“Our shoes? You had siblings?”
She grimaced. The less he knew about her, the better things would be for her. While she’d been ghastly disappointed that he had no interest in her playing the pianoforte for him, she found some solace in his merely wanting her body. He wasn’t likely to ask questions or delve into her past. But she wanted to limit her lies, because the truth was always easier to remember. “Two sisters and a brother.”
“Last night, you said you had no family.”
Because I don’t.
“Are they dead?”
It would be so much simpler to say yes. “No. But they did not approve of Montie. So I had to choose him or them.”
“You chose him.”
She nodded.
“But surely after he died . . .”
“They want nothing to do with me.”
“Even though you are now married to a peer?”
“I could marry a prince of England and they wouldn’t forgive me.” She could feel him studying her. She’d said too much. He was going to continue to question, and when he learned the truth the annulment he’d suggested earlier would become a reality. What was she thinking to be so careless with what she revealed?
“This way,” he said, turning down a hallway.
Confused by the direction, she stopped, pointed toward another corridor. “That way leads to the kitchens. I’m fairly certain of it.”
“We’re taking a detour.”
“For what purpose?”
“It’s not a woman’s place to question her husband.”
Or any man for that matter, she was well aware. If she’d questioned Montie she might not have found herself in this unconscionable position. But she wasn’t going to make the mistake of trusting blindly again. “You did not strike me as the sort who would want a sheep for a wife.”
“As you’re well aware I didn’t want a wife at all.”
There was that, she supposed. So when he started off again, she followed. She’d opened the doors in this hallway earlier in the day. She knew they contained nothing nefarious, nothing that should give her cause for worry. “But you require an heir, so eventually you would have wanted a wife.”
“Not wanted, never wanted, but eventually I would have taken one.”
“So my arrival simply moved up your timetable.”
Stopping in front of a door, he faced her. “Don’t say it as though it was a small matter and you did me a great favor.” Before she could come up with some quip, he held out his hand. “The keys.”
“There’s only a study beyond the door.”
“I know.” He snapped his fingers. “Keys.”
She dropped the ring into his broad palm, and he began sorting through the iron. “You didn’t take a very close or detailed inventory of the rooms,” he muttered.
“I didn’t inventory them at all.” For some reason, she was insulted by his belief that she would. “Did you think I was searching for silver? I was merely hoping to find a room that would serve as a sanctuary.”
He held a key between his thumb and forefinger. “So you merely peered inside and carried on?”
“For the most part, yes. Until I discovered the music room. It was as though it spoke to me.”
He arched a thick dark eyebrow over those penetrating green eyes. “You do realize that makes you sound mad.”
She scoffed. “The walls didn’t literally speak to me, you ninny. I simply meant that I found the room to be welcoming.”
“Even with the spiders?”
She twisted her lips. “Not so much once I discovered them.” She tapped his boot on the floor. “But I was able to make short work of them.”
“So you did.”
Before he turned, she almost thought she caught sight of admiration twinkling in his eyes. He unlocked the door, swung it open, and stepped inside. She followed.
“This was the marchioness’s study,” he announced as he crossed over to a small secretary desk.
She could see it now. With the daintier furniture, the lighter colors. It might have been a cheerful room had it more than one narrow window.
On the desk, he lowered a door to reveal an assortment of nooks and crannies. Pulling open a drawer, he reached inside and withdrew a ring of keys, the metal circle much smaller than the one the housekeeper used. He held it out to her. “So you don’t have to bother Mrs. Barnaby for the keys in the future.”
She stared at the offering, wondering why her eyes were stinging. He was doing more than handing her bits of iron. He was demonstrating that he trusted her, that she had a true place within the household, in his life. He was handing her freedom, more than she’d had in a good long while. Slowly, reverently, she took them from him. “I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say. You’re the lady of the manor. You’re entitled to a set of the keys.”
Of course he would ruin the gesture with a curt tone, but she wasn’t going to let him dampen her spirits entirely. “How did you know they were here?”
“I’ll tell you during dinner. Meanwhile, I’m quite famished and you still need your bath.”
“I’m looking rather forward to the telling.” She turned to go.
“Remember,” he called after her. “Don’t wear gloves.”
She glanced over her shoulder, giving him her most wicked smile. “I haven’t forgotten. As a matter of fact, I intend to wear very little except for my gown. Less for you to bother with later. Ponder on that during dinner.”
With her mismatched footwear, her exit wasn’t nearly as poised as she would have liked, but his low groan, bowed head, and fingers digging into the desk behind him managed to give her a great deal of satisfaction. The night might belong to him, but it was going to belong to him only on her terms.
Chapter 9
She was going to drive him mad. He was fairly certain of it as he sipped his scotch, stared out the window of the library into the darkness, and waited for her arrival.
After hauling up the tub and water, he’d been incredibly tempted to lounge against the wall and watch as she removed her clothes, as she stepped into the bath, as she dribbled water over her skin. But if he’d stayed, he doubted that she’d get so much as her tiniest toe wet before he had her on her back. He yearned for her with a fierceness he didn’t want to acknowledge. Never before had any woman affected him as she did.
So he’d walked out simply to prove—more to himself than to her—that he could.
He never would have expected to find Portia on her hands and knees cleaning. Granted, Mrs. Barnaby was no spring chicken and her efforts yesterday with the parlor had been sadly lacking, but she’d made the room habitable. And she was the housekeeper. It was her job to keep house.
But Portia had begun seeing to things herself, had been uncomfortable with him preparing her bath. She didn’t want to be pampered. He hadn’t expected that, didn’t know quite what to make of her. Every woman he’d ever been with had wanted to be spoiled, had insisted upon it. In fact, they’d wanted constant compliments, numerous baubles, and his undivided attention.
Based upon Portia’s reasons for being here, what she hoped to gain, what she sought, she should seek to be spoiled more than any woman he’d ever known. But she’d been covered in dust and cobwebs, with grime on her face and hands. Something was wrong with him for finding that so incredibly sensual. Wives of lords did not crawl about in the muck. Yet she’d seemed comfortable with it.
Who was Portia Gadstone St. John?
A bit late to be wondering that, old chap.
He didn’t want to be intrigued or fascinated by her. He didn’t want to know her. He merely wanted to bed her, slake his lust, ensure she earned the title that marriage to him had gained her.
Hearing light footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder. Christ, she was gorgeous. If she entered a ballroom wearing that deep purple gown that revealed her shoulders so enticingly and suggestively, she would have had a hundred suitors. Why answer an old man’s advert
? What did it matter now? She was his wife.
“You did away with the Hessian, I see,” he said as she approached, her satin slippers occasionally peering out from beneath the hem of her skirt.
“You’re here now. I’m sure you’ll save me from any hideous eight-legged creatures.”
He had the passing thought that he would save her from anything.
“Based on the flow of your skirts, it appears you’re not wearing petticoats.” He hadn’t truly expected her to honor her words about not wearing any undergarments. She’d merely been attempting to taunt him.
She angled her head, a wickedness in her smile. “No petticoats. Only a corset, otherwise my bodice would droop unbecomingly.”
His mouth went dry. “Only a corset?”
“Only a corset. Well, and stockings. They were needed for the shoes. But you don’t have to remove the silk to have your way with me. Or the shoes for that matter.”
He imagined her naked, except for the stockings and shoes, her legs in the air—
“Drawers?”
She shook her head, her teeth pressing into her lower lip.
“Chemise?”
Another teasing smile. “Corset only.”
“Jesus.” As he downed what remained of his scotch, he didn’t miss her look of satisfaction. His father was correct. There were definite advantages to taking to wife a woman with experience. He was beginning to wonder why men so highly coveted virginity in their brides. “A drink before dinner?”
“No, thank you.”
Well, he needed another. On his way to the sideboard, he passed the desk. It occurred to him that he could just take her there. Unencumbered by petticoats, ease those skirts up to her waist, unfasten his trousers, sink into her before they dined. But he had the impression that she would view it as a victory. He would resist for a while longer.
“Dinner is served, my lord,” Gilbert announced.
A pity. The drink would wait.
Walking over to Portia, he extended his arm. She placed her hand on it, squeezed.
“I wouldn’t have objected to the desk,” she said sweetly, before releasing her hold and walking from the room, her hips swaying provocatively.
Through gritted teeth, he released a feral curse. He’d been so focused on saving his father from Portia that he hadn’t considered the need to save himself.
Montie had been attracted to her, had wanted her. He’d made that clear the evening he introduced himself. But he’d never looked at her with the smoldering intensity that Locksley did. While he sat across from her, several feet away, she was acutely aware of the desire thrumming off him as the wine was poured. Although desire seemed too tame a word.
He’d wanted to spread her out on the desk and have his way with her. She’d seen it in his eyes. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted that he managed to keep his urges under control.
She would be wise not to taunt him so brazenly, not to give the impression that she was somewhat of a wanton, but she needed the marriage consummated before the sun next rose. It was the only way to ensure this arrangement couldn’t be easily undone, was the only way to guarantee a measure of protection should Montie discover where she was hiding.
She’d been careful, never using her name during her travels, never using a main system of transportation. Hence the journey on the mail coach where no questions had been asked, other than her destination. She felt relatively safe, and there was always a chance that Montie would welcome her absence when he discovered it.
Still, a consummated marriage was essential to her strategy. She refused to feel guilty because her plan had gone awry and she was now the wife of the viscount rather than the marquess. She wasn’t going to reconsider her plan simply because Locksley had shown a momentary kindness and given her a set of keys. Or because he truly seemed to care for his father. Or because he seemed capable of destroying her with little more than a touch.
And while she might tell herself that she wanted this marriage consummated for her own personal gain, she couldn’t deny that the glimpse he’d given her of the passion that awaited her in his bed now had her own body thrumming with needs that made her wish he had indeed taken her on the blasted desk. Be done with it. Stop torturing her by being so strong-willed.
Gilbert interrupted her thoughts as he set a bowl of turtle soup before her. Then he placed one before the viscount.
Locksley’s brow furrowed. “You can bring out all the food, Gilbert. We’ve no guests tonight.”
So he took his dinner the same way as he did his breakfast—with ease for the servants and no fanfare. She couldn’t imagine Montie being so considerate, knew beyond a doubt he wouldn’t be. Servants served and he lived to be served. He’d never been abusive but he was extremely skilled at ensuring those around him understood their place. Her heart had shattered when she’d finally come to understand hers.
“Mrs. Dorset says we can’t be serving everything on one plate anymore, not now that there’s a lady in the house,” Gilbert explained, looking somewhat guilty.
“So you’re going to traipse back and forth all during dinner?”
“Apparently so, m’lord.”
Locksley sighed. “Then for God’s sake, at least put the wine on the table so I can serve myself.”
“Mrs. Dorset—”
“Will never know.”
“Very good, sir.” After seeing to the wine, he retreated to stand by the wall.
Her husband appeared disgruntled, a man who didn’t relish being waited on. She refused to let that discovery make her like him. He’d ruined her carefully laid-out plans—even if his reasons were to be commended. She tasted the soup. Delicious. Little wonder no one argued with Mrs. Dorset regarding how the meal was to be served.
“You were going to tell me how you knew about the keys,” she said quietly.
Amusement dancing in his eyes, he leaned back and lifted his wineglass. “So I was. My father’s wards and I fancied ourselves intrepid adventurers. We’d nick the keys from Mrs. Barnaby after she fell asleep and explore the various rooms during the late hours of the night.”
“With the size of this place, that could have taken years.”
He nodded, sipped his wine. “Nearly three, as I recall. We were like archeologists sorting through the rubble of an archaic civilization, cataloguing our finds, but ensuring that nothing appeared disturbed.”
While he said it with ease, she didn’t miss the sadness—and guilt—that briefly touched the green of his eyes. The archaic civilization had been his parents’ life. She wondered what it had been like to grow up with so little known of the past. “And when you grew up, you continued to explore, but moved on to the world.”
“For a while.”
“Do you miss it?”
Gilbert took their bowls, disappeared through a doorway. Locksley tapped his wineglass. “I do hope she didn’t prepare an abundance of food. I don’t like waste.”
“I’ll speak with her tomorrow, shall I? Approve the menu. Ensure it’s not too much.”
He nodded. “You’ll no doubt find her easier to deal with than you did Mrs. Barnaby.”
A woman who ruled a kitchen? She very much doubted it, but she’d been raised to manage a household. She could take on this task easily enough. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you miss traveling?”
“Sometimes.” He gave her a tantalizingly wicked grin. “But then exploring is going to be in my very near future, isn’t it, Lady Locksley?”
Heat flushed her skin. “Must you always turn the discussion in that direction?”
“You’re the one sitting there without your drawers.”
“It’s quite lovely actually. The silk of my gown against my nether regions.”
He laughed darkly. “God, you are a tease. Most women are bashful about bedding.”
“You like that I am not.”
He lifted his glass in a salute. “Damned if I don’t.”
She didn’t quite trust the smile he gav
e her. He let her win too easily. She had a feeling he was going to make her pay for it later—in screams of pleasure that might shatter the windows. She suspected what she knew of pleasure was going to pale beside whatever he delivered. She anticipated and dreaded it.
Gilbert strode in and set a plate of broiled lamb and potatoes before her. She lifted her gaze to find Locksley studying her. She was beginning to wish she’d at least put on her drawers. “How was everything at the mines?”
He narrowed his eyes, his face shifting into a cold resolve. “Don’t worry, my little mercenary, your pin money is safe.”
“I wasn’t—” She stopped, unable to blame him for his low regard for her. She’d certainly given the impression that she was merely here for gain. His dislike and distrust of her provided her with a shield. But it was becoming quite heavy to keep in place. “I was merely asking after your day. If you found it satisfactory. That is what good wives do.”
A corner of his mouth tilted up. “Are you planning to be a good wife?”
“Within reason.”
He laughed deeply. “At least you’re honest.”
Only she wasn’t. She wished she could be, but his opinion of her was low enough as it was. Instead of taking her to bed, he’d rid himself of her. With all due haste. “I want things to be pleasant between us.”
“Once we’re finished with dinner, they’re going to be very pleasant between us.”
She released a very unladylike snort. “Again, must your mind always go there?” She wanted a man to desire her for more than her body. Marsden would have wanted companionship. She should have insisted that she marry the marquess. Not that this stubborn, obstinate man would have allowed it, no matter what reasons she gave.
“I thought of you for a good part of the day,” he said quietly.
She rolled her eyes. “Bedding me, I’m sure.”
“Sometimes.” He shifted his gaze to his wineglass, trailed his finger slowly up and down the stem just as he would no doubt be trailing it over her before long. Seemed he wasn’t the only one whose mind continued to journey to bedchambers. “Sometimes I find myself wondering what truly brought you here.”
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 11