Elsie a necklace in September, but only to pay her off and buy out her contract with him, a contract he vowed he'd entered into before he had ever met her. He had flatly denied sleeping with Elsie after marriage, swearing he had been a faithful husband ever since their wedding day. Even if that had been true, it wasn't enough, for he had not denied that he'd been with Elsie right up until the day the marriage vows were spoken.
Galling, even now, to think of his duplicity during their courtship, of how he'd told her again and again how he loved her and adored her and wanted her, yet all the while he'd been keeping that other woman. Broke as was, he had somehow managed to pay for Elsie. Men had their priorities, didn't they?
Her tears and hurt had been met with no understanding, only his biting, sarcastic wit. Her closed bedroom door had not made him realize the error of his ways. There had been no admission of guilt, no words of love, and no apologies. Instead, he waited a month for her to relent, and when she hadn't, he walked out on her without a second thought.
Viola's hands curled into fists at her sides. She'd known most men had mistresses, of course, but until Elsie Gallant, she had never understood that a man could court one woman and sleep with another at the same time. She had never known that mistresses had contracts, and that owing money to a mistress was a debt, like any other debt, and had to be paid, even if a man broke the contract when he got married. Until Elsie, she had never known the sick sense of jealousy or the wrenching pain of heartbreak.
T hank s to John , she knew all about those things now. T hank s to herself, she no longer felt the pain. It had taken a long time to get her imagination to stop forming pictures of him touching Elsie Gallant, only to find that image replaced by each woman who came after Elsie. It had taken years of layering sheets of ice and pride over her heart with each successive mistress he got, until she finally reached the point where she no longer cared what he did or with whom.
Now he wanted to come back. Any why? Not for her, that was certain. No, he wanted to reconcile because he needed something only she could give him. He needed a legitimate son and heir, and she was expected to just forgive and forget.
Her nails were digging into her palms so deeply it began to hurt, and Viola forced herself to unclench her fists. She sat down on the settee and with deliberate, focused effort, worked to rid herself of the hot, smothering outrage that was threatening to destroy the delicate state of contentment it had taken her so long to find. She sat there for a long time, taking deep, steady breaths, until the cool, icy pride that had protected her for so long was once again in place. John could bed any woman he wanted, but that woman would never be her. Never again.
On Monday, John arrived back at Grosvenor Square at precisely two o'clock . By then Viola's rage was gone and her heart safely back inside her protective block of ice.
She was in the drawing room, seated at Daphne's writing desk, going over the plans for the annual Fancy Dress charity ball for London hospitals. It was one of the many charities she sponsored, and one of her favorites. She was with her secretary, Miss Tate, going over the menu for the supper that would come after the dancing, when Quimby , Anthony's butler, announced John 's arrival.
"Lord Hammond, my lady."
Viola looked up as John entered the drawing room, and a memory sprang to mind of that same sight all those years ago, of John , so dashing and handsome as he would enter Anthony's drawing room, and how that sight used to make her feel so deliriously happy. Looking at him now, she knew he was more dashing, more handsome than ever. But this time around she felt nothing. Numbness was a wonderful thing.
She stood up, giving a perfunctory curtsy to his bow, then sat back down and returned her attention to Miss Tate, who stood beside her chair. It
Galling, even now, to think of his duplicity during their courtship, of how he'd told her again and again how he loved her and adored her and wanted her, yet all the while he'd been keeping that other woman. Broke as was, he had somehow managed to pay for Elsie. Men had their priorities, didn't they?
Her tears and hurt had been met with no understanding, only his biting, sarcastic wit. Her closed bedroom door had not made him realize the error of his ways. There had been no admission of guilt, no words of love, and no apologies. Instead, he waited a month for her to relent, and when she hadn't, he walked out on her without a second thought.
Viola's hands curled into fists at her sides. She'd known most men had mistresses, of course, but until Elsie Gallant, she had never understood that a man could court one woman and sleep with another at the same time. She had never known that mistresses had contracts, and that owing money to a mistress was a debt, like any other debt, and had to be paid, even if a man broke the contract when he got married. Until Elsie, she had never known the sick sense of jealousy or the wrenching pain of heartbreak.
T hank s to John , she knew all about those things now. T hank s to herself, she no longer felt the pain. It had taken a long time to get her imagination to stop forming pictures of him touching Elsie Gallant, only to find that image replaced by each woman who came after Elsie. It had taken years of layering sheets of ice and pride over her heart with each successive mistress he got, until she finally reached the point where she no longer cared what he did or with whom.
Now he wanted to come back. Any why? Not for her, that was certain. No, he wanted to reconcile because he needed something only she could give him. He needed a legitimate son and heir, and she was expected to just forgive and forget.
Her nails were digging into her palms so deeply it began to hurt, and Viola forced herself to unclench her fists. She sat down on the settee and with deliberate, focused effort, worked to rid herself of the hot, smothering outrage that was threatening to destroy the delicate state of contentment it had taken her so long to find. She sat there for a long time, taking deep, steady breaths, until the cool, icy pride that had protected her for so long was once again in place. John could bed any woman he wanted, but that woman would never be her. Never again.
On Monday, John arrived back at Grosvenor Square at precisely two o'clock . By then Viola's rage was gone and her heart safely back inside her protective block of ice.
She was in the drawing room, seated at Daphne's writing desk, going over the plans for the annual Fancy Dress charity ball for London hospitals. It was one of the many charities she sponsored, and one of her favorites. She was with her secretary, Miss Tate, going over the menu for the supper that would come after the dancing, when Quimby , Anthony's butler, announced John 's arrival.
"Lord Hammond, my lady."
Viola looked up as John entered the drawing room, and a memory sprang to mind of that same sight all those years ago, of John , so dashing and handsome as he would enter Anthony's drawing room, and how that sight used to make her feel so deliriously happy. Looking at him now, she knew he was more dashing, more handsome than ever. But this time around she felt nothing. Numbness was a wonderful thing.
She stood up, giving a perfunctory curtsy to his bow, then sat back down and returned her attention to Miss Tate, who stood beside her chair. It
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