Her flush deepened. “You don’t have to wait on me.”
“Just a simple courtesy for my wife.”
She approached slowly, cautiously, as though she expected him to toss her on the table and have his way with her. With that particular thought crossing his mind, he realized he might have been unwise to invite her to breakfast.
As she sat, he inhaled the lingering fragrance of clean skin, her bath, and a fresh application of jasmine. His body reacted as though she’d begun undoing that enticing row of buttons. He moved quickly back to his chair before Portia could see how she affected him. Although when he was finally settled and looking at her, she gave him a secretive little uplifting of her lips that signaled she knew the impact she had on him.
He rather feared he might be blushing, damn it all to hell. Thank God Gilbert chose that moment to walk in holding a plate.
“Give it to Lady Locksley,” Locke said, casually picking up the newspaper as though enough wits remained to him that he could make sense of anything he might read.
“Good morning, m’lady,” Gilbert said. “Would you prefer tea or coffee?”
“Tea please.”
Gilbert saw to the task while Locke read the first sentence of the main article three times. He couldn’t concentrate with her at the table, in spite of his not wanting to be distracted by her. When the butler went to fetch another plate, she said, “Will your father be joining us?”
Setting down his paper, Locke realized that she looked considerably younger today, less weary, less troubled. More beautiful. Yesterday had been an apparition, an aberration. He cleared his throat. “He generally takes his meals in his room. Yesterday was an exception.”
“So you dine alone?”
“I have wine to keep me company.”
“At breakfast?”
He grinned. “No, then I have the paper.”
“Don’t let my presence stop you from reading it. You don’t have to entertain me.”
“I had no plans to.” Could he sound any more like an ass? “Where did you travel from to get here?”
She stopped halfway to reaching for her tea, seemed to ponder her answer, or perhaps it was merely the revealing of it that gave her pause. It struck him that for all the information about him that she’d gained last night, she’d revealed very little of herself. “London.”
His father no doubt knew from whence she hailed as he’d had to dispatch his correspondence to her. “You arrived in a mail coach. I would have thought my father would have sent you money so you could travel in more luxury.”
“He did.” She lifted the cup, took a small sip, her lips teasing the rim, the heated brew. What was wrong with him to think he’d never seen anything more provocative in his life? She licked that lower lip, then the upper. “I thought to put the funds to better use. Enhancing my wardrobe, for example.”
“Surely your husband didn’t leave you penniless.”
“He left me nothing at all. His money was for gambling and pleasure. So I was quite destitute and desperate when I saw your father’s advert.” She lowered her head slightly. “Are you going to eat?”
He looked down to see a plate had been set before him. Glancing over, he saw Gilbert standing at attention in his usual spot. How the devil had he made his delivery without Locke noticing? He wasn’t the most fleet of foot or the quietest. It was her. She managed to somehow garner every last bit of attention he possessed. He should stop asking her questions now. He was not going to sympathize with her scheming, no matter how bad off her husband may have left her.
“You said you were going to the mines today,” she mused softly.
“Yes, immediately after breakfast.”
“Will you hand over my allowance for the month before you leave?”
He almost laughed. How easy it was to forget that marriage to her had come with a price. “Of course, my little mercenary. As soon as we’ve finished eating.”
“Then we should get to it, shouldn’t we?” She turned her attention to the creamed eggs.
For the life of him, he couldn’t determine why earlier he’d wanted her to join him—except for a while there, she made the room feel not quite so empty.
Chapter 8
She had to take such care in answering his questions that it was trying beyond measure. There had never been a husband. She wasn’t a widow. But there had been a love, what she had thought was a grand love. What a fool she’d been. She wasn’t going to make the mistake of falling in love again. He had no interest in it and neither did she. Which should have made them perfect for each other. Instead it served to tie her stomach into knots. She could have coerced the marquess into caring for her. She didn’t stand a chance of doing that with his obstinate son.
Yet she felt this insane urge to be as honest as she could with him. If he ever discovered the full truth, he would at least see that she had limited her deception as much as she was able. Of course, if he discovered the full truth, it would all be moot, as he was likely to kill her anyway. Put those strong hands of his about her neck and choke the very life from her.
But she couldn’t worry about the future. She had to concentrate on the present. And presently he was leading her down the hallway to the library. He strode into what she was certain could easily become her favorite room. While it was tidy, it still had a musty scent to it that wasn’t completely a result of all the books that lined the shelves. She wondered how long it had been since the room was aired, the carpets beaten, and the draperies washed.
He walked over to a painting of dogs on a hunt, flipped it aside as though it were a door, and revealed a safe. While she couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, she heard a series of metal clicks. Then there was a clack. The clinking of coins, followed by more clanking before he swung the painting back into place.
He returned to her side, held up his hand. She extended hers, palm up. He dropped a velvet pouch into its center. She was incredibly tempted to open it and count out the money, but it had the correct heft and there should be some trust in their relationship. He gave her what she could only describe as a disappointing smile before heading for his desk.
“Go ahead and count it,” he said.
“I trust you.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. “No, you don’t.”
Had he been able to read her mind? That would be unfortunate. “If I discover it short later, I know where to find you.”
He hoisted a hip onto the edge of the desk, crossed his arms over that wide chest. “Anything you require I will purchase for you, so why do you need an allowance?”
“For things that aren’t required.”
“Such as?”
She lifted a shoulder. “A frivolous bonnet.” A residence. “An extra pair of slippers.” Food. “Chocolates.” A new life. Safety. Security.
“You are my wife, Portia. It is my duty to see after your care.”
“The care of my person, yes, but the care of my heart? I daresay you no doubt draw the line there.”
“I want you to find happiness here.”
He almost made her feel guilty for taking advantage—almost. But too much was at stake. She held up the pouch. “I have.”
He shoved himself up off the desk. “I have to get to the mines. Enjoy your day. And be prepared for tonight. You won’t get another reprieve.”
“I didn’t ask for one,” she reminded him sharply. “I was willing to have a go at it this morning, but you turned me down.”
He strode up to her, stopping within a hairbreadth of her. “You can’t possibly imagine what that cost me.” He cradled her face with one large, powerful hand. “This will probably cost me as well in torment for the remainder of the day, but damn if you don’t have the most kissable-looking lips I’ve ever seen.”
Then his mouth was on hers, proving his point. And damn if his lips were just as kissable. They were full, his mouth broad, and his tongue so very skilled at stroking and exploring. She found herself flattened against him, not cert
ain if she’d stepped into him or he’d drawn her near. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way his hands rubbed her back with sureness, with possession, the manner in which he angled his head to taste her more fully, providing access so she could taste him more intimately. Whatever he’d eaten for breakfast was washed away by the dark coffee he drank. She wasn’t surprised he didn’t begin his morning with tea. She suspected he was a man of strong desires in all matters: spirits, food, coffee, women.
He wouldn’t take her lightly or gently. He might take her slowly, but when it came down to it, he would crush her, be as demanding as he was now, insist that she not hold back, that she give fully all she had.
He might be the lord of the manor, her husband, the head of the house, but when it came to the mattress she could hold her own. She’d been tutored by the best. She wouldn’t retreat, wouldn’t allow him to master her between the sheets. They would be equal, true partners. A day might come when he regretted having her for a wife, but she made a vow then and there that he would never regret having her for a bed partner.
Tearing his mouth away, he stared down at her, his breaths coming swift and heavy. She slowly ran her tongue around her lips to have a final taste of him. His groan was that of a tormented creature as his eyes darkened.
“Until tonight, Lady Locksley,” he ground out before spinning on his heel and charging from the room.
She could do little more than gape after him. She’d fully expected him to shove her onto the desk and take her there. Dear God, but he was a man of incredible restraint and strength of purpose. She’d not be able to bend him to her will easily.
On the other hand, it was that very aspect of him that excited her. He could stand his ground against anyone. He could safeguard her, as long as she gave him a compelling reason to want to protect her. A child would accomplish that. She needed to ensure they consummated their marriage tonight.
With her coins nestled in her skirt pocket, she spent half an hour in the library looking over the books, striving to find something to read, to occupy her time. But it wasn’t the assortment of literature she wanted to explore. It was the residence itself, even if it was nothing more than a series of locked doors. Except that the locks had keys.
She made her way down to the kitchens and found Mrs. Barnaby rocking in a chair in her office, sipping a cup of tea.
“Mrs. Barnaby,” she said.
The older woman’s eyes widened, and she shoved herself to her feet, her bones creaking along the way. “M’lady.”
“Mrs. Barnaby, I’d like to borrow your keys for a spell.”
Much as she had the day before the housekeeper slapped her hand against the large ring. “They’re my responsibility.”
“Yes, I know. And I will return them before the day is done.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Lady Locksley, but I can’t give them to you.”
“Oh, I believe you can.”
She shook her head more forcefully. “I can’t.”
With a deep sigh, Portia held out her hand. “You can and you will.”
“You can’t command me.”
“I’m the lady of the manor.”
“We’ll see what his Lordship has to say about that.”
Before Portia could respond, the woman was rushing—faster than Portia had thought her capable—out of the room. “His Lordship has gone to the mines,” she called out after her.
“Not the viscount,” Mrs. Barnaby shouted over her shoulder. “The marquess. He won’t stand for this at all.”
Portia almost called her back, almost rescinded her request, but it was a matter of pride now. She would not be cowed, nor would she bother her husband with this. She was relatively certain he would agree with her position, but it was her hope to lessen his burdens, not add to them. Whether or not the marquess was in agreement with her right to have the keys was another matter. She suspected it had to do with where his mind was this morning.
She followed Mrs. Barnaby up the stairs and waited outside the marquess’s bedchamber as the woman knocked briskly.
“Come in,” he called out.
With a flourish, Mrs. Barnaby opened the door and marched in. Portia went in as well. The marquess was sitting in a thick cushioned chair near the window, looking out.
“She wants me keys,” Mrs. Barnaby announced sharply.
Glancing over his shoulder, Marsden squinted. He seemed smaller today, more frail. “Who wants your keys?”
“Lady Locksley.”
“Lady Locksley?”
Oh, dear Lord, had he already forgotten who she was? She stepped around Mrs. Barnaby. “My lord—”
“Ah, yes.” He held up a gnarled finger. “Lady Locksley. If she wants the keys, Mrs. Barnaby, give them to her.”
“But she’s not the marchioness. She’s not the lady of the house.”
“She is my son’s wife. He manages our affairs now, which makes her the lady of the house. Give her the keys.”
“We don’t know what she might do with them.”
“I suspect, Mrs. Barnaby, that she’s going to unlock a door.”
“I could do that for her.”
“Obviously she wants to do it for herself. It is not our place to question the viscountess, so hand over the keys.”
With a mulish expression similar to the one she’d given Locksley the day before, Mrs. Barnaby unhooked the ring from her waist and held it out toward Portia, who took it, feeling as though she’d just won something significant.
“I need them back,” Mrs. Barnaby said, looking as though she were on the verge of weeping.
“Yes, of course. I’ll return them later this afternoon.”
With a harrumph, the housekeeper marched from the room.
Portia tiptoed over to stand nearer to Marsden, although he’d given his attention back to gazing out the window.
“I’m sorry we had to disturb you with that little misunderstanding,” she said softly.
“Mrs. Barnaby is a good soul but she is set in her ways. She’s gone a long time without a mistress to answer to, considered herself the mistress of the household. My fault as I never corrected her. Damage was done by the time Locke finished his travels and settled in to take care of things.”
“It’s not a problem. She and I shall work things out and get along just fine.”
“I’m sure you will, my dear.” His gaze drifted back toward the window.
Portia sat in a chair opposite him. “We missed you at breakfast.”
“You and my son need time alone to get to know each other better. I saw him ride out earlier, going to the mines I suspect.” He winked at her. “Did he give you our heir last night?”
She supposed when one got to a certain age, he no longer felt the need to censor his tongue. “I fell asleep.”
A stunned expression crossed his features. “I thought he’d have more enthusiasm, be more virile. I didn’t think he’d be so sloth-like that you’d be able to go to sleep as though he wasn’t even there.”
She released a self-conscious laugh. “No, that’s not it at all. He was preparing a bath after his journey onto the moors. I was waiting for him and drifted off.”
“Ah, and he was too polite to wake you.” He shook his head. “A man shouldn’t be that polite on his wedding night. Prepare yourself. He’ll be twice as randy tonight.”
Her cheeks grew so warm she was surprised they didn’t ignite. She had a need to turn the conversation away from being bedded by his son. “Are you searching for your wife?”
He shook his head. “She doesn’t come out during the day. Sun doesn’t agree with her. So I just wait, watch the shadows move with the daylight, lengthen as it weakens, until the darkness brings her back to me.”
“You loved her very much.”
“She was everything. Still is.” He wrinkled his nose. “She gets angry at me. Says I wasted my life. But Ashe, Albert, and Edward all married for love. Even if Albert and Edward married the same woman.”
She knew that Albert had died and Edward had married his brother’s widow in Switzerland, which had created quite the scandal among the peerage.
“And now Locke is married. I didn’t do bad by them, so how could I have wasted my life?”
“I don’t think you did,” she said with conviction.
“You’re a sweet thing. Locke will come around to loving you.”
Her chest tightened. “I don’t require his love, my lord.”
“We all require love, my dear. The more we think we don’t need it, the more we do.”
Again, another topic she wanted to leave behind. “Would you like for me to read to you?”
He shook his head. “Go do whatever it was you wanted to do with the keys.”
“I wish to explore the residence a bit, but I won’t disturb anything.”
He nodded, a faraway look coming into his eyes, and she suspected that she’d lost him, that he was out on the moors with his love. Standing, she leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. He barely acknowledged her.
Clutching the keys, she walked from the room, wondering where to start. With the bedchambers. She could find one to secretly make into her own, except that Locksley was correct. When would she use it? Every hour of the night would be spent in his bed.
Surely there was another room that would serve better. A small library, a sitting room, a parlor, a little haven hidden away where she could escape to find peace. She wouldn’t have to tell anyone about it. It would be her private sanctuary. And as the marquess appeared to not wander about, her actions weren’t likely to upset him, as he probably wouldn’t stumble across whatever room she decided to clean.
And cleaning it would be the first order of business. She’d seen evidence of the neglect when Locksley had shown her the ballroom, and it was repeated in every room into which she stepped. Cobwebs, dust, decayed flowers. The suffocating odor of disuse. She needed a room with an abundance of windows so she could air it out quickly.
But as she wandered from various parlors and sitting rooms to drawing rooms and conservatories, melancholy began to take hold, to blot out any optimism. She could envision a time when all these rooms were well maintained, warm, and welcoming. They would have brought pride to the marquess and marchioness.
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 9