Portia hesitated only a second before stepping over the threshold and onto the landing that led to the stairs descending into the musty-scented room. Cautiously, expecting the dull floor to give way beneath her feet with each step, she walked to the railing. She wanted to wrap her hands around it, allow it to provide some sort of support, but it was covered in a thick layer of dust. As far as she could see, everything was adorned in powdery film, decorated with lacy cobwebs. At the grimy windows that lined one wall, the faded red draperies were drawn back, revealing dust motes waltzing in the afternoon sunlight that filtered in to touch the vases filled with withered and dried stalks of flowers, their blooms long gone.
“On our way here, we passed several rooms with closed doors. Are they all neglected such as this one?” she asked softly, almost reverently. The setting seemed to call for quiet.
“Yes. After my mother passed, my father ordered that nothing be touched, that everything in the residence be left just as it was when she died.”
Trying to fathom what sort of impact growing up in a house like this might have on a lad, she looked over her shoulder at him. He stood tall and erect, his face reflecting no sadness, no happiness, no joy, no sorrow. He was accustomed to this bizarre attempt to keep everything as it was. “But nothing stays the same, nothing goes unchanged.”
“No, it does not.”
“You’re grown now. I have the impression you’re the one managing things. Why don’t you have the rooms tidied up, restored to what they were?”
“Because it would upset my father, just as hiring additional staff, having new faces walking through the residence, would unsettle him.”
So he lived in this dreary house filled with its empty memories. For his father. She couldn’t help but believe that he was a man capable of great love, great compassion. She had a fleeting thought that if she confessed all to him, he would make it right. What a silly lass she was to think he would look at her with anything other than disgust. No, she was on her own in this matter, had to see to her own needs, protect what was hers.
“You can’t compete with her, Mrs. Gadstone. My mother.”
“I have no intention of trying. I know what your father requires, what he wants of me. I accept what the limitations of our relationship shall be.”
“Why are you willing to settle for so little?”
Because it was her only opportunity to gain so much. “The son I give him will be a lord.”
“He will be the spare. He will not inherit until I die.”
In truth, she doubted he would ever inherit. Locksley would marry, gain his own heir. “Still, he will be Lord Whatever-We-Name-Him St. John. He will move about in the right circles, have opportunities, marry well. As for myself, I will be a marchioness, also move about in the right circles, and be very well provided for. He has promised me a dower house.” She looked over the railing. “May we go down?”
“If you like.”
It wasn’t so much that she liked, it was more that she needed to distract herself from the doubts that had begun to surface. If there was another way to save herself, she couldn’t see it.
He offered his arm; she nearly refused it, except she was averse to using the dusty and cobwebby banister. As he began leading her down the stairs covered in the faded red carpeting, she didn’t like noticing how sturdy he was, how strong. Or that he smelled of sandalwood tinged with oranges.
Once they reached the center of the room, she reclaimed her hand, turned in a slow circle, and imagined all this room had once been with an orchestra playing in the balcony, guests waltzing, Lord and Lady Marsden entertaining.
“What will you do after he’s gone?” she asked quietly.
“Pardon?”
Twisting around to face him, she realized by his blank expression that while he might consider his father old and shriveled, he hadn’t truly accepted that he was in the winter of his years, would not be here forever. “When your father dies, will you restore this manor to its magnificence?”
“I hadn’t given it any thought.”
He truly hadn’t. She could see it in his eyes, and she liked him for it. What must it have been like to grow up here, alone—
Only he hadn’t been alone. “The Duke of Ashebury and the Earl of Greyling were wards of your father, lived here when they were children.”
“That’s correct.”
“They refer to all of you as the Hellions of Havisham.”
He arched a dark brow, his gaze intensified as though he could see straight into her soul and read every story etched there. “It seems you already move about in the right circles.”
Damn it. She wasn’t being as cautious as she should be when speaking with him. “I read the gossip sheets.” Needing to distract him, she gave her full attention to the wall of windows, the glass doors that led outside. “May we go out onto the terrace?”
“I insist. It’s part of the tour.”
He led the way, flicked a bolt, and swung open the door. “After you.”
She stepped onto the stone veranda, wandered over to the wrought-iron railing, and stared at what had obviously long ago been gardens but had since been reclaimed by nature. Still here and there remained evidence that great care had once been taken with it. “No gardener.”
“No. Our outside staff is comprised of a head groomsman who also serves as coachman, and a couple of stable lads.”
“A pity. I so enjoy gardens and flowers. Does your father never leave the residence then?”
“Was the answer not provided in his correspondence?”
She shifted her gaze over to him. “I didn’t think to ask.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned his hip against the railing, painting quite the picture of raw masculinity. “I wonder what else you might not have thought to ask.”
“I was striving to make conversation, my lord. I don’t care whether he goes out. I obtained the answers to the questions that mattered to me.”
“Perhaps I should read your correspondence. I’d like to know what questions mattered to you.”
“I’m an open book, my lord.”
“I very much doubt that.”
“You are a suspicious sort.”
“Am I wrong?”
No, he wasn’t. She had secrets she would keep carefully guarded from him, from his father. She doubted the marquess would mind, but she suspected his son would care a great deal. Marsden merely wanted an heir. Locksley wanted to understand her. “I assume you go to London for the Season.”
She would welcome the months he was away.
“Occasionally. Not as often as I should. I don’t like leaving my father alone. Although it appears he can get into as much mischief when I’m here as he can when I’m gone.”
“With me about, you won’t be leaving him alone. You can go to London as much as you like. I’ve also heard you enjoy traveling. Where do you plan to venture off to next?”
“I haven’t journeyed anywhere in a couple of years now. Have no plans to in the near future.”
“But again, with me here, you’re free to do whatever you wish, go wherever you want.”
“Why am I left with the impression that you’re striving to be rid of me?”
Because she was and he was no fool. Still, she knew the value of a good bluff. “I’m simply trying to be a suitable mother to you. Give you some freedom. Lessen your burdens.”
Unfolding his arms, he stepped forward and touched his thumb to her lips, before very slowly outlining them, his gaze homed in on her mouth. Heat slammed into her. While he was only caressing the edges, it felt as though he was tracing his thumb along the very essence of her.
“I have to confess, Mrs. Gadstone, that I’m going to have a very difficult time viewing you as my mother.”
“You promised to behave.” Sounding breathless, her voice raspy, every aspect of her body attuned to his, she cursed him for his ability to stir to life what she was striving so hard to keep banked.
“So I did. But
you are not yet wed. It seems like we should at least have a taste of each other before you are.”
He moved in. Her hand shot up to the center of his chest, his firm hard chest. Beneath her fingers she could feel the steady thudding of his heart, the tension riffling through him. “No.”
His eyes became heavy lidded, slumberous. “Afraid you’ll like it too much?”
Terrified that she would indeed be enamored of it. Although he was no doubt testing her loyalty. “I’m betrothed to your father.”
He angled his head slightly. “Betrothed is a bit of a stretch, isn’t it? You answered an advert. It’s not as though he caught sight of you across a ballroom floor, became ensnared by your beauty, and courted you. Before today, you’d never met.”
“Still, we are to marry.”
“What can it hurt to simply have a sample?” In spite of her hand pushing on him, he managed to lean in until his breath skimmed over her cheek. “He’ll never know.”
“I’ll know.”
“So you are afraid. I’d wager you’re as aware of me as I am of you.”
“You’d lose that wager.”
“Prove it.” His lips, soft and warm, landed at the corner of her mouth. “Prove you’re not drawn to me, that there is naught between us.” He pressed his lips to the other corner. “Surely your resolve to marry my father will not be undone by one kiss.”
It was dangerous, so very dangerous. She needed to shove him away, knew it was the wise course, but her strength seemed to leave her while he nibbled on her lower lip. Her eyes slid closed as the heat swamped her. His tenderness took her off guard. It had been so long since anyone had shown her any tenderness, since anyone had enticed her with a light lapping at the seam of her mouth. She couldn’t prevent the moan from escaping, and in the sound he must have heard her surrender, because the gentleness receded and his mouth came down on hers, hot and hard, hungry and greedy. She should push him aside, kick him, step on his foot, but the awareness had been shimmering between them since he’d opened the door. He was young and virile. Where was the harm in one last kiss of youth, of being held in strong, sturdy arms, of having her breasts flattened against a firm, broad chest? Everything within her screamed that she should run. But his mouth was working its delicious, glorious magic.
And she melted against him.
Chapter 3
It was the very worst mistake he’d made in his life. Worse than the time he’d angered a tribal warlord by flirting with his daughter or gone swimming in the Nile and nearly become a crocodile’s main course or misjudged the weather and gotten caught in a snowstorm in the Himalayas.
He knew he’d made a grave error in judgment, egging her on until she finally opened her mouth to him and welcomed his assault. If he’d thought for one minute that his father held sincere affection for this woman, if he thought he viewed her as anything other than a means to an end, he wouldn’t have indulged, he would have kept his distance, would have been true to his word to remain a gentleman.
But those luscious lips that spouted such tart rejoinders, that tipped up only slightly when she smiled, that promised pleasure would be found within her arms, were simply too tempting for any mortal man to resist. He’d merely wanted a taste, one little taste, and then he could move on to a tavern wench this evening.
Only now he knew that was going to be nigh on impossible. She tasted of peppermint, and he suspected if he riffled through her reticule that he’d find a little stash of the hard sweets. She’d no doubt sucked on one just as she was now sucking on his tongue, driving him to distraction, causing him to clamp his arms around her all the tighter. She was bold, daring, as adventurous as he. His father wanted a woman who knew her way around a man’s body.
He had a feeling that Mrs. Portia Gadstone could turn a man inside out, wring him dry, and have him gratefully asking for more.
Tearing his mouth from hers, he stared down at her. Her eyes were heated, her breaths shallow. Shoving on his shoulders, she stepped back, leaned against the railing, and met his gaze head on as though she’d done nothing of which to be ashamed.
“I hope you enjoyed your taste, my lord. Once I’m wed to your father, there will be no more sampling of the goods.”
So cool, so calm, but the flush in her cheeks gave her away. She had not been as unaffected by the kiss as she was striving to appear. What had caused her to learn to shield her emotions like that? What had transpired to make her so wary of revealing how she truly felt?
She gave nothing away, this one. He doubted he’d learn anything about her by reading the correspondence, at least nothing that went below the surface. Every word she spoke was calculated to reveal only enough to satisfy. But then he, too, was a master at keeping his distance, giving little away. He wanted to know no one well, wanted them to know him even less. The heart was better protected that way. If no one mattered, no one could cause him to sink into despair. Protect his sanity at all costs, that was his mantra. “I assure you, you have nothing to worry over. I’d never cuckold my father. And married women have never been to my taste. I have no respect for those who engage in deceit.”
He thought he caught sight of the barest of flinches. Although perhaps it was simply relief washing through her to know that once the vows were exchanged he would give her a wide berth.
With a sigh, she glanced around. “I believe I’ve seen enough, Lord Locksley. Your father is no doubt beginning to worry. I should return to him.”
“Surely after such an intimacy, we can be a bit less formal. Please call me Locke.” He offered his arm.
“I believe I can make my own way.” As though to prove it, she charged forward, her heels clicking over the stones, then the wood as she crossed the threshold.
While he followed at a discrete distance, he enjoyed this view of her, the rigid set of her spine, the enticing swaying of her narrow hips. He closed the door to the terrace, followed her up the stairs, and began locking the entrance to the grand salon.
“Is that really necessary?” she asked. “With only adults living here, surely it is enough to simply tell them not to open the doors.”
After securing the door, he turned to her. “Apparently my mother’s ghost can’t travel through locked doors, so the more of them that are locked, the more likely it is that she will remain out on the moors.”
She gaped at him, her eyes rounded with surprise.
“Here now, in all the exchanged correspondence, did my father neglect to mention that the estate is haunted?”
“Surely you don’t believe that.”
“Of course I don’t. But he does. I’m sure once he’s visited your bed tonight that he’ll warn you to lock your door after he departs and to never sleep with a window open. Never go out on the moors at night. She’ll snatch you up.”
“Cautions to make young lads behave.”
“But I am no longer a young lad, yet the cautions remain.”
“I suppose I should be relieved then that I don’t believe in ghosts either.” Pivoting on her heel, she headed down the stairs.
He liked this view very much indeed, had to enjoy it while he could. He had told her true. He would not cuckold his father. Once they were married, he was going to avoid her as though she carried the plague.
He caught up to her in the foyer, with only a few inches separating them as she strolled into the parlor. His father was slumped in the chair, eyes closed.
Her hand went to her chest. “My God.” She turned to Locke, panic reflected in her eyes. “Is he dead?”
She seemed genuinely concerned, but then with his untimely death before the vows were exchanged, she would lose the dower house and anything else his sire had promised her. His father released a thundering snore. With a little screech, she hopped back.
Chuckling, Locke moved past her. “For someone who doesn’t believe in ghosts, you’re awfully skittish.”
“I feared he was dead.”
“Not yet; he’s simply prone to falling asleep at odd times.” He
knelt beside the chair, curled his hand around his father’s shoulder, and gave him a little shake. “Father, wake up.”
His father’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused, distant. “Is Linnie calling for me?”
His pet name for Locke’s mother, Madeline, who apparently had detested being called Maddie. “No.”
“Good. I have time to get ready for dinner. She despises when I’m late for dinner.”
“Mrs. Gadstone is dining with you this evening.” Easier to bring him into the present than crush him by making him face the truth of his past.
“Mrs. Gadstone? I don’t know a Mrs. Gadstone.”
Locke looked back over his shoulder and arched a brow at Portia. See what you’re getting yourself into?
She stepped in front of the marquess. “I’m Mrs. Gadstone, my lord. Portia Gadstone.”
His father’s face lit up, and he snapped his fingers. “Of course, of course. I remember now. Did you enjoy your tour of the residence, my dear?”
“It was very enlightening.”
Tactfully put, Locke thought.
“Take a seat and tell me all about it, but first where’s the vicar? He should be here by now.”
“I’m certain he’s on his way,” Locke assured him. If you did indeed inform him that he needed to be here. He was hoping he’d only done it in his mind.
Portia returned to her chair. Locke sat on the end of the couch, nearer to her this time, although he couldn’t comprehend why he wanted less distance between them. “Father, it occurred to me that it might be best to wait a few days before proceeding with the wedding, give Mrs. Gadstone an opportunity to become more accustomed to what her life here will entail.”
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 3