The Viscount and the Vixen

by Lorraine Heath

  It was crushing him to realize how much he cared for her.

  She was gorgeous in the blue. Whenever she looked at him, there was always a sultriness to her gaze that caused his body to react as though she’d stripped herself bare. But it was more than the sex that appealed to him. It was her generosity of spirit, the way she was uncomfortable accepting something as simple as pearls.

  Those who met her tonight would be captivated. She could hold her own. Of that he had no doubt.

  “It didn’t occur to me to ask if you danced,” he said.

  Her lips curled up into a soft smile. “I attended a country dance or two. And I’m quite adept at following.”

  “I hadn’t noticed you being quite so docile as all that.”

  “You wouldn’t care for me much if I were docile.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” He liked that she was strong, knew her own mind, went after what she wanted—even if it had brought her to his father’s door.

  “Are you friends with the Duke and Duchess of Lovingdon?” she asked.

  “I know them relatively well. You’ll like them, and they’ll like you. I chose their ball because the duchess is particularly kind when it comes to easing people into Society. Neither of them have any prejudice against commoners since a good many of their close relatives aren’t nobility by birth.”

  “I don’t think the aristocracy is what it once was.”

  “I fear you’re right. I suppose it goes without saying that you’re not to discuss my role at the mines.”

  “Work is nothing of which to be ashamed.”

  “I’m not ashamed—” Except maybe he was. He hadn’t told Ashe or Edward that he’d taken to digging alongside the miners. “I simply prefer that my business remain private.”

  “I’m proud of you, you know. Proud to be your wife.” She glanced quickly out the window as though she’d revealed too much.

  He was grateful that she was absorbed in the passing scenery rather than the shock and relief that had no doubt crossed his features. He was usually so good at keeping his thoughts, his feelings to himself, but she somehow always managed to unman him.

  “It takes a great deal of courage to do what one must when it goes against the grain.” She peered over at him. “I know you’d rather not be working the mines.”

  “All gentlemen prefer a life of leisure.”

  “Only you’ve never had one, not really. It can’t have been easy growing up without a mother. Then all the traveling you’ve done. You went on expeditions that pushed you to your limits. You returned home to care for your father, the estates. Nothing easy in that. I’ve come to admire you, Locksley. I wish . . .”

  Her voice trailed off, her attention went back to the window.

  “You wish what?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Portia?”

  “I wish we’d met under different circumstances.”

  Under different circumstances, the moment he’d have deduced she was a woman he might come to like or admire, he’d have walked away in order to protect his heart and his sanity. “Is there any other situation under which we might have met?”

  A sad, hollow burst of laughter echoed throughout the coach. “Not anything particularly ideal, I’m sure.”

  The coach slowed, stopped. She leaned closer to the window. “It appears we’re here. There’s quite a queue of vehicles.”

  “It tends to move quickly. Shouldn’t take us long to get to the front.”

  Portia bobbed her head, released a long sigh, and touched her fingers to the pearls, torn between wishing to get all of this over with and hoping the ball might have ended by the time they arrived. But Locksley was correct. The coach pulled to a stop in the curved drive sooner than she’d expected. A footman leaped into action, opening the door, handing her down. Once she was standing on the drive, she could see that they weren’t unloading a single carriage at a time but were unloading several so they could make way for the next group.

  So many people dressed in glorious finery were climbing up the wide steps that led to the open door.

  “Try not to gawk,” Locksley said, offering his arm.

  “It’s an incredibly large residence.”

  “It’s just a residence.”

  “That’s rather like saying the queen is just a woman.”

  “To Albert, she probably was.”

  “It is said she ruled his heart. Do you think he could forget that she ruled an empire as well?”

  “I should think love would demand it, but then it’s not my area of expertise.”

  They walked into the foyer and Portia was struck not only by its magnificence but by the sense that it was truly a home. Love resided here.

  They were guided into the front parlor where they deposited her wrap, his hat, and his cane. Then they followed the line up the stairs. Locksley acknowledged those standing nearest to them, introduced her, but she was too in awe of her surroundings to remember names.

  She’d once dreamed of this, of attending an affair such as this one. She’d thought when she’d left Fairings Cross that this was her future, only she’d anticipated standing beside a different man, one who loved her, one whom she loved. She’d finally arrived but not at all as she expected.

  They walked through a doorway and onto a landing. A gentleman was announcing guests, who would then descend into the ballroom. The mirrors glistened; the chandeliers sparkled. She imagined the ballroom at Havisham would have held its own against this one.

  One couple was before them. She was keenly aware of Locksley leaning down, brushing his lips over her ear. “I’m equally proud to have you at my side this evening, Portia.”

  Gratitude washed through her, even as guilt pricked at her conscience. Before she could utter so much as a syllable, he’d straightened, stepped forward, and handed the invitation to the majordomo.

  “Lord and Lady Locksley!” he announced.

  Then her husband was escorting her down the stairs that would lead her into either heaven or hell.

  Chapter 22

  During the entire journey down the interminable flight of stairs, Portia not only saw but felt all the eyes coming to bear on them and feared someone would discern the truth and yell out, “Fake, liar, deceiver!”

  But she heard only quiet murmurings, spotted an eyebrow or two raised in curiosity. She straightened her spine, lifted her chin. She’d spent a good deal of her life playing a role. No reason to stop now.

  As she stepped onto the floor, Locksley led her over to the Duke and Duchess of Lovingdon, who were greeting their guests. They were a handsome couple, the duke as dark haired as her own husband, the duchess with hair a much more pleasant shade of red than her own. She’d always felt hers was too fiery, too harsh—perhaps because her father had thought it a sign that she was possessed of the devil.

  “It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” the duchess said with a kind smile.

  “I’m honored,” Portia said, dipping into a deep curtsy.

  “Where did you find such a treasure, Locksley?” the duke asked.

  “My father introduced us. I could not resist marrying her.”

  Portia held back the grimace at the words that she had little doubt he would be repeating throughout the evening.

  “How is the marquess?” Lovingdon asked.

  “Quite well. Not up to traveling but holding his own.”

  “Having lost my father at an early age, I envy you somewhat having yours still about.”

  “On most days I’m grateful for his presence, although there are times when he gets up to some mischief with which I’d rather not have to deal.” His smile was self-deprecating and when he winked at her, she understood clearly that she was the mischief to which he was referring.

  “We must get together for tea sometime,” the duchess said to her.

  “I look forward to it.” Portia meant the words more than she thought possible. She had no doubt that the duchess would prove a strong ally should one ever be
needed.

  As Locksley led her away, she fought to shake off her awe that she was walking among the nobility and being treated as though she was one of them. They hadn’t gone far before they were surrounded by a mad crush of people. She’d known her husband was a darling of Society, easily forgiven any transgression, but it was a revelation to witness how he was genuinely welcomed and adored—and their acceptance of him was transferred to her. As though she was worthy simply because he’d taken her to wife.

  The array of introductions was dizzying. She wanted to make him proud but it was all so overwhelming as she struggled to associate names she recognized with faces she didn’t. Then there were those she’d never heard of, older couples who might have been gossiped about in their youth, but were now settled into mediocrity. Locksley seemed to know them all, was comfortable with them. She kept her posture perfect, took the appropriate curtsies when necessary, expressed delight at making their acquaintance, and was quick to pose a question before one was asked of her, a little trick her mother had taught her. When one had something to hide, it was better to be the one listening than the one talking.

  People always welcomed an opportunity to speak about themselves, and her interest in them flattered them. Her mother’s attentiveness had always been feigned. Portia’s wasn’t. For as long as she could remember the aristocracy had enamored her. That tiny captivation had led to her downfall, if she were honest about it. Odd that her disgrace had led her to be where she had once thought to socialize.

  “I must beg your forgiveness,” Locksley said, “but Lady Locksley’s favorite tune is starting up and I promised her a dance. If you’ll excuse us . . .”

  Before she even knew what was happening, his hand was at her waist and he was expertly wending them around couples, causing them to part with no more than a dashing smile and an occasional word. Then he was sweeping her over the dance floor, and for the first time since their arrival, she finally felt as though she could breathe.

  “I’m not familiar with this song,” she confessed.

  “They’d have never let us go if we told them that. You held up rather well under the circumstances.”

  “They all love you.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. But my tragic life has made them more willing to make exceptions for me than they might for others.”

  “I suspect a good many of the single ladies were hoping to drag you to the altar one day. Was there one you fancied?” She didn’t know why she’d never thought to ask before—perhaps because his popularity on paper had seemed distant—but having finally witnessed it in person, she found it impossible to ignore. He could have had anyone.

  “Bit late to be asking that.”

  He had sworn to never love but that didn’t mean that he hadn’t liked. She angled her chin. “You’re right. I daresay you couldn’t have cared for her very much if you were willing to give her up so easily and quickly for me.”

  He grinned darkly, wickedly. “Trying to ease your conscience?”

  “I possess no conscience to ease.”

  “I don’t believe that. And no. There was no one I fancied enough to want to marry, and if I did fancy a lady, I walked in the opposite direction.”

  Faced with the reality of his lack of interest in love, she found it rather sad. “Would you have really chosen someone you could never love?”

  He arched a brow, gave her a pointed look.

  “I don’t count. You didn’t choose me. I was forced on you. I simply can’t imagine you purposely seeking out someone who would make you miserable.”

  “Marrying someone I loved would have made me miserable, worrying that I might lose her, might follow my father’s path toward lunacy.”

  “You can’t judge love by your father’s experience. Or maybe you can. I believe while your mother lived that they had an incredibly happy life.”

  “And when she died, he went mad.”

  “I’m not so certain. He misses her, imagines she’s still with him. Is that so awful?”

  “You had love in your first marriage and chose to give it up for the second go-round. What you sought for a second marriage isn’t so different from what I sought in my first. I was simply pragmatic and recognized the value of a loveless marriage sooner than you did.”

  The final strains of the song lingered on the air as he brought them to a stop. “Ready to face the hordes again?”

  She released a long sigh. “I suppose.”

  “I’m not.”

  The music started up and she again found herself in the circle of his arms, held tighter and nearer this time. She tossed back her head and laughed. “You’ll have people speculating that you’re madly in love with your wife, that you can’t stand the notion of giving her up.”

  He didn’t respond, merely studied her intently, his green eyes boring into hers. “You enjoy dancing.”

  “I love dancing.”

  “Tonight others are going to want to dance with you.”

  “I’ll politely decline.”

  He shook his head. “No need on my account. I shall dance with other ladies. Out of politeness only, of course. As our arrangement requires that we show respect toward and for each other, especially in public.”

  Their arrangement. She wanted their arrangement to go to the devil. But she had accepted the terms. The gift of the jewelry, the pride with which he introduced her, had caused her to think that perhaps he had begun to love her. How would the ladies of London feel to know he was a man with no heart? No, he had a heart. He just refused to open it to the possibility of love.

  “If I dance with anyone else, it will be only out of politeness as well.” She moved the hand that rested on his shoulder slightly, just enough so she could skim her gloved finger along his jaw. “But I’ll save the last dance for you.”

  And until she was in his arms again, she knew she’d be miserable.

  He wasn’t jealous. He’d known men would want to dance with her and had encouraged her to dance with other partners. So this irrational need coursing through him to rip off limbs whenever a man took her in his arms was not jealousy. He didn’t know what it was other than dark and irritating.

  “Here, drink this,” Ashe ordered. “You look as though you are on the verge of murdering someone.”

  Locke glanced over at the glass containing amber liquid, took it, and enjoyed a long swallow. “Where did you find that?”

  “Card room. So who has earned your ire?”

  He didn’t know if the man had earned it. “Sheridan.”

  “Ah, dancing with Portia, I see.”

  And before Sheridan, it had been Avendale, who everyone knew was madly in love with his wife. No danger there of his seeking a dalliance with Portia, and even if he did, she would decline. If there was one thing regarding his wife of which he was absolutely convinced, it was her loyalty.

  “You made quite the splash with your arrival. You had to know men were going to want to dance with her,” Ashe said.

  “They don’t have to hold her so close or look so beguiled.”

  “She’s beguiling.”

  Locke glared at his longtime friend.

  Ashe held up a hand. “Not to me, of course. Minerva is the only woman who interests me. Good God, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were jealous, but that would require that you care for her.”

  “I care that she is my wife. Those randy swells should respect that.”

  Ashe had the audacity to chuckle low. “We didn’t when we were bachelors.”

  “We engaged in harmless flirtation.”

  “So are they.”

  Only it didn’t look harmless. It looked bloody irritating.

  “Come play a hand of cards.”

  “No, I’m claiming the next dance.” And the one after that. Christ, what was wrong with him? They were just dancing—in the middle of a crowded dance floor, chandeliers glowing, mirrors capturing their reflection. It was impossible for anything untoward to occur without all of London witnessing it. She
wouldn’t engage in such unconscionable behavior. She wouldn’t embarrass him.

  “I think you have come to care for her,” Ashe said, a fissure of glee in his tone.

  “You talk too damned much.” How long was this stupid tune? He should simply cut in.

  “Growing up under the care of your father, I convinced myself that love was to be avoided. I was wrong. Loving Minerva has enriched my life beyond all imagining.”

  “I don’t love Portia.” The words were delivered succinctly, flatly.

  Ashe patted him on the shoulder. “Keep telling yourself that.”

  Thank God his friend finally walked away, leaving him to brood in peace. He didn’t love her, he couldn’t love her, he wouldn’t love her. But the fact remained that of late, he was at peace when he was with her. She calmed his soul, made the future seem less bleak. She wore optimism like a spring cloak. She looked at a decaying room and saw possibilities.

  His heart was as decaying as those rooms: never touched, never visited, never opened. She made him want to take a chance, made him want to offer what she so richly deserved. Only now she carried his child and the possibility of her death hovered. Standing here, he was likely to do something he’d come to regret if he didn’t drive himself mad first. Ashe was right. He needed a distraction. A hand or two of cards. Then when he no longer felt like killing someone he’d dance with his wife.

  He was halfway up the stairs when the music stopped, reached the landing when he realized that he had no desire whatsoever to play cards. He wanted to be with Portia, to take her on a walk about the garden, kiss her in the shadows. The very last thing any man should want from a woman he could kiss anytime night or day, but he yearned for it with an unsettling fierceness.

  Spinning around, he caught sight of her slipping out through the open doors that led onto the terrace. He didn’t blame her for needing some fresh air. Instead of standing around disliking that she had the attention of so many men, he should have rescued her from her many admirers.