The Viscount and the Vixen

by Lorraine Heath

  “Like your earl who wouldn’t stir his own embers, every aristocratic woman I’ve met comes across as quite helpless. I thought the same behavior would be expected of me.”

  “What else did you lie about?”

  So much. With a low fire crackling on the hearth, her body sated by pleasure and food, her husband speaking with her as though she were his equal, she almost told him everything—but what good would come of it now? The pleasantness between them would shatter, utterly and completely, never to return. Of that she was certain.

  “You should tell your father about the mines,” she said instead, shoving any possible confession into the furthest corners of her mind.

  He flashed a quick grin that reflected both his expectation that she’d avoid his question and turn the tables back on him, and his disappointment that she had. He was beginning to know her far too well, but all the deciphering of her actions wouldn’t uncover her secrets. “He doesn’t need to be worrying over them.”

  “But if, as you claim, he managed them quite well until recently he might have some insights to offer.”

  “He’s not going to know precisely where we’ll find more ore. It’s not as though he has the ability to see through the ground and into the earth.”

  “So you’ll just keep digging and being frustrated when your efforts reap no rewards?”

  “For now. I’m not ready to give up on it. Somewhere there must be more.”

  And until then he’d simply continue to tear into the earth alongside the miners, to put himself at risk. She’d heard of cave-ins. “Is it safe?”

  “We reinforce the walls as we go. There hasn’t been an accident in years.”

  She nodded but took very little solace from his words. While she admired his determination to go into the mines and work beside those who toiled and provided an income for the estate, she also detested that he placed himself in danger. For what? A few bob? She wanted to lessen his burdens, but suspected she’d only added to them. “I could let a footman and maid go. I can let them all go.”

  “We’re not quite destitute yet, Portia. Speaking of the servants, are you finished here?” He waved his hand over the tray.

  “Yes. Shall I ring for someone to take it away?”

  “I’ll see to it.” He rolled off the bed, picked up the tray, and carried it over to the low table by the fire. When he returned he stretched out beside her, resting on an elbow, and trailed the fingers of his free hand along her collarbone. “What I said earlier, when we were in the library, is inexcusable.”

  “You were upset that I uncovered your secret.” Perhaps even a bit embarrassed to be caught working when nobility did not labor. Although she wasn’t going to point that out to him. “Besides, Locksley, I have no illusions regarding your feelings toward me.”

  He slid his hand up her neck, stopping just short of her jaw, his thumb stroking the delicate skin where her pulse thrummed. “I like you, Portia. A great deal more than is wise.”

  “I’ve never much cared for wise men.”

  He flashed her a grin. “I do so love your rejoinders, your tendency to speak your mind. I like having you out of the bed as much as I do having you in it.”

  She wondered if he noticed the jump in her pulse at his words. It would be so much simpler for them both if he wanted only sex. Why did she have to feel so glad that he enjoyed more? He could so easily break her heart. She might even bruise his. Better if their hearts weren’t involved, but God help her, she wanted something deep, lasting, and true with him. She wanted to be worthy of the ring he’d placed on her finger, a gorgeous gold band of emeralds and diamonds that symbolized an undying love. Not that she expected to ever have his love, but whatever he felt for her would surely die if he ever learned the truth.

  Tilting her head down slightly, he brushed his lips lightly over hers, as softly as a butterfly landing on a petal. Tenderness was so much more devastating than the rapid possession he’d exhibited earlier. Gentleness could undo her, could fill her with so many regrets.

  “Portia,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Portia.” His lips touched the corner near her eye. “Portia.” His breath skimmed over her temple.

  “Killian,” she breathed out on a soft sigh as her eyes closed and she began to melt down into the pillows, the mattress.

  His mouth returned to hers, a bit more demanding. She parted her lips, welcomed the slow, sure stroke of his tongue over hers. Threading her fingers through his hair, she pressed—

  The rapid tapping on the door startled her. “M’lord?”

  “Damnation,” Locksley growled. “Gilbert has the worst timing in the world.”

  “At least I’m still decently covered.”

  “I’ll remedy that as soon as I’ve chased him off.” He shoved himself from the bed. When he returned, she’d remove the shirt and trousers he’d donned before Cullie had arrived with their tray of food.

  He swung open the door. “What is it, Gilbert?”

  “His Lordship is in the dining room waiting on you.”

  “My father is in the dining room?”

  “Aye. He won’t let us begin serving him until you and Lady Locksley are there.”

  “Did you tell him we’re dining in our bedchamber this evening?”

  “I couldn’t tell him that, m’lord. It might put images in his head of other things going on in here. A decent sort doesn’t discuss bedchambers.”

  Her husband heaved a great sigh. “I’ll be down in a moment.” He closed the door, pressed his forehead against it.

  “It seems we’re dining again,” Portia offered.

  Turning, he started buttoning his shirt. “No need for you to go down. I’ll keep him company.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll ring for Cullie. It’ll take me a while, but you go ahead and join your father.”

  He dropped into a chair and began tugging on his boots. “I’ve no idea why he decided to dine with us tonight.”

  “Lonely, I suspect. Maybe he wanted your company for more than an hour as I play music.”

  “If anything, it’s your company he craves. I think you remind him of how things were before my mother died.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Full of life.”

  As Locke made his way toward the dining room, he had never been more grateful for an interruption in his life. He’d been on the verge of confessing that he more than liked Portia; he held genuine affection for her. Once those words were spoken there would be no going back on them.

  In the library, he’d voiced all the things he didn’t want as though that would stop her from delivering them. As though it were within her nature not to care, not to give. She returned the blasted allowance, offered to reduce her staff, was concerned with his welfare.

  Of course she was, he chastised himself. Until she provided an heir, she was in danger of losing all this. But the argument ran hollow and untrue. She had shown herself that first day. But not her complete self. She was comprised of myriad facets, complex and intriguing. He could spend a lifetime striving to unravel the mysteries of Portia Gadstone St. John.

  Damn it all to hell if he didn’t want that lifetime with her. He wanted her in his life until his hair turned silver and his sight faded. He wanted her when his body was stiff and bent. He’d married her expecting to want no more from her than the nights. More the fool was he because now he wanted every second of every day.

  He strode into the dining room. His father, sitting at the head of table, leaned over slightly as though he wished to see around Locke.

  “Portia is still readying herself,” he told his father as he drew out the chair at the foot of the table. “Forgive our tardiness. We weren’t expecting you to dine with us.”

  “I decided I wanted conversation as much as listening to music. She’s changing things, Locke. More swiftly than I expected.”

  Locke turned to the butler. “For God’s sake, Gilbert, pour us some wine.”

  “Yes,
m’lord.”

  Once the wine was poured, Locke took hold of the stem of his glass, swirled the burgundy contents. “I can tell her to stop, to leave things be.”

  “Does she do what you tell her?”

  Locke couldn’t stop the smile from spreading over his face. “Not usually, no.”

  “You married her because you thought she’d run roughshod over me.”

  “I deduced she might take advantage, yes. I assumed I’d be better able to keep her in line. Odd thing is, I like that she’s fiercely independent.”

  His father nodded with satisfaction. “I knew you would.”

  “You garnered her nature from her letters?”

  The marquess shrugged. “I believed so, yes. So far, she is very much as I expected, taking the bull by the horns, making this place hers. Do you know when I leave my bedchamber and walk into the hallway, I smell jasmine rather than oranges? Your mother always smelled of oranges. I thought if I allowed nothing to change, my memories of her would remain strong. Odd thing is, since Portia arrived, my memories of your mother are stronger than ever. And speaking of the angel—” His father shoved back his chair and stood.

  Locke glanced back halfway expecting to see his mother standing there. But it was his wife in a pale green gown. He did wish he’d taken more care with the blue. And he wondered if his father would consider her an angel if he knew how Portia enticed Locke into doing the most wicked things with her, if his father knew that she could hold her own in a bedchamber. If she’d married his father, the Marquess of Marsden would have been dead by dawn of his first night with his new wife.

  Truly Locke had saved his father by stepping in.

  “Sorry I’m a bit late,” Portia said as she took the chair Locke held out for her.

  “Nonsense, my dear.” His father sat. “I should have alerted you that I had decided to begin joining you for dinner.”

  Portia’s gaze swung between Locke as he settled into his place and his father. “So this is to become a regular occurrence?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not, although we tend to dine a bit earlier.”

  His father’s brow furrowed. “Have you already eaten then?”

  “Only some cheese and fruit,” Locke assured him. “I’m famished now.” He signaled to Gilbert, who immediately left to no doubt order the footmen about.

  “So tell me, my dear,” his father began, “which room are you tidying now?”

  “I believe it’s a morning room or perhaps a marchioness’s library. It has some bookshelves. The sofas and chairs are covered in yellow fabric with flowers embroidered into it.”

  “Ah, yes, my Linnie liked to read in that room in the afternoons. Looking through the windows, she could see me returning from the mines. Once I walked into that room to discover her stark naked and waiting for me. God, how she laughed at the look on my face. She had a contagious laugh. I couldn’t hear it without laughing back.”

  Locke cleared his throat. “Portia, I believe we need to have all the furniture in the residence reupholstered if not completely replaced.”

  “Don’t be a prude, Locke,” his father said.

  “I think it’s wonderful that you enjoyed each other so much,” Portia said.

  Good God, had neither of them any shame? He’d considered himself to be a libertine, but his exploits were tame compared to his father’s.

  “If I’d known our time together would be so short, I’d have never spent a moment away from her.”

  “You might not have enjoyed your time as much, because you’d have been distracted by the thought of losing her,” Portia said.

  “There is that. I suppose not knowing is a gift.”

  Thank God the servants arrived with the first course. Surely now his father would go on to more appropriate conversation.

  “By the by,” his father said, “Ashe and Edward will be arriving in a fortnight with their families. Might want to tidy up the billiards room.”

  “Do not tell us you took my mother on the billiards table,” Locke stated succinctly.

  His father winked at Portia. “As you wish. I won’t tell you.”

  She had the audacity to laugh. A cold chill skittered through Locke with the realization that if she were no longer here, he would still hear her laughter echoing within the rooms.

  Chapter 17

  As Portia stared at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing table, she was somewhat nervous about the arrival of the marquess’s wards this afternoon. It was one thing to be paraded about the village as the viscount’s wife. It was quite another to socialize with respectable ladies who were well above her not only in station but in reproach when it came to behavior. After all, one was married to a duke, the other to her second earl. While the countess’s second marriage and the early arrival of her son had created quite the scandal, it didn’t change the fact that she had noble blood coursing through her veins.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were dreading today,” Locke said.

  She glanced over to where he’d sat to tug on his boots. Finished with the task, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. So remarkably handsome, so self-assured. He had no plans to go to the mines today. She suspected he wouldn’t frequent them until after their guests left. “I’m simply trying to decide which gown to wear.” Swinging around on the bench, she faced him squarely. “I don’t want to embarrass you or behave in a manner I ought not.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he scrutinized her. “Surely when you answered my father’s advert, you expected to entertain nobility.”

  “To be quite honest, no. I knew him to be a recluse and rather thought that my time would be spent with him and him alone.” She waved a hand. “Oh, I thought you might be here on occasion, but I suspected you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

  “If you never expected to entertain, why the devil are you tidying the rooms?”

  The billiards room had not been high on her list to be set to rights, although in hindsight, she supposed it should have been. It would bring pleasure to her husband. When she’d first walked through it, she’d seen evidence of footprints left by young boys. Over the years, the dust had covered them but it hadn’t filled them in. She could well imagine the excitement that had thrummed through them when they’d discovered the contents of that room on one of their midnight excursions.

  “Because it seemed a shame for a residence as magnificent as this one to be uncared for. Surely you want your children to treasure their heritage. How can they if we leave it all to rot?”

  She’d also cleaned up the nursery. The marquess had sat in the chamber and watched while she and the servants saw to that task. He wore a soft smile as though envisioning his grandchildren sleeping and playing in there. The guilt had taken hold and she’d been unable to shake it off completely. Women were so much more intuitive than men. Perhaps that was what she feared: that the ladies would see right through her, would recognize the reasons behind her desperation, would figure her out.

  As for the rooms for their guests, she’d discovered that Ashebury and Greyling both had bedchambers down the hall. They’d merely needed to be tidied.

  She didn’t like that her husband held his tongue and continued to study her as though he was beginning to realize the truth about her.

  “I’m a commoner, Locksley,” she felt compelled to remind him.

  “So is Minerva.”

  The Duke of Ashebury’s wife. “Her mother is nobility, so she has some blue blood in her veins. Regardless, she grew up among the aristocracy. Her father is wealthy enough that a king would have asked for her hand.”

  “Read that in the gossip sheets, did you?”

  Gossip shared by a couple of women she knew, silly women like her who had thought they were headed for better things only to find themselves in a far worse predicament. “I’m afraid I might set a foot wrong and they’ll think you a fool for taking me as your wife.”

  After unfolding
that tall, lean body of his that only an hour earlier had her screaming his name, he walked over to her, crouched, and brushed stray strands of her hair back from her face. “You may have been born a commoner, Portia, but you are now a lady. As such, you will be afforded respect and nothing you do will be questioned—least of all by those who are arriving today. The Marquess of Marsden is the closest thing to a father that Ashe and Edward have had for nearly a quarter of a century now. From the moment they arrived, they became my brothers. Think of them as family. As for their wives, they’re extraordinary women. I assure you that they’ll not sit in judgment. But if they do, they’ll find you remarkable.”

  Her lips parting slightly, she stared at him, surprised by his compliment, so rarely did he offer her praise. As though embarrassed, he shot to his feet and headed for the door. “Wear the lavender gown.”

  With that, he was gone.

  Things between them were changing—slowly, irrevocably. He was coming to truly care for her. She was rather certain of it. She wouldn’t feel guilty about it, would not wish that she wasn’t coming to care for him as well. Instead she would merely pray that he never learned the truth.

  Having spotted the coaches from an upstairs window, Locke had escorted Portia outside so they could welcome their guests. He wasn’t surprised that the four coaches arrived at the same time, two bearing the Ashebury crest and the others bearing the Greyling crest. He’d assumed that his friends would meet up so they could arrive together in order to receive the same first impression of his wife.

  He didn’t know why Portia’s nervousness called to his protective nature. Perhaps because since she’d come to Havisham Hall she’d been so fiercely independent, stood toe to toe with him, that he’d assumed she never doubted, never wavered, never had second thoughts. He didn’t like her appearing vulnerable, susceptible to hurt. Had he opened his door to see the worry in her eyes and the number of times she licked her lips while waiting for the coaches to draw to a halt, he might have taken more pity on her that first day. He still wouldn’t have allowed her to marry his father, but things between them might have started out on a different foot.