The Viscount's Vixen

by JoMarie DeGioia

  Betsy looked up at last, her eyes finding his in the mirror. She smiled and set her brush down on the vanity’s surface and turned to face him.

  “Michael,” she said in soft greeting.

  His lips thinned as he noted not a trace of a shiver from a draft nor one goose bump marring her silken skin.

  “Templeton paid a call on your parents,” he said, walking toward her.

  Betsy nodded. “Maggie told me.” She came to her feet. “I find that strange.”

  “Do you?” he could not help asking. “You were unaware of his visit prior to this evening?”

  “How on earth would I be aware of the man’s comings and goings?” she countered, her bewilderment slowly turning to pique. “What, precisely, are you intimating?”

  Did she know of his visit? he wanted to ask. Did she write him about the deplorable conditions in which her husband keeps her?

  “Nothing.” He slowly took in a breath. “I’m tired.”

  She stepped closer. “Michael, what’s troubling you?”

  “Never mind,” he said, forcing a smile. “Come to bed, wife.”

  She came into his arms and he finally began to relax.

  “Forgive my odd ramblings, pray. As I said, I’m tired.”

  “I do hope you are not too tired, husband,” she softly teased. “I’m reminded of a promise you made to me on our journey here.”

  At her words he felt any lingering tension leave his body, replaced instantly with desire.

  “Ah yes,” he said softly, brushing his fingers through her silken waves. “But there are no feminine frills in this room, wife. No tiny flowers.”

  “No.” She lifted her head to smile prettily up at him.

  “I suppose we must make do with that ridiculous golden bed.”

  She giggled then, placing a hand in the center of his chest. “I suppose.”

  He quickly divested her of her nightgown and wrapper, kissing her skin until her laughter grew into gasps of pleasure until they both fell into satisfied slumber.

  In his dreams Michael was once again that scared little boy, alone in the hallway of Balsam Manor. He stiffened as a hand grasped his shoulder.

  “Why are you here, young master?” a familiar voice asked him.

  He blinked up into the butler’s face.

  “Coombs,” he whispered both in his mind and aloud, though he was unaware of it. “The man hurt Papa, Coombs.”

  “Hush now,” Coombs said, lifting Michael to his feet. “You should be abed.”

  The boy rubbed his eyes as he shook his head firmly. He tried to pull away from the butler, digging in his heels.

  “Where’s Papa? Is he all right?”

  “His lordship is in his chamber, young master. Fast asleep as you should be.”

  Michael stood firm, his small feet refusing to take a step from his hiding place.

  “Who was that bad man, Coombs?”

  “Never mind,” Coombs said. “Now let’s go to the nursery. Nanny will be put out to find you absent.”

  He nodded and followed the butler to the nursery.

  Michael awoke with a start, the dream still clinging to him. He found Betsy staring at him, worry furrowing her brow.

  “Michael,” she asked softly. “What’s wrong?”

  He blinked, a bit befuddled.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” He looked about and saw the sheets in a tangled around his lower body. “Let’s go back to sleep.”

  Betsy nodded after a long moment, finally laying her head against his bare chest. His heart had ceased its pounding, and he closed his eyes and sought to join his wife in slumber.

  ***

  The next morning Betsy woke before Michael.

  “Michael,” she whispered.

  He said nothing, just flashed her a wicked grin as he placed his hand full on her breast. The thin sheet was the only barrier between his palm and her flesh. She gasped at the contact, her nipple puckering.

  “Good morning, wife,” he said, kissing her brow.

  He began to squeeze her breast gently, teasingly. She smiled sleepily and stretched beneath him.

  “Michael,” she said, placing her hands behind his neck. “What was the matter last night?”

  Michael stiffened, his eyes flying to hers.

  “Your dream, Michael,” she continued, running the fingers of one hand through his tousled waves. “Was it about the tapestry?”

  He pulled back. “What?”

  Betsy blinked at the wariness in his dark eyes. She sat up, holding the sheet to her bosom.

  “You seemed far away,” she said. “Not quite yourself.”

  “I don’t know about any dream.”

  “Whenever I mentioned my work on the tapestry you seemed to retreat,” she began. “To go somewhere far from me. You seemed to be in that place when you awoke last night.”

  Michael shook his head. He was certain he’d hidden his reaction from her, damn it to hell. He turned from her and donned his dressing gown, his eyes fastened on the golden roses which adorned the fine ivory carpet beneath his bare feet.

  “You’re speaking nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?” she repeated, taken aback. “You deny it?”

  “There is nothing to deny.”

  She snorted at that and retrieved her wrapper from where he’d dropped it the night before. She belted it tightly about her waist and turned to him once more. She hadn’t pressed him about his strangeness regarding the tapestry bearing his crest, since now that it was restored that seemed to be a thing of the past. She must have been mistaken.

  She squared her shoulders and forged on ahead. Her hands placed firmly on her hips, she raised her chin to look him in the eye. “You can’t possibly deny it, Michael.”

  “I won’t discuss this with you,” he said coldly.

  Oh, he wouldn’t? Well, she wouldn’t let him pull away again. She hurried around the bed and came to stand in front of him.

  “Why not?” she asked pointedly. “I’m your wife. The woman who lives with you. Who sleeps beside you. I’m the one who heard you muttering incoherently in your sleep as you all but flung yourself out of the bed.”

  He stared at her blankly. “I spoke?”

  “You did,” she said. “I couldn’t make out the words, really. But you did say something I couldn’t misunderstand.”

  He almost looked frightened. “What was that?”

  “You spoke of Coombs.” To her surprise he paled. “Does Coombs have something to do with the tapestry, Michael?” she asked in a softer tone of voice.

  He shook his head, apparently unable to meet her gaze.

  “I don’t know.”

  He shook his head once more. Betsy didn’t press him, giving voice instead to another notion.

  “Perhaps this has something to do with the mystery,” she said.

  “What mystery?” His voice was sharp now.

  She saw that he too recalled their long-ago confrontation in the stables, when she had broached the subject of his missing fortune. His reaction then had been almost hateful. Still, she continued.

  “Perhaps the tapestry is somehow related to your missing fortune,” she said. “Perhaps if we speak to Coombs we can get to the truth of the matter.”

  “Enough!” Michael suddenly shouted. “You would speak of my fortune, or lack of one, to a servant?”

  “Michael,” she began, her hands spread in front of her. “I think we should find out precisely what happened. You’ve told me yourself that Coombs has worked at the manor for a very long time. When we return to Cornwall, we should speak to him.”

  “You would do best to keep yourself out of my business, as I have told you before,” he said in a low voice.

  “But perhaps if we were to get to the bottom of matters, this could be resolved.”

  A sneer curled his lips and her belly twisted.

  “Did Templeton’s visit put you in mind of your husband’s failings, Betsy?”

  Her mouth dropped open in shock. �
�How dare you speak to me so?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  “I’m certain you found his concern for your well-being quite touching. Surely you wouldn’t suffer so under his care?”

  Betsy breathed in sharply. “I won’t speak to you when you’re being so unreasonable,” she said through clenched teeth.

  She turned swiftly on her heel, coming to an abrupt halt when he grabbed her arm tightly. She faced him, glaring up at him.

  “I’m speaking to you, wife,” he ground out.

  “Take your hand from me,” she returned, tugging on her arm in a futile attempt to free herself.

  “You’re mine, Betsy,” he said, tightening his grip. “You would do well to remember that when you think of another man.”

  His outrageous statement brought her anger to its fullest. With a firm tug she freed her arm and slapped him hard across his face. She dimly realized she would have found the surprise evident on his face comical were she in a different frame of mind.

  “I was merely thinking of you, you bloody fool.” She turned her back on him again and took quick strides into the dressing room. “Happy Christmas, Michael,” she said over her shoulder.

  Chapter 21

  The remainder of their visit at Bridgewater Park passed with much discomfort for Betsy. She couldn’t bear to be in her husband’s company for more than a few minutes at a time. His unreasonable response to her concerns caused extreme irritation whenever she gave it thought. How dare he speak to her so?

  She went through the mere motions of enjoying the holiday with her family. Today she sipped at the tea in her cup, not listening to the conversation her mother and Maggie were having as they sat on the settee across from her. Why, didn’t he realize she had only his interests at heart?

  She didn’t care one whit about his fortune but for the injustice of his being deprived of what was his by birth. There was also his strange reaction to the tapestry. She’d never seen her strong, capable husband so vulnerable, and it scared her witless.

  But she said nothing of this, priding herself on her success at presenting the façade of a happily married woman sharing the holiday with her family. She nodded and smiled at her husband’s comments as she saw fit, and treated him with politeness whenever any of the others were near.

  More than once Maggie raised a brow in her direction, questions in her eyes and obviously on the tip of her tongue, but Betsy managed to smile despite the tension knotting her stomach. However would she bear the shame of it should her family learn of her marital strife?

  Tension escalated each evening as the hour grew later. She dreaded sharing the beautiful golden bed with her husband, knowing his big strong body would be pressed against hers despite the distance she sought to keep between them. After shrugging off his tentative touch Christmas night, she’d maintained her emotional distance as best she could manage. After mumbling a few choice curses, Michael had left her to her thoughts, giving her his broad back. The next few nights he didn’t even attempt to touch her.

  When at last they took their leave of Bridgewater Park, she couldn’t help but compare their return trip to their ride into Somersetshire just one week past. Michael leaned back against the cushioned seat and slapped his gloves against his thigh as he regarded her through hooded eyes. She sat across from him in the carriage, her back ramrod straight. She was all but pressed against the wall, as far away as she could manage in such close quarters. There were no pleasant words, no sweet kisses, as the carriage rolled over the slight bumps in the road. And no questions from her regarding the carriage’s rocking on this day. That was certain.

  An exasperated sigh escaped his lips. At the sound, Betsy reluctantly turned her gaze from the window.

  “Do you wish to say something, Michael?”

  He slanted her a look that spoke of his simmering anger.

  “Speaking to me now, are you?” he said in a clipped tone. “With none of your family present? That is surely a marvel.”

  She shrugged and turned her face away from him. He muttered a curse and threw his gloves on the seat.

  “This must end, Betsy,” he said at last.

  She said nothing, merely gazed outside the window with as much absorption as if the royal caravan was passing alongside of them.

  “When we return matters will be quite different, my lady.”

  “Think that if you will,” she returned.

  The carriage rolled on, its occupants sharing a very uncomfortable silence.

  They stopped at an inn at Devonshire for luncheon, and she couldn’t ignore that the large-breasted serving girl seemed very familiar with him.

  The truth struck her in an instant. He’d taken his pleasure with this girl. This meal, which was hearty but unremarkable as far as she was concerned, passed in the now-familiar quiet manner. As they boarded the carriage and settled for the remainder of their ride home, she had to break her silence at last.

  “I didn’t want to think it,” she said softly. “I sensed something, but I did not want to imagine it was so.”

  “Betsy, please.”

  She impatiently waved away his words.

  “You dallied with that… Oh, I can’t think of a fitting word at this moment.”

  “That was a long time ago,” he stated. “Before I ever laid eyes on you.”

  She studied him for a long moment, and perceived nothing but sincerity in his manner. She nodded and faced the window again.

  She hadn’t missed the easy smiles exchanged between them, however. It was quite simple for her to imagine them together. Michael was a lusty man. Surely he’d shared with that serving maid what he had with her. True, Michael had been decidedly unattached when last he had been with Molly, or so he’d assured her. But after his concealment of late, after his refusal to open his mind to her concerns about the mystery, she couldn’t help but harbor the smallest doubt in her breast.

  They did not speak of Molly, or of anything else, for the remainder of their journey into Cornwall. When the carriage at last rolled to a stop in front of Balsam Manor, Betsy alighted the carriage without her husband’s assistance and hurried up the wide stone steps to the heavy wooden door. The door was soon opened before her and she breezed into the entryway, her husband in her wake.

  “My lady,” Coombs said in greeting, bowing low.

  Betsy smiled brightly at the servant, allowing him to assist her with her cloak. She brushed her hair back from her cheeks and turned as her husband joined them. Michael took long strides into the entryway, nodding in greeting to the butler. Coombs’s eyes went from one to the other.

  “My lord,” the man said with a trace of uncertainty.

  Betsy ignored her husband’s demeanor and faced the butler.

  “I’m very happy to see you, Coombs,” she said. “There’s a matter we must discuss directly.”

  “Her ladyship is mistaken,” Michael ground out, sweeping his great coat from his shoulders.

  Betsy waved her hand. “Oh, I’m not mistaken, husband.”

  “Betsy.”

  “Now, Coombs,” she went on. “Our visit to Bridgewater Park put me in mind of some wonderful recipes. You and I must put our heads together and bring some of the delectable treats to our cook’s attention here. I know Mrs. Rollins isn’t very open to change.”

  Coombs looked nervously at his master and swiftly returned his attention to the mistress of the manor.

  “True, the housekeeper might need some convincing,” Coombs said with a smile. “It will be my pleasure, my lady.”

  Michael grunted and grasped Betsy’s arm. “A word, wife,” he said, leading her away from the butler’s speculative gaze.

  Betsy had to hurry to keep up with Michael’s long, purposeful strides. He directed her into the great hall, and didn’t stop until they stood beneath the tapestry. Abruptly, he released her. She clicked her tongue at him as she rubbed her arm. He ignored her show of discomfort and pique.

  “I would have believed it beneath you to play such games,” he s
aid, his eye dark.

  “I was truthful in my exchange with Coombs.”

  “You won’t speak of your mystery,” he said. “Nor will you approach Coombs with your ridiculous notions. You will yield to me on this matter.”

  Betsy looked up at him. Yield to him? Not likely. She nodded in acquiescence, keeping her thoughts to herself. Michael apparently took her silence as acceptance and nodded curtly. He turned to mount the staircase.

  “Let’s ready for dinner, then,” he said.

  Betsy followed him up the stairs, her mind working. She fully intended to see his birthright restored. But how?

  Surely Coombs would have some useful information to impart. She turned her attentions from Michael’s absurd command to the coming evening. She also chose not to ponder at the present time the prospect of another long night spent like strangers forced to share sleeping accommodations.

  ***

  Well, dinner was delightful. Michael drank down his second glass of brandy. He’d closeted himself in his study directly after the meal was concluded, unable to bear his wife’s coldness any longer. Her beautiful eyes remained focused on the succulent roast beef on her plate, instead of gazing lovingly into his. Her delicate fingers stroked the stem of her wine glass instead of reaching out to touch his hand as she happily conversed with him. My God, had it only been one week since their argument? He drained the glass and set it down on his desk. He dragged himself from the study, bound for the master’s chambers.

  As he mounted the stairs, he imagined his wife tucked cozily into their huge bed, her glorious hair fanned out around her face. No doubt she was all but clutching her side of the bed, seeking to maintain as much distance from him despite the large expanse of bed that would already separate them. And so began another night of misery, her body so tantalizingly close yet her heart so far from his.