The Viscount and the Vixen

by Lorraine Heath

  She dashed into the hallway, was halfway to the stairs, when he suddenly appeared on the landing. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” she asked.

  His long strides ate up the distance between them. “I’ve discovered I don’t like to go places without you.”

  The joy at his words hit her just as he swept her up into his arms. Laughing, she tightened her hold on his neck. “It was so lonely here without you.”

  “Lonely.” He carried her into the room, set her next to the bed. “Before you, I didn’t even know what the word meant.”

  “Surely there were others at the club to keep you company.”

  “Boring people who spoke of new farming methods, the scourge of new wealth, their fascination with American heiresses, and tennis tournaments at Wimbledon.”

  “I’ve never played tennis.”

  He was kissing her neck while loosening the buttons of her nightdress. “I’ll teach you, but for now, I have another sport in mind, one in which you excel.”

  Heat rushed through her body at his compliment. She knew they were well matched between the sheets but she liked having the confirmation that she pleased him. The soft cotton shimmered along her skin, pooling on the floor.

  He attacked his own clothes as though they were an enemy to be vanquished. She brushed his hands aside. “We’re going to have to hire a valet just to maintain your clothing. I spend half my day sewing your buttons back on.”

  “Give the chore to one of the maids.”

  “I like doing it.” When he was away in the mines, it made her feel closer to him. She’d done what she’d promised herself she’d never again do: she’d fallen for someone, for him, even knowing that he had the power to destroy her.

  When his clothes were piled in an untidy heap, he lifted her onto the bed and joined her there, hovering over her, looking down on her, holding her gaze as though seeing her for the first time. Lowering himself to his elbows, he grazed his knuckles over her cheeks, then he claimed her mouth as though he owned it.

  She was his.

  He almost said aloud the words that reverberated through his soul. She belonged to him in the same manner that clouds belonged to the sky and leaves to the trees and ore to the earth, part and parcel, a piece of the whole. He was not one for poetry, yet for her he wished he had the ability to write sonnets. He wished he’d met her at a ball, had courted her—properly with flowers, strolls, and rides in the park. But romantic gestures were as foreign to him as love.

  He’d never wanted emotional entanglements, yet he couldn’t deny that she had the ability to tie him up in knots.

  Sliding his mouth from hers, he grazed his lips along the underside of her chin, relishing her soft moan. She was so quick to burn. He loved that about her. From the beginning she’d never played hard to get in the bedchamber. She’d welcomed him, responded, given back.

  Was it possible to love things about a person without loving the person?

  So many things about her brought him pleasure. The way she laughed. The way her eyes smoldered when he kissed her. The way she smelled after she left her bath. The fragrance she carried on her after he pleasured her.

  Bracketing his hands on either side of her ribs, he scooted down until he could easily take the tip of her breast into his mouth. With an urgent whimper, she lifted her hips, pressing her womanhood against his abdomen. He’d never been one to boast of his exploits or to rank his encounters with women. He accepted that each would be different, not better or worse, simply different, and he always found enjoyment in the differences.

  He could have a lifetime of bedding her and never grow bored. But tonight he didn’t want to bed her; he wanted to make love to her. He wanted to kiss every inch of her, stroke every line and curve, taste every aspect of her. He wanted her scent, heated with passion, filling his lungs. He wanted her cries filling his ears.

  He wanted to begin anew, exploring her as though she were a novel discovery.

  Dragging his tongue from the tip of one breast to the other, he was aware of her thighs pressing against his hips as though she feared she would fly away if she weren’t secured.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he rasped, easing himself lower, planting light kisses along each of her ribs.

  “You make me feel beautiful.”

  He wanted to give her so many gifts: the gift of touch, the gift of pleasure, the gift of a shattering orgasm. He wanted her falling apart in his arms, wanted to hold her afterward as she came back together. For her, he wished he were a romantic, wished he knew the fine art of wooing.

  But he’d never planned to court any woman, had always planned to be practical about his selection of a wife. That first day he’d been practical about her. He’d seen a woman whom he could never love.

  Only now did he realize that he hadn’t seen at all. He’d been blind.

  Something was decidedly different tonight. She wasn’t certain exactly what it was. The need was more intense, deeper. He kissed and licked his way down to her toes, so slowly, so provocatively, almost as though he were worshipping her, as though she were a goddess deserving of his adoration.

  He moved back up, lingering at her thigh, teasing her with a promise that he wouldn’t stop there, that he had no intention of halting until she was writhing and begging.

  “Don’t torment me.”

  He licked her, nipped her. “I like how hoarse your voice gets when you’re on the brink of pleasure.”

  “What else do you like?”

  His mouth stayed on her thigh, but he lifted his smoldering gaze to her. She didn’t know if he’d ever looked more dangerous or more appealing. “I like the way you taste.”

  Then he was tasting . . . the honeyed spot between her thighs, and she was no longer on the brink of pleasure but had fallen into its vortex, arching her back, clutching the sheets, feeling as though every nerve ending had come alive. He made her feel things she’d never felt before, experience sensations that had only hovered, had never been fully realized. He carried her to levels she’d not known existed; he caused her to soar.

  Her cries echoed around her as she took flight. She was still ascending when he plunged into her deep and sure. Wrapping her legs around him, she scraped her fingernails along his buttocks, relishing his growl as he arched his back and pumped into her, faster, harder—

  His deep groan, his shuddering body told her that he, too, was soaring. She couldn’t help it. She laughed, a quick burst of pure, unadulterated joy.

  His responding laughter was quieter, lower, as he pressed his forehead to hers. “Don’t let this go to your head, but I have never enjoyed being with a woman so much.”

  “It’s a sin how much I enjoy what we do.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re married, which makes it all legal in heaven and on earth.”

  “But we do such wicked things.”

  “Mmm. All the better.”

  Rolling off her, he brought her up against his side and slowly trailed his fingers along her arm. With her head nestled in the nook of his shoulder, she relished the beat of his heart, wondering if it were possible that he might unlock it just a little bit.

  Chapter 21

  Portia should have made an excuse so she could have avoided coming to London, but the truth was that sooner or later she’d have to return and confront her demons. Sooner was better, get it behind her.

  She’d had the coachman take her to a dressmaker’s—one of the more posh establishments that catered to ladies of nobility, according to the gossip rags—and told him to return for her in four hours. Once she’d been fitted for a lilac ball gown and another blue gown, she’d walked out and hired a hansom to bring her to the outskirts of London.

  She regretted that the blue gown wouldn’t look exactly as the one before it, but what she had described to the seamstress didn’t look quite right when she’d finished sketching it out. Still, Portia couldn’t risk going to Lola, the woman she’d used before, couldn’t take a chance on someone recognizing her, sprea
ding the word that she was here, and the truth of her past coming to light. Lola’s clients didn’t include noble ladies, but those for whom she did sew clothing kept quite a few aristocratic men company.

  Which begged the question: What the devil was Portia doing slowly walking through her old neighborhood, strolling by her prior residence? She couldn’t linger, couldn’t stand on the corner and watch, hoping to catch sight of a new resident now. But she thought if she walked by she might be able to determine if someone else lived there, if Montie had moved on. If he’d replaced her, it was quite possible that even if he spotted her, he wouldn’t care. He’d ignore her. His pride would force him to.

  He had so damned much pride. As much as her father. She’d thought all men were the same until Locksley. It would be so much easier if she hadn’t come to care for him. While she knew it had been wrong to marry him, he’d been so unpleasant when they’d first met that she convinced herself he deserved what he got: a woman of sin who had once belonged to another.

  But now . . .

  Dear God, she would sell her soul to Satan and gladly spend eternity burning in hell for the chance to go back in time, to have folded up that contract when he tossed it back into her lap, to have walked out of the residence, out of his life. She’d never expected him to want to appear in public—in London, among his peers—with her at his side. She’d stupidly thought he’d relegate her to the bedchamber as Montie had. That he’d keep her sequestered at Havisham Hall. That she would be his dirty little secret.

  As she neared the townhome where she had lived for two years, memories assailed her. The joy, the happiness, the sadness, the heartbreak. She had grown up here in the presence of a man far more brutal than her father. Her father had struck at her flesh. Montie had struck at her young, vulnerable heart.

  She’d thought it would forever remain shattered, but it had somehow pieced itself together and had fallen once more.

  A door opened, in the townhome next to what had been hers. Portia froze, not even daring to breathe, as she watched the young woman exiting. Sophie. Portia didn’t know her last name. In this part of London, on this street in particular, women did not own up to their surnames.

  Portia turned before she could be spotted and began walking in the other direction. The action shamed her. She’d once enjoyed tea with Sophie on numerous occasions. They’d pretended to be ladies of quality delicately sipping Darjeeling while chatting about tawdry things that ladies of quality would never discuss. Through Sophie—who had a reputation for being incredibly knowledgeable in the ways of men—Portia had learned the skills necessary to please a man, to act coy, to hold his interest. Although in hindsight, she had to admit she’d learned a great deal more from Locksley, yearned to please him more than she’d ever wanted to please Montie. It was a strange path she’d traveled to get where she was today. Sophie had been instrumental in helping her escape, and here Portia was running away from the only person she’d been able to call friend since the day she learned that her family refused to acknowledge her.

  And here she was secretly snubbing that person for fear that she’d again be judged, that the one person she had trusted might betray her. She was stronger than this, better than this. Abruptly, she spun around.

  But Sophie was nowhere to be seen. She hated the relief that swamped her. She was safe, her secret was safe. For now.

  She wanted to wait here and see if anyone emerged from her former dwelling, but her curiosity, her possible peace of mind, wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, Montie’s possibly moving on didn’t guarantee that he would leave her alone. All she could do was hope that her plans weren’t on the verge of coming unraveled.

  “I like your new blue gown.”

  Tugging on her gloves at her dressing table, Portia glanced over to her husband standing in the doorway that joined the two bedchambers. Dressed in his evening finery that included a black swallow-tailed coat and waistcoat, pristine white shirt and a light gray cravat, he was no doubt the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on.

  “It’s not exactly like the one before it,” she said, wondering how it was that after all these months he managed to take away her breath.

  “Close enough. A shame your previous seamstress closed up shop.”

  A small lie she’d told to explain why she was going to a different dressmaker. “I like the new one I’ve found.”

  “Good.” His stride was slow, lazy, as he approached. “Also a shame you must wear gloves.”

  “It’s a proper ball. A proper lady wears proper gloves to a proper ball.” As though to demonstrate, she gave a gentle tug on the end of each glove where it rested just above her elbow.

  They’d been in London for a little over a week, not attending any social functions because he didn’t deem any of them grand enough for the unveiling of his wife. But tonight’s ball—hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Lovingdon—was certain to be well attended, as they were one of the most beloved couples in all of London. Thanks to the gossip sheets, Portia knew all about them. The affair would be a mad crush of people. While she might be introduced to everyone who was anyone, it was also possible that she might be able to avoid running into anyone she didn’t wish to encounter. She rose. “Let me just get my wrap.”

  She was in the process of taking a step and turning when he placed a hand on her bared shoulder. “Wait.”

  He had yet to put on his gloves, and the warmth of his skin on hers caused her to melt just a little. How was she going to make it through the evening without giving away how badly she wanted him whenever he touched her? “Do we really need to go out?” she asked, offering her most sultry look and placing a gloved hand so it rested partway on his waistcoat, partway on his shirt.

  “Introducing you to Society was one of the reasons we came to London.”

  “I thought you came here because you had matters to see to.”

  “I did, and one of those matters involves tonight. I’ve been fending off questions about you since we arrived. At the Lovingdon ball, the curious will be appeased.”

  “I worry that I’ll embarrass you.”

  “Good God, Portia, where’s the woman to whom I opened the door, the one who mistook me for a footman?”

  That woman hadn’t cared about him, hadn’t wanted to make him proud, had cared only about her own needs. She angled her chin. “I was under the impression that you weren’t too keen on me that day.”

  He trailed his finger along her collarbone. “Still, you managed to win me over, didn’t you?”

  Her heart slammed against her ribs. As much as she craved his love, she could think of nothing worse than obtaining it.

  “Here, a little something to commemorate the night.”

  Glancing down, she saw the black velvet box he extended toward her. Where had that come from? A jacket pocket obviously. Her emotions were already raw, her nerves frayed. A gift from him would only fill her with more regrets. She shook her head. “You’ve given me enough. A new gown, a dressing table, the piano tuned—”

  “Let’s not argue about this.”

  “But it’s jewelry, isn’t it? It’s too much, too personal.”

  “You’re my wife.”

  “Not because you wanted me to be.”

  “I want you to be tonight.” With his free hand, he cradled her cheek. “Tonight you’ll be the most beautiful woman there, the most generous, the most mysterious, the cleverest, the boldest. And the only one without a piece of jewelry.”

  Her stomach loosened. “So this is for you, so your wife doesn’t appear to be a pauper.”

  “We’ll say that’s the case if it’ll allow you to take it.”

  Which meant it wasn’t the case. “Was it your mother’s?”

  “No. I purchased it this week. It occurred to me that I’ve never seen you wear jewelry.”

  “I wear a ring.”

  “Then wear this as well.” He took her hand and closed it around the velvet. “One is always supposed to be grateful for a gift.”
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br />   “I’ve never known one not to come without strings.”

  “No strings, Portia. You’re the wife of a lord and as such, you should wear jewelry.”

  So it was his pride. Easier to accept knowing that. But when she opened the case, when she saw the beautiful pearl necklace and matching bracelet, she couldn’t refrain from releasing a sigh of pleasure.

  “You like it?”

  It was strange to hear the doubt in his voice, to know her opinion mattered.

  “It’s perfect. Simple yet elegant. I didn’t realize you had such good taste.”

  “I married—” He stopped, cleared his throat and took the velvet box from her.

  She could only surmise that he’d been about to say that he’d married her as a sign of his good taste, and then thought better of it. It showed his bad taste whether he knew it or not. Taking the necklace, he moved in behind her and secured it at her throat.

  Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, she couldn’t believe how the small pearls transformed her, at least providing the illusion she was a lady. He placed her bracelet at her wrist.

  She touched his jaw. “I don’t deserve you, and you certainly deserve better than me.”

  “I’m not so certain then that we’re not well matched if we both think the other deserves better.”

  She was devastated with the realization that he thought she deserved better than him. All she could do was ensure that she was worthy of him. She touched her fingers to the cool pearls at her throat. “I’m the luckiest woman in all of London to have you as my husband.”

  Placing his hands on her shoulders, pressing his lips to the curve of her neck, he held her gaze in the reflection. “After we return home, I’m removing everything from you except the pearls. When I’m done with you, I promise you will consider yourself the luckiest woman in all of Great Britain.”

  While a husband had the right to sit beside his wife in the coach, Locke preferred sitting across from his because it afforded him the opportunity to gaze on her more fully, to watch her more closely. Every now and then the light from the streetlamps they passed would reflect off the pearls. He’d bought them because he wanted to lavish her with gifts, wanted her to have everything she’d ever desired.