Guilty Series

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  She froze, hand poised to take her gloves from the maid who stood beside her in the foyer, and she stared at her husband, horrified. “Where?”

  He gave a shout of laughter, his amusement inexplicable to her under the circumstances. There was nothing amusing about this as far as she was concerned.

  “You needn’t look as if I’ve asked you to run naked along the Mall,” he said.

  “Hammond, really!” she admonished him, and shot a pointed, sideways glance toward the maid and footmen who stood by the front door.

  “We are only going to Hyde Park,” he said, still laughing.

  “That means a carriage ride on the Row.” She was appalled, and showed it. “Together.”

  “I fail to see what you find so distressing.”

  “You and I out riding together in an open landau?” She began to feel sick. “On a day such as this, half the ton will be there,” she pointed out. “Everyone will see us together.”

  “We are married, Viola. It isn’t as if we need a chaperone.”

  Unimpressed, she glared at him as she took her gloves from the maid and yanked them on. “You are the reason chaperones were invented. You always were.”

  He grinned at that, looking so pleased by her words that she wanted to take them back at once. “I did think of all sorts of ingenious ways to get you out from under your brother’s eye, didn’t I?”

  “I do not want to go out on the Row with you.”

  “Why not? Afraid people will see me kissing your neck?”

  That was exactly what she was afraid of. Viola felt her neck begin to tingle. “Hammond, stop saying things like that,” she ordered with another, even more pointed glance at the servants nearby. “It is not decorous. Besides, that doesn’t concern me in the slightest.”

  “No?”

  “No. Because I’m not going.”

  “What’s wrong, Viola? You don’t want to show all our acquaintances we have reconciled?”

  “We have not reconciled! And I am not going to go gallivanting around Hyde Park with you, giving people the impression that we have.”

  “Since we are not living together yet, that is hardly a concern.”

  “If you meant what you said about making certain we receive the same invitations, the gossip will spread fast enough, I daresay. I have no desire to fuel it in this manner. I am not going.”

  “If you do not come with me…” He paused and glanced at the servants, then leaned close to her ear and murmured in a voice too low for anyone but her to hear, “If you do not come with me, I will drag you out and put you in the carriage myself. Any of the duke’s neighbors walking in the square will see me do so, and since I can only assume you will fight me every step of the way, they will know our reconciliation is not going well. Does that suit you better?”

  “You gave me your word you would not use force,” she reminded him in a fierce whisper.

  “No, I gave my word I will not use force to get you into bed,” he murmured in reply. “To my mind, anywhere else is fair game.”

  “I am now able to add brute to my list of descriptions for you.”

  “Yes, well, as I told you before, brute strength does come in handy from time to time.”

  Viola had no doubt he would follow through on his threat, and she reminded herself that waiting him out was her strategy. After a while he would tire of this game and go away.

  “Let’s be on our way, then,” she said, and turned to the door. When a footman opened it, she stepped outside, adding, “The sooner we go, the sooner it will be over.”

  “There’s the Viola I remember,” he said, following her out the front door. “Spirited, adventurous, ready to try anything.”

  His landau was standing at the curb. He assisted her into the open carriage, then followed her, settling himself beside her on the seat of roll and tuck red leather. On the floor at their feet were a picnic basket and a leather sack.

  They used to picnic all the time in their courting days. Chaperones present, of course, but as he had reminded her earlier, he had always managed to steal her away for a quick, passionate kiss or two, fueling her awakening desire for him with those precious, stolen moments. It had worked like a charm, and he thought it would work again.

  He was attempting to bring back their courting days, hoping it would renew her affections for him, but with the added luxury of being able to touch her and kiss her without having to spirit her away from watching eyes. They were married. He could be as bold as he liked, and he knew it.

  Just as she had predicted, Hyde Park was crowded. Carriages and people on horseback crowded Rotten Row, and the slow traffic made their journey into the park seem excruciatingly slow to Viola. She could see people leaning closer together, whispering, no doubt speculating about the sight of Lord and Lady Hammond out together side by side.

  She hated being the subject of talk, and she had endured more than her share of stares, whispers, and rumors over the years. There was some scrutiny that came with being the sister of a duke, but it was Hammond’s mistresses and exploits that had made her one of society’s favorite targets. She knew there were many who viewed her as responsible for his lack of an heir. Through years of quiet, restrained living and impeccable, decorous behavior in response to the gossip, she had finally succeeded in becoming such a dull topic to society that they had ceased to discuss her, much to her relief. Now, thanks to John’s absurd desire to reconcile, her name was once again being spread all over the scandal sheets.

  Both of them nodded greetings to their acquaintances as they passed them, for politeness demanded that sort of acknowledgment, but John did not stop the carriage at any point, much to her relief. It was not until they reached a less crowded part of the park that he had his driver pull the carriage over and come to a stop.

  The pair of footmen who had accompanied them carried the picnic items and followed behind as John led her to a grassy, shaded spot beside a small pond. “Will this do?” he asked her.

  They did not have any real privacy, for there were still many people strolling by, and any who knew them would stare and whisper, but it was as quiet as any spot in the park was likely to be on a day like this. It would do well enough.

  When she nodded, the pair of footmen laid out the blanket for them. She sat down, her ivory-white silk skirt billowing out around her. She tucked it in a bit to make room for John, and he sat down on the blanket opposite her as the servants laid out plates, silver, and linen.

  Viola stared down at her hands and took a great deal of time pulling off her gloves as these picnic preparations were made.

  “Viola?”

  She forced her gaze up. “Hmm?”

  “It doesn’t matter what people think.”

  “It does matter.”

  “Well, it doesn’t do to show it.”

  She took another look around. “By tomorrow, the odds at the clubs will no doubt be in your favor. And everyone will applaud you,” she added, galled by the notion, “for finally making your shrewish, disobedient wife do her duty.”

  “If that’s what they’ll be saying, then they don’t know you very well, do they?”

  “Because I’m going to win our little war?”

  “No. Because you’re not a shrew.” He began to laugh. “Disobedient is a whole other story.”

  Damn him and his self-deprecating charm. He could say anything, do anything, and yet there were times when he could make her want to smile. She looked away and did not reply.

  After the footmen had placed the picnic basket and the leather sack beside John, he waved them away, and they stepped back a respectful distance, far enough to be out of earshot but still close enough to respond promptly should they be needed for anything.

  John untied the drawstrings on the leather pouch and pulled out a bottle of wine, a bottle dripping with water from the melting ice in which it had been packed.

  “Champagne?” She raised an eyebrow. “Laying it on a bit thick for me, aren’t you, Hammond?”

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nbsp; “Very,” he agreed as he pulled a champagne glass from the basket. He popped the cork on the bottle and poured some of the sparkling liquid into the tall crystal flute.

  “What else did you bring?” she asked as he handed the glass to her, too curious about the contents of the basket to pretend she wasn’t. “Oysters, perhaps?” she guessed. “Or, since we have champagne, did you bring chocolate-dipped strawberries?”

  He shook his head and set the champagne aside. “No, no, something much better, something you love more than either of those. Scones.” He reached into the basket and pulled out a bowl of the round, golden brown pastries and set them on the blanket. He then brought out a small pot of jam.

  She adored scones and jam. Another of her favorite things. John seemed to remember so much about her, and she realized that was his biggest advantage. There were too many things about her he knew—how hungry she always got at this time of day, what foods she loved, how delightful it used to be when he kissed her neck.

  “I have no doubt,” she murmured with a sigh, “that the jam you brought is blackberry?”

  He opened the tiny pot, peered inside with a thoughtful glance, then looked back at her, a smile curving one corner of his mouth. “You know, I believe it is blackberry,” he said, trying to act surprised by the discovery. “Your favorite kind. What a coincidence.”

  “This is a blatant ploy to soften me,” she accused. “To make me like you again.”

  To make me fall in love with you again.

  “True,” he agreed lightly as he set aside the jam and poured champagne for himself. He leaned back opposite her, his weight resting on one arm, his legs stretched out beside her own, his pose one of complete indifference to the fact that she found him utterly transparent. “Is it working yet?”

  “Yet?” She frowned at him and took a sip of champagne. “You are assuming that your victory is only a matter of time? Awfully cocky of you to think I can be won over with such ease, especially when you employ such shallow tactics as picnics and champagne.”

  He paused, giving her a look of pretended bewilderment. “Does that mean you don’t want any scones?”

  She pressed her lips together, head tilted to one side, pride wavering as she glanced at the pastries in the basket. “Did you bring the cream?”

  “Of course.” He set aside his glass and produced another jar.

  She capitulated. “Pass me a scone,” she said, and set her glass of champagne on one of the plates beside her lap.

  He sliced the round pastry lengthwise for her and handed her both halves along with a spoon. “I knew bribery would win out.”

  “On the contrary,” she said as she used the spoon to slather clotted cream onto the pastry in her palm. “I am not fooled. The scones, the jam. The champagne.” She took a hefty bite of her scone. “None of it will do you a bit of good.”

  “Viola, take pity on me,” he said as he prepared a scone for himself. “Look at what I am forcing myself to endure in order to win you over.”

  She couldn’t help it. She smiled as she watched him take half his scone in one bite, a scone piled high with both cream and jam. “You poor man. You look as if you are suffering terribly.”

  He nodded agreement with that a she swallowed the bite in his mouth. “I am suffering. You know I prefer apricot over blackberry.” He wiped a dab of jam and cream from one corner of his mouth with his thumb, then licked it off, then looked at her. “But blackberry does have its advantages.”

  She saw what was in his eyes, and her mind and her body and her heart all recognized it. That heated, knowing look. She tensed as she watched him set the uneaten half of his scone aside, but she could not seem to move away as he began easing his body forward on the blanket, moving closer to her. His hip grazed hers. “You have jam all over your mouth.”

  “You’re making that up,” she accused, her mouth full. She touched her fingertips to her mouth, verifying for herself that he was teasing as she swallowed her bite of scone. “I do not have jam on my face.”

  John reached back behind him, his forearm brushing her ankles as he scooped a dab of jam from the pot onto his finger. He then turned toward her and touched the corner of her mouth. “Yes, you do.”

  This was a game, their game, the one they used to play years ago. During those picnics, if no one was looking, he would dab jam on her mouth, then kiss it off. When they were married, it had become part of their morning ritual. Breakfast in bed and blackberry jam and making love. He had spoken of it yesterday, and today, he was reminding her again, making her remember how she had once felt about him, dredging up things she had forced herself to forget.

  You always liked making love in the mornings best.

  He leaned forward, bringing his mouth close to hers, that knowing look still in his eyes, and it suddenly seemed as if her attempts to be cold and frozen were futile. Something in the brandy brown depths of his eyes could still make her feel languid and warm, something tender in that smile could still spread heat through her body and soften her like butter in the afternoon sun. He leaned closer.

  She hated him. She did.

  He paused, his mouth only a few inches from hers. “I wouldn’t want you to spend the whole afternoon with purple jam on your face. I mean, what would people say? I could kiss it off for you.”

  She fought to come to her senses. “What a noble and gentlemanly offer, but this is a public place.”

  “That doesn’t matter if two people are married.”

  “It didn’t matter to you when we weren’t married.”

  He laughed low in his throat, bringing his lips another inch closer, and she began to panic. She brought her palm up between them, pressing it flat against his chest to stop him before he could kiss her. “Am I not safe from your advances even in public?”

  “You are not safe from my advances anywhere.”

  She froze. So did he. Both of them remained motionless, suspended by her hand and her hesitance. His chest was a hard, muscular wall beneath her palm, and she imagined that she could feel his heart pounding as hard as hers. A fancy of her imagination, perhaps, for his white linen shirt and coffee-colored waistcoat made it impossible to be certain if that were true, but there was no mistaking the desire in his eyes. So long since he had looked at her that way, so long since she had wanted him to.

  She didn’t want him. Not anymore.

  “This is not proper.” She frowned at him, striving to be that icy goddess she knew he despised. “Hammond, you forget yourself.”

  “Viola, you are not really going to make me mind my manners, are you?” he asked. “Not when you have blackberry jam all over your mouth.”

  “I am.” She lifted her fingers from his chest to her lips and wiped at the sticky jam he’d placed there before he could take this game any further.

  “You just made it worse,” he told her, his voice grave, his mouth smiling. “You’ve smeared it, and now you have a big purple streak on your face.” He lifted his hand and his fingers traced a line just beneath her cheekbone. “Right there.”

  She drew in a sharp breath. How long had it been since John had touched her like this, tender and wanting? Over eight years, and yet it still made a thrill run though her, as if no time had passed at all. “People are watching us,” she whispered, desperate.

  His fingers caressed her cheek. His lashes lowered as he looked at her mouth. “If they are watching us, then let’s give them something worth staring at.” His voice sounded thick, heavy, echoing the way she felt.

  He was a cad. He was.

  He touched her lips with his, and a weightless sensation dipped inside her. For a brief instant she felt as if she were falling.

  So, so long. She had forgotten all of this: how he used to dab blackberry jam on her mouth just to kiss it off. Forgotten what his kisses tasted like, what his touch felt like. He was making her remember things she did not want to remember, things that had given her so much joy.

  Hadn’t she learned a thing? None of this was real.
He was manipulating her to get what he wanted, just as he had done during their courtship. John had taught her the bitterest lesson a woman could learn about men. That his love and his desire were not the same thing. She would not be fooled this time around.

  With that vow, she came to her senses. She jerked back, shoving his hand aside as she scooted back on the blanket, giving herself the breathing room she needed. She took a frantic glance around, and it confirmed her worst fear. “People are talking about us right now.”

  “Saying horrible things, of course.” He did not pursue her, but instead leaned back, resting his weight on his elbows, seeming much more at ease than she. “Kissing one’s own wife, especially in public, is the height of bad taste. My friends will never let me hear the end of it. I’ll try to keep my wits about me next time you have jam on your face.”

  “I don’t suppose you could simply refrain from putting it there?”

  “But Viola, that wouldn’t be any fun.”

  “I know life is always fun for you.”

  “God, I hope so. Should it not be?”

  It had been fun for her once, too, when she’d been with him, but her life wasn’t like that anymore. Contented, yes. Busy, yes. Satisfying, yes. With some moments of happiness and moments of sadness. But not fun, not exhilarating, not heady and exciting. Not like with John.

  She dipped one corner of her serviette in her champagne glass to moisten it, then rubbed the linen vigorously against her cheek. After a moment she looked at him. “Is it gone? And don’t lie to me.”

  “It’s gone. But you rubbed so hard, you have a rash.”

  Balling the serviette, she threw it at him. She was tempted to take another glance around to see if she could identify some of the faces of those watching them, but she refrained. She would hear the gossip soon enough, and so would everyone else. By tomorrow morning everyone in his circle of acquaintance and hers would know Hammond had been seen kissing his wife in public, and they would know Lady Hammond hadn’t been fighting very hard to stop him. And they would say it was about time she took her husband back into her bed and learned to be a proper wife.

  Viola, however, had no intention of doing either.