The Marriage Bed (33 page)

No, mistresses were not supposed to fall in love, but it was clear that sometimes they did. Viola had tried to tell him, had tried to explain, had tried to make him understand. He had refused to listen, refused to believe it. But he was now faced with the undeniable truth and the wretched results. He was now face-to-face with something he'd been running from his whole life: the weaknesses in his own character.

Viola had married him because she had loved him, she had trusted him, and he had lied to her. It had seemed harmless enough at the time, even kind. He hadn't realized just what a deep and lasting wound he would inflict with something he'd thought so innocuous.

Do you love me
?
she'd
asked him, her beautiful hazel eyes wide, so hopeful, so painfully vulnerable.

Of course I do
, he'd answered, lightly, laughing, giving her a kiss and a careless smile and the answer she wanted because it had been the easy thing to do.
The convenient thing.
The only thing that would get him what he needed. Had his father been in his place, his father would have lied just as he had done.
Without blinking an eye.

For the first time,
John
understood what he was.
A heartbreaker.
He'd held Viola's heart in his hands nine years ago, and with thoughtless disregard, he had broken it. He hadn't known what he'd been toying with.

Peggy Darwin had loved him, too. She'd said it once, laughing, with a pain in her eyes when he hadn't said it back. Yes, she'd been married, but to a man who did not love her. She'd been starved for affection, and he'd willingly provided it. And he had ended it without a second thought.

Four years had passed since then, but that day in the draper's shop a few months back, Peggy had still looked at him with a hint of what had been in her eyes when she'd said she loved him, a hint of what was in Emma's face today, a hint of what Viola had felt for him when she had married him.

Viola.
That hurt most of all. No bandages for her wounds, no way to mend her heart or laugh it all away. She would hate him now as much as she ever had, loathing him as much as he loathed himself. How could she not?

John
rubbed his hands over his face. He couldn't bear to think about Viola right now.
One thing at a time.
He had a baby son, and he had to figure out what to do about that first.

There'd be no walking away. He knew that much. He'd told Viola that: no more walking away. He'd meant it about her and their marriage, but he knew it applied to every single thing in his life.

John
stood up and went back toward the house, making for the stables. He had a groom saddle his
horse,
and he rode to
Falstone
.

"No." Viola smiled a little and looked at him. "But t
hank
you for offering.
Very noble and brotherly of you."

"If it's any comfort to you, he did break with the Rawlins woman before the season even began. I know that much."

"I know it, too." She paused. "I love him, you know. I have always loved him.
Even when I hated him."

Anthony put an arm around her shoulders. "Would you like me to take you away from here?"

Viola had been contemplating that very thing for over an hour. She thought of her husband, the charming man who could make everyday life such a delight, and she tried to reconcile that man with the one who had stood stone-faced a few moments ago while a heartbroken woman lay sob
bing
at his feet. With sudden clarity, she understood what it meant when her husband bore that hard, implacable expression. It was the face of a man in agony who wanted to make everything right and did not know how.

Viola stood up. "No, Anthony," she answered her brother's question, "I am not going anywhere. What I would like is for everyone to go home. Hammond and I need to work this out ourselves."

He rose to his feet. "Are you sure?"

Viola looked down at the baby in her arms. This was her husband's son. His affair with Emma Rawlins was in the past, ended before he had ever come back to her, and she was not going to condemn him for things in the past. The past could never be undone, and it was the future that mattered.

She knew her husband well enough to know that he would do right by his son now that he knew about him. By the fact that Emma had left the child behind, it was clear the woman did not want it. The baby was staying right here, Viola decided, and so was she.

That meant she was a mother now. She had things to do. The nursery had to be cleaned. A nanny and a wet nurse would have to be hired. Viola held the baby tight, kissed him, and made him a silent promise. The woman who had borne him might not want him, but she did. And she was go
ing
to love him and be the best mother to him that she could be.

She looked up at her brother. "I'm sure," she said quietly.

"The baby is yours," she said at once. "Are you going to deny it?"

Her face was pale, still blotchy with tears. Her resentment was palpable, her pain obvious, her love for him undeniable.

"No," he answered. "I believe you." He looked down at his hat in his hands, drew a deep breath and looked at her again. "I'm sorry, Emma," he said simply. "I am so sorry."

She moved across the room and sat down on the settee. He sat beside her. Head bent, she stared at her hands. "Do you think saying you are sorry is going to make everything all right?"

"No." He set his hat aside. "But I have been told of late that although I talk a lot of nonsense, I am not a man who is good at talking about things that matter. An apology matters, I think. I owe you that, and so much more."

He saw a tear fall on her hand.

No walking away.

He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. "I did not know about the baby."

"If you had read any of my letters, you would have known."

"I read the first few. Why did you not tell me straight away?"

She sniffed, dabbed the linen to her eyes. Without looking at him, she mumbled, "At first, I didn't want to believe it myself. I kept ignoring it, hoping it wasn't true.
Weak of me not to face the truth."

"I understand." Indeed, he did.

"By the time I saw you at
Kettering
's ball, I knew I had to face up to things, and I wanted so badly to talk with you, to get you alone to tell you, but you were with your wife."

The last word was said with venom, which he chose to ignore. He supposed it was understandable from her point of view. "Go on," he said.

"I came to your house in
Bloomsbury Square
, but you were not at home. At least, your butler told me so."

In that, at least, he was blameless. "If you came to see me, Emma, I knew nothing of it. I must truly not have been home at the time."

She twisted the handkerchief in her hands. "By then I was starting to show, and I knew I had to leave town. I couldn't bear the gossip, and I took what money I had left from your settlement and went to
France
. I have a cousin who lives there. I have been living with her and writing to you from
Calais
."

"Why did you not send a second to tell me?"

"Who would I send?" She looked at him, green eyes wide and helpless. "Except for my one cousin, who is a widow like
myself
, my family disowned me long ago. It was because I married Rawlins. Such a scoundrel he was, and he left me nothing when he died."

She fell silent, crying quietly into his handkerchief.

That was how women became mistresses.
Desperation.
God, he knew all about that. He also knew women always loved a scoundrel. It was one of the most baffling things about their sex, but it was an irrefutable fact. He was living proof.

He'd never asked her one thing about her life before he'd met her, not about her circumstances, her finances, nor anything else. His concerns had been wholly selfish ones, and the shame of the man he had been would haunt him for the rest of his days. His cross to bear, and one he heartily deserved, but he would never be that man again.

No going back.

"What is my son's name, Emma?"

"James."

His father's Christian name. Now that was an irony. "What do you want to do about the baby?" he asked.

"I can't keep him,
John
," she said, her voice rising with her despair. "I can't. He is a bastard. People will talk about
it,
say things about me and about him.
Horrid things.
I couldn't bear it. I'm not very good at being a mistress, I'm afraid."

"You're not hard enough for it,
Em
," he said gently. "I should have seen that. What are you going to do?"

"I am going to
America
. I intend to make a new life, and I can't take the baby with me. The post coach goes in a few hours, and I must be on it. The next ship for
New York
sails out of
Liverpool
in two days, and I have passage." She sniffed.
"Terribly selfish of me."

"No, it's not. It's perfectly understandable." He took a deep breath, chose his words with care. "If you cannot keep him, then I should like to. Keep him and raise him."

"What?" She looked at him askance. "You want to raise him in your own house?
A bastard son?"

"Yes."

Emma's eyes welled up with tears again, and she turned her face away, pressing his balled-up handkerchief to her nose. She didn't say it, but he knew she was wishing that he wasn't married to someone else, that they could raise the baby— their son—together.

After a moment, she spoke. "What… what do we have to do? Are there papers to sign, or something? I do not have much time."

"My attorney is just down the High Street. Let's go see him and have it done right now. You can get on that ship and go make that new life."

"Yes, yes," she agreed eagerly, her relief obvious. "Let's go now."

An hour later, papers were in his pocket that made James his son. Emma willingly gave up all rights and claims to the boy and agreed to a cash settlement in exchange. His attorney raised an eyebrow at the amount of the settlement, but
John
knew it would never be enough. As they were standing by the post coach, he said, "Emma?"

She paused in the act of stepping into the vehicle and turned to look at him.

"If you ever need anything, money or
credit, anything of that kind, write
to me." He started to smile,
then
stopped. "I'll read it, I swear."

She began to weep again and turned away. She stepped in the post coach and looked at him through the window. "Don't tell him about me,
John
. Not ever."

"Good-bye,
Em
."

John
watched the coach pull away, and he knew that despite Emma's wishes, he was one day going to tell James about his mother. The boy would ask, and he deserved to know that his mother had been a sweet woman whose only mistake had been falling in love with the wrong man.

He turned and started back to the Black Swan to get his horse. When he reached the inn, he walked toward the stables, then stopped, suddenly rooted to the sidewalk.

A richly appointed carriage stood before the doors of the Wild Boar, a rival inn across the street from the Black Swan. The carriage bore the unmistakable insignia of the Duke of
Tremore
, and it was loaded with trunks and traveling cases.

Viola was leaving him. Her brother was taking her away.
John
's heart rejected it utterly, his mind went blank, and his body moved, straight toward the doors of the Wild Boar.