The Viscount's Vixen

by JoMarie DeGioia

  He opened the door leading to their chambers and stalked into the sitting room, scanning for the sight of his lovely wife. She couldn’t prevent his gaze from touching her at least. He removed his jacket and untied his cravat.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered as he walked further into the room and found it vacant. He knew just where he could find her. The nearest guest chamber.

  “Betsy!” he shouted.

  Michael burst into the guest chamber, his hands in fists. One quick glance around the room showed him she was prepared to settle there for the night.

  “Tell me you don’t plan to sleep in this chamber,” he growled.

  She swallowed audibly and raised her chin. “Yes, I do.”

  He stared at her for a full minute. “Have you lost whatever sense was in that head of yours?”

  Her brow furrowed as she placed her hands on her hips. “That was uncalled-for. I merely thought we would both sleep more peacefully if we remained apart.”

  “Does my presence pain you so?” he asked her sharply. “Perhaps you would have preferred to remain at Bridgewater Park?”

  When she shook her head in answer he sighed with irritation. “Then tell me, wife. Do you find me so repulsive you cannot bear to be in the same room with me?”

  She gave a shake of her head “Hardly.”

  Michael stepped forward and took her arm. “You’re returning to our chamber this instant,” he told her. “You are my wife, damn it to Hell. You sleep with me.”

  Betsy dug in her heels, shaking her head. “But surely you don’t mean to take me.”

  He dropped his hand as if burned by her. “Do you truly believe I would force you?”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Certainly not,” she said. “But would you attempt to seduce me? Most definitely.”

  “Come then,” he said, turning toward the door.

  She shook her head in lingering defiance.

  He swore softly in response. “Do you wish the servants to become aware of our estrangement?”

  “No.” She righted the coverlet on the bed. “No. I’ll sleep in our chamber, Michael.”

  He took her acceptance and returned to their chamber. She followed on her own. Without another word, he left her beside the bed and went into his dressing room.

  Chapter 22

  Michael watched as Betsy removed her dressing gown, desire flaring through him as her nightgown-clad form was backlit by the fire burning in the hearth. His mouth went dry as he gazed hungrily at her body through the thin material. When she climbed into the bed, perilously close to the edge, he did the same. He longed to pull her into his arms, to set aside this ridiculous separation. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for sleep to take him.

  He awoke several hours later to a strange sensation. Something was tickling his nose. Something soft and incredibly silky. He opened his eyes in the gloom of the chamber and discovered to his dismay Betsy was curled tightly against him, her bottom pressed against his groin, her head tucked beneath his chin. Her sweetly-scented hair had been the culprit. Apparently she was unable to sustain their separation in her sleep.

  He dropped a kiss on her silken hair and draped his arm about her waist. Lord, she felt wonderful in his arms.

  When she sighed in return and pressed against him more closely, his body reacted in sharp wanting. Unable to resist the notion, he eased his hand beneath her gown to gently cup her breast. Betsy arched slightly, rubbing her bottom against his growing arousal. He groaned softly and kissed the shell of her ear. When she sighed again, his hand went lower to caress her. She moaned as soft as a whisper. He’d never heard such a marvelous sound in his life.

  “Oh,” she sighed, turning her head a bit. “Michael, what are you doing?”

  “Shh, love,” Michael breathed in answer. “Please, darling. Don’t deny me. Don’t deny yourself.”

  Betsy closed her eyes and slowly nodded. Michael eased himself between her legs, groaning softly as she pressed herself back against him. His fingers caressed her even as he moved within her, bringing her closer to her release. She reached up to grasp his head, her fingers caressing his hair, his cheek. When her climax took her she shook with it, sobbing his name.

  Michael held her tightly against him as he poured himself into her, his eyes closed in splendor. He withdrew and turned her in his arms, kissing her lips gently.

  She gazed up at him, her eyes a dark violet. “Michael,” she began softly, “that was so…”

  “Wonderful?” he offered with a grin.

  “Unusual,” she countered softly. “And wonderful,” she amended with a shy smile.

  He chuckled. “There are many ways for a man to love a woman.”

  A shadow crossed her face for a moment. He grasped her chin and looked deeply into her eyes. The uncertainty was there, and he wouldn’t let her withdraw from him again.

  “Betsy, I can’t bear this separation,” he told her. “And I don’t mean solely in our bed. In the great hall, at the dining table, passing each other on the stairs. It won’t do.”

  “Can’t we set aside this estrangement?” he went on. “Pray, tell me you forgive me for my hateful words?”

  Betsy studied him, and then wrapped her arms around his neck, sending him onto his back.

  “Oh, Michael!” she cried. “Oh, I’ve missed you.”

  He smiled his relief and hugged her tightly. “You forgive me, then?”

  She rained kisses on his face. “Oh yes.” She leaned away from him. “But what of the mystery?”

  He pushed aside his uneasiness and let out a breath. “I’ll deal with the matter in my own time, Betsy,” he said. “In my own way. I promise.”

  She appeared to yield to him in this, and hugged him again.

  “I’ve missed having your arms around me,” she sighed, dropping kisses on his chest.

  “And they have sorely missed you.”

  He loved her again before dawn and the two of them slept late into the morning hours. When at last they rose and dressed for the day, they took their breakfast in a most leisurely fashion. Michael consumed his hearty meal of ham and bacon and eggs and watched her as she daintily ate her meal of poached eggs, her eyes downcast.

  She’d been as passionate, as demanding, as he’d been that last time in their bed and he couldn’t have been more pleased. But he was no fool. He knew his wife’s mind nearly as well as he knew his own. She had a stubborn streak as wide as the Thames. It was that trait which first attracted him to her at the Derby, along with her lovely face and figure. She wouldn’t rest until she knew the truth about her bloody mystery.

  As if sensing his close regard she looked up at him at last, smiling shyly. He bit back a laugh, amazed as always at how she could be a wanton in their bed at one moment and as shy as a girl fresh out of the school room in the next.

  Silently praying she would postpone any further investigating for at least a fortnight, Michael left her after breakfast to see to his duties regarding the estate. His step felt much lighter than it had the last few days, and he couldn’t keep from whistling as he strode into his study.

  ***

  Betsy sipped at her tea after Michael left the breakfast room, her mind running in circles. She vowed anew to make whatever discoveries she could manage. But what of her promise to Michael? She sighed in irritation. She wouldn’t permit his reluctance, his inflexibility, to keep the truth from its inevitable disclosure. After all, she hadn’t precisely given him her word she would set the matter aside. It was of no consequence.

  She set down her tea cup and took herself up to their chamber before going in search of Coombs and of any information he could give on the destruction of the tapestry. She was certain Michael’s nightmare of Christmas Eve was related to the tapestry. The fear she’d heard in Michael’s voice as he’d uttered the butler’s name was chilling. Surely Coombs would be able to illuminate the subject.

  After retrieving the recipes she had persuaded the cook at Bridgewater Park to relinquish, th
ey were not merely a means to an interview with Coombs, she went to the kitchens and found the housekeeper just outside.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Rollins.”

  The stout, gray-haired woman’s eyes rounded. “My lady?”

  Betsy held the recipes out in front of her, causing Mrs. Rollins to look on in curiosity as she read the first few lines.

  “These are a few of my and Lord Balsam’s favorite dishes from Bridgewater Park, Mrs. Rollins. I had thought to have Coombs speak to Cook regarding these dishes,” Betsy said. “However, I believe you would have more sway with her than he might.”

  The housekeeper gave Betsy a surprisingly-pretty smile. “I’d be happy to take these to Cook.” She folded the papers and tucked them in her pocket beside her ring of keys. “Was there anything else you needed this morning?”

  “Yes. Can you tell me where Coombs might be at this hour?”

  “In his office, my lady. Go along to the parlor and I’ll send him to you directly.”

  Thanking the woman, Betsy returned to the front of the manor.

  She spent a few nervous minutes before the butler arrived.

  “My lady, Mrs. Rollins said you are you in need of something?”

  Betsy smiled brightly at him. “Yes, but I’ve seen to the recipes myself.”

  Coombs nodded. “As Mrs. Rollins advised me.” He smiled. “She is quite determined. Well done.”

  Betsy basked in his praise for a moment. “Mrs. Rollins was most attentive to me, actually. I have been remiss in not taking over the running of the manor sooner.”

  “You will do well, my lady. Of that, I have no doubt.”

  “Thank you.” She paused, and then forged ahead. “Coombs, how long have you been in service to the Reed family?”

  Coombs smiled widely, his narrow chest puffed with pride.

  “Many years, my lady,” he said. “I came to work for his lordship’s grandfather when I was a very young man.”

  “Then you also worked for the previous Lord Balsam?”

  “Yes. When he married and brought his bride here, I became the head of the household staff. She was a wonderful woman, the master’s mother. You remind me a bit of her. She liked to ride as well.”

  Betsy nodded at the compliment, and guilt threatened to assail her. She looked down at her hands. There was nothing for it.

  “Coombs, what do you know of the tapestry in the great hall?”

  The man blinked rapidly, and the proof of his recognition wasn’t lost on her.

  “I do not know what you mean, my lady.

  “The destruction to the tapestry, Coombs,” she went on. “Surely you saw it was deliberate. What can you tell me of it?”

  He reddened and stood, his gaze on the floor. “I cannot speak of any such occurrence.”

  Betsy stood behind the desk, certain her only chance of learning the truth was rapidly slipping through her fingers.

  “Coombs, please,” she said. “Lord Balsam seems quite troubled by the memory of it. He must have been quite young. I simply wish to learn the particulars. I believe it will serve to rid him of the discomfort.”

  The butler’s eyes softened for a moment, giving her a bit of hope. That hope was dashed by the man’s next words.

  “I will not speak of it, my lady,” he told her firmly. “I will not be disloyal to the late viscount.”

  “Disloyal? Oh, please don’t think I would ever seek to bring you to such a circumstance. Lord Balsam finds you a most loyal attendant, I assure you.”

  She then dismissed Coombs, certain she could never broach the subject again. There had to be another way. She would learn the truth but not at the expense of the butler’s comfort.

  When Michael joined her for tea in the great hall that afternoon, she had all but decided she would have no one’s help in her quest. She made no mention of the tapestry, despite its place of prominence above the hearth.

  She did noticed that Michael’s eyes were drawn to it again and again, however. She nearly bit her tongue to keep any comments to herself.

  Chapter 23

  Betsy and Michael decided they would go to London toward the end of February, which was just a few days away. This would allow some time for the to socialize before Michael had to take up his springtime residence at Bridgewater Park. He left it to Betsy’s preference if she wished to follow him there in late March or remain in town with Maggie and Philip. Eager as he was to begin the horses’ training in earnest, he looked forward with pleasure to squiring Betsy to the various functions in town.

  He hadn’t been to London for the Season since three years earlier, and that experience hadn’t been one he would have wished to soon repeat. The cold women of society, and the deceptive manner in which the majority of the gentry presented themselves, were things to be avoided. But with the prospect of his having his sweet and lovely wife on his arm, he could contemplate without distaste the social intercourse open to them.

  It had been several weeks since their reconciliation after Christmas, and the two of them had been immersed in their respective pursuits regarding the estate’s return to its former grandeur. Betsy saw to the placement of the previous Lady Balsam’s needlework about the manor, along with several of her most favorite pieces of her own work. With every new addition Michael was prevailed upon to give his approval, which he did with little reluctance.

  He encouraged her in all her decorating endeavors, and was pleased that the subject of the ruined tapestry was never mentioned. As Coombs placed a tray of delectable lemon tarts before them, one of the favored recipes taken from the cook at Bridgewater Park, Michael knew with certainty she still harbored hopes of using the butler’s recollections to her own design. He followed her gaze to the servant’s retreating back and arched a dark brow in her direction. She quickly averted her eyes. Didn’t she know he could nearly read her quick and beautiful mind?

  He refrained from pointing this out to her as he handed her a glass of sherry.

  “I quite approve of your additions to the hall, love.” He nodded toward the largest piece of needlework, one embellished with morning glories and small birds. “You’ve succeeded in warming the castle.”

  She smiled at his words. “Your mother was quite gifted with the needle. I believe she too wished to adorn the stone walls with very large pieces of her handiwork.”

  Michael looked toward the gallery visible at the opposite end of the hall. “I’d thought you would have seen the portraits in place by now. Have you changed your mind on that?”

  “Not at all. The storage room was quite damp and the portraits need a bit of restoration. Coombs has assured me that he will see them restored and hanging in the gallery upon our return to the manor.”

  “Coombs bows to your bidding now?” he teased.

  She dimpled a smile at him.

  “I’m eager to see the image of my mother,” he admitted. “I’m afraid she is merely a collection of memories to me.”

  “What memories, Michael?”

  He took in a breath. “Sweet scents, I suppose. Warm hugs.”

  He hadn’t seen her portrait for longer than he could remember. Why, the family portraits had disappeared from the gallery around the same time the tapestry had. The unbidden thought sent an icy cold shiver down his spine.

  “Michael?” he heard Betsy ask as if from far away.

  “Hmm?”

  She stared at him and he sensed she could read his distress. Although she must certainly long to press him about it, she said nothing. Her smile seemed forced as she sweetly offered him the last remaining lemon tart on the tray.

  He ate the tart and brought her fingers to his lips, kissing away the crumbs. Relief flooded him as the moment of unease was broken. He pulled her out of her seat and into his arms, grinning as he strode through the great hall and up the staircase to their chambers.

  It came back to him in his sleep that night, however. He could hear his father’s broken voice, his tormentor’s laughter. Thrashing about in the big bed, Mich
ael unconsciously sought to remember more. To put a face to that horrible mocking laughter.

  Coombs made his appearance in his mind’s eye, calming him. At the abrupt conclusion to his dreams he jerked awake, the bedclothes twisted about his legs. A quick glance at his wife showed she still slept. He breathed a ragged sigh and straightened the covers, settling back down beside her.

  What the devil had happened all those years ago? Were his horrid hazy memories indeed tied to the tapestry? To his father’s missing fortune? Lord, was he soon to be as dogged as his wife?

  He closed his eyes and awaited for sleep to finally claim him.

  ***

  Betsy, too, was awake. She’d heard him call out in his sleep, and had felt his thrashing about in the bed. How could she not, his being such a large man? Those troublesome dreams assailed him. The dreams he wouldn’t share with her.

  His breathing soon grew even and she knew he slept once more. Why was he so stubborn? Didn’t he see that all was not well? Both his sleep and his mind would not be easy until he learned what happened to his birthright. Her resolve on this was as strong as it ever was. Tonight, however? Tonight she turned in his arms and kissed his closed eyelids. When the shadow of a smile touched his lips, she closed her own eyes and burrowed closer still.

  They left for London on a sparkling morning a few days later. Although it was still chilly, there was a unmistakable hint in the air of the spring to come. Michael settled himself beside Betsy within the carriage, the two of them on the seat facing forward as the vehicle began to roll away from Cornwall. He wore impeccable traveling clothes and his black greatcoat draped over his shoulders. She wore one of her new dresses, this one of sunny yellow despite the date on the calendar. She paired it with a cloak of gold velvet knotted tightly beneath her chin, however.

  “Tell me of our townhouse, Michael.”

  Michael crossed his legs and shrugged. He’d arranged for comfortable accommodations in town, leasing a townhouse for as long as they had need of one.

  “It’s not far from Wilton’s, love,” he told her. “My solicitors assured me we’ll find it suitably furnished.”