The Marriage Bed (25 page)

He was right. She didn't hate him anymore. She lost her grip on her hate and her resentment a little bit more every time they talked, feeling more of the old magic every time he smiled, every time he made her laugh, every time he did something nice, every time he kissed her. And without her hate, she had no shield. No weapons. She was out in the open, unprotected and vulnerable.

What had happened to her pride? Viola climbed into bed and hugged her pillow, huddling into a tight ball of misery. Pride, she thought, was all very well, but it made for a lonely life.

If she and
John
became friends, she would fall for him again, and he knew it. If they were friends, it was only a matter of time before she started to believe him again, believe he was sincere, believe that he cared,
believe
that he might, one day, love her when he had never loved anybody in his life. If she began to believe in him again, she would slide all the way down, right into his bed, heart in her hands for him to take all over again. And God help her after that because if he walked away again, it would smash her heart into a thousand pieces.

When he opened the door, he found her sitting up in bed, reading her letters, which had come in the morning post. "What are you doing?" she cried as he entered the room, followed by a pair of maids.

"What does it look like?" he asked, gesturing to one of the maids to put the tea tray on the bedside table. He took the tray of food from the other maid and waved both servants out of the room. "I'm bringing you breakfast in bed."

"You can't do this. You can't invade my privacy this way."

"Silly to tell me I cannot do what I have already done," he said as the door closed behind the maids, leaving them alone. He sat on the edge of her bed, set the tray on her lap, and poured tea for them both. "Besides, it is my house."

She groaned and fell back against the burled walnut headboard. "I give up," she moaned. "You are never going to leave me alone."

"Now you are starting to see sense," he said, and plucked the handful of letters out of her hand. He tossed them onto the floor and picked up the jam pot and a knife.
"Blackberry jam, Lady Hammond?"

He glanced at her, and she looked so beautiful in the morning sunlight, with her braid coming loose and a hint of pink in her cheeks, he caught his breath. Her nightgown was a delicate muslin affair, so thin he could see the swell of her breasts above the bedclothes, the pucker of her nipples and the faint outline of her aureoles. That was enough to arouse him in an instant, and he knew she'd better give in soon. Too many chaste breakfasts in bed with her would drive him mad. He forced his gaze up to her face.

She sensed what he was thinking and looked away, the blush in her cheeks deepening. She shifted her hips on the bed, and just that tiny move almost sent him over the edge. She wanted him, she did. God, he hoped she did.

But he didn't intend to make the same mistake twice. If he pushed too hard, too fast, she'd run again. He looked down at the tray of food and
fo
cused
on that, trying not to remember how she looked without a nightgown. He scooped jam onto the knife, set down the pot and picked up a slice of hot buttered toast. After spreading the jam over the slice, he held it out to her, waiting. She bit her lip, wavering, and stared down at the toast for a long moment before she took it with a sigh.

Gratified, he spread jam on another slice for himself. He picked up his fork and began to eat from the plate of eggs and bacon on his lap, watching her from beneath lowered lids, waiting, hoping for an opportunity.

She took another bite of toast, and
John
t
hank
ed God for blackberry jam. He set down his fork and inched a little closer to her on the bed. She went still, holding her toast poised in midair, staring at him, her hazel eyes wide.

He moved even closer. "You have jam on your face."

She looked away. "Don't."

"Don't what?" he murmured. "Don't try to make you want me?" He reached out and touched the bit of jam at the corner of her mouth, then ran his fingers back and forth across her lips, smearing it. The jam was sticky, her mouth so soft. "Sorry," he said, his voice a bit unsteady, "but I can't help myself. I want you, and I want you to want me back. I want that so badly, in fact, I'm going a bit mad. That's why I've been standing out in rainstorms and going shopping. That's why I'm trying to talk about things." He took a deep breath. "And that's why I leased a house with a pink drawing room. Even back then, even when things between us were as bad as they could get, I still had a little scrap of hope that one day you'd live with me again."

Her lower lip quivered against his fingertip. "I don't believe you."

"You used to want me, Viola," he said, stroking her mouth.
"Every day for breakfast.
Don't you remember? And it was fun, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was." Her lips brushed against his fingers as she spoke. She reached up, her hand closing around his wrist, but she did not push him away or turn her face aside. "It was fun for a while."

He gently pulled his hand from her grasp and slid it to the back of her neck. The sticky jam on his fingers caught the strands of her hair. He leaned in and pulled her toward him at the same time, making them meet halfway. "You know when things went wrong with us?" he asked, pausing with his face only two inches from hers. "They went wrong when it wasn't fun anymore. When we didn't do our favorite things, and I couldn't make you laugh."

"There
are some things fun
and laughter can't fix,
John
."

"I know." He looked at her jam-smeared mouth. Desire was coursing through him with such
force,
he didn't know how much longer he could contain it. "That's what kissing is for."

"Is it all that simple for you?" she asked.
"That easy?"

"Yes. I think you just make things complicated." He had to kiss her. Just once, then he'd let her go. His hand tightened on her neck and he pulled her that last inch closer. His lips touched the corner of her mouth, tasting jam on her skin, and the pleasure was so intense, the longing so great, it took everything he had not to shove the tray out of the way and move on top of her. He sat utterly still, fighting the aching need in his body, holding back, waiting, breathing in deeply of violet warmth as he tasted blackberry jam on Viola's mouth.

She turned her face away, breaking the kiss.

He knew he had to let her go. Now, while he still could. She wasn't ready yet, and he didn't want to send her running away again. He let his hand fall from her neck and leaned back, striving to ignore the agony of being fully aroused with no relief in sight. He picked up his fork and resumed eating eggs and bacon.

She did the same, not looking at him, but at the plate in her lap.

They were almost finished eating before
John
felt able to put on a casual air and attempt ordinary conversation. "So, are you going to show me what you've done to the place?" he asked. "I mean the outside, mind you," he went on, and gestured to their surroundings with a slice of
ba
con. "Not this feminine floral fantasy you've made of the inside."

"After that comment, you can take your own walk around," she told him around a mouthful of toast.
"By yourself."

"But if I'm by myself, I can't trap you anywhere and steal more kisses," he pointed out, and popped the bacon into his mouth, thinking that stealing any more kisses from her today without some clothes coming off would probably destroy him.

She ate her last bite of toast and jam.
"Exactly."

"You love my kisses, and you know it," he said lightly, and stood up. Taking the tray, he turned and set it on a nearby table. "I'll have you swooning over me by dinnertime. Get dressed. I'll wait for you downstairs."

"I have never swooned over you," she pointed out as she brushed crumbs from her nightgown.
"Never."

He bent over her, placing one hand on each side of her hips. The mattress dipped with his weight as he leaned close. "Not yet, but the day is long," he said, and kissed her quick before she could stop him. He straightened and turned away, heading for the door. "The night is even longer."

"Lovely," she groaned, sounding as if she were the one about to endure a day of torture. "That's just lovely."

* * *

Viola gave him a tour of the villa, showing him some of the things she had done. He liked the boxwood maze she'd put in the gardens, was highly indignant that she'd torn down the ramshackle boathouse by the river, and he loved the new stables she'd had built the previous year. He also expressed his approval for the new granary.

"You've done an excellent job here," he told her, and stopped beside the millpond, looking out over the water. "You've made some very fine improvements. Everything looks shipshape and
Bristol
fashion."

"T
hank
you."

Something caught his attention and he paused. Viola watched as he crossed to the wooden quay that stood out over the millpond. Beside the quay, a rowboat bobbed in the water. "The oars are in the bottom," he said. "Let's take it out. We can go across the pond and down the stream."

Viola felt her insides clench with apprehension, and she searched for an excuse. "It's a bit too chilly to go out on the water."

"Chilly? Not a bit. It's a lovely afternoon. Besides, we're not going swimming." He pulled off his coat and tossed it aside.

"I don't want to go rowing."

"I'll do the work," he said. "You just have to sit in the stern and look beautiful while I pull the oars, gaze at you, and recite some Shelley."

She watched as he pulled off his cravat,
unbut
-toned the three buttons of his shirt, and took off his waistcoat. He knelt on the quay, leaning over the boat to retrieve the oars, and her fear increased. "No,
John
," she said. "I don't want to go."

"It's the least you can do after you tore down my boathouse. Be a sport, Viola. It'll be fun."

She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. "
John
, I am not getting in that boat!"

The sharp rise of her voice caught his attention. He glanced at her over his shoulder.
"Why not?
Do you get sick in a boat?"

She pressed a hand to her tummy and felt as if she were going to be sick, sick with fear. Wordlessly, she shook her head.

He watched her for a moment, then set down the oars and crossed the quay back to her "What's wrong?"

"I can't swim!"

He laughed. "Is that all?"

"All?" She was truly panicking now. "What if the boat tips over? I could drown."

"You're not going to drown." He stopped laughing and reached out to cup her cheek in his hand. "I am a very good swimmer."

She shook her head. "No."

"The pond is shallow, and the stream is very slow and meandering. Besides, nothing will happen to you if the boat tips over because I'll be there." He leaned down and kissed her. "You just have to trust me," he said, and grabbed her hand. "Come on. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

"I'm sure I'm going to hate this," she moaned as he led her to the rowboat.

One foot planted on the planks, he put his other foot in the boat and pulled it right up against the wooden quay. "I've got it steady," he told her. "Just get in."

She took a deep breath, grabbed a handful of her skirt to keep it out of the way, and stepped gingerly into the boat, holding onto his hand for dear life. She eased herself down in the stern of the rowboat, and when he let go of her hand, she gripped the wooden sides, hoping she didn't mortify herself by throwing up.

He sat down in the boat, untied the rope to free it from its moorings, and grabbed the oars. Holding them with one hand, he shoved the boat away from the quay, then locked the oars into the stops, glanced behind him, and began rowing her across the pond.

"You have to tell me whenever we are coming to a bend in the stream," he told her as he pulled the oars with smooth strokes, gliding the boat through the water at a rapid clip. "I'll use the oars to steer."

"You're coming up on the mouth of the stream now," she answered, looking past his shoulder.
"To your left."

He glanced behind him, guiding the boat as he rowed, maneuvering it onto the stream that meandered off into the thicket of weeping willows and birches. When they came to a long, straight stretch, he turned to look at her.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "Not feeling sick or nervous anymore?"

She lied. "No."

"You see? First fencing, now boats. Pretty soon I'll be giving you swimming lessons."

She looked at him in horror. "No, you won't."

"Yes, I will." He pulled on the oars. "Naked," he added.
"By moonlight."

Heat washed over her. She looked past him, chin in the air, pretending to look for bends in the stream, pretending she wasn't blushing all the way down to her toes. "You have a vivid imagination."