The Marriage Bed (9 page)

He had begun leasing the
London
residence for the season two years earlier, when he and Viola stopped pretending for society that they had any kind of a marriage. He was the one to take that final step away, deciding there was no point in keeping up a conventional appearance during the season when everyone in the ton knew they lived separate lives the rest of the year. More than that, he had been unable to tolerate one more tortuous spring of separate bedrooms. It hurt too much, knowing the door to hers was never open for him. Now, as his carriage took them toward his house, the only sound was the light spring rain that danced on the leather roof. Viola maintained the distant, untouchable
demeanor
that had become so characteristic of her over the years, the cold goddess he despised. It always flicked him on the raw and brought out the most sarcastic side of his nature, because that
demeanor
was so uncharacteristic of the laughing, passionate girl he had married. That girl had given him some of the most enjoyable pleasures of his life, but she was little more than a hazy memory to him now. He hated the judgmental creature who had taken her place, especially because he knew he was partly to blame for the transformation.

He studied his wife as the carriage made the slow crawl up
New Oxford Street
. She was staring out the window, refusing to even look at him, and as he thought about the change in her that time had wrought, he felt no anger this time, just an odd emptiness. He had lost something valuable when that girl vanished eight years ago.
Something beautiful and fragile.
Something he could never get back.

Her unwillingness to see his side of what had gone wrong was something he did not know if he could ever break down. Charm and wit had worked to win her so long ago, but things were different now, so much damage had been done by both of them, and he did not know if he could ever charm her enough or be witty enough to coax her back.

He knew he had put on a good show the other day, but the blithe confidence he displayed to her was
pretense
. He wondered as he looked at her smooth, expressionless profile if he could ever make her want him as she once had. Two days ago he'd almost made her laugh. There might have been a tiny hint there of the girl he had married so long ago, but today that hint was gone. She had kept him waiting in
Tremore's
drawing room for half an hour before coming down, and had not spoken a word to him since then. A truce, a passionate wife, and a son all seemed a long way off.

The carriage pulled into
Bloomsbury Square
and came to a stop before his door. The footman opened the door and unfolded the steps.
John
exited first and held out his hand to Viola. She hesitated, looking not at him but at his gloved hand. After a moment, she placed her own hand over it, allowed him to help her down, and they went inside.

Compared to
Enderby
, their villa in Chiswick, this house was plain. He had only a few servants, for he never entertained here. It had some furnishings, a few carpets and paintings, and plenty of books, but little else.

As he watched her take in her surroundings, he felt compelled to speak. "You see? It is quite sparse. That is why I thought you might wish to purchase some things for it."

She did not reply. She pulled out her hat pin, took off her hat, shook it to release the droplets of rain that clung to the straw,
then
wove the pin through one side of the crown.

She had always hated wearing hats, he remembered, watching her. That was something he'd always liked about her. When a woman had hair like sunlight, hiding it under a bonnet was a tragedy.

She studied the limestone floor of the foyer, the polished walnut staircase, and the butter-colored walls, then without a word, she started toward the back of the house, carrying her hat in one hand.

He gave her a tour of the rooms on the ground floor,
then
took her through the kitchens and the servants' quarters. The entire time, she said nothing.

"We could find a bigger town house next season," he told her as he led her to the drawing room. "This one is a bit small for entertaining."

She did not even bother to nod, and his pessimistic thoughts during the carriage ride began to deepen into downright gloom. His reference to next season got no rise out of her, and it ought to have. When he could spark her feisty side, when she was quarreling with him, he knew what he was dealing with, knew she felt something. This cold silence was what he loathed, and though he wanted to break it, he did not know how.

"The drawing room is here," he told her as he gestured to a set of open doors on the first floor.

She started into the room,
then
stopped so abruptly he almost ran into her from behind. "Heavens above, I don't believe it," she
mur
mured
, the first words she had spoken in the hour and a half they had been together. She took several steps into the room and made a slow turn, staring about her in complete surprise.

John
watched her, tense, wondering if she would notice the first thing that had struck him about this room.

"Pink wallpaper," she murmured, confirming that she had, indeed, noticed. She looked at him in disbelief. "You leased a house with pink wallpaper."

"It is crimson, Viola," he said, contradicting her, "not pink."

"Crimson?" she cried, shaking her head. "Oh, no, no,
Hammond
, that won't do. It is pink.
Rose-pink."
To his utter astonishment, she smiled. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Even more astonishing, she began to laugh, a low chuckle deep in her throat.
"
John
Hammond, of all men, with a pink drawing room.
Who would have thought it?"

He stared at her, feeling rooted to the floor as he listened to her laughter. It was something he had not heard in years, yet it was so familiar. No woman laughed like Viola, low and throaty like that. So wicked, and so erotic, and from a woman who looked like an angel, that laugh had always been able to arouse him in the space of a heartbeat. It still did. He felt desire flaring up inside him with sudden, unexpected force.

"
Hammond
, whatever is the matter?" she asked as he continued to stare at her while arousal coursed through his body, thick and
and
warm.

"I remember that sound," he murmured. "I always loved the way you laugh."

Her laughter stopped. Her smile faded. The grandfather clock began to chime, and she looked away. "
Four o'clock
already?" she said, and started toward the door. "You had best show me the rest quickly. Lady Fitzhugh's dinner party begins at eight, and I must return to
Grosvenor
Square
and change."

He forced down the lust that had flared up so suddenly, but could not stop hearing that low, throaty chuckle in his mind as they started up to the second floor.
Viola's erotic laugh.
How could he ever have forgotten the sound of it and what it did to him?

At the second floor, he turned left and led her down a short corridor. "Our suite of rooms is here," he said, opening a door about halfway down the corridor. "This one will be yours. Mine adjoins it."

Viola hesitated a moment, then stepped into the bedchamber. She glanced around at the
grayish
-blue walls, darker blue draperies and walnut furnishings, but expressed no opinion of the room.

"Repaint if you like," he said, following her through the doorway and moving to stand beside her. "I know you do not care for blue walls," he went on, glancing at her as he spoke, "so—"

He broke
off,
watching her as she stared straight ahead, saw the sudden hardness in her face and the way her brows drew together. He heard the rustle of straw and looked down to see that she was clenching the brim of her hat so tightly the straw was crumpling in her gloved hand.

Following her gaze across the room, he realized she was looking through the doorway into his bedchamber. He returned his attention to her as she stared at the bed itself, a wide comfortable affair with thick feather mattresses, fat down pillows, and maroon velvet coverlet. There was no mistaking the pain in her face.

He felt impelled to speak. "Since I have lived here, no woman has slept in these rooms, Viola."

She turned away without replying and walked to the walnut armoire. Her back to him, she opened it and began to examine the empty interior as if it were a matter of vast importance.

He wished he could think of something to say that would make her laugh again. He wished she would say something—talk about the
furnishings,
mention she liked the Gainsborough on the wall, say that yes, she would repaint this room— anything. When she did speak, her question caught him completely off guard.

"What is your intention,
Hammond
?" she asked without turning around. When the three weeks are over, and if I do not fight you in the House, and if we resume a life together, are you going to begin imposing your husbandly rights immediately?"

He blinked. "What?"

"It's a straightforward question." She faced him, but lowered her chin at once. She stared at the carpet beneath her feet, tapping the hat in her hand against her thigh. When he did not reply, she looked at him. "Are you?"

Christ
.
John
let out his breath in a slow sigh. The brutal truth that had kept them apart—that making love with him would be as distasteful to her now as it had been throughout most of their marriage—was one he kept shoving out of his mind. Even the other day, when she'd asked for time to get used to the idea of living with him again, he hadn't wanted to think about that. But now, standing in the bedchamber that would be hers, faced with a question like that,
asked
like that, it was something he could no longer shove aside to think about later.

He'd known resuming a life together was going to be awkward and difficult, but to have her looking at him as if she were actually afraid, and asking when he intended to start imposing his husbandly rights… how the hell was any man supposed to answer a question like that?

John
rubbed a hand over his face, utterly at a loss.
Viola, timid about making love?
He couldn't believe it.

He thought again of the early days of their marriage, and though it had been a long time, the uninhibited way Viola had once made love with him was something he had never forgotten, something that made her contempt for him so much harder to bear. Looking at her now, he felt dismay hit him like a kick in the stomach. What if he could never make her feel that way again? What sort of life would they have?

"God, Viola," he said, forcing the words out past the sudden sick fear that clenched his guts, "is it all gone? All of it?"

She frowned in perplexity at the question. "What do you mean?"

"There was a time when all AT had to do was look at you, or you would look at me, and we were racing for the nearest bed."

She winced and glanced away. "Don't."

"There used to be sparks between us," he went on. "And fire. I remember how you used to love it when I touched you. God knows, I loved it when you touched me." As he spoke, he could feel desire rising up again, the desire that had been burning deep within him like banked coals when he'd heard her laugh again. "It was good with us once. Remember?"

Her face suffused with color, her chin quivered. She did not look at him.

He pushed, knowing he had to make her remember what it had been like back then.
"Hot and wild and good.
I can't believe you've forgotten how it felt when we made love. The ache, the burn, the bliss—"

"Stop it!" she cried, and threw her hat at him.

The bonnet swirled into his chest, bounced off, and fell to the floor in a flutter of straw, silk, and feathers. He stepped over it, his thoughts, words, and memories setting his body on fire. "Are we now reduced to talking about the way we make love as something I will impose on you? Is there none of that magic left between us? Do not tell me we destroyed it all."

"I didn't destroy anything!" she burst out. "You did."

John
didn't give a damn right now who was to blame or for what. She could still arouse him as quick as lighting a
match,
and he had to find out if he could still do the same to her. If he couldn't, there was no hope. As he took another step closer, she took one back, hitting the open armoire behind her.