The Viscount and the Vixen

by Lorraine Heath

  His father took the chair opposite hers. Locke dropped onto the sofa, sitting on the far end so as to procure the best angle for observing her. She was young, couldn’t be much older than twenty-five. Her clothing was well made, in excellent condition. No fraying, no tatters.

  She lifted her arms, reaching for her hatpin, and her pert breasts lifted as well. They were the perfect size to fill the palms of his hands. Those very same hands could span her waist, close around it, draw her up against him. Why the devil was he noticing things that had no bearing on his strategy?

  She swept the hat from her head, and his breath caught. Her hair was a fiery red that rivaled the flames in a hearth for brilliance. The strands appeared heavy, abundant, and in danger of tumbling down at any moment. He wondered exactly how many pins he’d have to remove to make it do just that. Not many, he’d wager. Two, three at the most.

  Shifting to ease the discomfort of his body reacting as though he hadn’t been near a woman since he’d left the classroom, he draped his arm along the back of the sofa, striving for a nonchalance he wasn’t feeling. He didn’t care about her hair, her eyes, or her figure. Or those plump, full lips the shade of rubies. He cared about her motives. Why would a woman as young and enticing as she was be willing to marry a man as old and decrepit as his father? She had to have young bucks fawning over her. She drew attention. So what did she hope to gain here that she couldn’t gain elsewhere?

  “Now, my dear—” his father began, leaning forward.

  “Here we are, m’lord!” Mrs. Barnaby sang out as she bustled in, carrying a tea service. Her hair, more white than black, was pulled back in her usual tight bun, her black dress pressed to perfection. “Tea and cakes, just as you requested.” After setting the tray on the small table that rested between the two chairs, she straightened, cocked her head to the side as she studied their guest, her brow furrowing. “She is rather young, m’lord.”

  “An old woman isn’t going to give me an heir now is she, Mrs. Barnaby?”

  “I suppose there is that.” She gave a little curtsy, her arthritic knees creaking as she did so. “Welcome to Havisham, Mrs. Gadstone. Shall I pour the tea?”

  “No, I’ll see to it, thank you.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Barnaby’s shoulders slumped. She was obviously crestfallen to be dismissed before hearing anything of note she could share below stairs.

  “That’ll be all, Mrs. Barnaby,” his father said gently.

  Heaving a huge sigh, she turned to go. Locke held out his hand. “I’ll have the keys, Mrs. Barnaby.”

  She slapped her hand over the large ring dangling from her ample waist as though he’d asked for the Crown Jewels and she was determined to guard them with her life. “They’re my responsibility.”

  “I may have a need for them. I’ll return them to you later.” His need depended on how this conversation went.

  With a mulish expression, she reluctantly handed them over before marching from the room with righteous indignation shimmering off her in waves. He didn’t know why she clung to them so tenaciously when they were more ornament than use. He supposed because they heralded her vaunted position in the household, one she’d acquired because she’d stuck around when many of the parlor maids had gone in search of greener pastures. Or ones less haunted.

  Returning his attention to Mrs. Gadstone, he watched in fascination as she slowly peeled off a black kidskin glove as though she reveled in exposing something forbidden. Quarter inch by frustrating quarter inch. Yet he seemed unable to look away as her smooth unblemished hand was revealed. No scars. No calluses. No freckles. She took the same care with uncovering the other, and he fought against envisioning those small, perfect, silken-looking hands gliding leisurely over his bare chest. With care, she set the gloves primly in her lap as though completely unaware of the effect her slow unveiling could have on a man. Although he would wager half his future fortune that she knew precisely what she was about.

  “Lord Marsden, how do you prefer your tea?”

  Her raspy voice shimmied down his spine, settled in his groin, damn it all. She sounded like a recently sated woman.

  “An abundance of sugar, if you please.”

  Locke watched as she poured, added several cubes, stirred, and offered the teacup and saucer along with a tender smile to the marquess, who smiled back as though grateful for the offering when in fact he detested tea.

  “And how do you prefer your tea, Lord Locksley?”

  “Surely as my mother, you should call me Locke.”

  Her gaze came to bear on his, her eyes as sharp as a finely honed rapier. God, she was willing to slice him to ribbons. He’d like to see her try. “I am not yet your mother, Lord Locksley, am I? Have I done something to offend you?”

  Leaning forward, he dug his elbows into his thighs. “I’m simply striving to determine why a woman as young and lovely as yourself would be willing to lie on her back so a man as shriveled as my father can slide on top of her.”

  “Locke!” his father bellowed. “You’ve gone too far. Get the hell out.”

  “It’s quite all right, my lord,” she said calmly, never taking her challenging gaze from Locke’s, not flinching, not blushing, not so much as arching a thinly shaped eyebrow at him. “I don’t see that your father’s preferred position for coupling is really any of your concern. Perhaps he will take me standing while coming in at me from behind. Or on my knees. Or upside down. But I assure you, he will not be shriveled.” Then she slowly lowered those damned whiskey eyes to his lap, and he cursed his cock’s betrayal. With startling detail, images of him with her in all those positions had flown through his mind. He’d grown so hard and aching that he couldn’t have gotten up and walked out if he wanted.

  And she bloody well knew it.

  “Tea. My lord.”

  “No.” The word came out strangled. It seemed every facet of his body was intent on betraying him.

  Her luscious lips turned up into a smug, triumphant smile. She turned to his father. “May I interest you in a tea cake, Lord Marsden?”

  Despite the innocence of her words, all he wanted to do was drag her up against him, claim her mouth as his own, and see if it tasted as tart as it sounded.

  Chapter 2

  “Bravo!” Marsden exclaimed, clapping, his green eyes lively. “I daresay, Mrs. Gadstone, you certainly set my son in his place. Well done!”

  “Please, you must call me Portia.”

  While standing up to Locksley had gained her some favor with Marsden, it still took everything within Portia to keep her hand from shaking as she handed the marquess a cake. Tremors were cascading through her like a never-ending waterfall. It wasn’t just righteous indignation that was causing her to tremble. It was a strange and unwanted attraction to Viscount Locksley that was igniting every damned nerve ending she possessed.

  Although she had never met him, she’d heard enough stories about him, listened as women waxed on about his good looks, that she’d known who he was the moment he opened the door. She’d been unprepared for the magnetism that his incredible emerald eyes had sparked within her or the desire that had hit her with such force that she’d nearly spun on her heel and gone racing after the coach. His hair, black as midnight, longer than was fashionable, served to make the brilliant hue of his eyes stand out all the more. She’d never in her life had such an immediate visceral reaction to any man. That she found him so incredibly alluring was distracting beyond measure, entirely unacceptable, and remarkably dangerous.

  In spite of the rude and off-putting manner in which he was doing it, she knew he was striving to protect his father and couldn’t help but respect and admire him for it. Unfortunately for him she had someone to protect as well and she was going to do it at any cost, with any means available to her. Her mind, her body, her soul. She would use them all, in any manner required—no matter how unpleasant or unsavory—to accomplish her goal.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he reached a large hand inside his jack
et and withdrew something from a breast pocket. A newspaper clipping that he began to unfold. Based on its size, she knew exactly how it would read. It seemed he was preparing to fire the next volley in this silently declared clash of wills. She shored up her defenses.

  “Do you find the countryside to your liking, Mrs. Gadstone?” the marquess asked kindly. She would have liked to have known him when he was younger. She suspected he’d been quite the charmer.

  “Strong,” Locksley declared before she could answer.

  Unlike his son, who was sadly lacking in charm. Although one wouldn’t know it based upon all the tittering about him the females of London did. He’d swept half of them off their feet and into his bed if stories were to be believed.

  Marsden sighed with obvious annoyance. “I shared my advert so you would know the qualifications I sought, not so you could use it against Mrs. Gadstone. She and I have already corresponded several times. I know she meets all the requirements I seek in a woman to provide me with an heir.”

  “Surely then there can be no objection to my reassuring myself.” His narrowed gaze landed on her like a weighty thing that could crush a weaker woman. “Strong,” he repeated. “You must forgive my impudence, Mrs. Gadstone, but you don’t look as though you have the strength to shove that chair from one side of the room to the other.”

  “I do, however, have the strength to call in a footman to do it for me.”

  “How many households have you visited where the head housekeeper serves the tea?” He held up the keys he’d procured earlier and gave them a little shake, their tinkling echoing between them. “Our indoor staff includes only the butler, the cook, and the housekeeper.”

  “Surely you have the means to provide for more staff.”

  “We do, but my father is more comfortable with the staff we have.”

  She smiled tenderly at Marsden. “Then I shall be so as well.”

  “Hire as many as you like.”

  Locksley’s jaw clenched, and she fought to keep her expression neutral. It seemed he wasn’t only engaged in a battle of wills with her. There was a sharpness to Marsden that belied the rumors claiming he was mad. Already his protectiveness of her reassured her that she’d made the correct decision in answering his advertisement.

  “Healthy,” Locksley barked.

  This time, she didn’t hold back the smugness. “I have never been ill a day in my life.”

  “Even as a child?”

  “Even as a child. I was never colicky. Never fevered. I still have all my teeth, so they’re healthy as well. Would you care to count them?” Regretting that last offer when his eyes darkened as though he’d count them by running his tongue over them, she waited with bated breath for his retort, grateful when he merely clucked his tongue and gave his head a small shake.

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  She was actually surprised that he would take her word for anything. As he studied her, she waited, dreading the last one, hoping he might spare her—

  “Fertile?”

  Bastard. Here was the tricky part.

  “There was a son. A dear sweet thing. He died before his first year.”

  Locksley flinched, his eyes filling with regret as though he wished he hadn’t asked as much as she did. “I’m sorry for your loss. It was not my intent to cause you pain.”

  At least he possessed some compassion, even if he was putting her through her paces. She should stop here but she’d come too far to leave any doubt as to her suitability. While she was marrying the marquess, it was evident that his son would play a large part in their lives, and he was the heir apparent. She would be providing the spare. It was imperative that she and Locksley not constantly be at odds.

  “The boy was healthy and strong. He died through no fault of his own. The woman who was supposed to see to his care . . . was negligent.” She turned to Marsden. “I will hire neither a nanny nor a governess to oversee your son’s care. I will tend to him myself. He shall grow to maturity, good and noble, deserving of your family name.”

  “I never doubted it, my dear.” He raised an eyebrow at his son. “Finished with your inquest? We have only an hour before the vicar arrives.”

  She wondered how he knew that without looking at his watch. The clock on the mantel was obviously broken. It had shown the time as forty-three minutes past eleven when she walked in, continued to reflect the same hour and minutes even though she felt as though an eternity of interminable seconds had ticked by.

  “I’d like a few moments alone with Mrs. Gadstone to ensure she understands exactly what it is to which she is agreeing.”

  “As I mentioned, she and I have already corresponded. I’ve told her everything.”

  “I’m sure you have. But sometimes a different perspective can cause enlightenment.”

  “I don’t want you chasing her off.”

  His gaze slid over to her. “She doesn’t strike me as someone who is easily chased off.”

  Was that respect she heard in his voice? Or a challenge?

  Picking up the ring of keys, he unfolded his long, lean body. “Allow me to show you what will become your new home, Mrs. Gadstone. I swear to you that I shall behave as a proper gentleman.”

  She didn’t want time alone with him, and it wasn’t because she feared he’d misbehave. She was relatively certain he wouldn’t. Her concern was that he was too handsome by half, too tempting, too masculine. She knew from the gossips that he did not live a life of complete leisure, but was prone to traveling in barbaric, challenging parts of the world. He was broad of shoulder and muscled, but not overly so. There was a sleekness to his form. She could envision him slicing through water, galloping over the moors, hefting an ax to chop wood with equal measure.

  She should decline, assure him it wasn’t necessary. Her mind was made up. As though deducing the path of her thoughts, he angled his chin down slightly, his gaze penetrating. A challenge. Drat him!

  Slowly she tugged on her gloves. If he offered his arm, she was going to want the extra layer of material separating her skin from his. Rising to her feet, she took a deep fortifying breath. “I would be delighted to have you give me a tour of the place.”

  “You don’t have to go with him,” Marsden said.

  “Not to worry. I’m sure he’ll behave. And I do want your son and I to become fast friends.” She looked at the son from whom she knew she was best served keeping her distance. “Shall we be off?”

  He walked over and extended his arm. Swallowing hard, she placed her hand on his forearm. She’d been wrong. The kidskin offered no protection whatsoever from the heat of his flesh, firmness of his muscles, and raw masculinity that radiated through him. If she didn’t think he would dub her spineless, she’d step back and tell him that she’d changed her mind. But the one thing she could claim with certainty was that she’d never been a coward.

  She could hold her own against him, keep a distance between them.

  The problem was, she wasn’t certain she wanted to.

  When she placed her hand on his arm, his body reacted as though she’d placed her entire naked form against his. What the devil was the matter with him to have such a strong reaction to her nearness? Blast it all, he would be going to the village this very night. He could not stay in this residence, envisioning her in his father’s bed—

  He clenched his back teeth together until his jaw ached. He was not traveling that path in his mind.

  Leading her into the hallway, he cursed each breath that filled his nostrils, his lungs, with her jasmine fragrance. No common rose scent for her. Nothing about her was common. But still he couldn’t fathom why she would marry an old man when she could have a young swain.

  “I wish to apologize for my insensitivity in questioning your fertility. I didn’t mean to bring forth such devastating memories.” The pain glazing over her eyes as she talked about her son had hit him like a punch to the gut. If he could have gone back and cut out his tongue before he began his asinine inquisition
he would have.

  “The boy is never far from my thoughts, Lord Locksley. His death haunts me and guides my actions. Which you see is to your benefit as it makes me empathetic to your cause. I know you are striving to protect your father from someone who would take advantage of him. I assure you that I wish him no harm.”

  “Still, Mrs. Gadstone, I am flummoxed as to why you would not seek out love but would be willing to marry a man who is at least thirty-five years your senior.”

  “I’ve known love, my lord. It provided little security. Now I am in want of security.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “We were together for two years.”

  “How did he die?”

  She sighed. “Illness. He took a fever.”

  “Again, my condolences. How long ago?”

  “Six months.” She peered up at him, a slight lifting to her lips. “You should ask your father to let you read our correspondence. All your questions would be answered.”

  He doubted that. He suspected a lifetime would not be long enough to get the answers to the myriad questions he had about her.

  “Are all the clocks in the residence broken?” she asked as they passed a tall one standing in the hallway.

  He began escorting her up a set of stairs. “As far as I know none of them are. They were all simply stopped at the hour of my birth and the moment of my mother’s passing.” Half an hour was all the time she’d been given to hold him, all the time he’d been given to know her love.

  “How did your mother die?”

  “I killed her.” At the top of the stairs, he turned and faced her, surprised to see horror etched over her finely formed features. Apparently his father’s correspondence to her didn’t answer all questions. “During childbirth. Why do you think he named me Killian?”

  Her eyes widened slightly. “I’m sure it’s only coincidence. He wouldn’t be that deliberately cruel to a child, to label him a killer.”

  “I’m not certain cruelty was his intent. He merely wanted to ensure that neither of us would ever forget. I believe it’s important that you understand what life here at Havisham Hall entails. Let’s begin here, shall we?” Sorting through the keys on the ring, he found the one he required, slipped it into the lock, turned it, and swung open the door. He swept the cobwebs away before extending his arm toward the massive room, with its mirrored walls that stood two floors tall. “The grand salon. They hosted a magnificent ball here the Christmas before my mother died.”