The Viscount and the Vixen

by Lorraine Heath

  Dedication

  For Jill Barnett

  Who, twenty years ago, provided me with my first unsolicited author endorsement, whose kindness and encouragement helped this fledgling writer believe that maybe, just maybe, I could write stories that readers might enjoy. Thank you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  By Lorraine Heath

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Havisham Hall, Devonshire

  Spring 1882

  Killian St. John, Viscount Locksley, strode past the silent sentinel standing in the hallway without giving the oak inlaid clock much thought. He’d been six when he’d first learned that the hands were supposed to move, that the clock’s purpose was to mark the passage of time. But with the death of Locke’s mother’s, for his father at least, time had come to an abrupt standstill.

  When a child doesn’t know any differently, he accepts what he knows as the absolute truth for how things are done. He had believed the only rooms that servants of any household ever tidied were the ones in use. At Havisham Hall they straightened the bedchamber in which he slept, the small dining room in which he ate, the chambers occupied by his father, and the library in which his father sometimes worked at his desk. The remaining rooms were mysteries shrouded behind locked doors.

  Or they had been before the Duke of Ashebury and the Earl of Greyling, along with their wives, were killed in a horrific railway accident in 1858. Shortly afterward their young sons had been brought to Havisham Hall to become the wards of his father. With their arrival so, too, had arrived all manner of knowledge, including the confirmation that his father was stark raving mad.

  Now Locke entered the small dining room and came to an abrupt halt at the sight of his sire sitting at the head of the table, reading the newspaper that the butler dutifully ironed each morning. Normally the older man took his meals in his chambers. More astonishing, his usually disheveled white hair had been trimmed and brushed, his face shaven, and his clothes pressed. Locke couldn’t recall another time when his father had taken such care with his appearance. On the rare occasion when he wandered out of his sanctuary, he more closely resembled a scraggly scarecrow.

  With Locke’s arrival, the butler poured coffee into a delicate bone china cup before departing to retrieve his plate. As customarily he was the only one to dine in this room, he kept his meals simple and small. No sideboards with assorted offerings from which to choose. Just a plate bearing whatever fare Cook was of a mind to prepare brought up from the kitchens.

  His father had yet to notice him, but then the lord of the manor tended to spend much of his day and night absorbed in his own private world where memories of happier times flourished.

  “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” Locke said as he took his seat, striving to shake off his lingering concerns over the estate’s dwindling finances. His apprehensions had rousted him before dawn and resulted in his sequestering himself in the library for more than two hours searching for an answer that continued to elude him. He’d decided sustenance was needed to sharpen his mind. “What prompted your change in routine?”

  His father turned the inked page, rattled his newspaper, then straightened it with a snap of his wrist. “Thought it best to get up and moving about before my bride arrived.”

  His cup halfway to his mouth, Locke slammed his eyes closed. His father’s memories had become increasingly foggy of late, but surely he was not sitting there awaiting his mother’s arrival; surely he didn’t believe it was his wedding day. Opening his eyes, returning the cup to its saucer, Locke studied this odd fellow whom he loved in spite of all his eccentricities. He looked like any other lord beginning his day. Unlike any other lord, however, he believed his dead wife haunted the moors.

  The butler returned and set the plate heaped with eggs, ham, tomatoes, and toast in front of Locke. Before he could return to his station at the wall, Locke looked up at him. “Gilbert, did you assist my father in dressing this morning?”

  “Yes, m’lord. As he has no valet, I was more than honored to handle the duties.” He leaned down and whispered, “He insisted upon bathing as well, m’lord, and it’s not even Saturday.” He raised his white bushy eyebrows as though that was grand news indeed, then straightened his spine, seeming rather proud of the fact that he had bathed the marquess midweek.

  “Do you know why he went to such bother?”

  “Yes, m’lord. He’s getting married this afternoon. Mrs. Dorset is preparing the wedding feast as we speak and Mrs. Barnaby was up early cleaning the front parlor, since the vows are to be exchanged there. It’s a splendid day indeed, to once again have a lady taking up residence within Havisham.”

  Only there was no lady except in his father’s twisted and demented mind. “Has she a name?”

  “I’m rather certain she does, m’lord. Most do.”

  Locke had long ago learned that patience was required when dealing with the few staff members who had remained through the years. Positions were never replaced with newcomers, but as deaths or retirements occurred so others had moved up in rank. Nevertheless, perhaps it was time to consider hiring a younger butler, except it was difficult to envision Havisham Hall without Gilbert at the helm. He’d been the under-butler before taking over when the previous butler passed in his sleep nearly twenty years ago. Besides, few were better suited to working with and accepting the strangeness that went on within these walls. “Would you happen to know what it is?” Madeline Connor, perhaps? My mother?

  “If you want to know about my bride,” his father snapped, folding up his newspaper and slapping it down on the table, “why don’t you ask me? I’m sitting right here.”

  Because he didn’t relish the sorrow that would overtake his father when he realized the truth of the matter: his bride had been gone for thirty years now. She’d perished the night she’d fought so valiantly to bring his only child into the world.

  “When does she arrive?” he asked indulgently, out of the corner of his eye watching Gilbert retreat to his corner.

  “Around two. The wedding will take place at four.” He lifted his hand, wiggled his gnarled fingers. “I wanted to give her a bit of time to get to know me.”

  Odd that. His parents had met as children, fancied each other from the start, at least according to his father. He arched a brow. “So you don’t know her?”

  He lifted a slender shoulder. “We’ve corresponded.”

  It occurred to Locke there could be something remarkably more upsetting than his father believing he was residing thirty-odd years in the past and on the cusp of marrying Locke’s mother. “Pray tell, what is her name?”

  “Mrs. Portia Gadstone.”

  Locke couldn’t help but stare. This development was worse, far worse, than he’d anticipated. “A widow, I presume.”

  “No, Locke,
I’m taking to wife a woman who already has a husband. Think, boy. Of course she’s a widow. I don’t have time for skittish girls who require patience and educating. I want a woman who knows her way well around a man’s body.”

  He could scarce believe that he was having this ridiculous conversation with his father. “If sexual gratification is what you’re seeking, I can bring you a woman from the village. Why go to all the bother of marriage?”

  “I need an heir.”

  Although it was unseemly for a lord to drop his jaw, Locke did so anyway. “I’m your heir.”

  “With no plans to marry.”

  “I never claimed I wouldn’t marry.” He insisted he would never love. Knowing his father had descended into lunacy after losing the love of his life, he had no desire whatsoever to give any woman his heart and risk traveling the same path.

  “So where is she, this woman you will wed?” his father asked, looking around as though he expected her to materialize in a corner at any second. “You reached your thirtieth year two months ago. I was married at twenty-six, a father at thirty. Yet you’re still out sowing wild oats.”

  Not as much as he once had, and if he took his responsibilities any more seriously he was likely to go mad as well. “I will marry. Eventually.”

  “I can’t take that chance. I require another heir. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let my greedy cousin Robbie and then his drunkard of a son inherit. I’ll not have my title traveling down that branch of our family tree, I promise you. And neither is Havisham Hall. You’ll inherit first, yes, but when you draw your last, your brother, at least thirty-some-odd years your junior depending upon the fertility of this girl’s womb, will be around to step in. Hopefully he won’t have your aversion to marriage and will already have the next heir lined up.”

  His father was breathing heavily as though he’d run around the room while delivering his diatribe. Locke came to his feet. “Father, are you ill?”

  He waved his hand. “I’m tired, Locke, I’m simply tired, but I must secure my legacy. I should have married before now, provided a spare. But I was encumbered by grief.” He sank against the back of the chair as though little strength remained to him. “Your mother, bless her, should have gone on to her just reward instead of waiting around here for me.”

  Statements such as that one always tore at Locke, made dealing with his sire that much more challenging. His mother wasn’t out on the moors waiting. His father simply refused to let her go.

  “I will marry, Father. I will provide an heir. I won’t let your titles or your estates go to Cousin Robbie. I simply have to find the right woman first.” A woman with a churlish disposition he could never, ever love.

  “Mrs. Portia Gadstone could be the one, Locke. I daresay, if you like her when we meet her, I shall be a gentleman, step aside, and give you my blessing to marry her this very afternoon.”

  As though Locke were open to that happening. Unfortunately for Mrs. Gadstone, when she arrived, he would be showing her right back out the door.

  The Marquess of Marsden is in need of a strong, healthy, fertile woman to provide an heir. Send queries care of this publication.

  As the coach bounced over the rough road, Portia Gadstone folded up the advert she had clipped from the newspaper and slipped it back into her reticule. Turning her attention to the bleak countryside she reflected that it wasn’t nearly as bleak as her life. Agreeing without compunction or remorse to marry a man whom all of London knew to have lost his sanity pretty much said it all.

  Her life was in shambles, she was penniless, and she had nowhere else to turn.

  But marriage to the marquess suited her plans beautifully. Havisham was a large estate in Devonshire at the edge of Dartmoor. Isolated. No one ever visited. The marquess never left. It was unlikely that anyone would think to look for her there. But if they did, she would be a marchioness, a woman who had gained power—power she was willing to wield if necessary, to protect herself and all she loved.

  The marquess had sent her funds for her journey, but fearing discovery of her escape, she’d purchased neither railway nor coach ticket, opting instead to travel in a mail coach. The driver, a big burly fellow, was kind enough, didn’t bother her, and hopefully, after delivering her to her destination, would forget he’d ever set eyes on her.

  Reaching into her reticule she removed a hard peppermint sweet from a paper sack and popped it into her mouth. She’d been traveling for far too long, was tired and hungry, but nothing good ever came of complaining. Best to just get on with the task no matter how unpleasant it might be, and she was fairly certain that today would be filled with naught but unpleasantness. But she would push through and ensure the marquess never regretted taking her to wife.

  As they rounded a curve, she saw the monstrous building—black as Satan’s soul, with towers, turrets, and spires reaching for the heavens—looming before her, growing larger each time the horses’ hooves hit the ground. It could be no other than Havisham Hall. A chill skittered down her spine. If she had any other choice—

  Only she didn’t.

  With her marriage to the marquess she would step into the aristocratic circle. Marchioness of Marsden. She would garner respect simply because of her position at his side. And the child she delivered to him would be safe, under his protection.

  No one would dare harm the child. No one would dare hurt her.

  Ever again.

  Standing at an upper-floor window, gazing out on the drive, Locke laughed aloud at the scene below him. She’d arrived in a mail coach. A mail coach, for God’s sake. Could this farce get any more ludicrous?

  He couldn’t get a good impression of her. She seemed rather small, petite. Ample curves. She wore black. That didn’t bode particularly well for the success of a marriage. A ridiculously large black hat covered her head, a veil draped over her face. He thought she might have dark hair. Difficult to tell.

  The burly driver struggled to get a large trunk down from the top of the coach and set it at the woman’s feet. He tipped his hat, climbed back up to his seat, and was gone. No one tarried at Havisham.

  She spun on her heel and began marching with purpose toward the residence. Locke dashed down the stairs. He had to put an end to this madness posthaste.

  A banging echoed through the foyer just as he reached it. She was certainly determined to make use of the knocker. He swung open the door. She’d lifted the veil, and he found himself staring into the most unusual shade of eyes he’d ever seen. The color reminded him of whiskey, full of temptation, intoxicating, and threatening to bring a man to ruin.

  “I’m here to marry his Lordship,” she said in a throaty voice that caused everything below his waist to come to immediate attention. Damn it all to hell. Instead of securing a village wench for his father, he should consider securing one for himself. Obviously he’d gone too long without a woman if it took merely her voice to get a rise out of him. “Fetch my trunk.”

  Straightening, he drew himself up to his full height, which had him fairly towering over her. “You presume me to be the footman?”

  She gave him a slow once-over that caused his skin to tighten as though her fingers were trailing along wherever her eyes touched. When her perusal was complete, she turned up her pert little button of a nose. “Butler, footman, it doesn’t matter to me. Trunk needs to be brought in. Bring it in.”

  “You also presume that Lord Marsden is going to give you one look and still wish to marry you?”

  “I have a contract with him. He’ll be marrying me or he’ll pay a pretty penny.”

  His father might have mentioned that little fact. Obviously Locke had misjudged all the trouble his father could stir up from within his chambers. He’d thought he did little more than gaze longingly out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of his love frolicking over the moors.

  “My dear,” his father announced, suddenly at Locke’s side, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it, even as he managed to artfully skirt her past Locke and i
nto the foyer. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”

  Lowering herself into a graceful deep curtsy, she smiled up at his father as though he were the answer to every childish wish she’d ever made. “My lord, I’m delighted to be here, more than I can say.”

  Locke narrowed his eyes. Why would anyone on God’s earth take any delight whatsoever in being delivered to hell’s small corner of the world? And yet there was an intriguing honesty to her tone that he couldn’t deny. Was she that good of an actress?

  “Locke, fetch her trunk, then join us in the parlor.”

  His father appeared absolutely besotted. Not good, not good at all if Locke had any hope whatsoever of squelching this arrangement. “I’ll join you in the parlor first. The trunk is perfectly safe where it is. No one is going to wander off with it, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to miss a single word of this conversation.”

  “You’re rather impertinent for a servant,” she chastised, with enough edge to indicate she was securing her position as mistress in the manor and reminding him of his place within it.

  “I would agree—if I were a servant. As I’m apparently to become your son before the afternoon is done, allow me to introduce myself: Killian St. John, Viscount Locksley, at your service.” He mockingly made a sweeping bow. She had to be as mad as his father. Or a woman intent on taking advantage of another’s madness. He’d wager on the latter. There was a calculating sharpness in those eyes. He didn’t trust them—or her—one whit.

  Again she curtsied deeply, elegantly, but for him there was no smile, no emotion whatsoever. The swiftness with which she’d donned her armor fascinated him, more so because she’d accurately judged him a threat. She was no fool, this one. “It’s a pleasure, my lord.”

  Oh, he very much doubted it would turn out to be that.

  “This way, my dear. We have very little time to get acquainted before the nuptials.” His father led her into the parlor, situated her in a plush chair near the fireplace. Dust rose up as she settled onto the plump cushion. So much for the housekeeper’s cleaning abilities.