Then his mouth landed on the bud of her desire and she nearly came up off the bench. Instead she pounded the keys as his tongue circled, as the pleasure mounted. She dropped her head back, unable to concentrate on the tune, simply striking random chords. What did it matter when he was doing such wicked, wicked things, when he was distracting her, causing her to be perched on the threshold of so many incredible sensations swirling through her, urging her to cry out—
“Locke, what the devil—”
With a screech at the sound of Marsden’s voice, Portia leaped to her feet, heard a mash of chords striking as Locksley’s head hit the underside of the piano. With a harsh curse, he crawled out from beneath her skirts, out from beneath the piano, until he was standing beside her, none too pleased by the interruption based upon the hard expression marring his face.
“What were you doing down there?” the marquess asked.
Her husband’s cheeks burned a bright red that at any other time she would have taken satisfaction from and teased him about. “Listening for any chords that needed to be tuned.”
“It seems as though you could have done that just as well—if not better—from over here.”
The absurdity of it all. She couldn’t help it. She began laughing so hard that tears formed and her legs weakened. Covering her mouth with her hand, she dropped back down onto the bench.
“It’s not funny, Portia,” Locksley stated succinctly, clearly as irritated with her now as he was with his father.
“I’m sorry.” But she couldn’t seem to stop the peals of laughter from rolling out. She was mortified to have been caught with her husband’s head nestled between her thighs. It was either cry or laugh, and she’d learned long ago that it was always better to laugh. Taking a deep breath, working to stifle the chuckles, she pressed her palms against her burning cheeks. They were no doubt as red as Locksley’s.
“What the deuce are you doing here?” he asked his father.
“I heard the piano.” He took a step forward. He’d obviously donned his jacket quickly as one side of the collar was tucked under, caught beneath the cloth at his shoulder. “I thought it was Linnie playing. She loved to play the pianoforte. She was so good at it.”
“I’m not very good,” Portia felt compelled to say.
“You were wonderful. Will you play for me?” Before she could answer, he added, “Locke, fetch me some scotch.” Then he dropped down into the chair that Locksley had vacated.
With a sigh, Locksley strode toward the corner, stopping to pick up his glass along the way. She watched as he added scotch to his glass before pouring some for his father. She turned toward Marsden. “I feared you might be upset that I had tidied this room.”
He glanced around as though only just noticing. “I haven’t been in here since I lost her. It was her favorite place to be. Other than in my bed, of course.”
The heat that had been fading from Portia’s cheeks returned. She was grateful that he hadn’t seen what had become of this room, was even gladder that she had set it to rights.
“Your inappropriate mention of your bed is making my wife blush,” Locksley said as he handed his father a glass.
“Why is it that lovemaking, which can be so glorious, is only whispered about as though it’s something tawdry?” the marquess asked. “Or done beneath a piano.”
She could have sworn that she heard Locksley growl. “I told you. I was striving to hear the chords more clearly.”
“Going deaf, are you?”
Locksley sat in a chair near his father. “I would be grateful not to hear you talking.”
“You never were one for being teased. Besides, I fully understand how this room and the music can seduce. I think you were conceived on top of that piano.”
“Oh, dear God,” Locksley muttered. “There are some things I’d rather not know.”
“And too many things that you should but I have failed to tell you. She’s watching us now, you know. Your mother. I think it pleases her to peek through the parted draperies and see us sitting here.”
She watched as sadness drifted slowly over her husband’s face, and knew that he was bothered by his father’s fantasy that the Marchioness of Marsden was still able to look in on them. “Shall I play now?” she asked, hoping to brighten Locksley’s mood.
Marsden lifted his glass. “Please.”
Rather than play from memory as she’d done before, she used the sheet music that had been in a position on the piano to indicate that it was probably the last song to have been played, or perhaps it had merely been queued up to be played in the future. It didn’t matter. She was rather certain that at some point, the Marchioness of Marsden had performed the tune for her husband.
As her fingers flew over the keyboard, she dared a quick glance at the marquess. He looked at peace, his eyes closed, his mouth turned up ever so slightly at the corners. She did hope he was recalling pleasant memories.
And she wondered if a time would ever come when her own husband would recall pleasant memories about her.
Chapter 15
A week later, Portia unlocked a door and led her newest staff members into a room that she was fairly certain had been at least one marchioness’s morning room. At the far end, the windows jutted out to create a little alcove, with bookshelves along the wall on either side. She could imagine herself curling up—book in hand—in one of the two large plush chairs near the windows and reading to a little girl nestled in the other.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” she ordered as she whipped the draperies open, coughing as the dust floated around her.
Since the marquess hadn’t seemed disturbed by the tidying of the music room—in fact he seemed to relish it, since he joined them there each evening shortly after she began to play—she had attacked the marchioness’s study with gusto. Now she had a place where she could write letters—if she’d had anyone who would welcome receiving a letter from her. The cook met her there each morning to go over the menu for the evening meal. She kept the midday fare simple—bread, cheese, sometimes soup. She would have a tray carried up to Marsden’s bedchamber and she would take her meal there. Without much prompting, she could entice him into speaking about his love. She thought it the most wonderful thing in the world that after so many years, he could still love his Linnie so deeply. She wished she’d an opportunity to know the woman, although through her afternoon visits with the marquess, Portia was beginning to have a sense of his wife’s personality and temperament. Of course, over the years, he’d no doubt idealized her, for surely no woman could be that perfect.
But she had obviously been perfect for the marquess. Unlike Portia, who was the absolute worst choice for a wife that the viscount could have made. Although of late, she was finding it a bit difficult to keep up with him in the evenings. She’d begun taking a short nap following her time with the marquess so she wouldn’t be completely exhausted when her husband wasn’t content with one session of lovemaking but was in the mood for two or three, usually keeping them going until long past midnight. Not that she minded. He was incredibly thorough and was never satisfied unless her pleasure equaled or exceeded his. She wasn’t accustomed to such considerations. Sometimes guilt nagged at her because he was a far better husband than she was a wife.
As she began examining each piece of furniture to determine which might need to be taken to Mr. Wortham for a bit of repair, she supposed she’d have more energy for the evenings if she stopped helping the staff as they worked to make each room habitable. But being involved made the days pass more quickly. She’d had two years of being little more than an ornament, waiting to be taken off the shelf. She delighted in all the activity during the day, although she had begun finishing up an hour earlier so she could be bathed and dressed by the time Locksley returned from the mines. He was rather punctual, always arriving home just before the sun set.
Once the furniture was sorted, moved about, rugs rolled up and draperies pulled down so they could all receive a good beating
, Portia began on a set of shelves, removing the books one by one and carefully wiping the years of collected dust from them. She didn’t know why Locksley insisted on going to the mines every day. She thought he would be better served to hire a capable foreman to see to matters. After all, Locksley was born to be a lord, not a laborer.
But whenever she tried to speak to him of the mines, of why he needed to keep such a close watch on things, he’d merely say, “Not to worry, Portia. I have the means to provide you with your allowance.”
His tone was always so blasted snide that she sometimes wanted to reach across the table and tweak his nose. It was the one aspect of their arrangement that disappointed her—that he found fault with her for wanting financial security. If she had insisted Montie provide her with an allowance—and if she’d had the foresight to save it—she would have had options, she wouldn’t have been forced to choose a route that left her sick to her stomach. But she had loved him and trusted him and believed him when he’d promised to always take care of her. Was there a greater fool in all of England than she? She would not be so foolish this time around.
“There’s his Lordship, returning from the mines,” Cullie announced.
Blinking, Portia looked up from the stack of books she’d been sorting—she wanted them returned to the shelves according to author—and gazed out the windows. The afternoon had gotten away from her. She’d learned to judge the hour by the shadows as she couldn’t quite bring herself to start the clocks keeping time again. That, she had decided, might indeed upset the marquess.
She shoved herself to her feet and walked into the alcove to get a better view of the rider. He seemed to be the same size as Locksley but his clothing was wrong. Instead of the well-tailored clothes the viscount wore, the man’s attire was coarse and didn’t mold itself to the shape of his body.
“When this room is ready,” Cullie said, “you can sit here in the afternoons and await his Lordship’s return.”
“Only that’s not his Lord—” The man was nearer now. His worn hat was pulled low over his brow, shadowing much of his face, but she could see the strong square cut of his jaw. She shook her head. “Why is he wearing such drab clothing?”
“Well, he don’t want to wear his finery down into the mines. They’d get ruined right quick while he was working,” Cullie said.
Portia’s brow was furrowing so deeply that she thought she might give herself a megrim. “He doesn’t actually labor in the mines.”
When Cullie remained silent, Portia turned to her. The girl looked as though she feared getting sacked. “Cullie? He doesn’t labor in the mines.”
Cullie’s gaze darted around the room, landing on each servant in turn as though she expected one of them to speak. Finally, she settled her eyes back on Portia, licked her lips, took a deep breath. “Yes, m’lady, he does.”
“No, he goes in occasionally to check on things.” He’d told her as much. “That’s the extent of his involvement.”
Cullie shook her head. “No, m’lady. He works in the mines.”
“You mean digging for ore?”
“Yes, m’lady, and it took some time for the miners to get used to him being beside them, but since the tin played out, he’s been trying to help them find more.”
Played out? She swung back around, but she could no longer see Locksley. He always came to her smelling of a recent bath. Part of the reason that she’d begun readying herself earlier was so the tub would be back in the bathing room when he returned home. She’d thought he was simply meticulous about being clean. Instead, he’d been working to rid himself of any evidence of his efforts.
“We’re finished in here for the day,” she called out as she began marching from the room.
“Will you be wanting a bath before dinner?” Cullie asked.
“Later.”
First she needed a word with her husband.
Locke poured the steaming water into the tub in the bathing room. Mrs. Dorset didn’t understand why he didn’t have one of the footmen prepare his bath, but the servants were Portia’s, not his. He didn’t need to take them away from whatever chores his wife had them doing. Besides, the fewer people who saw him in this ragtag state, the better.
After setting down the pail, he arched his back and looked up at the ceiling. Christ, he was tired. But he knew once he saw Portia, the weariness would fade away. Her smile of greeting always seemed to revitalize him. He’d even begun to enjoy her evening recitals, no longer viewing them as an irritating delay to his possessing her, but rather embracing them as a slow, sensual building of awareness. She found a bit of ecstasy in gliding her fingers over the ivory, and he became enthralled watching her.
She was a siren, luring his father out of his reclusiveness. Each evening, he made his way down to the music room. Locke had begun pouring a scotch and setting it on the table beside his father’s favorite chair in anticipation of the marquess’s arrival. Sometimes his father spoke of the love of his life. In the past several nights Locke had learned more about his mother than he’d learned in all the years prior.
Apparently, she’d been a bit of a hellion herself: brave, strong, and bold. He’d only ever known his father as a broken man, but perhaps he wasn’t quite as damaged as Locke had always thought.
Groaning, he stretched his arms overhead, then lowered his fingers to the water. Too tepid. Another bucket of boiling water should do the trick. Swinging around, he came up short at the sight of Portia standing just inside the doorway. He’d already set aside his dirt-covered jacket and removed his gloves, but grime had settled into the creases of his face and neck. He was well aware of his disheveled—and horribly smelly—state.
Her gaze roamed slowly over him as though she’d never seen him before. “You work the mines,” she stated quietly but with confidence.
He’d known sooner or later she might learn the truth of it. He’d have preferred later, but considering that she now had a few additional servants, and each of them were no doubt related to someone who labored in the mines, he saw no point in denying the truth, although he wasn’t going to confess it either. Apparently she had the wisdom to accurately interpret his silence.
“Does your father know?” she asked into the silence that followed her earlier words.
“No, and I prefer that he not. I also prefer that you leave so I may see to my bath.”
“How long has it been since there was any tin?”
“I’m not discussing the mines with you but rest assured, you will receive your allowance—”
“Damn you, Locksley!” she cut in with such vehemence that he snapped his head back as though she’d slapped him. Although God help him, the fire burning in her eyes was an aphrodisiac that might have drawn him in if he wasn’t embarrassed that she’d learned the truth of his days. “Do you honestly believe that’s the reason I’m asking? You’re a lord. You’re not supposed to be digging in the mines.”
“I’m another set of hands, hands for which I don’t have to provide a salary.”
“So it’s been a while.” Her tone reflected a fact in the same way a solicitor might make his case before the bench. Why did he feel as though he were the one in the prisoner box?
She took a step toward him. He backed up, slammed into the tub, cursed, pushed out the flat of his palm to still her. “Don’t come near me. I reek to high heavens and am likely to cause you to swoon.”
A corner of her mouth tilted up. “I’m not as delicate as all that. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it’s not your business.”
Now she was the one to jerk back as though she’d been slapped. “I’m your wife.”
“Your job is to warm my bed and provide my heir. That is the extent of your wifely duties. The estate, the management of it, the income are my duties. Nothing is to be gained by discussing them.”
“A lessening of your burdens, perhaps?”
“More likely an adding to them, as you’ll no doubt begin pestering me for details or resenting
if I suggest you not spend so frivolously. You’ll not do without, Portia, so I don’t see that you need to concern yourself with my troubles.”
She gave a brusque nod. “Sometimes, Locksley, you are an utter ass.”
With that, she spun on her heel and quit the room.
For reasons he couldn’t fathom, he laughed. Long, loud, and hard. Then he did something even more confounding. He moved to the side of the tub, grabbed the edge, and heaved with all his might until he upended it and sent water cascading over the floor.
Bowing his head, he clenched his fists. Damn. Damn. Damn. He had never wanted her to learn the truth of how he spent his days, frantically tunneling at the earth, desperate to find even the tiniest vein of ore, to uncover some evidence that more tin existed, that their financial future wasn’t completely and utterly hopeless.
Nearly an hour and a half later, he stood at the window in the library, downing scotch. He’d come straight here from the bathing room, now wearing the clothes he’d donned that morning before changing into the sturdier and rougher attire that he sported when going to the mines.
Portia was correct. He’d been an ass. Was still in danger of behaving as one because he couldn’t shake off the anger that riveted through him now that she knew the truth of his situation. He was embarrassed that he got his hands dirty, that he engaged in backbreaking labor that no gentleman should. That he hadn’t paid more attention to the mines when he reached his majority, that he hadn’t noticed sooner that his father was not the best steward for the estate.
That he returned to the manor each evening covered in sweat and grime. It was bad enough the local villagers knew. But he could envision Portia in London attending a tea, tittering with a group of ladies, laughing at the notion of him working for his supper as though he hadn’t been born into an elevated position in Society.
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 18