“Considering your immense size,” she said, “I don’t see how the two of us can fit together in the tub.”
“It’s a rather large tub.” It was one of the few indulgences he’d allowed himself. Specially made so he could stretch out in it. Although it took heating several caldrons of water to fill it, he never minded. He enjoyed taking a leisurely bath. He was going to enjoy it all the more with her in there with him.
She nodded. “I’ll need to put up my hair.”
“As I said, it’ll take a while to prepare it. I’ll come for you.”
Her lips lifted into the smallest of smiles. “I’ll be waiting.”
She spun on her heel, heading back toward his—their—bedchamber. Guilt pricked his conscience, made him uncomfortable. “Portia?”
She turned back to him.
Swallowing, he cleared his throat. “I don’t know how long you were standing there, what you might have heard—”
“I have no illusions regarding your opinion of me, my lord, or what it is you want from me. To be quite honest, I fully expected you to merely toss my skirt over my head and have your way with me. I’m quite relieved to discover you’re willing to give me some consideration.”
“You married me thinking I would force myself on you?”
“I married you knowing that women have very little say in how they are treated.”
He was not going to ask about her marriage. She’d said she loved the man. Surely he had not abused her. “I told you that you would find pleasure in my bed.”
“Men often lie, Lord Locksley. Or they overestimate their ability to . . . please.”
With such a poor opinion of men, why the devil was she here? “Yet you sought another marriage?”
“As I mentioned, I sought security.” That small smile again, as though she were amused by a private joke. “Men also tend not to listen when women speak. I’ll be waiting for you.”
When she walked away this time, he didn’t stop her. He wasn’t going to feel guilty because she was fully aware that for him, this arrangement was based on nothing more than the physical. Considering how little they cared for each other, he could probably dispense with the bath, but he wanted a long, leisurely coupling—and he wanted more than one before the night was done.
Turning on his heel, he headed down the stairs. He might have offered to bring his father a girl from the village, might have considered finding one for himself earlier in the day, but the truth was that he wasn’t in the habit of taking advantage of women in the area—even the willing ones. He had an obligation to see to their welfare, not to take advantage.
He acquired his pleasures in London and he hadn’t been there in a good long while. So he was quite looking forward to being intimate with his young bride, especially as she knew her way well around a man’s body. His father had the right of it there. No skittish female, but one who it seemed might be able to show him a thing or two.
Although he still hadn’t quite figured out how to take her upside down.
In the kitchen, he set three caldrons of water on the stove to begin heating before going into what had long ago been designated as the bathing room. He filled the copper tub halfway. Once the water on the stove began boiling he’d pour it into the tub. He liked his bath hot, steaming. He wondered if it would be agreeable to his wife.
His wife.
Barking out his laughter, he wondered how it was that term came to be associated with him. Bending over, he spread his arms wide, grabbed either side of the tub, and laughed again. Normally he was not prone to rash decisions, and he’d certainly not awoken that morning intending to be married by day’s end.
Yet it had come to pass. What the hell had he been thinking? He couldn’t deny that she was a fetching wench and he hadn’t minded the notion of having her in his bed. But to take her as his wife when he knew absolutely nothing about her except that he could never love her?
He should have paid her off. With a bit of effort, he could have bargained her down to a reasonable amount. Only he hadn’t wanted to bargain with her. Devil take him. He didn’t know if he’d ever met a woman with as much backbone and daring as she. He’d wager the tin mines that she’d not truly expected to marry, that she had come here hoping to walk away with a tidy sum.
He’d wanted to best her, with her arrogance and her ability to look at him as though she knew precisely how badly he wanted to possess her. More the fool was he.
So why hadn’t he simply tossed up her skirts and taken her? Because he wanted her as wet and eager for him as he was hard and desperate for her. There may be nothing between them except the physical, but by God he was going to make the most of that. He was going to torment and torture her. He was going to have her begging him to plow into her.
His laughter, harsh and deep, echoed around him. He could have had all that without marrying her. She wasn’t immune to him. The few moments they were together on the terrace proved that. He could have convinced her to walk away with a paltry sum.
Only he hadn’t wanted her to walk away.
That was the truth of it, and he could no more explain why than he could decipher where exactly they’d find veins of tin hidden within the earth.
Shaking his head, he pushed himself up. He was married years before he’d planned, to a woman he had no interest in knowing. Not true. He did want to know her. Her breasts, her shoulders, the haven between her thighs. He wanted to become familiar with her cries of pleasure, her hands stroking him, her tightness enveloping him.
But a bath first.
He poured only one pot of boiling water into the tub. It heated the water to a comfortable temperature. He’d save the others until he discovered how hot she liked her bathwater. Considerate of him.
As he started to leave the room to fetch her, he stopped, glanced back at the Spartan surroundings. A wooden bench he used to pull on his boots, some pegs on the walls where he hung the clothes not in use. Not the most romantic of places. They wouldn’t consummate their relationship here, but they could certainly reveal themselves, taunt and tease each other—
Damnation. He was going to let her enjoy her bath alone. Wooing a woman beside a kitchen was no wooing at all. Not that she required wooing. She was his wife, but he was well aware that the first time they came together would set the tone for their marriage. He wanted pleasant, enjoyable, heated evenings with his little mercenary.
But when he arrived in his bedchamber, he discovered her curled on her side asleep on top of the covers, as though she’d merely meant to relax for a bit while waiting for him. One hand rested beneath her cheek, the other was pressed flat, almost protectively, against her stomach—the place where his child would grow within her. The babe who would make his father happy. His heir.
The weight of that landed heavily on his chest. He had planned to marry, had planned to provide an heir. Just not for a while yet, but he couldn’t fault his father for pushing him. Ashe and Grey already had their heirs. It was time he did as well.
As quietly as possible, he eased closer to the bed and studied his wife. In sleep, she seemed younger, more innocent, but a woman with her tart tongue could not be wholly innocent. For the first time he wondered what her marriage had been like, how her husband may have treated her. She’d loved the man.
She’d never love Locke.
He was unprepared for the pang that thought brought with it. He didn’t need love, didn’t want it, and he most certainly wasn’t going to give it. It angered him that he was suddenly quite curious about her. He had no interest in her except for the surcease she would provide to his body and the heir she would give him. An heir and a spare.
An image flashed of a little ginger-haired girl looking up at him with whiskey eyes. He didn’t want a daughter. He didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want anything that challenged his sanity. It was best not to care, to become lost in work, in managing the estates, in seeing to his duty.
His duty required that he plant his seed in this woman. He would do it
as unemotionally as possible. He would ensure that she never had any doubt regarding the strict businesslike tone of their relationship. He was going to use her just as she’d planned to use his father. For gain, to acquire what he needed. Other than that, she could go to the devil.
She could also bathe in the morning. It had grown late. No sense in waking her now. He didn’t want a lethargic coming together.
Reaching across her, he grabbed the blankets and folded them over her. Holding his breath, he watched as she wiggled, settled beneath the covers, and he fought not to envision her wiggling and settling in beneath him.
Spinning on his heel, he headed for the bathing room, hoping to hell that the water had cooled, because now he was in desperate need of a frigid bath to douse his desires.
Chapter 7
Portia couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so deeply, so soundly. Feeling completely rested was almost enough to make her believe she was safe. With a low moan and a languorous stretch she slowly opened her eyes to a room awash in faint light and her husband at the washstand, slowly guiding a straight razor up his neck and over his chin.
He wore only trousers. Her mouth went dry as she took in the sight of his broad shoulders and muscled back. She’d seen and felt the evidence that he didn’t spend his days lounging about, but still the perfection of his bronzed physique was a bit unsettling. Not an ounce of excess marred him. He was all corded muscle, ropy sinew, and strength. She was quite mesmerized observing the play of his muscles as he shaved.
“You’re awake, I see.” His deep voice sliced through the quiet.
Her gaze slammed into his, reflected in the oval mirror hanging above the washstand, and she wondered how long he might have been watching her. Her cheeks warmed.
“You didn’t wake me for my bath.”
“Seemed cruel.” He tipped his head back, began scraping up the other side. “You seemed lost to the world. A bath is waiting for you when you’re ready. It won’t take Mrs. Barnaby any time at all to warm it.”
Taking a deep breath, she tried to regain her equilibrium. “I suppose you’re coming back to bed.”
She was grateful the words came out strong and forceful, giving no hint whatsoever that she was quivering with the thought of him shucking those trousers and climbing on top of her.
A corner of his mouth hitched up, his gaze never leaving hers, even though the razor began to move along his jaw. “The sun is up. I missed my chance.”
Even knowing that the room wasn’t lit with candles, she sat up and stared at the window. It couldn’t be much past dawn. Her gaze fell on the pillow beside hers. Indented from where his head had rested on it. He’d slept with her, but she was in a cocoon of blankets. He couldn’t have touched her if he’d wanted.
She jerked her gaze back to him. “But we must consummate the marriage.”
Running the towel over his face, he turned from the mirror, his grin broadening. “Anxious to have me, are you?”
“I simply want to ensure that everything is legal, that you can’t annul this marriage on a whim.”
She hated the way he scrutinized her, as though he had the means to explore her soul, every hidden nook and cranny of it. He angled his head to the side. “Am I going to learn something today to make me want to undo this marriage?”
“No, of course not.” Hopefully he’d never learn of it. She’d do all in her power to ensure he didn’t. “But as I mentioned yesterday, I sought marriage for security. I can’t feel secure if you can claim that I have not seen to my wifely duties.”
“Duties?” With a shake of his head, he reached for his shirt draped over a straight-backed chair. “You’ve convinced me that we must wait for tonight as it appears I’ll need more time than I thought to ensure you don’t view our coupling as a duty.” He shrugged into the shirt, began buttoning it.
She scrambled out of bed. “You can take all the time you want now.”
“Alas, my dear wife, I have responsibilities that require I go to the mines today. This evening will be soon enough.”
It would be. She knew that. She was being silly to worry over this one aspect. What would one more day hurt? Besides, it would give her a chance to grow accustomed to the notion that she would be bedded by a young, virile, and exceedingly masculine husband rather than a bent and wrinkled one. She could shore up her defenses so she didn’t give the impression that he had the ability to control her with a touch.
He snatched up his neck cloth.
“You don’t have a valet,” she said. A statement not a question.
“You met all the indoor servants.”
She crossed over to him and lightly slapped his hands aside. “I’ll do it.”
“I hadn’t considered this advantage to having a wife.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Teasing. There’s a difference.”
“Yesterday you didn’t strike me as one who would tease.”
“You didn’t strike me as one who would do for others.”
She lifted her gaze to his, once more unsettled by how thoroughly he seemed to be studying her. “It seems we were both wrong.”
She patted the knot. “There.” And snatched up his waistcoat.
He turned for the mirror, lifted his chin slightly. “You did an excellent job.”
“I used to do them for Montie.” Holding out the waistcoat for him, drawing it up over his arms, onto this shoulders, she grimaced at the slip of her tongue. He was far too distracting, but with any luck perhaps he hadn’t paid any attention to her words.
He faced her. “Montie?”
It seemed luck wasn’t going to favor her today. She began buttoning up the black silk. “My husband.”
“Do you miss him?” A muscle jumped in his jaw as it tightened, making her think he wished he’d bitten back the question.
“No,” she answered honestly, picking up his jacket, holding it up so he could turn and slip his arms inside. Only he didn’t turn.
“I thought you loved him.”
“I did. Just not so much at the end.” She didn’t know what had possessed her to admit that. She’d hated Montie by the end. Despised him once she discovered the hurt he was capable of inflicting, realized he wasn’t deserving of her affections.
For a moment, it appeared Locksley might say something else, express his sorrow that the love had not been long lasting. Instead, he merely presented his back. She nearly laughed at her foolishness for thinking he might have cared one whit that her heart had been broken with such callous disregard.
The day before, Locksley had claimed to have no interest in love. Truthfully neither did she. It had stolen away her family and brought her to ruin, still had the ability to destroy her and wreck what she was striving to accomplish if she wasn’t careful.
The jacket went into place beautifully, obviously tailored expressly for him. There was no reason to, and yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself from gliding her hands across his shoulders, as though she needed to straighten the cloth.
He stepped away, brushed at one arm, although she could see no lint there. “I have to go over some papers at my desk for a bit, then I’ll go into breakfast. You’re welcome to join me after your bath.” He looked back at her. “Although your presence isn’t required. After all it is the daytime. If I don’t see you there, rest assured that I shall return by nightfall, and the marriage will be consummated with all due haste.”
If it was going to be done hastily, they might as well do it now. She could make that happen. “Will you help me dress?”
“Mrs. Barnaby can see to that. I have no interest whatsoever in putting clothes on you. Only in taking them off.”
With that, he walked out, closing the door in his wake. She took a deep breath. For the briefest of moments there, she’d feared he might be a danger to her heart. Thank goodness she’d judged correctly yesterday. He was exactly the sort of arrogant ass she could never love.
When she had awoken with that soft moan, it had
taken everything within him not to pounce on the bed and take her then and there. It hadn’t mattered that his face was lathered or that she’d distracted him to such an extent that he very nearly sliced open his jugular. He could think of worse ways to go than with that luscious sound ringing in his ears. How could a woman be so gloriously sensual upon awakening?
Standing at the window in the library, watching as the fog began to dissipate, he admitted that he didn’t have any paperwork he needed to see to. He just wanted to give her time to bathe and perhaps join him for breakfast. He could have also delayed going to the mines, but being within reach of her without touching her would have tested his sanity. While she had offered herself during the day, they’d made a bargain he intended to keep. The day was hers; the night was his. One exception would place them on a slippery slope, and she might decide he shouldn’t have all the nights, and he had no plans whatsoever to give up a single one of those.
When he finally made his way to the breakfast dining room, he was disappointed to discover it empty save for Gilbert, who immediately poured his coffee before heading out for his plate. It pricked his temper that she could disappoint him. He didn’t care for her, so it made no sense whatsoever that she should elicit any emotion at all in him. It irritated him that he was still thinking about her an hour after he’d left her. Obviously she’d given him no further contemplation. She had her title, her allowance, a bath—
The last thought flew from his mind as she walked in, her cheeks flushed and pink, her dress a dark blue, buttons up to her throat, down to her wrists. At least it wasn’t the ghastly black in which she’d arrived. At least she wasn’t being a hypocrite and pretending to be in mourning after she’d wed another man. She was setting her grief aside, what little grief there may have been. He didn’t know her husband, didn’t want to know him, but still it bothered him that the man had managed to lose her love. To have had it and not appreciated it, to have not strived to hold on to it—
He shook his head, refusing to travel that path, and came to his feet. Moving to the chair opposite his, he pulled it out.
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 8