Read Online The Marriage Bed by Laura Lee Guhrke - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Lee Guhrke
Tags: Guilty Book 3
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of contempt through his teeth and stood up. "I doubt it. He's as cheeseparing as he is arrogant. Except about his clothes, which show all the money in the world cannot make up for horrid taste." He came to stand in front of her desk and went on, "I saw him at Brooks's last night. Mustard yellow trousers and a lurid green waistcoat. Made him look as if he'd had bad fish for dinner."
She would not be diverted to a discussion of Sir George's famously hideous wardrobe. She looked up at her husband and set her jaw. "I fail to see how the guest list for my charity ball is any of your affair ."
"Because you are my wife, and since we are reconciling, I am making it my affair."
"We are not reconciling!"
"To invite Sir George is asking for trouble," he said with a breezy, infuriating disregard for her words. "You remember that business last year when he and Dylan got into a fistfight. It could happen again. Or it could be me who goes a few rounds with him this time. That would be worse for you, Viola. I know how it would devastate you if Sir George beat me up."
She smiled. "No fear of that," she said with sickening sweetness. "You are not on the guest list."
"Yes, I am. Add my name, Tate, and take Plowright's name off."
"I am not inviting you! And whether or not I invite Sir George is not your concern. I chose to include him because he is a rich man and the fourth son of a marquess , and hospitals need funds."
"None of that makes him any less of an ass, Viola."
She lifted her hands in a gesture of exasperation and began to grind her teeth. Did the man live to make her crazy? "If ordering me about and interfering in my affairs is how you are going to reconcile with me, it is not working."
He ignored that. "Dylan and I have written a new limerick about Sir George," he said, leaning down to rest his forearms on her desk. "You used to love my limericks. Would you like to hear it?"
"No."
He ignored that, too, of course. "There was a knight from the Isle of Rum, who's always been too quick with his gun. The demireps say his aim's not astray, he just fires too soon for their fun."
She would not laugh. Tate's smothered giggles were making it nearly impossible for her not to, and she pressed her lips tight together. She had to look away from his teasing eyes for a moment before she could get hold of herself. Then she gave him the haughtiest look she could manage. "Stop it, Hammond ," she ordered.
Schoolboy innocence was his response, brown eyes widening as he looked at her, his face so close to her own. "Stop what?"
"Making fun. I am working." She shook a handful of papers virtuously and returned her attention to her guest list.
"Deuce take it, Viola. Life is supposed to be fun." He straightened away from her desk and began to laugh. "What is that deliciously wicked line from Jane Austen's novel? You love Austen—you must remember it. Something about how we live for the joy of making sport for our neighbors , and then laughing at them in our turn."
Damn the man. Damn him for remembering how much she liked Austen. Damn his smile and his wit and the ease with which he could find the fun in anything. That had always been one of her greatest weaknesses where he was concerned. How he used to be able to make her laugh at snobbish countesses like Lady Deane and pompous asses like Plowright , how he had made her happy in a world filled with malicious gossip and restrictive rules and closed minds. In the smothering atmosphere of staid drawing rooms and rigid manners, he had been a breath of fresh air to her. He made her feel vibrantly alive.
Only someone who could make her feel like that could have hurt her so much. Never again. Still, he did have a point about Sir George. She looked up at her secretary. "Remove Sir George's name from the list, Tate." She glanced at John , saw his smile. "For Dylan's sake," she added. "I would hate to have fisticuffs break out at a ball and have Dylan get hurt. You may go."
"Yes, my lady." Tate took
She would not be diverted to a discussion of Sir George's famously hideous wardrobe. She looked up at her husband and set her jaw. "I fail to see how the guest list for my charity ball is any of your affair ."
"Because you are my wife, and since we are reconciling, I am making it my affair."
"We are not reconciling!"
"To invite Sir George is asking for trouble," he said with a breezy, infuriating disregard for her words. "You remember that business last year when he and Dylan got into a fistfight. It could happen again. Or it could be me who goes a few rounds with him this time. That would be worse for you, Viola. I know how it would devastate you if Sir George beat me up."
She smiled. "No fear of that," she said with sickening sweetness. "You are not on the guest list."
"Yes, I am. Add my name, Tate, and take Plowright's name off."
"I am not inviting you! And whether or not I invite Sir George is not your concern. I chose to include him because he is a rich man and the fourth son of a marquess , and hospitals need funds."
"None of that makes him any less of an ass, Viola."
She lifted her hands in a gesture of exasperation and began to grind her teeth. Did the man live to make her crazy? "If ordering me about and interfering in my affairs is how you are going to reconcile with me, it is not working."
He ignored that. "Dylan and I have written a new limerick about Sir George," he said, leaning down to rest his forearms on her desk. "You used to love my limericks. Would you like to hear it?"
"No."
He ignored that, too, of course. "There was a knight from the Isle of Rum, who's always been too quick with his gun. The demireps say his aim's not astray, he just fires too soon for their fun."
She would not laugh. Tate's smothered giggles were making it nearly impossible for her not to, and she pressed her lips tight together. She had to look away from his teasing eyes for a moment before she could get hold of herself. Then she gave him the haughtiest look she could manage. "Stop it, Hammond ," she ordered.
Schoolboy innocence was his response, brown eyes widening as he looked at her, his face so close to her own. "Stop what?"
"Making fun. I am working." She shook a handful of papers virtuously and returned her attention to her guest list.
"Deuce take it, Viola. Life is supposed to be fun." He straightened away from her desk and began to laugh. "What is that deliciously wicked line from Jane Austen's novel? You love Austen—you must remember it. Something about how we live for the joy of making sport for our neighbors , and then laughing at them in our turn."
Damn the man. Damn him for remembering how much she liked Austen. Damn his smile and his wit and the ease with which he could find the fun in anything. That had always been one of her greatest weaknesses where he was concerned. How he used to be able to make her laugh at snobbish countesses like Lady Deane and pompous asses like Plowright , how he had made her happy in a world filled with malicious gossip and restrictive rules and closed minds. In the smothering atmosphere of staid drawing rooms and rigid manners, he had been a breath of fresh air to her. He made her feel vibrantly alive.
Only someone who could make her feel like that could have hurt her so much. Never again. Still, he did have a point about Sir George. She looked up at her secretary. "Remove Sir George's name from the list, Tate." She glanced at John , saw his smile. "For Dylan's sake," she added. "I would hate to have fisticuffs break out at a ball and have Dylan get hurt. You may go."
"Yes, my lady." Tate took
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