The Viscount and the Vixen

by Lorraine Heath

  He studied her as though she’d sprouted wings and was on the verge of taking flight. “Because you’re a viscountess.”

  “I’m a commoner.”

  “By birth, but by marriage you are now a lady. My lady.”

  For how long? For how long would she be his lady if everything unraveled? She had married him because of the protection he would provide. He didn’t have to offer it himself. She merely needed to use the threat of him to ensure no harm befell her. He was correct. She was a lady now. She couldn’t be treated as though she was worthy of nothing. And if she were to make a favorable impression on the queen—well, that sort of alliance could serve her very well indeed. With a perfunctory nod, she said, “I shall need a new gown.”

  He grinned, the wide satisfied one that he always bestowed upon her whenever he thought he’d won his way, the one that made her sometimes willing to relent simply to see it appear. “Replace the blue while you’re at it.”

  It was a frivolity, and yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to object when she considered the pleasure it would bring him. Such a simply request really. There were times when she was astounded that she could please him so easily.

  He led her up the steps and through a doorway where another footman stood holding the door open. Walking into this residence was nothing at all like walking into Havisham. It smelled of roses and lilies, as an assortment was arranged in various vases throughout the grand entryway. On either side were rooms, doors open, draperies drawn aside so sunlight could spill through the clear windows. She doubted she’d find a single cobweb or spider in the place. Farther down, wide stairs swept up to the next level.

  A stately man approached and bowed his head. “Welcome home, my lord.”

  Locksley placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “Lady Locksley, allow me to introduce Burns.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” she said.

  “The pleasure is all ours, my lady. I’ve assembled the staff.”

  As she made her way along the line of servants, each greeted her with a curtsy or a bow and a reverent welcome. No one here was going to challenge her if she wanted the keys.

  Just as she finished meeting the last servant—the scullery maid—the footmen walked in, carrying their trunks. Cullie followed them, her eyes growing wide as she took in her surroundings. After Portia introduced her to Burns, who ordered another servant to show Cullie to the bedchambers so she could unpack her Ladyship’s trunk, Locksley took Portia on a tour of the residence.

  The rooms not in use were shrouded in white but they didn’t carry the scent of disuse or musty dust. With very little effort, merely the yanking away of sheets, the rooms would be ready for guests.

  When they reached the library, she wasn’t at all surprised to find the furniture uncovered, fresh flowers on a credenza by the window, and books filling shelves. Nor was she astonished when her husband separated himself from her and strode over to a table housing an assortment of crystal decanters.

  While he poured himself some scotch, she wandered over to a window that looked out onto a gorgeous garden. “Do you think the gardener would let me take some cuttings back to Havisham?”

  “The gardener will let you do anything you desire.” Locksley pressed a shoulder to the window casing, glanced out, took a swallow of his scotch. “What do you think of the place?”

  “It’s not too shabby.”

  He chuckled low, his eyes glittering when they met hers. “I wouldn’t be surprised to discover you’d scouted it out before you responded to my father’s advertisement.”

  It would have been the wise thing to do, but she hadn’t cared about any London holdings. She’d been concerned only with moving away from the city as quickly and secretly as possible. Still, his suspicions caused a heaviness to settle in her chest. After all this time, why did he still think she was after the wealth, the power, the prestige? Would he ever see her character as it truly was? Although with her past it was nothing to brag about.

  “To be quite honest, I was under the impression your father never came to London, so I assumed there was no residence.”

  He lifted his glass so the sun could shine through it. “Quite right. He hasn’t been to London since my mother died.”

  “Is this your residence then?”

  “No, it’s his. I’ll inherit it, of course, but since he never came here, there was never an edict that nothing be touched.”

  She glanced toward the mantel. “The clock isn’t ticking but the hour doesn’t match the one at Havisham.”

  “My father didn’t stop them. I did. They drove me mad the first night I stayed here.”

  “So you stopped it”—she narrowed her eyes, focusing on the hands—“at two fifteen. In the morning, I presume.”

  “Charged through the entire blasted place like a madman, shouting at the servants to get up and stop the infernal ticking. I swore I could hear the tick-tock in distant corners of the residence, even though my rational self knows that can’t be the case.”

  “Once you get accustomed to the sound, you don’t really notice it. I hear the absence of clocks more than their presence. Which I suppose makes no sense either.”

  “Maybe with you here, I won’t notice the echoing so much.” He turned his attention back to the garden, swallowed more scotch.

  He could live here with the beautiful gardens and fresh fragrances and rooms readied in the blink of an eye. Instead he’d opted to live at gloomy Havisham—because his father and the mines needed him.

  “Do you like London?” she asked.

  “I’ve never come to know it very well. I don’t stay long. Compared to Havisham it’s ungodly noisy and crowded.”

  She smiled. “It is that. I always enjoyed the hustle and the bustle.”

  “Yet you made the decision to marry a man who would keep you from it.”

  “I discovered other aspects of the city weren’t to my taste.”

  She really wished they hadn’t come to town, that he hadn’t faced her squarely, hadn’t begun to slowly run his gaze over her as though he sought out the flawed facets of her existence.

  His eyes narrowed. “You were running from something.”

  “Poverty,” she answered, twirling toward the center of the room. “I should probably check on Cullie, make certain—”

  “It was more than that,” he said quietly. “You’re beautiful enough, clever enough, resourceful enough that you could have enticed any man with means into marrying you if you set your mind to it. You could have stayed in London.”

  “All that required work and effort. Answering your father’s advert was the simplest solution.”

  “You’re not one to take the uncomplicated route. I also suspect there was nothing at all easy in deciding to marry an aged man rumored to be mad.”

  She swung back around. She should deny it or, better yet, press her body against his and distract him from this line of reasoning. But she was so weary of constantly raising her guard. “Not all my memories here are pleasant. Even now I’m struggling to keep at bay my reasons for leaving.”

  He set aside his glass, approached her, and cradled her face between his strong hands. Hands that wielded pick and shovel. Hands that caressed to command pleasure. “Why did you leave, Portia? Why did you come to Havisham?”

  She should tell him now, not risk his finding out through some accidental or careless word. Yet she’d come so far, worked so hard to put everything behind her. “We agreed to leave the past in the past.”

  “I don’t think it was the power, the money, or the prestige. I’ve seen you on your hands and knees, cleaning. You don’t shower yourself with gifts or clothing. You don’t flaunt your position. You speak to people as though they are your equals. All the things you gained by marrying a peer, you haven’t embraced. So why marry a peer?”

  “Security. I told you that.”

  “Why marry an aging one?”

  “It was expedient. Honestly, Locksley, I don’t know why we’re discu
ssing this.”

  “I want to understand you, Portia.”

  “There is nothing to understand.” She considered breaking away, pulling back, but he held her with such insistence, not so much with his hands as with his eyes.

  “When I married you, I cared about only knowing you in bed. Now much to my consternation, I want to know everything about you.”

  No, you don’t. Not really.

  Finally, he released his hold on her, turned away. She balled up her fists to stop herself from reaching for him, apologizing, begging him to forgive her.

  “I thought about going to the club tonight,” he said as he perched himself on the corner of his desk. “But that’s not exactly the place where I want to introduce my wife to Society.”

  If he was thinking of taking her with him, then he was referring to the Twin Dragons, an exclusive club for men and women. She’d never been inside although she’d once seen it from the outside. Montie had never been one for taking her places, but she knew he frequented the establishment. She had no desire to run into him there. “I agree that a gambling den won’t make the best impression. You should go without me.”

  “Leaving you alone our first night in London hardly seems gentlemanly.”

  “To be quite honest, I’m rather weary from the journey and was considering retiring early.” Stepping forward, she trailed her hands up his chest, over his shoulders. “Perhaps you’d be willing to undress me before you go.”

  Grinning, he drew her in close. “Delighted to do so, but you know I won’t stop there.”

  She nipped playfully at his chin. “I’m counting on it.”

  Locke had always enjoyed spending time at the Twin Dragons, especially after the owner, Drake Darling, opened the place up to women. The establishment offered gambling, a ballroom, a dining room, a gathering room for all members, and an assortment of areas designated for only men or only women. So one could mix with the fairer sex if one was of a mind or seek less exciting company. He’d opted for the less exciting company. More than that, he’d opted for a less exciting activity: sitting in the gentlemen’s room and indulging in scotch. He could have done the same in his library.

  He’d given a game of cards a go, but had quickly become bored with the task. Generally he relished pitting his skills against others’ talents, but he found himself constantly wishing that Portia were sitting beside him. With her ability not to give anything away, he suspected she’d come away with a good portion of the winnings.

  It was the fact that she was so good at not revealing herself that made him know something was amiss in London. He’d felt the tension begin radiating off her as they’d neared the city. It had been so prevalent that he’d have not been surprised if she’d suddenly leaped out of the coach and begun a mad dash back to Havisham.

  London made her anxious. Because her husband had died here? Because he’d broken her heart? He could not help but believe there was more to it than that. The woman who had boldly come to Havisham, not backed out of marriage when offered an alternative spouse, was not one to get unsettled, and yet—

  “Evening, Locksley.”

  Locke glanced up at the slender man who had interrupted his musings. He’d always thought him far too handsome and charming for his own good. Women tended to flock around him. “Beaumont.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  The Earl of Beaumont, only a couple of years older and a couple of inches shorter than Locke, had inherited his title a few months shy of reaching his majority. Their paths crossed from time to time, mostly here at the Dragons. They were more acquaintances than friends, but he might offer some interesting conversation that would prevent Locke from returning home a mere two hours after leaving. He didn’t want Portia thinking he couldn’t abide being away from her. “Not at all.”

  While waving two fingers at a passing footman, Beaumont dropped into the chair across from Locke. He still had a boyish look to his features as though he’d secured an elixir that would prevent him from aging. “I understand congratulations on a marriage are in order,” he said to Locke as a footman set a tumbler of whiskey on the table. Footmen memorized the members’ drinking preference. Beaumont raised his glass. “I wish you well.”

  Locke lifted his own glass. “Thank you.” The sip didn’t satisfy as much as it might if Portia were here with him. He seemed to enjoy everything more when she was about.

  “I’m trying to recall her name. It was in the paper . . . uh, Peony?”

  “Portia.”

  “Unusual name.”

  “She’s an unusual woman.”

  “I look forward to meeting her.” He glanced around as though he might spy her in a room reserved for only gentlemen. “Did you bring her here tonight?”

  “No, she’s at the residence resting. The journey tired her out.”

  “I can well imagine. Quite a trek from Havisham.” Although no one, other than Ashe and Edward, visited Havisham, most were familiar with it if for no other reason than to spread the tales that it was haunted. “How did you make her acquaintance?”

  “Through my father.”

  Beaumont’s brown eyes widened. “I was under the impression he never left the estate.”

  “Living as a recluse doesn’t mean one is isolated from the world. He has his ways.”

  He chuckled low. “No doubt. My father always spoke fondly of him, regretted that he’d stopped coming to London or visiting our estate for the annual ball my mother so enjoyed putting on.”

  Locke had attended a couple of the balls. The Countess of Beaumont’s affairs were legendary. Although, with her passing, the country parties ceased. Everything changed with the death of the matriarch. As a bachelor, Beaumont certainly wasn’t going to be arranging parties at his estate or here in London.

  “What of you, Beaumont? You should be looking to marry soon, I should think.” Dear God, could he sound any more established and old? He felt ancient. Where he’d once embraced gambling, drinking, and seeking out women, at the moment he wanted nothing more than to be at home sitting before a lazy fire, listening as Portia enthralled him with tales of her day. It didn’t matter how mundane or unexciting her adventures, he still took pleasure in them, in the way her eyes would light up when she reported on the progress made in readying a room.

  “I have set my sights on a couple of ladies, to be sure. I shall probably settle on one of them before the Season is done, get on with it, as it were. Like you, I do require an heir.”

  Settle on one of them? It sounded atrocious and terribly unfair to the girl, and yet hadn’t Locke thought the same thing when he’d decided to take Portia as his wife? He’d considered her perfect, settled on her, because he’d thought he could never love her. Christ, she deserved better than that.

  He shot to his feet.

  “Off somewhere?” Beaumont asked.

  “I must apologize for my abrupt departure, but there is a matter that requires my attention.”

  Not a matter, but a lady, one who it seemed was coming perilously close to holding the key to his heart—no matter how much he wished it otherwise.

  While Locksley had left her sated, Portia had been unable to fall asleep after he left. She’d rung for Cullie and dressed for dinner, although she hadn’t much liked dining alone. Now feeling rather like a wraith, she wandered through the hallways striving to get a better sense of the place. The difference between this residence and Havisham Hall was striking. Not a single door was locked. She didn’t need keys to access anything. Every room, even the ones not in use, held flowers. But they didn’t hold what she was truly searching for: company.

  She missed Locksley, damn it all. Something about the night made her all the more lonely and bereft, made her question if she should be here—not so much in London, but with him.

  While living in London, she’d harbored so many dreams of love. Once she left, she thought she’d given up on them, but they were working hard to surface. The love of her child would be enough to sustain her, or so she
hoped, because she was finding herself yearning for the love of a man.

  She made her way to her bedchamber—hers and hers alone. She didn’t like that Locksley’s was beside hers, even if only a door separated them. How silly she’d been that first day to be forlorn because she wouldn’t have a room of her own. She doubted she’d be able to sleep without his arms around her. Perhaps she’d simply read until she heard him return and then slip into his bed and seduce him.

  She rang for Cullie, grateful to get out of her confining clothes. She was going to have to do away with a corset very soon, should probably visit a seamstress while they were in town to acquire some better-fitting frocks. It seemed every aspect of her was changing. Even her shoes were beginning to feel tight.

  “Will there be anything else, m’lady?” Cullie asked once she’d finished brushing out and braiding Portia’s hair.

  “No. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “It’s exciting being in London.”

  Portia didn’t share her enthusiasm. She wished to be anywhere else. “After you help me dress in the morning, you can take the day off, go exploring.”

  “Truly?”

  “I’ll get you some pin money from his Lordship.”

  Cullie smiled brightly. “Thank you, m’lady.”

  “Have one of the footmen escort you around. There are some bad elements in this town. You’ll want to avoid them.”

  “Aye, I will.” She bobbed a quick curtsy. “Good night, m’lady.”

  With a smile, Portia shook her head and wandered to the window. She didn’t know if she’d ever convince Havisham’s newest female servants that they didn’t have to curtsy to her all the time. Looking out, she could see the fog rolling in, the streetlamps eerily glowing through the mist. Holding herself, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to shake off a sense of foreboding.

  As she began to turn away, she caught sight of a coach drawing up in the drive. Her husband leaped out before it fully stopped. Alarm raced through her. Something was wrong, she was quite sure of it. Had he somehow discovered the truth? Or had word of something dire come from Havisham?