The Marriage Bed (21 page)

Viola let out her breath in a huff, but
John
paid no heed. "Of course, in such circumstances," he went on as he started in her direction, "we often do the worst possible thing—retaliate and say something hurtful." He paused close to where she stood, and met her gaze. "We always regret it afterward and feel like dogs."

He resumed his search, walking past her without another word.

She had just gotten an apology. In all the fights they'd had in the nine years they had known each other,
John
had never given her an apology for anything before.
Had never come close.
It was still just words, but words that he had never said to her before.

Stunned, she turned around, watching as he cir
cled
to the other side of the settee, where he gave a cry of triumph.

"Ah, here we are!" One arm securely around Nicholas, he bent at the knees, going down behind the settee. He came up with a brown, furry toy bear. "Mr.
Poppin
, I believe."

With a shout of delight, Nicholas wrapped one arm around the toy. He leaned against
John
's chest with a hiccup and a gratified sigh, and buried his face against
John
's neck. His free hand flailed in the air, then patted the man's beard-roughened cheek and finally came to rest in a fist on the silk of his aubergine waistcoat.

Her heart constricted, and she turned her back because it hurt her eyes to look at them. She thought of what he wanted from her and what he was not willing to give in return. Blinking, she stared down at the books scattered on top of the writing desk. A baby was impossible. It had to be impossible. That dream was long gone.

"Well, well, this is an amazing thing,"
John
said.

She made a show of straightening the books into a pile and forced herself to speak. "What is amazing?"

"There is at least one member of the
Tremore
family who is on my side."

She stiffened, trying to prop up her protective walls. "Don't get too conceited over it," she said, and steeled herself as she turned around to look at him again. "I hate to tell you this, but Nicholas likes everyone."

"That may be so, but I am special. I rescued Mr.
Poppin
." He kissed the top of the baby's head. "Your aunt doesn't like me, Nicky," he murmured, "but I know she would listen to you. Put in a word for me, would you? There's a good chap."

She gestured to Beckham to take the baby. The nanny walked over to
John
's side. He hesitated, reluctant, but Viola could not bear the sight of him holding the baby any longer. "He ought to be put back to bed,
Hammond
. It's late."

"Of course."
He handed the baby over to Beckham, who took the child and departed for the nursery. Nicholas was either too exhausted or too happy at the return of
Poppin
to feel deprived of his uncle's charm. Not a single sob echoed back to the drawing room from the other side of the closed door.

The silence was awkward and deafening.

He took a step toward her. "Viola—"

"It's very late." She took a step back and ran into the writing desk behind her.

"It's not that late." He continued walking toward her with slow, deliberate steps, giving her plenty of time to evade him. For some stupid reason, she didn't.

He came to a halt in front of her. His lashes, thick and dark, lowered a fraction. He took the braid of her hair in his hand, lifted it to his mouth and kissed it, breathing in deeply.
"Violets."

She began to shake inside, and she curled her fingers around the edge of the writing desk behind her. She thought of all the impossible, romantic dreams of her girlhood, and reminded herself they were dead dreams now.

He moved the braid over her shoulder and let it fall down her back. Then he lifted both hands to her face. He ran his fingers along her cheekbones, lightly traced the sides of her nose,
shaped
the arch of each of her brows. He pushed his fingers into the hair at her temples and cupped her cheeks, caressing her lips with his thumbs. He did it all without looking into her eyes, keeping his gaze focused on his hands and her features as he touched them. There was deliberation and intent in every move.

Caressing the mole at the edge of her lips with the pad of his thumb, he lowered his other hand to her waist and bunched delicate muslin in his fist. "I did come here for a reason," he reminded her, and that was when he looked into her eyes. "I came to kiss and make up."

"You didn't say anything about the kissing part."

"Tricked you again."
He tilted her chin up and covered her mouth with his.

John
's kiss, as potent now as it had been in the museum, as potent as it had always been, making it so easy to forget that anything else in the world existed.
John
's hands, so sure, sliding to her hips, pulling her closer, his fingers spreading across her buttocks.
John
's mouth, coaxing hers to open.

One of her hands came away from the desk, lifted to his unshaven cheek and touched skin rough like sand. Her lips parted. The strands of his hair were like damp, heavy silk in her fingers as she slid her hand to the back of his head and deepened the kiss.

His tongue met hers and his hands tightened on her hips, holding her imprisoned against the desk as he tasted her. The kiss stung, burning where his beard stubble rubbed the skin around her mouth. Mornings with
John
, erotic images that had taunted her for years, images she had finally thought forever buried, came raging back to taunt and tease her now. Images of his hands touching her in the morning sunlight in a big mahogany bed at Hammond Park ran through her mind, sending electrifying excitement pulsing through her body now, impelling her to press her body closer to his. Her arm came up around his neck.

He made a rough sound against her mouth and broke the kiss. He leaned sideways and with a sweep of his arm cleared the desk, sending the stack of books toppling off the side and onto the floor. Then his hands cupped her buttocks and he lifted her to set her on the desk.

He reached for the sash wrapped around her waist, untying the bow with a hard, quick tug. He parted the edges and pulled her dressing robe apart. His fingertips touched her breasts through her nightgown, brushing back and forth over the hardened nipples. Pleasure rose within her, pleasure long forgotten, pleasure that made her gasp and shiver with excitement. Her hand tightened in his hair and she pulled him closer, guiding his head down to her breast.

He laved the tip of her breast with his tongue, dampening the muslin. His hand came up to embrace her other breast, his thumb and forefinger closing to tease her nipple through the thin fabric. Sharp sensation rose with each pull of his mouth and each roll of his fingers as he suckled her and touched her and teased her through her nightdress.

She cradled his head in her hands, trying to pull him even closer. She was lost in the hot, demanding urgency of his hands and his mouth. It had been so long since she had felt
John
's hands on her, so long since she had felt this wild, sensual drive. She could hear the soft, hushed sounds that came from her own throat, sounds of desperate want and aching need. She heard herself moan his name.

He straightened, moving one hand to the top of her nightdress. He began slipping pearl buttons free as he used his other hand to yank the hem of the nightgown upward, above her knees. "God," he groaned against her throat, "how I've missed this."

Missed what? Having a woman?

Those questions sprang into her mind, and with them came reality, as cold as ice water washing over her. Good lord, what was she doing?

She stiffened as his hand moved between her thighs, and she clamped her legs tightly together, putting a stop to this madness before it went any further. "No,
John
," she gasped, seizing his wrist. "No."

He went rigidly still, his hand wrapped around her inner thigh, his harsh breathing mingling with hers.
"Viola."
His hand stirred against her hold, slid up her thigh an inch or two.

She pushed at his wrist. "Let me go."

He hesitated, and it was that moment of reluctance that galvanized her. "Let go, let go, let go!"

Panicking, desperate, she slammed her palm into his shoulder, shoving him. She twisted sideways, hurling herself off the desk, stumbling over the hem of her robe in her haste to get away from him. "Out of my mind," she muttered, shaking her head. "I must be out of my mind. What am I, a glutton for punishment?"

"Viola—"

The sound of his voice had her coming to a halt a few steps away from him. She whirled around, wrapping her robe around her body to shield every part of it from his view. "I cannot believe how
eas
ily
I make a fool of myself over you and how often." She pressed her fingers to her forehead, once, twice, three times, wondering what happened to the brains inside. "I can be so, so stupid."

He looked at her, still breathing hard, his face conveying
a disbelief
quite different from hers. He took a step toward her, reached for her, tried to touch her.

She evaded him, moving farther out of reach. "I can't even blame you for it. That's the worst part. It's not as if you lied to me this time or anything. You have admitted that you have never loved me. You could not even promise to be faithful to me. Yet thirty minutes later I was ready to lay my body down for you to take. Where on earth are my brains? Where is my self-respect?"

"Self-respect?"
He rubbed his hands over his face, gulping deep breaths of air. "God, woman, your self-respect isn't the problem. Neither are your brains. It's your timing."

"Eight years without you, building my own life," she went on, ignoring him, lecturing herself, "and after only a few outings with you and a couple of stolen kisses, I am behaving as wantonly as one of your bawds."

"You are my wife! There is nothing bawdy about wanting to make love with your husband. And you wanted to, damn me if you didn't. Why did you stop?" He raked his hands through his hair and turned away with another oath. "Hell,

Viola," he said over one shoulder, "sometimes I despair of ever understanding you."

"I would like you to leave."

He walked across the room, putting even more distance between them. His back to her, he straightened his clothing while she straightened hers. Neither of them spoke. After a few moments he walked over to the chair where he had left his coat earlier in the evening. He put it on. "The three weeks are up. I shall come for you tomorrow at
noon
. You'd better decide tonight which house you want to live in. If you don't,
Tremore
can expect a demand from the House of Lords the day after."

She started to refuse, but when he turned around to face her, she closed her mouth and gave it up. There was defiance in his face now, defiance of her wishes,
challenge
in the lift of his brows, pride in the grim, determined set of his jaw. She knew that countenance very well. Arguing was pointless.

"I gave you my word," he reminded her in a hard, tight voice, and added, "I want a willing mate,
so
you needn't worry about having to lay your body down for me to take. Far be it from me to treat you like a bawd."

Bowing, he left her.

All very well for him to tell her not to worry. Worry wasn't really her problem. It wasn't worry that gnawed at her. It wasn't worry that made her insides twist with dread and made her want to board the next ship headed for
France
.

It was how the man who had hurt her so much, the man she ought to despise, could hold a crying baby in his arms and make him laugh. It was how he could still make her laugh, too, even after all he had done. It was how he could make her melt into a puddle when he kissed her and how he could light her on fire when he touched her. She wasn't a foolish girl anymore, but she still wanted that man. She could fall in love all over again with that man. It would be so, so easy. Easy to say yes and give him what he wanted, having nothing in return. Not even a promise he would be faithful.

No, she wasn't worried. She was terrified.