "Even though you look like an angel, you've got a laugh lustier than any courtesan could ever have."

"You should know."

He ignored that. "I remember cat and dog fights and making up afterward." He fixed his gaze on her pretty pink mouth with its full lower lip and that tiny mole at the corner. "Making up was the best part."

Her remembrances of their early married life did not seem as delicious as his, for her mouth thinned to a tight line. She folded her arms and her eyes narrowed. She was giving him that look—the withering glare of the disdainful goddess about to strike him dead with a lightning bolt. "Your memory is flawed,
Hammond
."

"1
don't
think so." He bent closer to her and tilted his head to the side. "Come on, Viola," he murmured and pressed his lips to her neck. "Let's make up."

He felt her shiver, and he smiled against her skin, a rush of relief surging through him. "You still like it when I do that, don't you?"

"No, I don't," she snapped. "I don't like anything about you. Not anymore." She unfolded her arms, flattened her palms against his chest and pushed at him.

He pulled back and looked into her face. The goddess was nowhere to be seen, and in her place, by God, was a woman. True, she was a woman whose face was filled with outrage, hurt, confusion, desperate panic, even hate. But
John
also saw something else there, something he had not seen for eight long, cold years.
A hint of desire.

"Haven't we been at war long enough?" he murmured, bringing his mouth closer to hers. "Can we not call a truce?"

Her palm came up under his chin, pushing his face away. "I want your word,
Hammond
."

"My word?" he asked against her gloved fingers. He lowered his chin to kiss her palm, and she jerked her hand away.

"Before I even consider living with you again, I want your word of honor as a gentleman that you will never impose your husbandly rights on me by force."

John
froze, those words stopping him more effectively than anything else she could have said or done. He straightened and tilted his head back, expelling his breath in a sigh as he looked at the ceiling. Life would be so much simpler, he thought wryly, if God had blessed him with a compliant wife.
A biddable wife.
A wife who would just do what she was told and like it.
But he didn't have that kind of wife. Instead, he had Viola—who was beautiful, spoiled, and imperious. Viola, who still hated him after eight years, but could still make him rock-hard with one tiny
laugh
. With a supreme effort, he banked the fires inside himself once again and returned his gaze to hers. "You long ago branded me a liar and a faithless husband and a cad. Why is my word worth anything to you now?"

"It's the only card I have to play. And…" She paused to take a deep breath, staring into his ruffled shirtfront. "I am hoping that your word of honor as a gentleman actually means something to you."

"And so you can fling my promise and my honor in my face at moments like this."

She did not affirm or deny it, but that did not matter. He would never use force with her, and she knew it damn well. She was afraid, but not of him. She was afraid of herself. Now he understood that timidity she'd displayed earlier. Both of them were aware of that fine line where a man and a woman could stop lovemaking or they could complete the act, and she was afraid she would soften, afraid that with time, she would let him take her to that fine line, maybe even over its edge. She wanted a way out, a way to still resent him and make him the villain at any point she liked, even the morning after. She was afraid there might be a morning after. He grinned.

"Why are you smiling?"

He wiped the grin off his face. "I will not force you, Viola. I never have, and I never will. Since you seem to need my word of honor as a gentleman, you have it."

He saw a flash of satisfaction in those big, expressive hazel eyes.

"Think you've won a victory, do you?" he asked lightly.

"Yes."

"Think my promise gives you all the control, do you?"

Her jaw set. "Yes."

"You're right. It does. And I don't mind in the least. I always enjoyed letting you be on top." He ducked his head, kissed the side of her neck once more, and stepped back.

"I had best return you to
Grosvenor
Square
or we shall both be late for our engagements." He turned away, leaving her spluttering. "Well, come on, Viola," he urged over his shoulder. "You did say Lady Fitzhugh's dinner party was at eight. And you know it always takes you hours to get ready for a party."

"Where are you going tonight?" she demanded, following him out of the room.
"Temple Bar?"

John
paused and looked at her. He grinned again. "Do you have a better suggestion of how I should spend my evening?"

She halted beside him and lifted her chin a notch, every inch the duke's sister. "Go to all the brothels you please," she said, looking at him with haughty dignity. "It doesn't interest me in the least where you go or what you do or what woman you do it with."

"That relieves my mind," he said, and started down the stairs. "I should hate for you to ruin your evening fuming and fretting about it."

Right behind him, she fired back, "Don't worry, I won't!"

During the ride back, she did not say a word, but now
John
didn't mind her silence. He said little himself, too astonished by what had just happened to come up with conversation.

He was jubilant and pleased and completely stunned. All the coldness with which she had kept him at bay for so long was a sham. Deep down, underneath her hurting heart and wounded pride, she still felt desire for him. She might still hate him, she might still want to slap his face or tell him to go to the devil, but something had changed between them today. She had softened. Just a little, only for a moment, but she had softened.

It was amazing. He and Viola had been combustible as flint and powder during their courtship and those early months of marriage, loving and fighting with equal abandon. But after everything had fallen apart, they had never been together, except a few short weeks at the height of the season.

Even when forced to be under the same roof, they had seldom seen one another, nodding politely as they passed each other in the corridors like ships in the night. She had shown him in every possible way she couldn't bear even the sight of him, and he had believed it.

They had become strangers. He even reached the point where it no longer bothered him to know how the girl who once adored him had become the woman who despised him. He'd been sure nothing but a miracle could bring back the fire they'd had.

But today, in a single instant, everything had changed. Some of the old, scorching desire had returned, and there was no going back.

Viola knew it, too. Knew he was as determined to have his way as she was to have hers, knew that she had only two weapons with which to fight him—his promise and her pride.

Formidable weapons, both of them, but they were not going to win her the war. He intended to have a son, and that meant regaining the willing, passionate wife he'd had in the beginning. Passion was something Viola still possessed in abundance. Willingness was another story. To succeed in this, he had to keep fanning the spark of desire that he now knew was still inside of her, fanning it until it was burning out of control.

It would not be easy. Viola was just as passionate in her rage as she was in her desire, just as stubborn in hate as she had been in love. Seducing her would require all the ingenuity he possessed.

He had to make it fun. That was what they'd had once and lost—the fun. The laughter and de sire and the sheer pleasure of the other's company. He had to find a way to bring all of that back.

When they reached
Tremore
House, he walked with her into the foyer, where they paused just inside the door and a maid took Viola's damp pelisse and bonnet. "Good day,
Hammond
," she said, and started to turn away.

"Viola?"
When she stopped and looked at him, he added, "I will see you again on Friday. We are going on an outing."

"An outing?
Where?"

He smiled. "You'll see. Be ready at
two o'clock
."

Being Viola, she could not just go along without some sort of objection. "Why do you get to choose where we go on these outings?"

"Because I am the husband and you vowed to obey me?" When she did not look suitably
im
pressed by that, he added, "Because I have a particular plan in mind."

"I was afraid of that."

"We're going on a picnic."

"A picnic?"
She looked at him as if he'd gone mad.

"You always loved picnics. It used to be one of our favorite things. And
two o'clock
is the perfect time to go. You always get hungry around three."

"Do I not have any say in this?"

"No, but you can choose where we go next time. And yes, there is going to be a next time. And another next time, and—"

"Oh, very well," she said crossly. "When you get something in your head, there is just no reasoning with you."

"And you said we have nothing in common anymore."

She turned away with a sound of exasperation and started up the elegant, wrought-iron staircase. He watched her go, and when he saw her touch her fingers to the side of her neck, he wanted to laugh with exultation. Viola still got all shivery when he kissed her neck. Damned if that wasn't some kind of miracle.