The Viscount's Vixen

by JoMarie DeGioia

  She studied the portrait, sorely wishing she could know the woman gazing back at her. Why weren’t these portraits hanging in the great hall? Her eyes fell upon the necklace encircling the woman’s slender neck. The thin gold chain hung down to the swell of her breast, nearly to the neckline of her formal ball gown. Betsy squinted as she sought to view the pendant more clearly. It appeared to be a dark stone, but she couldn’t ascertain its shape due to the angle of the portrait.

  “I think I’ve seen that before,” she said to herself.

  “Betsy?” Michael called from outside the chamber, drawing her attention from the portrait. “Where are you, love?”

  She stood and glanced down at her skirts. Chagrined, she saw dust and grime soiled her green dress as well as her hands. She quickly brushed her hair back from her face, no doubt leaving dirt there as well.

  “There you are,” he said as he opened the door.

  She smiled in return and tilted her face toward his. He kissed her lightly and took her hands in his.

  He ran his gaze over her, and then brushed his thumbs over her cheeks. “You’re covered with dust.”

  Betsy reddened slightly and stepped back from him.

  “I’m sorry you have seen me like this,” she stated.

  “Nonsense,” he returned, stepping closer. “The grime does little to mask your beauty, I assure you.” He looked about the cluttered space. “What discoveries have you made, love?”

  Betsy clasped her hands. “Oh, Michael,” she began. “There are so many tapestries here. I believe your mother created most of them.”

  “Is that so?”

  “We must see them hung about the manor,” she said. “They’ll look simply marvelous.”

  “But what of your own handiwork?”

  “I believe the manor can more than accommodate all of them and more.”

  He nodded his agreement and led her from the room. They soon entered their chamber to ready for luncheon. Betsy pulled her hand gently from his grasp and rang for her lady’s maid. She turned to find Michael regarding her in a most intriguing fashion, his dark eyes nearly devouring her. Her own eyes ran slowly over him. He had loosened his cravat at some point, she noted, and discarded his jacket. His sleeves were rolled up and she could see his muscles work as he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. Ann’s arrival brought her back to herself. She took a breath and gave a small shake of her head.

  “Oh, Ann.”

  “Your mistress has no need for you at this time, Ann,” Michael said.

  “But, Michael,” Betsy began as she turned toward him. “I need to change out of these soiled clothes.”

  Michael smiled wickedly then, setting her pulse racing.

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  Without sparing a glance at Ann, Betsy dismissed her. The maid giggled behind her hand, dropped a quick curtsy and took her leave.

  Michael assisted Betsy out of her dusty garments and into his arms. He carried her to their bed, satisfying their passion and making them rather late for luncheon.

  ***

  “Your mother was quite gifted with the needle, Michael,” she said at dinner that night, taking a dainty bite of the fine roast beef on her plate. “And quite beautiful, as well.”

  “And how would you know this?”

  “I’ve seen her portrait,” she said. “There are many portraits in the storage chamber. We must see them arranged about the manor.”

  “I suppose we can create a gallery adjacent to the great hall.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “You saw my mother’s portrait?”

  Betsy nodded as she sipped delicately at her wine. “She was most beautiful.”

  Michael lowered his eyes to the table, his fingers toying with the stem of his glass. “I scarcely remember her.”

  He gave a shake of his head to clear it. “What of the crest, love?” he asked. “Did you find such a tapestry abovestairs?”

  Betsy blinked at the abrupt change in subject but apparently caught his reticence and spoke no more of his mother’s portrait. She began to describe the tapestry she had uncovered, the brilliance of the threads forming the Balsam crest.

  “It’s quite remarkable, Michael,” she told him. “And quite beautifully wrought. Although it has a horrible tear nearly renting it in half.”

  “It’s been in storage for years. Surely more than a little damage was bound to occur.”

  Betsy shook her head. “Oh, no. The rest of the piece is unsullied. I’m afraid the tear had to have been deliberate. Do you know anything about it?”

  A hazy memory sprang to the front of his mind. He was but a child in his recollection, huddled in the hallway abovestairs in the manor. Angry male voices came from the great hall below. He shuddered, the memory of fear strong even in the present.

  “Michael?” Betsy asked. “Is something troubling you?”

  He looked up to find worry visible in her gaze.

  “No, no,” he assured her with a small smile. “It’s nothing.”

  Betsy’s brow furrowed, but she finally returned his small smile with hers. “Shall we take our dessert in the great hall?”

  Michael concurred with relief, taking her elbow and leading her from the dining room. As they shared their dessert of tea and lemon cakes, Betsy spoke of anything but the ruined tapestry or the portraits she had discovered. Michael didn’t mention his brief and cloudy memory. The coldness, the fear, had felt very real to him in that moment. He wouldn’t worry over its importance now.

  He’d puzzle over it in solitude, when he could face the truth of what must truly be horrible to evoke such iciness within him.

  Chapter 18

  “The tapestry is coming along,” Betsy remarked as they entered their chamber to ready for bed a fortnight later. “I tell you, I was very pleased to finally change colors and thread something other than deep blue on the needle.”

  Michael nodded absently. He hadn’t given much thought to the hazy memory Betsy’s mention of the ripped tapestry had provoked two weeks earlier, choosing instead to occupy his mind with the many tasks needing to be accomplished at the manor. But tonight the memory came back to him. Intent to somehow keep the fact from her, he strode into his dressing room and shut the door, leaning against it as he took deep breaths to calm his racing heart.

  In his mind he was once more that tiny child huddled in the hallway, his arms hugging his knees to his chest as he listened to the men arguing in the great hall below.

  “You are a bloody fool, Balsam,” a man taunted. “You now have nothing but your worthless title to pass down to that puling little brat of yours.”

  “You bastard!” Michael heard his father retort. “How can you live with yourself?”

  The unseen man laughed, an ugly sound that sent a shiver through the little boy.

  “I shall live quite well, I imagine,” he answered. “As for you, you can take comfort in the knowledge that your lovely wife isn’t here to witness your disgrace.”

  A scuffle was heard from below, followed by the sound of his father’s assailant laughing once more.

  “At the very least you have that ridiculous crest of yours,” the man jeered. “Perhaps it will keep you warm on those long cold nights in this mausoleum.”

  The sound of boot heels clicking upon the floor signaled the man’s swift exit. A brief silence enveloped the manor, soon broken by a guttural shout of intense grief and rage. A loud tearing sound was heard, punctuated by several crashing noises. As his father’s cries of outrage were replaced by heart-wrenching sobs, the tiny boy in Michael’s recollection squeezed his eyes shut.

  “No, Papa,” the little boy sobbed. “No….”

  “No,” Michael said to himself, his voice shocking him out of his reverie.

  He opened his eyes to find himself in his dressing room. As he covered his eyes with one hand a soft knocking came from the other side of the door.

  “Michael, is everything all right?”

  He took a deep breath,
shaking his head to rid it of any lingering memories of that long-ago night. Were these true recollections or simply the recurrence of a terrible nightmare that had plagued him as a child? He forced his attention to the present.

  “I’m fine, love,” he called through the closed door. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

  True to his word, he stripped down to his breeches and rejoined her in the main bedchamber. She was tucked cozily into their bed, her hair arranged becomingly about her shoulders.

  “Were you growing impatient, wife?” he teased, stretching out beside her.

  A blush crept up her cheeks as she gave a tiny nod. A laugh rumbled from deep in his chest as he gathered her into his arms. He proceeded to show her without words just how much her silent admission pleased him.

  The next afternoon, Michael sat in his office down in the stables. His desk was littered nearly to the point of obscuring its top. There were papers listing the items he needed to order to fortify the tack room, lists of the repairs yet to be completed to the remainder of the stables, and a tentative schedule of training and breeding sessions he would see to in the spring. Several items from the tack room were also set upon the desk, and he was taking time of his own to repair them. He fiddled with a broken stirrup as his mind made its way unerringly back to his dreamlike recollection of the previous night.

  The fierce argument all those years ago must mean something. The anger and despair in his father’s voice had been as clear to Michael in that moment in his dressing room as if his father had stood before him. And who was the man taunting him? He had yet to examine the tapestry of his family’s crest, and he realized he repeatedly left the breakfast room as soon as his wife made preparations to set upon her daily task.

  “Coward,” he muttered. Cursing softly, he set the broken stirrup aside and sighed.

  “Good afternoon, Michael,” Betsy called from the open doorway.

  Michael looked up and quickly took in her fetching appearance in her pretty pink day dress. She wore an expression of mild irritation.

  “Hello, love,” he said, coming to his feet. “What brings you down here?”

  “I believe my husband has no desire for my company at long last,” she stated, rolling her eyes heavenward.

  He chuckled as he came to stand before her, taking her hands in his.

  “Not likely.” A quick glance at the clock upon the wall showed him teatime was long since passed. “I’ve missed tea, haven’t I?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid I consumed too many biscuits in your absence. If such behavior on your part continues, I daresay I’ll grow quite stout.”

  He placed his hands on her slender waist, his fingers nearly touching. “While I have no fear in that direction, it wouldn’t detract from your appeal.”

  He returned to his chair behind the desk, taking her with him to sit in his lap. She ran her fingers over his fine lawn shirt. He’s set his jacket and waistcoat on a chair nearby.

  “Are you nearly finished with your work here?” she asked, toying with his shirt buttons.

  He nodded. “And what of yours?”

  She shrugged. “There’s still much work to be done on the tapestry. What a horrible tear.”

  Michael stiffened beneath her, his hands clutching at the arms of his chair as the room seemed to spin.

  “Michael, what’s wrong?”

  Michael’s eyes snapped into focus, a great breath escaping his lips.

  “What?” he murmured. “What did you say?”

  She placed her hands on his face, dropping little kisses on his brow. “You seemed so very frightened just then,” she said in a quiet voice. “And so very far away.”

  He laughed shakily at her words, unwilling to tell her just how fearful his fleeting memory made him. He would not share such recollections with her. Surely she would insist on learning all about his childhood memories and he wasn’t yet prepared to delve into his past.

  “I wasn’t frightened, Betsy. I was simply lost in thought for a moment, that’s all.”

  Betsy didn’t seem to believe him for a moment. She placed her hands on her hips and frowned. “You’ll tell me what you were thinking.”

  “Hush,” he urged, bringing his lips to her ear. “I have no desire to discuss anything so mundane as my thoughts of a moment ago when the thoughts currently occupying my mind are so much more interesting.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, purring in response to the sensations he was causing with his lips and his tongue. Suddenly she straightened in his lap.

  “But, Michael,” she insisted. “I want to.”

  “Yes,” he cut in, turning her in his lap so she straddled him in the chair. “I want to, as well.”

  She gasped as his hands closed on her bottom, pressing her tightly to him. His growing arousal was evident to her even through their layers of clothing. She gazed at him, finally closing her eyes as he brought his lips to hers. His tongue traced her lips, delving inside to taste her. Their tongues touched and he caught her sigh in his mouth.

  He murmured her name as he made quick work of unhooking the back of her dress, tugging down her sleeves to reveal the thin chemise barely covering her breasts.

  “How can anything else occupy my mind,” he rasped, his mouth on her plump flesh, “when you’re such an enticing package here in my arms?”

  Her drawers give with a soft tearing sound as Michael swiftly removed them. He touched her then, gently and then with more insistence.

  “Oh!” she cried, her body arching toward him as she spread her legs further apart.

  She was lost in sensations as he teethed her nipple, as first one then two strong fingers drove her unerringly toward her peak. When his thumb found her most sensitive spot, she came with an intensity that left her stunned. He felt her release almost as if it were his own, his own breath harsh in his ears.

  “Ah, love,” he whispered when she had calmed, cradling her in his arms.

  Her eyes slowly opened as she caught her breath. She ran her eyes over him.

  “Michael, come inside me.”

  He started to bend her over the desk, suddenly letting out a curse. He sorely wished in that moment he was in his study at the manor, at his large desk with its neatly placed accessories allowing an expanse of smooth desktop on which to lay out his wife’s lovely form. He stood with her in his arms then, causing a startled gasp to escape Betsy’s lips.

  “The stable, wife,” he said in answer to her unasked question.

  Before she could utter a word of protest, they were cozily tucked into one clean unoccupied stalls. Michael grabbed a large blanket and spread it quickly upon the soft, clean hay.

  “What if someone hears us?” she whispered as she sat beside him on the blanket.

  He arched a brow. “I don’t recall your worrying over that when last we found ourselves in such a situation.”

  She had no argument for that statement. Smiling, she removed her dress. He began to unbutton his shirt and she took over the task for him, pushing him down upon his back as she spread the material wide. His hands tangled in her hair as she ran her lips teasingly over his chest, his stomach. He was prone beneath her ministrations and he thought in that moment there was no other place he’d rather be.

  “Betsy,” he rasped as she unbuttoned his breeches.

  “Yes?” she whispered as her lips came tantalizingly close to his arousal.

  “Ride me.”

  Biting her lower lip in apparent concentration, she lifted her petticoat and straddled him. As she lowered herself onto his arousal she let out a cry of surprised delight. He grasped her hips and began to thrust upward. Grabbing on to his wrists for support, she rode him as he drove up into her. Her hair cascaded down her back as she arched above him, pleasure clear on her beautiful face. The highly erotic sight was nearly his undoing.

  He squeezed his eyes shut as he sought to hold onto his control, determined to let her find her second release before he gave in to his own. When she tightened around him, when she
began to sob his name, he pulled her tightly against him and drove higher still. She cried out her release, causing him to do likewise as he poured himself into her. She collapsed upon his chest, her breath hot against his skin.

  “My God,” he rasped as regained his wits.

  “Mmm,” she murmured in answer, rubbing her cheek against him.

  He stroked her hair as his breathing slowed.

  “That was better than I’d imagined it would be,” he said. When she lifted her head to gaze at him in question. “Do you know for how long I’ve wanted to love you in this manner?”

  Betsy nodded, lowering her lashes.

  “Since our wedding night,” she said with certainty. “I’m afraid I didn’t understand you.”

  He shook his head. “I wished for this after our first ride together at Bridgewater Park.”

  She blinked in surprise. “But how can that be?” she asked. “How could you have wanted me so soon after we met?”

  He traced his fingers lightly over her cheek, tilting her face up to him. “I wanted you from the very moment you lifted this determined little chin at me at the Derby, insisting you knew what was best for Gusty.”

  She laughed sweetly and turned her head, kissing his fingers.

  “I still believe a few cubes of sugar wouldn’t ruin a horse’s performance.”

  He shook his head at her again, and hugged her tightly. Losing himself in his beautiful wife was vastly preferable to worrying over a long-ago fright from his childhood.

  Chapter 19

  Betsy hummed to herself as she donned her heavy woolen cloak, knotting the laces beneath her chin. The weather had grown quite chilly in the past weeks, and the Christmas holiday was now nearly upon them. She left their chamber with determination, bound for the stables. She had need to see her husband directly, and wouldn’t wait for him to enter the great hall of his own accord or when it pleased him to do so. She’d made a certain addition to the hall and wanted him to view it immediately. What would his reaction be? He must be pleased or all her work would have been for naught.