An even greater sadness washed through her as she realized that Locksley would have known none of what had once been. He grew up with the abandonment and dilapidation. Locks on doors couldn’t contain it. Knowing what rested on the other side of the doors, she could now feel it seeping into the hallways. It might have been better for all had the structure burned to the ground after the marchioness’s passing.
Then she opened a door that made her grateful the residence still stood. Light filtered in through a narrow parting between the draperies, but it was enough for her to see that she had stepped into a magnificent music room. Windows lined one wall. Near them rested the largest pianoforte she’d ever seen. So grand. Or it would be if the dark wood was polished to a sheen.
She approached with the reverence it deserved.
It had been years since she’d set fingers to keyboard, not since she’d left home. She’d offered to play for Montie, but he’d explained that when it came to her he was only interested in the music of passion that was created between the sheets. She’d been flattered, swept away by the notion that he wanted her so badly. It was a while before she understood that being wanted for only one purpose created a very lonely existence.
The type she would have with Locksley. At least he was honest with her, being forthright that he wanted from her only what Montie had wanted, but Montie had wooed her with pretty words and promises of love. Even if Locksley offered them, she was too wise now to believe them. She would not open her heart to him, merely her thighs.
As she neared the piano, she wanted to weep because it had gone years without being played, without anyone listening to the glorious music with which it would fill the air. Unappreciated, unloved, its potential unrealized. Tapping a key, cringing as a tinny sound reverberated, she wasn’t surprised it was in need of tuning, but that could be handled easily enough.
Slowly she began to turn in a circle, stopping when she noticed the life-size portrait of a woman hanging over the massive stone fireplace. She wasn’t particularly fetching, but there was warmth in her eyes, her smile. Portia had never known anyone to grin during a sitting, yet she couldn’t imagine this woman without a happy expression. Finding herself drawn to the painting, she took a couple of steps nearer. Based on the style of her royal blue gown, she had to be a recent marchioness, no doubt Marsden’s dead wife. She was covered in dust and cobwebs, and yet there was an ethereal quality to her that seemed to glow when her surroundings should have dulled the painting.
“How fortunate you were to be so loved,” she whispered.
Holding out her arms, Portia completed her circle, her joy burgeoning as she took in the various sitting areas, the shelves displaying books, statuettes, and vases, and the various decorations arranged throughout waiting to be released from their shroud of dust.
Clapping her hands together, she released the smallest of squeals. She had found her room.
It was late afternoon by the time Locke, covered in sweat and grime, strode into the kitchen. He didn’t know why he believed that if he worked in the mines alongside the miners that fortune was more likely to smile on them and they’d discover a tin-rich vein after two years of nothing. It had made the men uncomfortable when he’d begun digging beside them. He was a lord. It had taken them a while to accept his help, his determination. But he enjoyed stretching his muscles, pushing himself to the limit of near physical exhaustion. It kept his mind from traveling the path of despair. Today it had kept him from breaking his promise to his wife that the day belonged to her.
He shouldn’t have kissed her before he walked out, because her taste had stayed with him far too long, had kept his body tense and in need until he’d gone down into the pits where there was always a danger that he wouldn’t come out.
So perhaps his father had the right of it. He really did need to get the next heir lined up. Robbie would no doubt let the mines go, sell the land, since it wasn’t part of the entailment. He wouldn’t appreciate his heritage or what the marquesses who had come before him had built.
“You’re a bit early,” Mrs. Dorset told him, a knowing smile on her face. “Although to be honest, I was expecting you sooner, what with a new bride and all. Been warming your bathwater for some time now.”
He was in the habit of bathing after a day in the mines, which was the reason he’d established a room for bathing near the kitchen. For the convenience of procuring hot water and not tracking dirt through the residence. While he wasn’t particularly pleased with how anxious he was to be with his wife, he had no wish for her to see him in this state, to know he engaged in backbreaking work to secure their future—or how much that seventy-five quid a month was really costing him. They were not truly a couple who shared joys and burdens. They were merely bedmates. Or they would be by night’s end.
Still, when he was finished with his bath and shave, he did find himself missing her fingers knotting his neck cloth as he put on the clothes he’d changed out of that morning before leaving. For the mines he needed sturdier material.
When he stepped out of the bathing room, he nearly tripped over Mrs. Barnaby, who it seemed had been awaiting his appearance.
“She took me keys,” she announced, her hands clutched at her waist, her brow deeply furrowed.
“She?”
“Your wife.”
“For what purpose?”
She gave her eyes an exaggerated roll. “To open doors.”
He’d assumed as much. In hindsight his question was rather pointless. He hadn’t even bothered to consider how Portia would fill her day. Obviously by wandering the hallways and sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.
“She’s yet to return them, and it’s nearly dark. They’re my responsibility. I warned his Lordship—”
“You spoke to my father about them?”
She nodded. “I wanted his approval before handing them over to her. She’s not the marchioness.”
“She is, however, the lady of the manor.”
Her eyes widened at his forceful tone, which he had not meant to come out so sharp, but regardless of how little he might personally care for Portia and her greedy little fingers, she was his wife and as such would be accorded the respect she deserved.
Mrs. Barnaby’s mouth turned down. “Your father said the same thing.”
Of course he had.
“Where will I find Lady Locksley?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not her keeper. Wandering about somewhere I suppose.”
He wasn’t particularly pleased with her answer. He and his father before him had been rather lax with the servants. Perhaps it was time he prodded Mrs. Barnaby toward retirement. He’d consider it. Meanwhile he had a wife to locate.
She could be anywhere in this massive mausoleum. As he began trudging through it, he considered that she had probably gone in search of a bedchamber that she could claim without his knowing. Upstairs then. He should have asked how long she’d been in possession of the keys. There were maybe fifty bedchambers. How long would it take her to go through them, to find one that suited her?
Having her own bedchamber would be a waste. She had to understand that. Every moment of every night was going to be spent with him. He’d made that clear.
He was halfway up the stairs when he stopped, considered. Perhaps she’d merely wanted to explore. He and his father’s wards had certainly done their share of nicking the housekeeper’s keys and sneaking into rooms at midnight. Perhaps he’d plan a little adventure for his wife, take her on a tour in the wee hours when everything creaked and moaned. He thought of her clinging to him—
No, she wasn’t one to cling. He knew that instinctively. She’d probably be leading the way.
Night was falling. Soon she would be looking for him. He should simply settle in his library and wait. Only as he headed back down the stairs, he wasn’t in the mood to wait for her. He wanted to find her, discover exactly what she was up to. It was possible that she was planning to collect small items that would fetch a prett
y penny, things that she believed wouldn’t be noticed missing. Although the truth was that he couldn’t see her as a thief, no matter how much money seemed to matter to her. It had irritated him when she’d asked for her seventy-five pounds that morning, had irritated him more when he could tell that she wanted to count it. Theirs was a business arrangement. Security for an heir. It was silly of him to fault her now when he’d known all along that she cared about only titles and coin.
She wasn’t going to steal anything, but he suspected she was taking inventory, striving to determine how much they were worth. She would no doubt be methodical about it. If she was unlocking every door, examining the contents of every room, he doubted that she’d have made it upstairs yet. No doubt, she was still on the main level somewhere.
He strode briskly down hallways, trying doors. Locked, locked, locked.
But as he came to the end of one monstrously long and wide hallway, he could see a faint swath of light that could only come from an open doorway. Quieting his tread, he cautiously approached and peered inside, completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him.
With a scarf covering her hair and her sleeves rolled up past her elbows, she was on her knees near a bookshelf, pulling items off the bottom shelf, wiping them, setting them aside. Suddenly with a screech, she jumped up and back. He saw the huge spider scurrying out, racing past—
She lifted her skirt slightly and stopped the creature’s progress forever with a hard stomp.
He stared at the foot, which had come down with unerring determination. “Are you wearing one of my Hessians?” he asked incredulously.
With a start, she faced him squarely, her eyes wide, that luscious lovely mouth of hers slightly open. “You’re home.”
He didn’t like the way that her words seemed to pierce his armor, made him glad that he was in the residence. He was accustomed to having his bath, a drink, a quiet dinner, an evening reading. Alone. Always alone until he looked in on his father before retiring. Solitude had been the order of the night. She was going to change all that, whether he wanted her to or not. “Indeed I am. The boot?”
Raising her skirt, she extended the foot, turning it one way then the other as though surprised to find the polished black leather encasing a good part of her leg. “Your feet are much larger than mine, which makes it easier to kill the spiders and provides a little distance from them as I do so.” She glanced up at him. “There are an inordinate number in here. And they are remarkably large. And beastly ugly.”
“Cardinal spiders, no doubt. They say Wolsey had an aversion to them.”
“Smart man.”
Approaching her, he wondered why it was that he found himself drawn to her more than ever. She more closely resembled a street sweeper than the wife of a lord. Yet drawn to her he was. “You have a spider web in your hair—”
“What? No!” She began slapping at her head.
He grabbed her wrists. “Hold still.”
Although she looked fairly petrified, she moved not at all. He wasn’t even certain she was breathing. Those whiskey eyes held a measure of trust that he didn’t want to disappoint. Somehow she seemed more vulnerable with the trail of dust along her cheek. He didn’t like her appearing in such a state. He preferred her strong and tough. He brushed the back of his hand across the silken strands that rested against her hair and scarf, drawing them away. “There. All gone.”
“I hate spiders.”
“Then you’d despise going into the mines.”
Her brow furrowed. “Do you go into them?”
He hadn’t meant to disclose how he spent his day. “Occasionally. After all, we own them; therefore, it behooves me to give them a look.” A change in topic was in order. “What are you doing in here?”
“I would think that answer is obvious.”
With the danger of the spiders gone, she was back to her tart self. Much easier to deal with. “Then I suppose the better question is why are you doing it when I’ve already stated that change upsets my father?”
“Surely this room is far enough away from him that he’ll never know what I’ve done.” She stepped away, swept her arms wide as though to encompass everything surrounding them. “It’s such a glorious room. How could I leave it in disarray?”
She rushed over to the piano. The fading light cast her in silhouette, and yet still he could see her brilliant smile. “Isn’t this gorgeous? Or it will be once I’ve polished it. I could play for you in the evenings.”
“I had a different sort of play in mind.”
Her shoulders slumped, and all the exuberance seemed to leak out of her as air did from a balloon. “Yes, of course. Silly of me to think we might have more.” She trailed a finger along a curved edge, inhaled deeply. Disappointment radiated from her.
He hated that he’d killed her smile. “Do you play?”
She glanced over at him. “I do. Not since I left home, so I’m terribly out of practice, and the pianoforte needs tuning, so it would no doubt not be a pleasurable experience for you. But this room . . . it must have been so magnificent once.”
He fought to convince himself that she wanted that magnificence for herself. That she wanted the grandness of this room to enhance her own majesty, and yet he couldn’t quite persuade himself of the truth of that. There was an honesty in her voice when she spoke of the room that made him think she was being more candid with him at that moment than she’d been since he opened the door to her yesterday afternoon. It had nothing to do with baubles, coin, title, or gain. She saw this room as it might have once been. All his life he’d strived not to see any of the chambers as they’d appeared in the past, hadn’t wanted to see the potential in them, had never wanted to envision laughter echoing between the walls, joy spreading to the ceilings, gladness sweeping along the floor. These rooms merely served as evidence that no good could come from love, that it was best to avoid—
“Is that your mother?” she asked tenderly, cutting into his thoughts.
He didn’t want her to be tender or soft. He wanted her to be as cold as the coins she craved. Still he followed her gaze toward the portrait hanging over the fireplace. His father possessed a miniature of the same woman that he always carried with him and sometimes showed to Locke. Her eyes, her smile always drew him in. As a lad, he’d resented her for dying, for leaving him. It was many years before he understood she’d had no choice.
Staring at her behind a film of grime, he could understand why his father had loved her. Even though she existed now only in oils, her image seemed vibrant. She possessed the ability to warm his heart, to make him feel guilty that he hadn’t accepted Portia’s offer to play the pianoforte for him. “Yes.”
“I didn’t think so at first, but the more I’ve gazed at her from different angles, I’ve decided she was very beautiful.”
“Beautiful enough to drive a man insane.”
“Losing her drove him insane, not her. There is a difference.”
He looked over at her. A corner of her mouth and one brow tilted up ever so slightly.
“You would go mad if I were to die,” she said teasingly.
Slowly he shook his head, unwilling to take this matter lightly. “I’ll not give you my heart, Portia. I was clear on that aspect of our relationship. We can have the marriage annulled tomorrow if you went into this arrangement believing you could somehow acquire it.”
She paled, no doubt at the mention of an annulled marriage that would deny her all she sought to gain. “I have no illusions regarding what you want of me, my lord. I suppose we should make haste toward the consummation of this marriage.”
Why was it that her haughty tone could make him feel like such an ass, when it should merely confirm why she’d sought the marriage with his father to begin with? He touched the dirt on her cheek, and she went still, so very still. With his gaze following, he trailed his finger along the smudge that journeyed past her mouth to her chin. “You’re in need of a bath. I’ll cart the tub up to the bedchamber.”
/> “You don’t have to go to that bother.”
He didn’t want her to be considerate, damn it. He needed her to demand spoiling. “As you no doubt discovered this morning, the bathing room stays chilly.” Pressing his thumb to her chin, he rubbed at the dirt, wondering why it fascinated him, why he liked seeing her in such a disheveled state. “Mrs. Barnaby wants her keys returned.”
“Of course. I’ll see to that immediately.”
He moved his thumb up to her lower lip, stroked it, considered nipping at it, but if his mouth got anywhere near hers, he was likely to toss her on top of that piano she seemed rather fond of and possess her then and there. That would certainly give it a polishing. But she needed a bath. He needed food and drink. And he didn’t want to take her quickly or roughly. Not the first time anyway.
Every other aspect of their relationship might be stiff and awkward, but he wasn’t going to tolerate it in the bedchamber. That required patience on his part. He would live with the torment of not possessing her for now. But before the night was done, he would claim her body as his own.
As he escorted her from the room, Portia was a bit surprised—based upon the way his eyes had darkened as he’d rubbed her chin—that he hadn’t tossed her on a nearby sofa and hefted up her skirts.
Once outside, she locked the door, already dreading the encounter she would have with Mrs. Barnaby regarding the keys in the morning. She was going to reclaim the room whether Locksley liked it or not. When he wasn’t around, she would entertain herself by playing the piano. She understood it was his house and his rules, but some were in need of breaking.
Carrying on down the hallway, she became very aware of her uneven gait, her slipper whispering along the floor, his boot clomping.
“How are you managing to keep my boot on?” he asked.
“I stuffed newspaper into the toe and around the sides filling up the space around my foot. A trick I learned from my mother, who always bought our shoes a bit large so we could grow into them and they’d last longer.”
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 10