His gaze, compelling and demanding, slammed into hers. If she thought for a moment that he truly cared, that he would be decent about it, she might confess all. “Your father’s advert.” She hated that the words came out on a croak.
“Did you know they call him the mad Marquess of Marsden?”
She gave a slight nod. “Is that the reason you spend so little time in London?”
“How do you know how much time I spend in London?”
“I believe I mentioned the gossip sheets. Truth be told, I’m rather addicted to reading them. You and the other Hellions are frequently reported on.” She creased her brow. “How did the moniker come about, by the way?”
“We tended to break the rules in our youth. But we’re always forgiven. Our pasts made us such tragic figures we could get away with a good deal of bad behavior.”
“You were also known for being reckless.”
“We were indeed. Ashe almost became a lion’s dinner once. And of course Albert died on safari, leaving Edward to inherit the title, after pretending for months to be Albert. It was madness.”
“I remember it in the papers. It created quite the scandal when his duplicity was discovered.”
“It did. Then he did something even more audacious by taking his brother’s widow to Switzerland and marrying her. They’re not quite accepted yet, but people are beginning to come around. When they visit here, I shall expect you to welcome them.”
“Of course. I am not one to cast stones.”
He held her gaze. “And why is that, Lady Locksley?”
She stilled, her breath timid about leaving her lungs. I know what it is to be disgraced, ostracized, cast out.
“Had a few stones cast your way?” he asked.
More than a few. “As I mentioned, my family did not approve of Montie. His did not approve of me. But our love was grand enough that it didn’t matter.” The last had turned out to be a lie, but her younger self had believed it with all her heart.
“But you’re not seeking love now.”
“No, my lord. I’ve closed my heart to it. It’s easier that way.” Another lie, this one perpetuated by her cynical self because she knew he would never love her and it was pointless to wish otherwise. On the other hand, neither would she ever love him.
But life with Montie had taught her to hide her feelings, and she’d become very good at it. She hoped only that she hadn’t learned to hide them from herself.
She licked the pudding from her spoon, slowly, provocatively, all the while making little moaning sounds that caused him to harden, his skin to tighten, his breath to hitch. He had no doubt that she knew precisely how much she was tormenting him and was taking delight in doing so.
He wanted to throttle her. He wanted to kiss every inch of her. He wanted to laugh, a large boisterous guffaw that would echo through every corner of the manor. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d enjoyed a woman so much—and he had yet to enjoy her fully.
His own pudding remained untouched. “Perhaps you’d care to partake of my dessert,” he offered when she finally set her spoon aside.
“Don’t you like pudding?” she asked.
“I haven’t much fondness for sweets, which must be why I like you. You’re so tart.”
Surprise washed over her features. “You like me?”
Had he said that? Damn it all to hell, he had. Without thinking of the repercussions or how she might interpret the words. That she might find hope in them for something more between them. “You challenge me, Portia. I can’t deny that I enjoy that aspect of our relationship. I’ve never much cared for mewling misses.”
She gave him a lascivious look. “How about purring ones?”
Oh, yes, he definitely wanted her purring. “Is there anything else to be brought out, Gilbert?”
“No, my lord. The pudding was the last bit.”
Thank God. He shoved back his chair, stood. He considered for half a heartbeat inviting her to the library for an after-dinner cognac. But he was weary of delaying the inevitable, of pretending to be a gentleman when she managed so easily to turn him into a barbarian who wanted only to ravish her from head to toe.
He felt rather predatory walking to her end of the table, and some of his thoughts must have shown because quite suddenly she appeared a trifle wary of him. Good. She might have the upper hand out of the bed, keeping him hard and ready for her, but by God, he would have the advantage once they landed on the mattress. He pulled out her chair, waited as she rose with such elegance, stepped away from the table—
He swept her up into his arms, taking satisfaction in her small squeak.
Her face level with his, she stared at him. “Surely you plan to enjoy a drink after dinner.”
All he wanted was to drink in the whiskey of her eyes. Not that he was fool enough to state such drivel. “I think we’ve delayed matters long enough.”
He watched the delicate movements of her throat as she swallowed. He was going to nibble on those fragile tendons quite soon. Then he became incredibly aware of the outline of her legs, their warmth seeping into his arms. No damn petticoats. He rather liked it.
He thought he detected a tremor traveling through her before that rounded little chin of hers jutted out a fraction and she gave a barely imperceptible nod. As she licked her lips, she placed her hand just below his jaw, her fingers coming to rest against his neck where his pulse was pounding in an erratic rhythm. She lowered her eyelashes slightly, invitingly. “I’m anxious to discover if you’re as good as you claim.”
If he’d known wives taunted and teased more provocatively than the highest-paid light skirt he’d ever experienced, he might have taken one sooner. He may have growled or perhaps he sounded as though he was strangling, because as he began striding from the room with urgency, she laughed lightly, running a hand over a portion of his chest and shoulder, whatever she could reach. Leaning in, she nipped at his ear.
“Keep that up, you little minx, and I won’t be able to walk up the stairs.”
“I like that you want me.”
Want was too tame a word, but he had no wish to frighten her by revealing the full extent of how desperately he desired her. Nor did he wish to give her quite that much power over him. She was going to be the one unable to walk before the night was done. He already knew once wouldn’t be enough for him. Hell, a dozen times might not be enough.
As he reached the stairs, she settled her head on his shoulder, and a fierce protectiveness swept through him that nearly caused him to stumble back. Something about the trusting gesture made him regret that he wanted her for only one purpose: to warm his bed. From the moment he’d opened the door to her, he’d had an insane desire to possess her, to claim her . . . to win.
He didn’t trust her or her motives for agreeing to marry his father. That hadn’t changed. He’d been determined to best her at her own game—in hindsight, it occurred to him that he might have walked right into her trap, yet he couldn’t seem to regret it. Not when it guaranteed she would be writhing beneath him. And writhe she would.
She might tempt him and play the naughty flirt, but he was the master of the night.
At the top of the stairs, he turned down the hallway toward his bedchamber, was acutely aware of her breaths shortening, of the anticipation thrumming through her. She incited his own desires with so little effort. He was mad to want her this desperately.
He strode past his father’s room, stopped, cursed. He wanted no disturbances this night, no interruptions. Once he had her in his bedchamber with the door closed, he didn’t want it opened until dawn.
“We should check in on your father,” she said softly.
He didn’t like the tightness in his chest because she sounded as though she truly cared about his sire. It didn’t matter how she felt about the marquess. Locke wasn’t going to care about her, refused to allow himself to soften toward her, to be wrapped around her finger. Theirs was a relationship defined by emotional distance. It suited them both. St
ill, he lowered her feet to the floor. “I won’t be but a moment. Wait here.”
He was leaning in to give her a quick peck on the lips when the anger rushed over her features and stilled him.
“I’m not a dog to be commanded about,” she said. “I wish to say good night to the marquess, and so I shall, with or without your approval.”
He considered reminding her of a woman’s place—to obey her husband in all matters—but that would no doubt result in a quarrel, as she wasn’t the sort to obey anyone. It was one of the aspects to her that drew him in. Besides, he liked that she wasn’t a withering violet, that she stood toe to toe against him, would even stomp on his toe if need be. But he required some sort of victory, so he darted in for a quick kiss before turning to the door and giving it a sharp rap.
“Come in,” his father announced.
Opening the door, he indicated for her to precede him. She waltzed in with a victorious flourish. She was in need of taming, but he didn’t have it within him to kill her spirit. Standing behind her, he fought not to estimate how many seconds it would take him to undo the lacings of her gown.
“Twelve,” his father announced.
Locke looked over her shoulder to where his father sat by the window. “Pardon?”
“It’ll take you twelve seconds to get those lacings undone.”
His jaw tautened. He didn’t like being so easy to read. “Eight.”
“We’re not here to discuss my lacings,” she chastised, and he liked that she didn’t wither or stammer with the knowledge that they were discussing what was to come. “We’re here to see if you require anything before we retire.”
“An heir. But I’ll get that after you retire.”
“Honestly, my lord, you need to expand your interests. Perhaps you’d like for me to read to you for a bit.”
“No,” Locke growled.
She glanced back innocently, and he knew there was no innocence in her. Wicked woman was only seeking to torment him further. “We are not reading to him tonight,” he ground out.
“As you wish.” She turned back to his father. “We missed you during dinner.”
“I prefer to dine here.”
“Solitude does not become you, my lord.”
“I’m never alone, my dear, and you must call me Father.”
She did blush then. She really wasn’t comfortable with it, and he briefly wondered why. “Well, if there’s nothing you need, we’ll be off to bed,” he said.
“Bit early for bed.”
Locke fought not to stare. Had they not just been discussing her lacings and an heir? “I’ve had a long day.”
The wrinkles on his father’s face shifted downward. “I saw you riding out, to the mines I assume. You’ve been going there a lot lately. Is something amiss?”
He didn’t plan to discuss the troubles with him ever, but especially not tonight. “Everything is fine.”
Portia gave him a speculative look that he didn’t want to interpret.
“I’ll be locking the door now,” he told the marquess gently. “I just wanted you to know.”
His father waved a hand as though bothered by a fly. “Go ahead. Your mother will be here soon.”
Locke didn’t want to feel guilty about this. It was for his father’s protection as much as anything. “Are you certain you have everything you need?”
“I haven’t had everything I need since your mother died. But no matter. You don’t need to listen to an old man’s grumblings. Go bed your wife. Give me my heir.”
With those words, his guilt eased, and he noticed that the top of Portia’s ears turned red. Maybe she blushed more than he thought. Just not always on her face. Interesting. He’d have to explore the possibility further. He liked the idea of her blushing in other areas.
Walking forward, she kissed his father on the cheek. “Sweet dreams, my lord.”
“Father,” the marquess insisted.
She smiled, nodded, tried to look contrite, but she didn’t repeat the word. Locke had a feeling she never would. She walked past him, out the door.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” his father asked, regaining Locke’s attention. “Prettier than your mother, but don’t tell your mother that.” He patted his chest. “Your mother’s beauty was all inside. Portia has a good bit in there as well. Don’t forget to look there.”
The woman was a conniving vixen. That his father failed to see it only reaffirmed that Locke had made the correct decision in marrying her. She would have had his father wrapped around her finger five seconds after the marriage papers were signed.
“I require only that she warms my bed. I don’t have to like her for that.”
“Don’t be a fool, Locke. Open that damned heart of yours.”
So I can live my life in misery should she die? Not likely. “Sleep well, Father.”
As for himself, he didn’t plan to sleep a single wink.
Chapter 10
Standing in the hallway, she fought to ignore his telling his father that he didn’t like her. She took some consolation in the fact that he didn’t seem to despise her. And he’d given her the keys. There might be no affection lost between them, but theirs would be a civil relationship. At least outside the bed. She suspected it was going to be quite untamed within it.
Stepping out, he closed the door, turned the key, waited a heartbeat as though needing a moment to shirk off the pall that came over him after spending time with his father. Then he faced her, giving away nothing, none of his doubts, his concerns, his troubles.
“What’s wrong at the mines?” she asked.
His jaw tautened, his eyes narrowed. “Nothing is wrong at the mines.”
“You answered so quickly”—so tersely—“that I was rather sure you didn’t want to discuss the matter with him.”
“I didn’t.” He took a step nearer to her. “My father loves his mines. Get him started on them, and he can go on for hours. I have little patience for it tonight.”
He lifted her up into his arms and began striding toward his bedchamber.
“Seems you haven’t any patience at all,” she said.
“Be grateful for it.”
So brusque, and yet he wasn’t a hard man, a man she should fear. A hard man would have seen his father placed in a mental asylum. A hard man wouldn’t make allowances for idiosyncratic servants. A hard man would have taken her already.
He crossed the threshold, kicking the door closed in his wake. This time he set her down nearer to the bed, within tossing distance of the mattress. “Turn around,” he ordered.
Shoving back any trepidation, any desire to know him better before he had his way with her, she spun around, her gaze falling on the thick comforter, wondering if she should move it aside, but she suspected nothing about what was to follow would be very tidy.
Seven seconds was all it took for him to have the lacings of her gown undone. His callused finger skimmed the lower edge of her corset, just below the small of her back, over the curve of her buttocks. Then his mouth, hot and damp, was following the same path, causing heated dew to gather between her legs. The sweet torture was almost more than she could stand. Finally, he straightened and began working on the laces of her corset. Thank God, because she could barely breathe as anticipation coursed through her.
She’d wanted to tease him with what she wasn’t wearing, but the thought had flittered at the edge of her mind that he would be able to claim her so easily. So little separated her skin, her womanhood from him.
Six seconds on the corset. She pressed her hand against her stomach to keep her clothes from falling. He was definitely moving faster tonight. In less than a minute she was going to be on her back. He trailed his finger along her spine, down, up. He flattened his palms against her shoulder blades and slowly moved his hands around her shoulders, easing her gown aside until it fell to the floor. The corset followed it down.
“Who would have thought that someone with such a delicate back would have such backbone?�
� he asked, and she could have sworn she heard admiration in his voice. “Step out of the clothes.”
She did as he bade, then swung around. “Are you just—” Going to command me all night? died on her lips. She didn’t know if anyone had ever looked at her with such hunger, a starving beast willing to do anything to satiate his desires.
“Christ, you’re beautiful.” He cupped his hands beneath her breasts, his thumb and forefinger pinching her nipples, not too hard, not too softly, as though he knew exactly what she required.
Swallowing hard, she resisted the urge to snatch up her gown and cover herself. His perusal, so heated, so intense, made her feel exposed. Hell, she was exposed, at a disadvantage. “Remove your jacket.”
He grinned darkly. “Only my jacket?”
She angled her chin, striving to appear bolder than she felt. “Everything.”
That smile grew, so wicked, so taunting, so full of promise. “As my lady commands.”
She hadn’t really expected him to obey, had never truly felt an equal in her relationship with Montie, but Locksley didn’t lord himself over her. He tossed his jacket to the floor. His fingers went to the buttons of his waistcoat. Without thinking, she stepped forward and covered his hands with hers. She could feel the tension radiating through him. What was he trying to prove by not yet taking her? That he could resist her charms? She could sense how difficult the battle was. She should take pity on him. Too bad that she wanted his surrender. “I’ll do it.”
Never taking his eyes from hers, he lowered his head in acquiescence, spread his arms wide. She didn’t mistake the gesture for submission, knew it was merely a pause in the war. “We don’t have to be at odds,” she said quietly as she worked on the buttons.
“We’re not. I daresay, we have the same goal: getting you bedded.” He shirked out of his waistcoat, sent it flying to where the jacket had landed.
She unknotted his neck cloth. “Yet I feel we’re going about it as though it were a competition.”
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 12