The Viscount and the Vixen

by Lorraine Heath

  Circling the room permeated with his sandalwood and orangey scent, she wasn’t surprised by the absolute masculinity of it, the dark woods of the furniture, the burgundy striped paper on the walls, the burgundy cloth covering the chairs and sofa before the fireplace. There was also a starkness to the setting. Only the minimum amount of furniture, no trinkets cluttering any surfaces to provide any insight into his tastes. She supposed that was telling enough regarding his preferences. He cared only for things that were useful. She would have to ensure he considered her useful.

  “There’s no dressing table,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  Turning, she discovered him leaning negligently against one of bedposts. “Most ladies require a dressing table in order to prepare themselves properly.”

  “I’ll see about having one ordered for you.”

  It was quite possible one was sitting unused in another bedchamber, but then as nothing was to be disturbed . . .

  “Thank you.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ll send Mrs. Barnaby up to assist you.”

  “I appreciate it. I shan’t tarry.”

  “Take all the time you need. The vicar’s not going anywhere and neither am I.” He headed for the door, stopped, glanced back to her. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  It had been too late before she’d ever arrived. “Your manner of courtship needs some work.”

  His laughter circled the room. “I think we’re going to get along, Portia.”

  “I hope so. It will make for long years if we don’t.”

  “We’ll be waiting for you in the library. Mrs. Barnaby can show you the way.”

  Then he was gone, leaving her alone with her misgivings. Opening her reticule, needing something familiar to help settle her, she snatched out a peppermint and popped it into her mouth. After placing her purse on the bed, she walked to the window and gazed out on the wildness of the land surrounding the manor. If the marquess never went out, perhaps she would be allowed to tame it. And surely in this massive manor, she could claim one small room as her own.

  She pressed her forehead to the glass, felt the tears threaten, and cursed her weakness to perdition. She was gaining what she wanted, just not the person with whom she’d hoped to gain it. Instead of a few years of marriage, she’d have a lifetime. It would be forever before she acquired her dower house, her independence. Whether or not she and the viscount got along, she knew the years ahead of her were going to be extremely long indeed.

  Striding into the library, Locke was greeted with the robust laughter of his father and the vicar. He really thought a man of God should be more solemn, but Browning was obviously enjoying the spirits the marquess had offered him. Both men were sitting in front of the fireplace, each holding a glass half filled with amber liquid.

  Locke went to the sideboard, poured himself two fingers of scotch, and joined them, pressing his shoulder against the mantel.

  Appearing far too merry, his father lifted his glass. “Cheers to the groom.”

  Taking a sip, Locke considered. “There is the small matter of the license.”

  His father patted his chest. “Special license right here.”

  Locke held out his hand. “May I?”

  His father reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out the folded paper, and handed it to Locke, who gave it a brisk snap to open it. “My name is on it.”

  The marquess didn’t even have the decency to appear contrite. “I’ve been after you for two years to marry. Can you blame me for nudging things along?”

  “And if I hadn’t been quite so gullible?”

  “I have a license in my name. I wasn’t going to break my promise to the girl that she’d marry today. Don’t look so disgruntled. You’re drawn to her, that much was obvious in the parlor. I’d wager you kissed her when you got her alone.”

  He’d never doubted his father’s sharpness, only his ability to remain in reality. “How much do you really know about her?”

  “She’s strong, healthy, and fertile. That’s all that’s required for her to provide you with an heir. You’ve imprisoned your heart, Locke. I know that, so whether you could love her was never a consideration.”

  Nor apparently was love a consideration for his little mercenary. “How many women responded to your advertisement?”

  “She was the only one.” He skewed up his face. “Seems I have a reputation for being mad. Makes me a risky prospect. Your mother wouldn’t have liked it anyway, my getting married. But she will be thrilled with the news that you’ve taken a wife.”

  The vicar had begun shifting in his chair, as though just realizing that everything within this household might not be quite right. Locke couldn’t recall him ever visiting. “You all right, Browning?”

  “Oh, yes, just considering that all this is rather unconventional.”

  “Have you not heard that the St. Johns are seldom conventional?”

  As though fearing he might have insulted them, he said, “The church does appreciate the new pews the marquess is providing.”

  So that was how he’d managed to get the vicar to agree to perform the marriage here. Should have known. Everyone had a price, including his lovely bride. He wouldn’t resent it, but neither would he ever feel any warmth toward her. He would view her as little more than a high-priced—

  Every thought in his head scattered as she strolled in wearing a gown of deep blue, sleeveless, revealing alabaster skin that the black had kept covered. Her neck was long, sloping down to delicate shoulders and the barest hint of swells that indicated he might have misjudged how her breasts would fill his hands. They were likely to overflow. He wanted to peel off the white gloves that rode past her elbows as slowly as she had peeled off the black. She’d tidied her hair in such a way that it demanded he mess it up.

  Before he crushed his glass, he placed it on the mantel. He wanted to sweep her up into his arms, cart her to his bedchamber, and have his way with her now, this very moment. The vows could be exchanged later. The sultry look she gave him told him that she knew the exact path his thoughts traveled.

  “Isn’t she a vision of loveliness?” Mrs. Barnaby declared.

  She was a vision of raw sensuality, and she damned well knew it. Ah, the little vixen. She fully intended to make him suffer until he could get her into bed.

  Oh, yes, they were going to get along splendidly.

  His long strides ate up the distance separating them. Taking her hand, he held her gaze as he pressed his lips to her gloved knuckles. “I approve.”

  She blinked slowly as a corner of her luscious mouth lifted. “I thought you might.”

  “Step aside, Locke,” his father said, shoving on his shoulder. “You’re not supposed to be this close to the bride until you’re exchanging vows. My son is a savage. Allow me to escort you to the parlor.”

  He certainly felt uncivilized, barbaric as his father offered her his arm and she placed her small, delicate hand on it. He consoled himself with the knowledge that as soon as the vows were exchanged, he was taking her to bed.

  Run, run, run!

  Her mind played the constant refrain as the marquess escorted her to the parlor. Feeling as though she were traversing through a nightmare, Portia fought to tamp down the trembling that threatened to erupt at any moment. Never in her life had she seen such unbridled hunger in a man’s eyes. When Locksley had taken her hand, pressed his lips against it, it didn’t matter that she wore gloves. The heat emanating from him was such that she felt scorched.

  As they entered the foyer, she knew if she were smart, she’d head straight out the door. She was no novice to men when it came to what they were capable of, but she suspected nothing in her experiences had prepared her for what Locksley would deliver. She’d thought being provocative would give her the upper hand, and all it had done was cause her to realize that she might be completely out of her element with him.

  Even now, she felt his gaze boring into the nape of her neck, traveli
ng across her bared shoulders, sliding down to her hips, back up. His hands would no doubt be taking the same journey after nightfall. Why, why, why hadn’t she read the contract more carefully? Why hadn’t her solicitor pointed out its flaws? Why did the viscount have to be so protective of the marquess?

  As they entered the parlor, Marsden held her back while the vicar went to stand in front of the fireplace. Locksley joined him there. He dwarfed the other man. She didn’t want to consider how later tonight he might dwarf her. Swallowing hard, she bucked up her resolve not to let his size or his demeanor intimidate her. Hearing the patter of feet, she turned to see three servants scurry into the room. All appeared to be only slightly younger than Marsden.

  “Allow me to introduce my staff,” the marquess said. “They’ll serve as witnesses. Gilbert, our head butler, Mrs. Dorset, our cook, and of course, you’ve met Mrs. Barnaby.”

  They bowed, curtsied, smiled brightly, seemed completely at ease as though this were an everyday occurrence.

  “A pleasure,” she muttered, striving to wrap her head around the fact that this was happening, while wondering if ever there had been a stranger assortment of guests for a wedding.

  “I brought you these.” Mrs. Dorset extended a handful of wilted flowers, her smile bright with hope. “A bride ought to have flowers. I picked them myself from the meadow.”

  “Thank you. They’re lovely.”

  The woman curtsied before stepping back into line. Marsden led Portia over to the vicar, waited while she mentally gauged her distance to the door and had a final wild thought that she should make a dash for it.

  Browning cleared his throat. “Who gives this bride?”

  “I do,” Marsden announced, placing her hand on Locksley’s arm before stepping back once and over so he was now standing by his son, apparently serving as his best man.

  The vicar waxed on about the sanctity of marriage, as though neither she nor Locksley truly understood the significance of what they were doing, as though what was happening wasn’t an utter and complete farce. Each word pounded into her as though delivered with a sledgehammer. If she were decent, she’d stop this outrageousness, but then if she were decent, she wouldn’t be here at all. She kept her gaze focused on Locksley’s neck cloth, on how perfectly it was knotted. So much easier than looking into his eyes, seeing the accusation there, the disapproval because she’d sought to marry his father for gain—only what he thought she wished to gain wasn’t at all what she wanted to obtain.

  After the vicar recited the vows she was to repeat, she opened her mouth, only to find Locksley’s finger beneath her chin, scorching her as he lifted her head until she met his gaze. Why the devil didn’t the man have the decency to wear gloves for such a solemn occasion?

  “Don’t make your vows to my neck cloth.”

  “I wasn’t planning to.” She took no comfort in it being one of the smallest lies she’d told this day. Why did he have to make the moment so much more difficult by insisting that they look at each other as they exchanged vows?

  “Repeat the words for her, Browning,” he ordered.

  “I remember them,” she shot back, hating the way he studied her as though he expected her to engage in some nefarious behavior. Even knowing she should walk away, she couldn’t seem to make her feet move from this spot. It was more than his fingers and his eyes holding her captive. It was the absolute authority he wielded. He would never yield to another. He would defend what was his. She knew it with absolutely certainty, and once they were married, she would be his.

  She should have negotiated better terms than an allowance and the daytime belonging to her, but it was too late now. After all her careful planning and scheming, when it had mattered the most, she had given in far too easily. But she wouldn’t regret it, not when she was gaining her ultimate goal.

  Calmly, and with a voice far steadier than she felt, she reiterated the phrases, grateful that noticeably absent was any reference to love, that at the very least the promises they were making were honest, not hypocritical. She would cherish, honor, and obey, in sickness and in health, until death.

  Still she was unprepared for the same vows being repeated in his strong, deep voice, with his eyes boring into hers as though he wanted them branded on her very soul. Finally, his finger dropped from her chin, but even with it no longer supporting her, she couldn’t seem to make herself look away from him.

  “Have we a ring?” the vicar finally whispered.

  “Ah, yes.” Marsden patted his pockets, one after another as though he’d forgotten where he’d placed it. “Here ’tis.” He handed it to Locksley. “Your mother’s.”

  With his words, Portia’s gut clenched with such force and so painfully that she very nearly doubled over.

  “Are you certain about this?” Locksley asked quietly.

  “Quite.”

  Solemnly, he turned to Portia, took her hand—

  She balled up her fist. “I can’t.” She looked at Marsden, at the hope and joy reflected in eyes as green as his son’s. “You loved your wife. Your son and I don’t love each other. This is simply a marriage of extreme convenience. You can’t truly want me to wear her precious ring.”

  “Linnie wants you to wear it. I shared your letters with her. She approves of you.”

  Oh, God, he truly was mad. Perhaps Locksley was not only saving his father from her, but saving her from his father. Although the viscount cared not one whit about her, so why would he care if she was saddled with a madman? “Talk some sense into your father,” she implored Locksley. “Tie a piece of string around my finger. That’ll work just as well.”

  “Once he’s determined his course, there is no talking any sense into him.”

  “But it makes a mockery of what they shared.”

  “No, it doesn’t, my dear,” Marsden said. “It’s a testament to our belief that you’ll be a true and good wife to our beloved son.”

  Only she wasn’t good. If she had been, she wouldn’t have been brought to this moment. If she was good, she’d walk away.

  Locksley squeezed her hand. “Unfurl your fingers.”

  “You can’t want to do this.”

  “Neither did I wish to get married today, yet here I am. Open your hand and let’s get this done.”

  Reluctantly she did as he bade, watched as he slid her glove down her arm, over her hand, before passing it on to his father. Taking a deep breath, he guided the ring of tiny diamonds and emeralds onto her finger. It fit perfectly, which for some reason made it all the worse. She felt the extreme weight of it, the warmth it had absorbed from his skin as he’d held it.

  “With this ring, I thee wed,” he said solemnly.

  She lifted her gaze to his, the magnitude of what they’d just done making it difficult to draw in breath. She was married. To Viscount Locksley. Not at all what she had schemed to occur. She had an insane urge to apologize, to tell him she was sorry. She would be as good and true a wife as she could be, but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t eventually come to hate her. That she might even come to hate herself.

  “I now pronounce you Lord and Lady Locksley. You may kiss the bride.”

  Her husband—her husband!—lowered his head, giving her what she assumed would be the very last chaste kiss he would ever bestow on her. His mouth brushed lightly over hers as though there had been no passion between them earlier. He’d barely stepped back before Marsden was bussing his lips over her cheek.

  “Welcome to the family. I can’t tell you how happy you’ve made me this day.”

  She wished she could claim happiness as well. Then she found herself surrounded by the servants, pumping her hand, hugging her, offering congratulations.

  But as she looked over her shoulder at her husband, he was staring at her as though he’d just discovered something about her that he’d rather not know.

  Chapter 5

  Locke hadn’t been able to whisk his bride up to his bedchamber following the ceremony because Mrs. Dorset had prepare
d a feast that would spoil if not served immediately. At the table in the small dining room, he sat across from his father, with his wife—his wife!—to Locke’s left near his cold heart, and the vicar to his right.

  As he sipped his wine, he considered the possibility that his mercenary wife apparently was in possession of a conscience. It had surprised him beyond all measure when she had questioned accepting the ring. He’d expected her to take one look at the sparkling jewels and salivate. But she hadn’t. She wasn’t comfortable with it. Even now in between courses, she fiddled with it, rotated it as though she wished she could remove it.

  He didn’t think it was because it symbolized she was married. It was because it symbolized love and between them there was none, not even a glimmer. Nor would there ever be. They both knew it.

  “Where does your family hail from, Lady Locksley?” Browning asked, and she flinched ever so slightly, obviously not yet comfortable with the address.

  Another surprise. He’d have thought she’d embrace it, insist on him addressing her as such.

  “Yorkshire,” she said quietly.

  “The Earl of Greyling’s family estate is in Yorkshire,” Locke said, wondering why he hadn’t thought to pose the same question to her earlier in the day. But then at the time he hadn’t cared from whence she’d come. He’d cared only that she depart with all due haste. “Evermore.”

  For the first time since they’d taken their seats, she glanced over at him. He didn’t know why he took such satisfaction in finally having her attention. “I’m not familiar with it.”

  “You must notify Grey and Ashe of your wedding,” his father ordered. “Have them come visit. We’ll celebrate.”

  “I look forward to meeting your friends,” she said.

  “They’re more brothers than friends.” He’d been all of six when they arrived. They’d grown up together, shared adventures, mischief, and loss, the last creating a stronger bond between them than there might have been otherwise.

  “You’re very fortunate to have them then.”