Hearing the footsteps, he turned slightly and watched as she charged into the room, wearing the deep blue gown that always made her appear so incredibly striking, that always made him want to remove the silk in all due haste. It taunted him now because he suspected she was going to object when next he went to touch her with hands that toiled. She had married him assuming him to be a gentleman, but a gentleman did not spend his day in the dank and chilled air beneath ground. A gentleman didn’t stink of labor rather than play.
He hadn’t been certain she’d join him for dinner now that she knew the truth. He hated the relief that swamped him because she was here, that she wasn’t leaving him to stew in solitude.
She came to an abrupt halt before him, her whiskey eyes searching his features, and he wondered what she saw now when she looked at him. A man who feared he might be a worse steward than his father, a man who shouldn’t have taken her to wife, who shouldn’t be striving to get her with child when he wasn’t certain if the lands would ever again be profitable. He shouldn’t yet be bringing an heir into this world, and yet he seemed incapable of not plowing into her each night. For a while, when he was lost in the heat of her, his troubles faded away. Yet they always returned with the sun, always—
His thoughts slammed to a halt as he realized she was holding something toward him. Glancing down, he saw resting in her palm the velvet pouch that he’d handed her the morning after they’d married.
“I’m returning the coins to you. I’ll keep a tally of what I’m owed, and you can pay me the amount when the mines are again profitable.”
“I don’t need the coins returned.”
“Still, I’m returning them.”
“I don’t want them.”
She spun on her heel, marched to the desk, and tossed them onto the center of it. “I’m giving them back. You don’t have a choice.”
The growl that echoed through the room was that of a wounded animal. Portia spun around to see Locksley charging toward her. She almost hiked up her skirts and ran. But she’d fled twice before in her life, and nothing good had come from it.
This time she stood her ground. He tossed his glass aside. It landed on the rug without shattering. Then his hands were on her waist, and he was lifting her onto the desk, coming to stand between her legs.
His green eyes were feral, filled with rage. She thought she should have been frightened, but she trusted that no matter how mad he might get he wouldn’t hurt her. His pride was bruised, scored, battered. She could see that now, wished she’d understood earlier what it was costing him to toil in the mines. Why could he not see how remarkable it made him that he didn’t simply sit back and hope for the best? That like her, he would do what he must to right a horrendous situation?
“I don’t want the bloody money,” he ground out. “I don’t want you to be kind or generous or understanding.”
She tossed her chin. “Never mistake practicality for kindness. You need the funds now to ensure we have more in the future.”
His dark laughter echoing around them, he shook his head. “I don’t want you to be practical. I don’t want you bringing music and sunshine and smiles into this house. I want you for one thing and one thing only.” With those large strong hands that had brought her so much pleasure, he grabbed her bodice, corset, chemise, and ripped them all asunder with one mighty tug that caused her breasts to spill out. “This is all I want of you,” he growled before taking one nipple in his mouth and sucking hard.
She dropped her head back as pleasure tore through her. “I know.”
“I don’t want you making me anticipate the end of the day.”
He moved to the other breast, closing his mouth around the turgid pearl and tugging. “I know,” she barely managed as sensations coursed through her.
“I’m not going to like you. I’m not going to care for you. I’m not going to love you.” He bracketed her face, his gaze boring into hers. “I’m not going to give you my heart. Ever.”
She nodded jerkily. “I know.”
“I don’t want you in my life. I want you only in my bed.”
“I know,” she repeated, for what else could she say? She did know.
He buried his face against her breasts, closed his arms tightly around her. “I will not love you,” he emphasized slowly, ardently, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was striving to convince himself more than her that the words he spoke were true.
She also wondered if it would be enough for them if she loved him. Combing her fingers gently through his hair, she repeated softly, “I know.”
He pressed his lips to the inside of one breast, needing only to turn his head slightly to kiss the other. “I don’t want you to taste so damn good, to feel so damned good.”
Raising her legs, she wrapped them around him as securely as she could, considering all the inconvenient petticoats she wore. Perhaps she should apply his rule regarding gloves to her undergarments—never to be worn in the residence. She scraped her fingers through his hair, brought her hands around until she was cupping his face between her palms, tilting his head up so she could hold his gaze. “I know precisely what you don’t want. What do you want, my lord?”
His harsh curse just before he swooped in to claim her mouth should not have delighted her, but the raw intensity of it had pleasure and satisfaction spiraling through her. She thought he might very well devour her with the feverishness with which he took possession of her lips, her tongue. Always there was a wildness between them, but at that moment it was more untamed, more uncivilized than it had ever been.
She knew he had been battered and bruised by her discovery, but the truth of it was that it only made her want him more. They were more alike than he’d ever realize, willing to do whatever was necessary to protect those who needed protecting, to ensure a safe future for those they loved. Although he would claim to love no one, she was well aware that he cared deeply for his father, for the estates, for the land. She was reckless to hope that some of his caring would be directed her way.
Yet when his heated mouth branded her throat with a series of kisses and bites, she couldn’t help but feel that within the realm of pleasure, she belonged to him as he did to her. Here they communicated more honestly than they did at any other time. Here there were no barriers, no lies, no deceptions. Here at least there was raw need, primitive desires, and bared wants.
With an arm around her hips, he dragged her to the very edge of the desk, shoved up her skirts, unfastened his trousers, and plunged deep and sure. Her cry of pleasure mingled with his groan of satisfaction.
“You feel so damned good,” he growled, before again capturing her mouth, his tongue thrusting in a rhythm that matched the movements of his hips, his arm at her back supporting her.
Clinging to him, she tightened her arms around his shoulders. She was a wanton to enjoy this inappropriate coupling so much, with the cool air wafting over her breasts, her straining nipples tingling as his jacket rubbed over them. Here in the library, on the desk, he pumped into her hard and fast. His mouth left hers to taste her elsewhere: her chin, her throat, the sensitive skin just below her ear where her pulse thrummed wildly.
Trying to hold back her cries, she bit her lower lip, but the action did nothing to muffle her scream when she finally came apart in his arms, trembling with the force of her release. His groan was that of a conqueror as he tensed, pouring his seed into her. With her legs, she squeezed his hips, tightened her muscles around him. He jerked, grunted before dropping his head to her shoulder.
“You have ruined this desk for me,” he said, his breaths coming in hard, short bursts. “How can I work here now without seeing you sprawled over it?”
“I’m not sprawled.”
Lifting his head, he held her gaze briefly before lowering his eyes to her breasts. “You can’t go into dinner like that.”
She laughed lightly. “No, I suppose I can’t.”
Stepping back, he lowered her skirts, then began to fasten his trouse
rs. She didn’t want to acknowledge how bereft she felt with his leaving. He whipped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She’d barely clutched the opening closed when she suddenly found herself in his arms, being carried from the room.
“I can walk,” she said.
“After the way you cried out, I assume you’re far too weak. Your legs are still trembling.”
She felt the heat suffuse her face. “You weren’t so quiet yourself, you know.”
“And whose fault is that?”
She didn’t bother to hide her smile as she laid her head against his shoulder.
Gilbert stepped into the hallway. “My lord, dinner—is Lady Locksley all right, my lord?”
“She has come apart at the seams, Gilbert.”
Portia slapped her hand over her mouth to stop her laughter from erupting.
“My lord?”
“My London seamstress is not as accomplished with a needle as I was led to believe,” Portia said, surprised she was able to keep her voice so steady. “Her stitching didn’t hold as it should.”
“As you can well imagine, Gilbert, Lady Locksley has had quite a shock. We’ll be dining in our bedchamber. Have Cullie bring up a tray in an hour.”
“In an hour, sir?” Gilbert asked as he managed in spite of his arthritic knees to hop out of the way as Locksley barged past him and into the foyer.
“An hour, Gilbert. I need to settle my wife’s nerves first.”
Once they were headed up the stairs, she took his earlobe between her teeth and nipped gently, relishing his groan but wanting it to sound more tortured. “When we get to our bedchamber, you might as well rip everything off. It’s beyond saving.”
His responding growl served to make her wish he’d walk faster.
He’d never known a woman like her—ever. Following along with his tale about the seams, she matched Lady Godiva for boldness, and he could well imagine her riding naked through the streets without a single blush forming anywhere on her person. And damned if he didn’t want her again with a fierceness that made him feel barbaric.
After he kicked the door to his bedchamber closed behind them, he did precisely as she suggested and ripped what remained of her clothing from her body. There was something immensely satisfying and feral in the rasp of rending satin and silk, in the way that Portia simply stood there and let him have his way with her, her eyes smoldering with needs that matched his own. When she was completely bared, he lifted her back into his arms, carried her to the foot of the bed, and tossed her onto her stomach, leaving her legs to dangle over the mattress.
Breathing heavily, she rose up onto her elbows and gazed back over her shoulder at him as he tore off his own clothes, buttons popping off and pinging onto the floor with his haste. So desperate to possess her, he’d considered merely unfastening his trousers again but he enjoyed too much the feel of her silken skin against his. He was going to take her fast and hard, but by God, he wanted no cloth between them this time.
When he’d shed the last of his clothing, he stepped between her thighs, parted them with a spreading of his own legs. Leaning over her, he layered a series of kisses along her shoulder, following the curve of her neck. “You said I could take you from behind,” he rasped.
Her eyes heated. “So I did.”
He bracketed her hips, lifted them slightly, and plunged into the molten depths, her cry of satisfaction echoing between them. He slid one hand around until he brushed the tight curls at her apex, then parted the folds and pressed a finger to the swollen nubbin. He applied more pressure, caressing her outwardly while slowly stroking her inwardly. She whimpered and wiggled. He rained kisses between her shoulder blades, could feel her tightening around him as her whimpers turned to throaty moans and her breaths became uneven.
“Fly, Portia,” he rasped near her ear before swirling his tongue along the delicate shell. “Fly.”
Her cry came as she bucked against him, and her muscles closed tightly around him. He grabbed her hips and pounded into her a mere handful of times before his own release tore through him, darkening the edges of his vision until all he could see was her profile, with lashes half lowered, lips parted in wonder.
Sinking down, he pressed his cheek to hers, placing his arms so he bore his weight, and his chest barely skimmed her back. But it was enough to tame the beast that raged within him, the one that wanted her to be different than she was, to be the fortune-hunting title chaser that he’d thought he married.
She shifted her arm slightly, and her hand was suddenly in his hair, holding him near. And he realized with unerring accuracy that he had made many mistakes in his life, but when it came to her, he may have made the greatest one of all, because it was quite possible that he could come to care for her a great deal.
And that was the very last thing he wanted. Unfortunately he feared it might be too late to worry over what he wanted.
Chapter 16
Portia leaned forward from her comfy pillows, snagged a grape from the tray that rested near her knees, and popped the dark red fruit into her mouth.
Lounging at the foot of the bed where a short time ago he’d taken her with such unbridled enthusiasm, her husband sipped his burgundy wine. His gaze drifted to her chest. Perhaps because she hadn’t pulled her dressing gown as tightly around her as she might have and she’d left a good bit of flesh visible. She didn’t know why she took such delight in teasing him with flashes of skin.
“Be sure to send word to your London seamstress that you’re in need of another blue gown,” he said.
She shook her head. “I have enough gowns.”
His jaw tautened for a heartbeat before relaxing, and she knew he was taking exception to her frugality, that he was insulted by the notion that he couldn’t properly provide for her. “Not in that shade of blue. It’s my favorite as it brings out the red in your hair.”
She laughed lightly. “As though I need anything to bring out the red in my hair. The devil’s doing, my father often said.” When his eyes narrowed, she wished she’d bit back the words—better yet bitten off her tongue.
“Why would he say that?” Locksley asked.
Sighing, she popped another grape into her mouth, chewed slowly. She didn’t think the tray of fruit, cheeses, and sliced meats had originally been prepared for supper but she suspected Mrs. Dorset had decided simpler fare was required for dinner in a bedchamber. Portia swallowed. “Because neither my father nor my mother has red hair. Hers is a dark brown, his blond. Although I always thought his mustache hinted at red when the sun hit it just right, but he never acknowledged that.”
“Did he accuse your mother of being unfaithful?”
“No, he merely thought I had more of the devil in me than I should.” And on occasion believed he could beat it out of her. But she didn’t want to travel down that path, and as Locksley had asked a personal question—
“How long has it been since the mines produced tin?”
He reached for the bottle of wine on the tray and poured more into his glass. “Close to two years.”
“That’s the reason you stopped traveling.”
He took a sip, nodded. “It seemed prudent. The mines were still producing but their output was dwindling. In all his years of hiding away here, my father never neglected the estates, but the steward expressed concerns that the marquess wasn’t taking the diminishing income seriously.” He lifted a shoulder, dropped it back down. “I realized it was time I stepped up to the task. I discovered I liked the challenge of it, especially as everything wasn’t moving along swimmingly well. I think I might find it boring if there was nothing to worry over.”
She suspected he would. A man who scaled mountains certainly wouldn’t be content to merely stroll over even ground.
“Then about six months after I took over, the mines stopped producing altogether,” he added.
“And you began to work in them,” she stated.
“I thought I might have more luck finding what the miners had mis
sed. Not to mention that it drove me to distraction to be sitting about waiting for word that a new source of ore had been struck.”
“The lords I’ve known wouldn’t have cared. They’d have continued to play and let their fathers worry over it.”
“Then I suspect they’ll find their estates in ruination when they inherit. Things are changing for the aristocracy. I don’t think we can blithely go on without recognizing that we are on the cusp of becoming obsolete.”
“There will always be an aristocracy.”
“But our role is diminishing. Or at the very least our carefree lifestyle must change. We can’t continue to be pampered without realizing it comes at a cost.”
He placed a slice of ham and some cheese on a cracker and ate it as though to signal the end to the conversation. But she wasn’t yet ready to let it go. “I can’t imagine you were ever pampered.”
“Not here, not really. We had so few servants. I like doing for myself. One of my first evenings at a gentleman’s club—I was in the drawing room, sitting near the fire, enjoying a bit of brandy. An older gentleman, an earl, was sitting nearby. He called a footman over because the fire needed stirring and a log added. And I thought, ‘If you’re chilled then get up off your bloody ass and stir the fire yourself.’ Here we never called a servant into a room to take care of something we could take care of ourselves. It was both enlightening and disturbing once we began moving about in London.”
Adjusting a pillow behind her back, she settled against it. “You must have ground your back teeth that first afternoon when I said I would call in a footman to move the chair for me.”
He studied her intently, so thoroughly that she felt a need to squirm, and it was all she could do to hold still. “You lied that afternoon, Portia. You wouldn’t call in a footman. You’d move it yourself. Why did you wish us to think otherwise, to see you as a snobbish haughty woman?”
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 19