“You’ve tensed up again,” he said.
“I’ve told you. I don’t know you well enough to know what to expect.”
“And I’ve told you to expect pleasure.”
“You’re taking your sweet time at delivering it.”
His heated mouth landed at the juncture where her shoulder met her neck. “We have all night, Lady Locksley.” He nibbled his way to her ear. “I want you wet, hot, and begging me to take you.”
A shiver of anticipation skittered along her spine. “Perhaps it will be you who begs, my lord.”
His tongue outlined the shell of her ear. “I’m counting on it.”
She jerked her head around, her gaze slamming into his. “You want me to make you beg?”
He grinned. “I want you to try.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “But not yet. Not until I’ve had the pleasure of removing your clothes.”
And her hairpins apparently, because he buried his fingers in her hair, removing them one after another, tossing them onto the floor without care. Facing forward, staring at the low fire burning in the hearth, she tried to make sense of this man. He wanted her. She had no doubt there, and yet he was drawing out the torment with a sweetness to it that she’d never before experienced.
As her hair tumbled down, he growled with satisfaction and gathered some of it up in his hands. “It’s been wanting to do that all day. And I’ve wanted to touch it. So thick and silky.”
“It’s unruly.”
“I like unruly.”
“Even in a wife?”
“That I can’t say, as I’ve only had one for a few hours. But I like unruly in my lovers.”
She hated the spark of jealousy that ripped through her, recognized the irony in her reaction. It wasn’t as though she was coming to him a virgin. “How many of those have you had?”
He slowly draped her hair over one shoulder and kissed the nape of her neck. “Enough to know how to bring you pleasure.”
Her eyes slid closed. It seemed his idea of pleasure involved a great deal of torment. His lips traveled across her shoulder, just before his fingers outlined her skin where it met cloth. How could so light a touch affect her so deeply, reach through her to the core of her womanhood? When she’d responded to the advert, she’d done so expecting a passionless coupling. She was hardly prepared for every sensation he was so effortlessly stirring to life.
She felt a tug on the lacings of her gown, was acutely aware of him pulling them completely free, so the material began to separate and was soon gaping. The gown was heavy enough that it began to fall from her shoulders. She jerked her hands to the bodice to hold it in place. Why didn’t he douse the lights?
Aware of him brushing by her, she opened her eyes to find him standing in front of her.
“Lower your arms,” he said quietly. Not an order exactly, and yet she didn’t think he’d brook any disobedience. She wanted an amicable marriage, no tempers flaring, no fists flying.
Balling her hands, she lowered them to her sides. With only a single finger of each hand, he nudged the shoulders of her gown over until the silk slid down her body. His eyes drifted to the swells of her breasts, and she saw heat mirrored in the green, even though she was still covered with her corset and chemise. And once again, he traced that blasted finger along the line where cloth met skin. She wanted to push her breasts up against his palms, wanted a sure touch, a complete touch, not this irritating teasing that was setting every nerve ending on fire.
“Turn around,” he ordered, and she took perverse satisfaction in the fact that he sounded as though he might be strangling. At least he wasn’t completely unaffected. When it was her turn to remove his clothing, she would go just as slowly, would insist upon it. Make him suffer.
Although now that she was facing the bed, staring at it, she didn’t know if she could go slowly. Her body was yearning for sure caresses, the hardness of his form pressing into the softness of hers.
A series of tugs as he loosened the lacings on her corset. Then it, too, fell away, leaving only the thin linen of her chemise. Once again he moved in front of her, his eyes darkened.
“I misjudged the size of your breasts,” he said. “They’re smaller than I thought.”
“Disappointed?”
He slowly shook his head. “No.”
He cupped her breast, and she couldn’t hold back the moan as she nearly sank to the floor, nearly grabbed his free hand and pressed it to her other breast. It felt so good to have the firm touch of his large palm, his fingers gently kneading as though to test the fullness of what she had to offer. She wanted to shout for him to rip everything else away, to take her to the bed, to take her.
This time when he began to trail his finger along the décolletage, he hooked it beneath the cloth, moving it aside, approaching the mound, and she knew his finger was going to graze her nipple—
A horrendous shout, an almost feral cry, startled her, had him cursing beneath his breath before marching to the window and jerking the drapery aside.
“What was that?” she asked.
He strode to the door. “Wait here.”
As though she was going to go somewhere in her half-dressed state. “What is it?”
But he was out the door, slamming it in his wake.
She scampered over to the window, pulled the heavy velvet drapery aside, and glanced out. A nearly full moon coated the land in blue, provided enough light that she could see a shadowy figure in the distance running over the moors. Then she caught sight of another figure. She recognized the shape of this one. It was her husband, racing from the house, obviously in pursuit of the person she could no longer see.
Had it been his father out there? It had to be. She couldn’t imagine Locksley rushing out after anyone else. What was the marquess doing out there, and what had he been shouting?
Although she’d heard the rumors, she hadn’t believed the Marquess of Marsden—since he wasn’t locked up in an asylum—was truly mad. It appeared she might have been mistaken.
Chapter 6
Locke didn’t know why he bothered to run. He knew exactly where he’d find his father, where he always found him eventually. At the Marchioness of Marsden’s grave.
Until tonight, he’d never understood why his father had insisted on burying his mother near a tree on their property instead of in the graveyard beside the church in the village where all his previous ancestors rested. But after hearing the tale at supper, he was left to wonder if it was that tree in which his father had first met the girl who would eventually become the love of his life.
When he saw his father nearing the grave, knew he was going straight there and wasn’t planning to wander about the moors, Locke slowed his gait, settled into a walk. The moon was bright enough that he hadn’t bothered with a lantern. He fought not to be irritated with the interruption. He’d certainly not wanted to abandon his bride, although he suspected curiosity had gotten the better of her and she’d glanced out the window to see father and son darting across the moors as though the hounds of hell were nipping at their heels.
No doubt by now she was beginning to realize the fate from which he’d saved her. He was still struggling to understand his rash decision to marry her. To protect his father, yes, but he could have done that by paying the exorbitant fee spelled out in the contract. Perhaps if the income from the mines were flourishing, if he didn’t have better uses for the money . . .
No, even then he would have been hard-pressed to hand over a small fortune to a scheming woman who had done nothing more than answer the advert of a madman. She’d no doubt expected to be paid off, although maybe she had in fact gained exactly what she’d sought. Difficult to tell with her. What he did know was that he’d left her smoldering as though she were kindling.
He could sense the awareness sparking every time he touched his skin to hers. It didn’t matter if it was nothing more than the tip of his finger. She reacted as though he’d laid his entire naked body against hers. He could hardly wait
until he actually did.
He wanted to go slowly, to savor, but damnation, more than once he’d come close to ripping off her clothes, then tearing off his own. He wanted her on her back, on that bed, staring up at him as he took her. With a groan, he shoved the musings aside. Time for all that later. Right now, he had to deal with his father.
As he neared the man lying prone over the grave, he could hear the sobs, the pleas. As though a dead woman had the power to pull him from this world into the next.
He didn’t think his father was in any real danger out here. There was the occasional adder and fox, but the creatures were more shy than aggressive. As a boy, Locke had once caught sight of a wolf—not that anyone believed him, as wolves weren’t known for roaming these parts. For a while he’d feared that he was as mad as his father, sighting creatures that didn’t exist. But surely if that was the case, he would have imagined seeing it again. The beautiful creature had mesmerized him.
So he didn’t expect to find his father attacked by some wild animal. But he was frail, and a night out on the moors could serve him no good.
Locke stood, waiting until the sobs diminished, but the laments continued on.
“Why won’t you come for me, Linnie? The boy is wed. He won’t be alone.”
So it was more than want of an heir that had prompted today’s theatrics.
“I’m ready. Come and take me.”
Grinding his teeth together, Locke fought not to hear the desperation in his father’s voice. Finally, when he could no longer stand listening to his father’s pleas, he knelt and rested his hand on the marquess’s shoulder. “Father, it’s time to return to the residence.”
“Why doesn’t she come? You’re married now. My job is done.”
So he’d been correct regarding today’s little drama. It had all been devised as a means to secure a wife for Locke.
“I just want to be with her again,” his father said.
“The fog is rolling in. The chill is going to seep into your bones. You’ll catch your death. We need to leave.”
“I can’t.” He released another sob, one that sounded as though it had been torn from his chest. “I can’t leave her again. She’ll come for me if I just stay here.”
No, Father, she won’t.
“We need to go,” Locke insisted.
“Leave me here. For God’s sake, this time just leave me here.”
“I can’t.”
“I can’t leave her, not again. Don’t make me.”
How many times had they had this conversation? How many times had Locke followed him out here? How many times had he waited until the dampness of the fog soaked through their clothes, chilled their bones? But now his father was too frail to stand up to nature’s harshness. With resignation, Locke cradled his father in his arms. Ignoring his feeble protests, he stood and began trudging back toward the manor.
Normally after his father retired, Locke secured the lock on the door to the bedchamber in which his father slept. Tonight his mind had been on Portia, on escaping into the haven her body offered. He’d overlooked how quickly his father’s mind could slip from reality.
His father didn’t fight him. The sobs diminished, retreated completely just as they reached the manor. Locke made his way down the various hallways and up the stairs. He strode into the master bedchamber and set his father on the bed.
“Let’s get you out of these damp and soiled clothes.” As Locke began removing them, his father barely responded, merely stared at the window.
“I miss her, Locke. I miss her dreadfully.”
“I know.”
“You can’t know. You’ve never loved a woman. You can’t understand how she can become a part of your soul, a part of your whole. When she is gone, she leaves behind an emptiness, a void that no one else—nothing else—can fill.”
Then he was glad not to love, not to give that much power to any one person.
When he had his father down to his drawers, Locke retrieved his nightshirt, slipped it over his head, and began working his rail-thin arms into the sleeves.
“Was I wrong to force you to marry?” the marquess asked.
“You didn’t force me. We could have paid her off. Or I could have allowed you to marry her.”
“You like her then?”
“I think she will prove an interesting distraction, and she is certainly comely enough.”
“Perhaps you’ll come to love her,” his father murmured, almost distractedly.
“No,” Locke assured him. “I married her because I know she is the sort I could never love.”
“How did you deduce that in the small bit of time you were with her?”
“She is a title hunter.”
“I think you’re wrong there. No doubt she is hunting for something, but I doubt very much that it’s a title.”
He didn’t like the uncertainty that slithered through him. He had judged her accurately. He was rather sure of it. “It doesn’t matter any longer. The deed is done.”
Finally, with the nightshirt in place, he lifted the covers. “Into bed with you.”
“Lock the door.”
“I will.”
“But open the window. Perhaps your mother will come visit with me later.”
No one was going to visit with him. Still Locke went to the window, turned the latch, and swung it open. It was too small for his father to crawl through—and even if he did manage it, the drop to the ground was a deterrent. While the marquess might pray for death, he wasn’t one to take his own life.
Returning to the bed, Locke tucked the covers around his father before lowering the flame in the lamp. “Good night, Father.”
He turned for the door and came up short at the sight of Portia standing just within the threshold. He wondered how long she’d been there, what she might have overheard. Not that it mattered. He’d been honest with her regarding why he’d married her. She’d be a fool to have illusions otherwise.
“Hello, my dear,” his father said.
“I wanted to make sure you were all right.” Her gaze darted between him and his father so he wasn’t quite certain upon whom she was checking. She’d changed into her nightdress. With her gown and petticoats gone, he could see that she was a bit more slender than he’d realized, seemed a bit more vulnerable. He shook off that thought. There was absolutely nothing vulnerable about the woman who had challenged him that afternoon.
“Fine, my dear. Just tired.” His father waved a hand. “Go on, Locke. See to your bride. I’ll wait here for your mother.”
Closing his eyes, he sighed as he shook his head. When he opened them, he wasn’t pleased to see the pity reflected in Portia’s expression.
“Sleep well, my lord,” she said before stepping into the hallway.
Joining her there, Locke closed the door and twisted the key.
“Is it safe to lock him in?” she asked.
“Safer than not. Gilbert will unlock it before the sun comes up.” He was taken aback by the concern in her eyes. Had he been asked, he’d have stated that she cared not one whit about anyone save herself, but she certainly seemed to have some trepidation where his father was concerned. “He’ll be fine. It’s better than having him out roaming over the moors. If he hadn’t shouted, we might not have known until morning, and who knows what sort of state he would have been in by then?”
“So he goes out often?”
He tilted his head. “I’m usually able to catch him before he makes it out the door. Tonight I was otherwise preoccupied.”
A lamp in the hallway provided enough light that he could see her blush. She straightened her spine, angled her chin. “I suppose we should get back to it.”
He wondered if it were possible for a woman to sound less delighted at the prospect of being bedded. Perhaps he’d been going a bit too slowly for her tastes. Once he had her clothes removed, she was going to be very glad to be with him. But first—
“After traipsing after my father, I’ll need a bath before
I rejoin you.”
He thought it was relief washing over her face until she said on a breathless sigh, “Oh, a bath would be lovely.”
He cursed himself for not considering that after her travels she might have preferred to do more than change her clothes. “I usually bathe in a room just off the kitchen. I could haul the tub up here—”
“No need for that. I’m perfectly happy to use whatever room is most convenient.”
He’d expected her to be more demanding, more insistent that she be pampered. He didn’t like these unanticipated aspects to her that he was discovering, wanted her to be precisely the sort of woman he had judged her to be: one who always put her own needs, wants, and desires first. “It’ll take me a while to get the water warmed. I’ll come for you when it’s ready, shall I?”
“You’ll do it yourself?”
“I’m not going to wake the elderly servants this time of night.” Truth be told, he always prepared his own bath, took care of most of his own needs.
“I don’t want you to go to that trouble for me, then.”
“No trouble. I need prepare only one bath. We’ll bathe together.”
There was that blush again, only this time it was a ruddier hue. It wasn’t very gentlemanly of him to take delight in making her blush, and yet he did. It made him want to smile and it had been a good long time since he’d honestly, completely smiled. Since there had been any true joy in his life. Not since his father’s wards reached their majority and moved back to their ancestral estates.
Oh, he had a jolly good time when he saw them in London or when they traveled, but the joy here—within this manor, on this land—was practically nonexistent. He’d been content with it. It was the way of things. Yet he suddenly felt this tiny spark of something he couldn’t quite identify, realized he might enjoy moments with her out of the bed as much as he was going to enjoy them in it.
Her gaze slowly roamed over him, and his body tightened in response to her perusal. When she did finally get around to touching him, he was likely to explode.
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 7