He headed back down the stairs.
As Portia stepped onto the terrace, she welcomed the cool night air brushing over her skin. Had she known she’d be dancing so much, she’d have brought a second pair of slippers. She wasn’t certain how much longer the ones she was wearing would last, the soles already worn incredibly thin.
The terrace was remarkably absent of guests lingering about, most opting to walk through the gardens. The paths were lined with gaslights, which provided a soft glow that left the couples unidentifiable. She longed for a walk but deemed it would be improper without her husband to escort her, so she moved off to the far side of the tiled veranda where the shadows were thicker, and wrapped her gloved fingers around the wrought-iron railing. Inhaling deeply, she couldn’t help but feel that the night had been a success. The only thing that would have made it more enjoyable was if Locksley had been her constant dance partner. No one else moved as smoothly as he did. With no one else did she feel as comfortable or as in tuned. With no one else—
“Hello, Portia.”
Her thoughts skittered to a stop, her lungs ceased to function. For two hours, as she’d danced, she’d worried that the Earl of Beaumont would cross paths with her, but when he’d failed to materialize, she’d begun to believe that he wasn’t in attendance. Regaining her wits, knowing how dangerous it was to have her back to him, she spun around, her skirts brushing against his legs because he stood so near, angled her chin haughtily, and looked down on him as much as she was able considering he stood several inches over her. She hated that he was as handsome as ever, the slight breeze toying with his blond curls as she once had. “Montie.”
His hand, gloveless, bracketed her cheek, held her with a firmness that promised he’d make a scene if she tried to break free. He leaned in, inhaled sharply. “I’ve missed your fragrance.”
“Unhand me. I’m married now, a viscountess—”
Rather than obey her, he merely wrapped his other hand around her upper arm. “Yes, I saw the announcement in the paper.” So had she. Soon after the marquess had ordered his son to send their marriage news to the Times. Beaumont had known there was a possibility of running into her at a ball, had no doubt been keeping an eye out once the gossip sheets announced that Viscount Locksley and his new bride were in London. Her former paramour drew back, his dark eyes glittering, his lips twisted into a sneer. “Does your husband know about us?”
He jerked her closer until she could feel his breath on her cheek. Why had she ever thought she could escape him?
“No?” he asked mockingly. “I thought not. Otherwise, why would he have married you? How did you manage to snag the last Hellion?”
“I need to return to the ballroom before he misses me.”
“To miss you, he’d have to care about you. I know him well enough to know he’s not a man who would give his heart. Unlike me, who loved you then and loves you still.”
“You never loved me. Not really. If you did, you’d have not broken all your promises. You’d have married me.”
“One does not marry for love; one marries for gain. Isn’t that the reason you married Locksley? Because of what you would gain through him? A title. Position. But you are still mine. I want you to come to me tonight.”
“No.”
“I’ll tell him everything.”
She slammed her eyes closed. How had she ever thought she would be safe? And if he told Locksley the truth, what then? What recourse would he have except to toss her out on her ear? And she wouldn’t blame him one whit.
“Take your hands off my wife.”
Portia’s eyes flew open at the quietly spoken words that echoed with warning and the promise of retribution. Even in the shadows, she could see Beaumont’s victorious smile as he released her and slowly turned to the man whose face reflected a mask of fury that caused her own breath to back up painfully in her lungs.
“Locksley. I was just congratulating my former mistress on her recent marriage.”
The rage remained as Locksley’s gaze shifted from Beaumont to her. She could have sworn that for the briefest of moments she saw something else reflected in his eyes: pain. She wanted to die, wanted to beg his forgiveness, wanted to punch Beaumont until that handsome face of his was no longer handsome.
“Did she not tell you?” Beaumont asked cockily. “Two years—”
“Montie, don’t,” she whispered, despising her pleading tone.
“Oh, my dear, nothing good comes from secrets in a relationship. He deserves to know.” His gaze never left Locksley. “For two years she warmed my bed—”
“Take her advice and hold your tongue,” Locksley said.
Beaumont had the audacity to chuckle. “Surely you’re curious.”
“Get the hell out of here.”
“As you wish. Farewell, sweet Portia. I wish you every happiness.”
As though she could have that now. He’d ruined everything. How had she ever loved him?
He’d taken two steps forward, stopped when he stood even with her husband. “I can also see that other congratulations will soon be in order. Still I’d carefully count the months if I were you, Locksley.”
Locksley’s fist smashed into Beaumont’s face. She heard bone cracking. Based on Beaumont’s yelp, the way he was cradling his chin and rolling back and forth on the tiled floor, she assumed Locke had broken the man’s jaw. She hoped so. She dearly did. She also prayed Locke had not damaged his hand.
Standing over Beaumont, Locksley pressed his foot to her former lover’s chest, stopping his rocking from side to side. “Touch her again, and I’ll slice off your hands. Speak to her again, and I’ll cut out your tongue. Look at her again, and I’ll pluck out your eyes. And if I hear any rumors regarding Portia’s past or the paternity of the child she carries, I will destroy you.”
He must have pressed his foot down harder because Beaumont grunted. When Locksley stepped back, the man rolled to his side and whimpered. Her husband held out his hand to her. “Let’s be off, Portia.”
She put her hand in his, trying to draw comfort from the closing of his fingers around hers, but there was nothing tender or gentle in his touch. He pulled her forward and she skirted around the moaning Beaumont.
“I can explain,” she said quietly.
“Not now. We’re leaving.”
He spoke not a word as he led her around the side of the residence as though she were now something of which to be ashamed. When they reached the front, he sent one footman scurrying off to alert his driver they were ready to depart and another to fetch their things from the parlor. His face was expressionless except for the hard set of his jaw.
“You’re hurting my hand,” she said softly.
He immediately relinquished his hold, when all she’d wanted was for him to loosen his grip. When the footman arrived with their things, Locksley draped her wrap over her shoulders. After the coach arrived, he handed her inside before joining her and taking the seat across from her.
“Locksley—”
“Don’t say anything, Portia.”
His firm tone forced her to press her lips together to keep from speaking. She wanted to tell him everything, to explain it all, to help him to understand. Her desperation, her fears, her lack of options.
She held herself close. She was cold, so very cold. She didn’t know if she’d ever feel warm again.
Once the coach pulled to a stop in front of the residence, he leaped out and waited as the footman assisted her, as though he could no longer bear to touch her. Into the house they went, in silence. Up the stairs. At her bedchamber, he shoved open the door and waited as she preceded him inside. With the door banging closed, she jumped, turned, and faced him.
“Were you with child on the day we wed?” His words sliced through the air, sliced into her heart.
She held out a hand imploringly. “Lock—”
“It’s a simple question, Portia. Yes or no. Were you with child on the day we wed?”
She swallowed hard
, wanted to lie, wanted the truth to be anything other than what it was. “Yes.”
The way his blistering gaze slowly traveled over her as though he were only just seeing the true her for the first time made her want to weep. She stepped toward him. “It was never supposed to be you. I wasn’t supposed to marry you. I was supposed to marry Marsden. And what would he care?” She flung out her arm. “He had his heir. You would marry and provide your heir. All I wanted was to protect this child, to give it a chance to survive, to thrive—”
“But it was me, Portia,” he said quietly and yet his voice reverberated like the boom of thunder.
Turning on his heel, he strode from the room, slamming the door in his wake. She wanted to run after him, wanted to explain, but what more was to be said? How could she explain the inexplicable? Staggering back until her knees hit the chair, she crumpled and curled into a ball as the sobs had their way with her, causing her shoulders to shake, and her chest to ache, her throat to tighten. Devastation swept through her. She’d hurt him, deceived him, and in doing so, she’d destroyed that last bit of goodness she possessed.
Chapter 23
He couldn’t stomach the thought of being in the residence with her, considered going to the club, but he couldn’t abide the notion of inflicting his foul mood on others or dealing with the possibility of running into Beaumont. He might truly kill the man if their paths ever again crossed.
So he sequestered himself in the library, with the door locked so no one could disturb him, and drank straight from a bottle of whiskey as though he were a barbarian. Everything made sense now. Why she’d answered his father’s advert. Why she refused to speak of the past. Why her family wanted nothing to do with her.
She’d been a man’s mistress.
He slung the bottle toward the fireplace, taking no solace as it shattered in the hearth, glass flying, whiskey splashing. He should be grateful there were no flames to catch the liquid alight, but at the moment he was hard-pressed to be thankful for anything. He stalked to the liquor cabinet, retrieved another bottle, and downed half the whiskey before coming up for air.
Damn her! Damn her! Damn her!
She’d made him care for her. He dropped into a chair and fought the excruciating anguish that threatened to bring him to his knees. He’d trusted her, enjoyed her company, made love to her. With her, it was more than sex. While he’d never left a lover wanting, he’d given more of himself to her than he’d ever given anyone.
Damn it all to hell if her betrayal didn’t hurt more now for it. Had only a week passed since his damned meeting with Beaumont when he’d rushed home to be with her and had almost spouted that he loved her?
She made him want to recite poetry, enticed him into smiling, laughing. She lured him into looking forward to the day and anticipating the night. She calmed his demons and brought solace.
She’d made him believe that she carried his child. Acknowledging that deception very nearly doubled him over. Instead he gulped down what remained in the bottle, anything to dull the agony that threatened to rip him apart. He’d been right to shelter his heart all those years, to close it off to the mere hint of love.
Love was not something to be sought, heralded, or admired. It was merely a false mask for cruelty and disappointment.
He’d wanted a woman he couldn’t possibly love. He’d certainly succeeded in that regard. Before dawn, he intended to wipe clear any kind thought, any joyful memory, any speck of caring where she was concerned. He would feel nothing toward her, nothing at all.
Portia had wept until exhaustion overtook her and she fell asleep fully clothed, lying on the floor. She didn’t stir until the door opened and Cullie walked in.
“M’lady!” The young girl rushed over and knelt beside her.
“I’m all right,” Portia assured her as she pushed herself up. She ached inside and out, but the inner pain was so much worse. Had she known Locksley then as she knew him now, she wouldn’t have married him. But she’d thought him a man with no heart, who would never care for her, never care for their children. A man ruled by obligation.
A man she hadn’t liked and didn’t care if she deceived. But then Beaumont had taught her to trust no man. That every man cared about only his own selfish needs. So what was wrong with a woman doing the same?
So much, she realized now. So much was wrong with it. How would she ever live with herself?
“Here, m’lady, let me help you up.”
She moaned as Cullie assisted her in standing. Her neck popped as she twisted it one way, then the other. Arching, she rubbed the small of her back. What a silly woman she’d been not to rouse herself and crawl into bed.
“You do look a fright, m’lady, but I think we can get a quick bath in if you like before we leave.”
It seemed Portia’s mind was as sluggish as her body. “Leave? What are you talking about?”
“We’re returning to Havisham. His Lordship has ordered us to be packed and ready to depart within the hour.”
But they were planning to stay until the end of the Season. She slammed her eyes closed. How could they after last night’s revelation? “Where is Lord Locksley?”
“In the library.”
“Do prepare a bath.” She felt incredibly soiled, should have washed off Beaumont’s touch from the night before, but she’d been too devastated by Locksley’s reaction and words to do much of anything except wallow in regret. “I’ll return momentarily.” First she had to speak with her husband.
He was in the library just as Cullie had informed her. Sitting behind his desk, he looked as ghastly as she felt, shadows beneath his eyes, unshaven, his jacket, waistcoat, and neck cloth absent. With her arrival, he didn’t bother to rise. Merely handed two envelopes to the waiting butler. “See that those are dispatched in the post today.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Burns pivoted sharply and headed for the door. He bowed his head slightly as he neared her. “M’lady.”
“Burns.” She waited until he was gone to approach the desk where Locksley had returned to scribbling pen over parchment, totally ignoring her. “I thought we were staying until the end of the Season, that you had business to attend to.”
“Introducing you to Society was the business. Anything else I can handle from Havisham.” He tossed down his pen, leaned back, and held her gaze, his green eyes revealing nothing, completely emotionless. “After last night, London has left a sour taste in my mouth.”
“Will you let me explain?”
“What is there to explain, Portia? You were Beaumont’s mistress. He got you with child and no doubt refused to marry you. For some reason, after living in sin for two years, you drew the line at bringing a bastard into the world. I suppose I should admire that you had a line you wouldn’t cross when it came to improper behavior, but I’m hard-pressed under the circumstances to admire anything at all regarding you. You sought marriage to my father, taking advantage of a gentleman who isn’t quite right. When I stepped in to protect him, you accepted me as a substitute knowing full well that another man’s child”—he shoved back the chair and pushed himself to his feet—“could bloody well be my heir!”
She didn’t know if she preferred the coldness of his gaze or the fury that now burned within the green depths. He was entitled to his anger. She wouldn’t hold it against him nor would she turn away even as each second under his harsh glare flayed her heart.
“Have I the right of it?” he demanded.
“I’ve been praying for a daughter.”
He laughed harshly. “Then let’s bloody well hope that God answers that prayer, shall we? Between us, our child would have either red hair or black. How were you going to explain presenting me with a blond-haired child?”
“My father is blond, as I told you. It’s possible—”
“You conniving tart, you have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
His words were as hurtful as physical blows. She’d walk out if she weren’t keenly aware that she deserved the unkindne
ss he threw at her. Swallowing hard, she took a step nearer. “If you want to divorce me, I’m willing to publicly acknowledge that I was unfaithful.” It would destroy her, but she had to make this right.
“Ah, yes, let’s have all of London question my foolishness in marrying. There will be no divorce, as I suspect it will do no good, since that babe is coming at least two months early, isn’t he? No matter how insistently either of us deny it, the law will make him mine. Even if I disowned him, even if I went to Parliament and admitted to being a fool—”
“You’re not a fool.”
“Of course I am. No, there will be no divorce.” He moved around the desk and began to stalk toward her. “You will remain my wife.”
She backed up. He advanced.
“But I want no more from you than I wanted the day we wed: for you to warm my bed when the need strikes.”
She came to a halt so abrupt that he nearly slammed into her. “I will not be your whore.”
“You were his.”
The crack of her palm making contact with his cheek echoed through the room. “I was not his whore,” she stated with utter conviction. His mistress, yes. The woman who had foolishly loved him, yes. But she’d never given herself to Beaumont for gain.
Locksley’s gaze burned into hers. She could see the bright red hue of where she’d smacked him. His face had to be stinging as much as her hand.
“You’d do well to eat breakfast before we leave.” He spun on his heel, presenting her with his back, walking away from her. “Our sojourn to Havisham will not be leisurely. We’ll be stopping only at night.”
At that moment, she realized she’d been mistaken when she believed Beaumont had broken her heart. He’d merely bruised it. Only Locksley had the power to shatter it, and he’d done it with remarkable ease.
He had chosen to ride his horse rather than travel in the coach with her. Whenever they rounded a curve, she would look out the window and see him trotting ahead, such a lonely figure, the sight of which caused an ache in her chest. Although even from this distance, she could sense the anger roiling off him. He sat so stiffly in the saddle. Even when the dark clouds rolled in and the rain started, he didn’t seek shelter within the confines of the vehicle. She should have welcomed his absence. Instead she mourned it.
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 28