Page 2 of Guilty Pleasures

“A quarter of an hour ago, sir.”

Anthony muttered an oath, thinking that if Hammond had shamed Viola with another scandal, this time he’d have the fellow’s head. “Tell the viscountess I shall be with her in a moment, and have Madeira and port sent up.”

“Very good, sir. Lady Hammond said she would await you in her sitting room.” The servant departed, and Anthony thrust his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown. A few minutes later, he left his own room and headed down the long corridor to his sister’s suite at the opposite end, where a footman waited there to open the door to him. He entered his sister’s sitting room, stepping into a baroque fantasy of pink velvet, white brocade, and gold leaf that suited Viola’s golden blond beauty and lavishly feminine temperament down to the ground.

Anthony’s worry that her visit brought bad news was dispelled the moment he caught sight of her, for she immediately began to laugh. The sound made him pause, and a half smile curved his mouth. He was glad to hear her laughing. It was better than listening to her cry over her disgrace of a husband. “What is so amusing?”

“You,” she said, rising from her settee to come toward him. “You look like some decadent Turkish potentate in that dressing gown, with such a frown on your face that I imagined you about to order someone’s tongue cut out.”

“No one’s tongue,” he answered, taking his sister’s outstretched hands into his own. “Hammond’s head did come to mind.”

Viola gave him an affectionate kiss on each cheek and turned away. It did not escape Anthony’s notice that she would not meet his eyes. “You do not need to do anything so drastic, dear brother,” she told him, returning to her seat on the settee.

“You mean he is finally behaving himself?” Anthony moved to sit on the striped pink and white brocade chair opposite her.

Before she could answer, a maid entered the room, carrying a tray that held port, Madeira, and two glasses. She placed the tray on the table beside Viola and departed.

“You want port, of course,” Viola said, and began to pour the wine.

“He is behaving himself, is he not?” Anthony leaned forward, accepting the glass of port from his sister’s hand. “Look at me, Viola, and tell me the truth.”

Viola met his gaze. “The truth is that I wouldn’t know. Hammond does not keep me informed of his activities, but I did learn yesterday that his most recent interest seems to be sea bathing.”

Anthony could tell from her voice that nothing had changed. “Hammond is at Brighton?”

“His arrival, of course, compelled me to depart from there at once.”

Anthony frowned. “You cannot be forever avoiding him, Viola. For good or ill, he is your husband, and you have scarce spent two weeks in his company this past year. The gossip is rampant. Even here in Hampshire, I have heard rumors—”

“Speaking of rumors,” she cut in, “I have been hearing quite a bit of gossip about you of late.” She raised her glass and gave him an inquiring glance. “Can it be that I am soon to have a sister?”

Her words irked Anthony, not because she was asking such a question, but because he did not enjoy being the subject of gossip and speculation.

“Ah,” he said, and took a sip of port. “Word of my recent trip to London reached the seaside pavilions at Brighton, I take it?”

“Did you expect it would not?” she countered, smiling. “The oh-so-eligible Duke of Tremore, a man who never dances at balls, who would not be caught dead at Almack’s, who avoids young ladies of impeccable background as if they all have the plague, suddenly takes the ducal emeralds to London to be cleaned. Most of our friends are in agreement that this bodes well for a duchess. Are you finally going to marry? Please tell me yes. Nothing would delight me more than knowing you have found someone to make you happy.”

He studied his sister over the rim of his glass for a moment without speaking. How could any woman with a husband like Hammond retain any optimism about happiness in marriage? “I am going to wed, yes,” he confirmed.

Viola gave a cry of delight. “How wonderful! I have been going over names in my mind all the way up from Brighton, but I cannot imagine who could have captured your heart when you have been buried here since March. Who is she?”

“Can you not guess? One choice stands high above the rest. Monforth’s eldest daughter, Sarah.”

“Ugh!” Viola fell back against the velvet pillows of the settee with a groan. “You cannot be serious.”

“Monforth is a marquess with impeccable connections. Lady Sarah would make an excellent duchess. She is well bred and has a substantial fortune. She is also healthy, gracious, and quite beautiful.”

“And she is as intelligent as a fence post.”

He conceded that with a shrug and reached for his glass. “I don’t intend to have intellectual discussions with her,” he said as he took a sip of port, “so what does that matter?”

“Oh, Anthony!” Viola rose and circled the table to sit on the arm of his chair. “Lady Sarah cares nothing for you.”

“And your point?”

“She seems as sweet as honey, but it is a facade,” Viola went on, contempt in her voice. “The only things she really cares about are money and position. You have both, and she would sell her soul to have you.”

“Yes,” he agreed dispassionately, “she would.”

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