Ashe leaned over. “She’s delightful, deserving of better than a man who claims to have no heart.”
“Her performance is deserving of silence,” Locke shot back quietly.
Ashe had the audacity to merely chuckle.
The marquess had joined them for dinner, and now he sat with his eyes closed, his face relaxed. Locke imagined he was traveling back to a time when another woman played the piano for him. He’d spent a good deal of his life not asking questions about his mother, not wanting to bring forth memories that might upset his father. Only now was he beginning to realize that by curtailing his inquisitiveness, he may have been allowing his father to remain lost in his grief. Although to be honest, neither had he wanted to know what his mother’s death had denied him: a ruffling of his hair at bedtime, a soft smile when his lessons were completed satisfactorily, a gentle laugh when he presented her with a handful of plucked wildflowers. His life would have been different had his mother not died. He’d never truly wanted to acknowledge that fact. He’d opted for pragmatism and accepted life as it was.
Portia made him long for more. She made him want to embrace life with unyielding passion. For all her claims to be a commoner, there was nothing common about her.
The final chords she’d struck lingered, like memories reluctant to fade away. Everyone clapped. She ducked her head, blushed. It always amazed him that a woman as bold as she would blush. It made her all the more endearing, which wasn’t what he particularly wanted—and yet Ashe was correct. She deserved a man willing to open his heart to her.
“Would anyone else care to play?” she asked.
“I never mastered the piano,” Minerva said.
“Which is odd, considering how nimble your fingers are when it comes to cheating at cards,” Ashe responded with far too much pride reflected in his voice.
“You cheat at cards?” Portia repeated.
“On occasion, if I need to win. It depends on the stakes. I can teach you if you like.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Locke said, although he couldn’t recall a single time when his wife had followed his edicts. If she wanted to learn to cheat, she’d find a way—just as she’d tidied rooms he’d forbidden to be tidied, showed him the possibilities so he couldn’t object. She was clever that way. Never asking for permission but risking his wrath and managing to avoid it when all was said and done.
“To be quite honest, I’m rather exhausted,” Julia said. “It’s been a long day, with the traveling and all. I believe I’m going to have to turn in.”
“We both shall, shall we?” Edward asked, coming to his feet and assisting his wife.
Locke didn’t know if he’d ever grow accustomed to Edward being so solicitous to her. For years, Edward had claimed to abhor the woman and she despised him. How odd it was now to see them so deeply in love.
His father shoved himself up out of the chair, walked to the window, and gazed out. “Linnie appreciated seeing you all here tonight.”
Locke exchanged glances with Ashe and Edward. In spite of all the changes that Portia had heralded, some things remained untouched.
“It is rather late,” Locke admitted. “We should no doubt all retire.”
His father turned. “When the time comes you’re to bury me beside her.”
As though Locke would ever consider anything else. “Yes, well, the time isn’t going to come for a good long while yet.”
“I suppose you’re right. Still much to be done, although you’re the one who needs to be doing it. An heir, Locke, you need an heir.”
“Working on it, Father.” Every night. Not that he found the task daunting or unpleasant. Characterizing it as work was inaccurate.
“Then we should all get to bed and let you get back to it,” his father said.
Locke couldn’t stifle his groan. Honestly, the man didn’t think before he spoke. He’d have a time of it if he ever decided to return to London and polite society. His father began ushering them out as though they were children again. Perhaps in his mind they were. It was difficult to tell sometimes when his father slipped into the past.
In the hallway of bedchambers, Locke bade their guests good night while Portia offered them sweet dreams. Only after they closed their doors, leaving Locke, Portia, and his father in the corridor, did he turn to the marquess. “Sometimes you say the most inappropriate things.”
“I’m old enough not to care. Time is short. I must be direct.” He winked at Portia. “You were a marvelous hostess, my dear. I knew you would be.”
“It’s easy when our company is so pleasant.”
“You look tired.”
“It’s been a long day.”
His father studied her as though searching for something before finally nodding. “I suppose it has. I’ll see you both in the morning.” He wandered into his room. Locke turned the key in the door.
“I do wish you didn’t have to do that,” she said.
He wished it as well. “A lot of memories stirred up today. He’ll be wandering the moors if I don’t.”
“He seemed so content tonight.”
Locke almost turned the key the other way. “Because he believes my mother was gazing in through the window. Don’t make me feel guilty about my desire to keep him safe.”
“You’re right, of course. I’m sorry.”
He offered his arm, led her into their bedchamber, fighting to ignore the stirrings he heard in the chambers they passed. It seemed his friends were a randy lot. Not that he blamed them. Something about the isolation out here called to one’s baser instincts. In London, during any of his travels, he’d never been as desperate to possess a woman as he was to have Portia. If he wasn’t striving to maintain a bit of decorum and distance, he’d have taken her hand and dashed to their room.
Closing the door behind them, he pivoted around to find her waiting in the center of the room, her back to him. His unlacing her gown had become a nightly ritual. After shrugging out of his jacket, he tossed it onto a nearby chair. His waistcoat and neck cloth joined it before he approached her. He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. On a soft sigh, she dropped back her head.
“Father was correct. You are an exceptional hostess.”
“The additional servants helped.”
Why was she always so reluctant to take credit for her achievements? That first day, modesty was not something he’d expected of her. He went to work unlacing her gown. “You’ll have to hire more as you continue cleaning out the residence.”
“I thought I would cease with those efforts until the mines are paying off again.”
His fingers stilled at the small of her back. He wished she didn’t know the truth of the mines. “No need. We’re not beggars, Portia.” Not yet, anyway.
He eased her gown down to floor. After she stepped out of it, she faced him. “Will you discuss the mining situation with Ashebury and Greyling?” she asked.
“No. They know naught about mining.” He cradled her cheek. “You are an incredible lady of the manor. Let me pamper you.”
Once he had all her clothes removed and her hair unpinned, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Another ritual. He didn’t know why he enjoyed it so much when she could just as easily walk those remaining few feet. But he liked that he dictated the pace, that he determined if they went slowly or quickly.
“Roll over onto your stomach,” he ordered. She didn’t object. She never did, and for the first time, he wondered if she would tell him if there was something she didn’t like. Ashe and Edward were more in tune with their wives. It had been evident all night. They would have no doubt known if their wife was exhausted long before they retired to the bedchamber. It wasn’t that he didn’t pay attention. He simply didn’t know Portia as well as his friends knew their wives.
But then they’d known their wives a good deal longer than he’d known his. However, even as he sought the excuse, he knew the truth was that he’d had no desire to truly know her.
> Opening a drawer in the table beside the bed, he reached in and removed a vial.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A musk-scented oil I purchased during one of my travels. The seller assured me it would bring heightened pleasure. I thought to test it on you.”
“If the pleasure you bring me is heightened any further, I’m likely to expire on the spot.”
It was a good thing he’d removed his waistcoat. The buttons might have popped off with the swelling of his pride. He’d never doubted that he brought her pleasure. He couldn’t explain why he wanted to bring her so much more. Nor did he know why a shiver of foreboding went through him at the thought of her dying. “Let’s give it a try, shall we?” he asked, brushing her hair aside until it all pooled on her pillow.
She came up on her elbows. “With company about? I don’t need to be screaming tonight.”
“Bite down on the sheet.” He rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, loosened the buttons at his throat. He removed the stopper from the vial, poured some cool oil into his palm, and rubbed his hands briskly together to warm the liquid. He pressed his hands to the small of her back. With a moan, she flattened herself against the mattress and closed her eyes.
He took long leisurely strokes up and down either side of her spine, well aware of her going limpid beneath his touch. “What is your father’s name?”
The tightness instantaneously returned. “Why are you asking?”
“When I was talking with Ashe and Edward earlier, in the library, they had questions to which I had no answers. It made me curious.”
“He’s no longer in my life so his name is of no concern.”
He moved his fingers in circles over her shoulders. She’d told him that before, but it suddenly seemed important that he know, if not that, at least something about her. “Share with me a memory from your childhood.”
She sighed long and softly. “I’m too tired.”
So her defenses were down and he was the worst sort of scoundrel to take advantage, but then a hellion must live up to his reputation. “You’re very good at entertaining. Did you learn that skill at home?”
“Yes, we often had visitors and were expected to put on a good show.”
Furrowing his brow, he caressed the length of her back, kneaded her enticing bottom. “What sort of show?”
“That we were a happy family. That my father was a good man.”
“Wasn’t he?”
She rolled onto her back. He gave her a devilish smile. “Are you ready for me to massage your front?”
“I’m ready for you to cease with the questions. Who I was, how things were—they don’t affect now. Us. What is or is not between us. I left all that behind.”
“All what?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You married me without it mattering. It can’t matter now.”
“Did he hurt you?”
With a grimace, she closed her eyes. “He didn’t believe in sparing the rod. I’ll say that much.”
He wondered if memories of the bite of the rod had caused her grimace. She had no scars, but one could inflict pain without breaking skin.
She opened her eyes. “Please leave the past in the past.”
Words he’d often muttered in connection with his father. If he’d heeded them perhaps Locke would have held a different attitude toward love, perhaps he wouldn’t now be married to Portia or dribbling fragrant oil on her chest, watching it pool in the hollow between her breasts. Setting the vial aside, he splayed his fingers wide, gathered up some of the oil on his thumbs and began spreading it over her skin, up to her collarbone, down to her hips. He shouldn’t be concerned by the fact that Ashe and Edward knew the smallest of details about their wives while he knew not the largest one about his.
He knew what mattered. She wasn’t averse to working. She considered herself superior to no one. She was an excellent hostess, kind to his father, and worried about the mines not because of what their failure might deny her but what it might deny the estate.
Reaching up, she combed her fingers through his hair, cradling her palm around the back of his head, and drawing him down until his lips met hers. She never only took. He should have known she wouldn’t tonight, no matter how exhausted she claimed to be.
He took her slowly, gently. With no rush, no blistering needs, no fury. When the passion rose and she was on the cusp, he covered her mouth, swallowed her screams, relished her body tightening around him, unleashing sensations that threatened to tear him apart even as they made him feel more powerful, invincible.
Panting, still trembling in the aftermath of the explosive release, he rolled to his side, drew her in close, flicked the sheets over them both. She was correct. The past didn’t matter, but damned if he didn’t wish he’d met her when she was a young girl so now he would know everything about her.
Chapter 18
Since they had guests, apparently Portia had instructed Mrs. Dorset to prepare a variety of breakfast offerings to be set on the sideboard so everyone could take whatever they fancied. Locke couldn’t fault the variety, finding it rather nice not to be saddled with the cook’s plated offering based on her mood.
Everyone was here, including his father; everyone except Portia. Her absence surprised him, because he’d expected her to be the first at the table to ensure everything met her expectations and to greet their guests. On the other hand, he hadn’t been able to resist having her again this morning before preparing for the day. After assisting him with dressing, she’d returned to the bed as she always did “for just a few more minutes.” He’d no doubt worn her out. As a husband, he was a cad. Not that she seemed to mind.
“How long are you all staying?” he asked now, trying not to think of the mines and how he was anxious to get back to them.
“Only until tomorrow,” Ashe said. “We wanted to welcome your wife into the family, but can’t tarry. Will you be coming to London for the Season?”
“I’m considering it.” He might actually anticipate attending balls, having the opportunity to dance with Portia, to walk in with her on his arm. Only he wanted people to see that she was more than grace and beauty. He wanted them to see all that she was capable of accomplishing. He wanted them to see her as a hostess, the lady of the manor. Was he actually considering asking her to arrange a ball in his London residence?
Because his father had never returned to London after his wife died, the residence in town had never been abandoned—although neither was it truly alive. Portia would change that. She would whisk down the hallways and through the rooms, brightening them with her presence alone. She would—
Cullie entered the room at a rather fast clip, but then the girl tended to move quickly no matter what she was doing, a trait she’d no doubt adopted from her mistress. Once reaching him, she bent down.
“Her Ladyship’s not feeling quite up to snuff this morning,” she said quietly, yet her voice still seemed to carry as everyone perked up. “She won’t be joining you for breakfast. She wanted you to know so you could carry on with your day and not be waiting about for her.”
He was on his feet before he’d even realized he’d tossed down his napkin. Portia never became ill—or so she’d claimed, too smugly for it not to be true. So what the devil was wrong with her and why was his heart hammering and his stomach roiling as though he were the one who was ill? She’d been fine this morning. She’d buttoned him up and knotted his neck cloth as she did each day. That she’d wanted to return to bed for a few minutes had been no cause for alarm.
“We’ll see to her,” Minerva offered as both she and Julia pushed back their chairs and stood. Ashe, Edward, and his father were quick to follow.
“She won’t want to interrupt your breakfast,” he insisted.
“If it’s what I think it is—a lady’s condition—I doubt she’ll want you charging in there either.”
A lady’s condition? The meaning of those words slammed into him. Of course. Her menses. He’d given no t
hought to the fact that they’d been together for nearly a month now and he’d been able to enjoy her every night. Minerva was correct. Avoiding this aspect of marriage was appealing, as he’d not considered that marriage meant being with a woman during her time. “All right. Yes. I’d appreciate you seeing to her.”
“Very good.” Minerva gave her attention to Cullie. “Bring some tea with honey and some crackers to her Ladyship’s bedchamber.”
The ladies disappeared through the doorway. The gentlemen retook their chairs.
“You looked a bit ill yourself there for a moment,” Edward said.
“She doesn’t get ill, so I was a concerned.”
“You’re beginning to care for her,” his father said, his smile nearly a gloat.
“Don’t be ridiculous. She serves a purpose, nothing more.” He reached for his coffee, noticed his fingers trembling, and returned his hand to his lap. His reaction had nothing to do with any warm feelings he might have toward her, but merely the inconvenient timing of the situation. Still as the others began talking, he couldn’t stop looking at the archway and wishing that he’d been the one to go to her.
“Why didn’t you tell him what you truly suspect?” Julia asked as they headed up the stairs.
“Because it’s not my place to tell him, but based on your question, I’m assuming you think the same thing.” Minerva had suspected it from the moment she’d been introduced to Portia. One of the reasons that she was so very skilled at cheating was that she was so very good at reading people and situations. Portia had a glow to her that had nothing to do with marital bliss.
When they reached the last door, she rapped briskly on the wood, waited until Portia bade them to come in, then turned the knob. They entered to find their hostess curled in a fetal position, her face pale, her eyes dull.
“Oh, I thought you were Cullie,” she said, pushing herself up.
“Don’t get up,” Minerva said, rushing over and pressing her back down. “We only wanted to check on you, not disturb you. Your maid said you’re not feeling well.”
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 22
