The Viscount and the Vixen

by Lorraine Heath

  “Would you accept if I were?”

  She began to curl her lips into her sauciest smile, then stopped. She had no desire to play games with him, to be to him what she’d been to Montie. “I’d give it my best if that’s what you wanted.”

  His eyebrows knitted together. “What were you thinking just then?”

  She shook her head. “Something silly. Impossible. We should get to our errands, shouldn’t we? Before people begin speculating as to why we’re merely standing here as though we’re a couple of fools.”

  “You may be many things, Portia, but foolish is not one of them. I’d bet my life on that.”

  “And here I was just getting accustomed to having you around.”

  “Are you admitting I’d lose that bet?”

  “We are all foolish at one time or another, my lord. It is the only way in which we can become wise.”

  “Perhaps someday you’ll tell me about those foolish lessons.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. Let’s get you some servants, shall we?”

  His fingers loosened their hold, and he took her hand, placing it on his forearm, before leading her into the newspaper office. The smell of ink was sharp, the printing press taking up a good portion of the small space.

  “Lord Locksley!” a man with salt-and-pepper hair sitting behind a desk exclaimed as he jumped to his feet. “Congratulations are in order, I hear.”

  “I daresay, Mr. Moore, that you wrote as much.”

  The man’s face turned a mottled red, the blush creeping up until it disappeared in his receding hairline. “The vicar said nuptials had taken place, and as it is my job to report the news, I did so immediately. Did I offend?”

  “Not at all. Lady Locksley, allow me to introduce Mr. Moore, our intrepid newspaper owner and reporter.”

  His fingers were ink-stained, the lenses of his spectacles thick, and she imagined him working late into the night striving to determine the best words to herald whatever news he needed to announce. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Moore,” she said.

  He bestowed upon her a sweeping bow. “The pleasure is mine, m’lady. Reverend Browning claimed you were a beaut. Good to know a man of the cloth doesn’t lie.”

  She was aware of the heat fanning her cheeks, and Locksley giving his throat a harsh clearing as though warning the man he’d been entirely inappropriate with his praise. Moore jumped, stepped back, and darted his gaze between her and the viscount.

  “How may I be of service?” he asked.

  “The viscountess is in need of some servants,” Locksley said, emphasizing her title. “We wish to place an advertisement in the Cryer.”

  Moore perked up even more, and she wondered if it was the idea of a lord making use of his beloved newspaper or the notion of coins in his pockets. “Very good, m’lord.”

  “We are also in need of someone to tune a piano.” Her husband’s words startled her, as she’d thought the notion of tuning the piano forbidden and the discussion closed. “Is there anyone local or must we send to London?”

  “Mr. Holt would be your man, there. He keeps the organ going at the church.”

  “Send word to him, then, that he’s needed at Havisham.”

  “Yes, m’lord. How would you like your advert to read?”

  “I shall leave that to Lady Locksley.” He walked over to the window and gazed out, while she followed Moore back to his cluttered desk. She thought perhaps her husband was disgusted with himself for inquiring about the tuner, for indicating that she had his permission to play the piano. Or perhaps it was simply that he wasn’t comfortable with the changes she wanted to make.

  And yet the joy spiraling through her was sharp and unmistakable. He might grumble, but he wasn’t going to deny her what she wanted. She didn’t want him to be extraordinarily kind, didn’t want to like him, because it only added weight to her guilt. She would do all she could to make his home a pleasant place in which to dwell.

  How odd that when she’d run away from home, she’d believed she was gaining freedom, and now in marriage, she was finding more than she’d ever known.

  When the advert was written to her satisfaction, she strolled over to join her husband at the window. “We’re finished.”

  “Very good.” He offered his arm and she took it. “Thank you, Mr. Moore,” he said before escorting her out.

  Once they were on the boardwalk, she said, “The advert will be in tomorrow’s paper, so I suppose I shall begin interviewing then.”

  “I suspect you’ll begin interviewing today. The newsprint is merely a formality. Moore is the biggest gossip in the village.”

  She laughed lightly. “Truly?”

  He gave her a laconic smile. “He is rather good at not spreading false tales but he is more the ‘crier’ than his paper.”

  “You didn’t like that he finds me beautiful.”

  “I didn’t like that his words were inappropriate. You’re a lady, not a doxy, but as it’s been a little over thirty years since there was a lady about, I suppose the villagers may have become lax in their manners. It’s the only reason I didn’t plow my fist into his nose.”

  She blinked, stared, taken aback by his words. “You would have struck him?”

  “You are my wife, Portia. You will be given the respect you deserve as such or I shall know the reason why.”

  And if she didn’t deserve the respect? She wouldn’t think about that, would put the past behind her, would become a woman who did deserve his respect, who was worthy of being his wife. “Do you respect me?” she asked.

  “How I perceive you is not the point. Now I have another matter to see to. Shall we walk?”

  “I would enjoy getting a sense of the village. I suppose I shall spend some time here.”

  “Divesting yourself of your monthly allowance?” he asked as they began strolling north.

  She wasn’t going to spend a penny. She was going to hoard it all away in case a time came when she found herself again on her own. “I thought you were going to purchase everything I require.”

  “Nothing frivolous.”

  Like the tuning of a piano? She truly didn’t know what to make of this man. “Who will decide if it’s frivolous?”

  “I shall, of course.”

  “I can’t quite figure you out, Locksley. On the one hand, you appear to be incredibly domineering, and yet on the other hand, you’re incredibly kind.”

  He scowled, the furrows in his brow deep, his eyes as hard as the gems their shade mirrored. “I am not kind.”

  “You gave me the keys.”

  “Because I did not want to have to deal with an upset Mrs. Barnaby every day. Never confuse practicality with kindness.”

  “I shall keep that in mind.” She wondered why he was so intent on not gaining her affection. She supposed it had to do with his aversion to love. Perhaps he feared that if she came to care for him, he might reciprocate.

  It was obvious, as they wandered the streets, that many of the villagers knew Locksley, but there was a deference to their greetings: a doff of the hat, a quick curtsy, a quietly spoken “M’lord, m’lady.” A very different approach from their encounter with Mr. Moore. She’d no doubt provide some sort of gift to the villagers at Christmas. The village in which she’d been raised had been near an earl’s estate, and the countess had always delivered a basket of food to Portia’s family on Christmas. Portia had considered the woman so elegant, so refined, so well dressed, but it had been equally obvious that duty alone had brought her to their home. Portia did not intend to give the impression that she considered herself above these people, that she considered the task her duty. For her, it would be a pleasure to be able to do something for those less fortunate, no matter how small or trivial the contribution might be.

  As they walked, she counted five taverns. She suspected her husband had frequented them all.

  Locksley turned them onto another street. They passed a hostelry and a blacksmith. At the
end of the road stood a large building with huge doors that hung open. The sign above them read “Cabinetry and Such.”

  Locksley began guiding her toward it. She was rather certain why they were here, and quite suddenly she didn’t want him to give her another gift. Digging in her heels, she resisted until he stopped and looked at her. She shook her head. “I don’t need a dressing table.”

  “You told me that ladies require them.”

  “I was being difficult.”

  He arched a brow. “As opposed to now when you are being so accommodating?”

  “You’re allowing me to have servants. You’re arranging for the piano to be tuned. I can go without a dressing table. Or I can find one in an abandoned bedchamber.”

  “I’ve already stated that’s not an option.”

  She couldn’t explain why she wasn’t comfortable with it. She just wasn’t. “I didn’t expect you to be so generous.”

  “I told you that I would be. Did you think me a liar?”

  “No, I just . . . it’s all too much, too soon.” Although it was reassuring to know that he wasn’t striving to be kind but was merely honoring his word.

  “I don’t have time to argue, Portia. I need to get to the mines. We’re here, and if we don’t see to it now, I’ll have to come to the village another day. So let’s get to it, shall we?”

  He didn’t wait for her to answer, but simply placed her hand back on his arm and led her into the massive building. Wood shavings littered the floor; the tart fragrance of cedar filled the air. Three men were working. Two of them appeared to be a bit older than Locksley, the last considerably younger. One of the older men stopped planing a plank and walked toward them. A fine layer of sawdust covered his face and clothes.

  “M’lord,” he said when he reached them. He bowed his head toward her. “M’lady. Congratulations to you both on the recent nuptials.”

  She supposed her clothing gave away that she was the new viscountess. The last thing she’d ever expected was to be considered nobility, regardless of her marriage.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wortham,” Locksley said. “We’re here as Lady Locksley is in need of a dressing table. I thought you might be up to the task.”

  “Indeed, m’lord, I’d be honored. I’d wager it’s been nearly thirty years since we fashioned anything for Havisham Hall. That privilege went to my father.”

  “Then it seems we’re long overdue,” Locksley said.

  “Perhaps, m’lord.” Wortham’s gaze darted between her and Locksley. “However, the last piece we made for Havisham was never delivered. And it just happens to be a dressing table. The marquess was having it made for his wife”—he shifted his weight from one foot to the other—“as a surprise for after . . .” He cleared his throat. “. . . she gave birth. Then he didn’t want it. But we’ve kept it. Would you like to see it?”

  “Yes,” Locksley said succinctly.

  Wortham turned; Locksley took a step to follow him; Portia grabbed his arm. He stopped, stared at her.

  “You can’t be thinking of taking it,” she told him.

  Locksley held her gaze. “Why not?”

  “It was to be a gift from your father to your mother.”

  “Which he never collected, so it’s merely been sitting here for thirty years.”

  She wanted to grab onto his shoulders and shake some sense into him. “Haven’t you a sentimental bone in your body?”

  He sighed deeply as though reaching the end of the tether of his patience with her. “Mr. Wortham, has it been paid for?” he called out.

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  Locksley gave her a pointed look. “It’s impractical to have another one made when we have a perfectly good one sitting here unused.”

  “And if your father should happen to see it—”

  “That’s not going to happen. There is no reason for him to come into our bedchamber.”

  “But should he see it being carted down the hallway to said bedchamber?”

  “I doubt he remembers it, Portia. He seldom remembers what day of the week it is.”

  “But it was his gift for her.”

  Breath rushed out of him on a quick huff. “At least look at it. If it’s hideous we’ll have another crafted.”

  Only it wasn’t hideous. It was quite simply the most beautiful piece of furniture she’d ever seen. It had six side drawers, three on each side of the large oval mirror. The mirror’s frame was a circlet of carved roses. The table’s legs were thick and curved, with whittled ribbons of flowers winding around them. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “The rosewood gives it an elegant look,” Wortham said.

  It was more than the wood. It was all the intricate detailing. “Do you think Lady Marsden knew that something so fine was being made for her?”

  “I don’t think so, m’lady.”

  “How very sad.”

  “We didn’t know what to do with it since his Lordship paid for it. We’ve been keeping it polished and well cared for all these years. A shame for it not to be used.”

  She glanced over at Locksley. He was studying the dressing table as though it were merely a block of wood, not something that had been created with a great deal of care. “Your father was very skilled, Mr. Wortham.”

  “Aye, m’lady, he was. He would be right pleased to know that it was being appreciated and put to use.”

  “I suspect my mother would as well,” Locksley said quietly.

  Portia jerked her gaze to him. He merely shrugged. “From what I understand she was a very generous woman. She would hate seeing this piece wasted.”

  Portia nodded. “I suppose it makes sense to take it.”

  “When can you deliver it, Mr. Wortham?” Locksley asked.

  “Tomorrow, m’lord.”

  “Very good. I shall be sending you a payment double your usual rate for delivery and I’ll be providing a bonus for the care you’ve given this piece over the years.”

  “No need for that, m’lord.”

  “There might not be a need for it, but it’s definitely warranted.”

  “It’s best not to argue with him,” Portia told Mr. Wortham. “Once he’s set his mind to something he can be quite stubborn.”

  She caught the sight of Locksley’s mouth curling up as he turned away from her. She didn’t know why it always pleased her to make him smile, or why her comment to Wortham made her feel so wifely. Coming to know her husband filled her with a sense of satisfaction as well as a measure of dread, because she feared he had the power to shatter what remained of her fragile heart.

  So she thought she knew him, did she? Well enough to speak of him to a laborer as though they were friends. He didn’t like that she might actually be figuring him out, liked even less the things that he was coming to anticipate about her. He’d known her eyes would widen in surprise and pleasure when he asked about the blasted tuner for the piano. He’d known she wouldn’t be entirely comfortable taking the dressing table. But it was ridiculous to spend coin to have another made when his father had already purchased one that had gone unused for more than a quarter of a century.

  He didn’t take any satisfaction in his ability to predict her reactions. Took far less in her ability to predict his. Therefore, he had decided to do something entirely unpredictable and bring her to Lydia’s Teas and Cakes before they returned to Havisham. As they’d entered, those whiskey-shaded eyes of hers had glowed with absolute delight. And he’d cursed his stupidity. He was being far too accommodating. It didn’t help matters that it always caused this odd sense of swelling in his chest that made it difficult to breathe for a few seconds whenever she flashed him a quick smile.

  He did not want her smiles. He did not want her eyes sparkling. He did not want her to express gratitude to him.

  As they sat at a table by the window, she began slowly peeling off her gloves. He’d not objected when she’d worn them for the journey. It was proper after all, and he needed his wife to be proper. But did she have to remove them in such
a salacious manner that made him want to carry her to an upper room in the tavern across the street and strip away every piece of clothing she wore?

  Clearing his throat, he turned his attention to the activity beyond the window, to the people wandering by, carrying on with their business. He spent very little time in the village, something that should no doubt be remedied now that he had a wife. They should have more presence in the future, ensure they were respected rather than feared for being mad.

  “It was very kind of you to double the amount you’ll be paying for the delivery,” she said.

  “Practical, Portia. It’ll make it easier for Wortham to find someone willing to cart the dressing table out there and haul it inside.” He could feel her gaze boring into him. He shifted his attention back to her. “Just as we’ll be paying your servants double the going rate. No one likes to spend time at haunted Havisham Hall.”

  “With whom did you play?” she asked. “Before your father’s wards arrived?”

  “No one.”

  Her expression reflected sorrow. “Don’t look so sad, Portia. I knew no different so it wasn’t as though I were lonely.”

  Her brow knitted, and he refrained from reaching across to smooth out the delicate folds with his thumb. “You can’t recall climbing to the ceiling in your father’s library but you recall that you weren’t lonely?”

  “I should think had I been lonely that it would have made an impression and I would remember it. I don’t. Just as I wasn’t lonely before your arrival. I’m content with my own company.” Not entirely true. He’d begun to have a sense of something missing, of a need for something more, but he wasn’t going to share that with her and give her any sort of power. She was a pleasant-enough distraction, but he didn’t need her in his life.

  A young woman brought over a teapot and a plate of cakes. After she left, Portia poured tea into Locke’s cup and then her own. “Your father doesn’t enjoy tea, does he?”

  “He detests it. What gave him away?”

  Her lips curled up into the barest hint of a smile. “The abundance of sugar he requested, followed by the fact that he failed to take so much as a sip.”

  “You’re keenly observant.”