Reaching into the wicker basket that the cook had presented to her before leaving, she removed a block of cheese, took a bite, and slowly chewed. There had to be some way to make this situation right. She didn’t expect him to ever forgive her, wasn’t certain she’d ever forgive herself. At the time, she’d had no choice, no options—or at least not any that she could see. In hindsight—
A light fluttering just below her waist caused everything within her to still. She dared not breathe, but simply waited for it to come again. Detecting the tiniest flickering, she placed her hand on her slightly rounded stomach and slowly released the air she’d been holding. Her babe. Tears stung her eyes. Her little one. How was it possible to love someone so much when she had yet to meet her—or him?
She’d burn in hell for the path she’d chosen to save this child. But at that particular moment she didn’t care about her own welfare. She cared only that she knew beyond any doubt that no matter how furious Locksley may be at her, he’d not do what Beaumont had threatened: he’d not have the baby killed.
Locke had driven them hard all day. It wasn’t that he was particularly anxious to return to Havisham, but he wanted to put as much distance between him and London as possible. Although he wasn’t willing to kill the horses, so when the Peacock Inn had come into view he’d called for them to stop for the night.
He’d secured rooms, escorted his wife to hers, arranged for a tray to be taken to her, then settled at a table in the corner of the tavern. In need of a bath and shave, he more closely resembled a highwayman than a lord. But he hadn’t the aspiration to see to either. He was beginning to understand why his father paid so little attention to his own appearance.
When one had been betrayed—whether by death or deception—the will to carry on shriveled into nothing. The depth of his despondency astounded him.
He’d thought of the child Portia carried as his, had believed it was his, had anticipated its arrival more than he’d thought possible. Then to discover that another man had planted the seed—
Every time he considered that moment on the terrace and the words Beaumont had flung at him, he wanted to put his fist through a wall—or better yet, through the blighter’s handsome mug. When he contemplated the earl touching Portia, gliding his hands over her, kissing, suckling, thrusting—
God help him, he thought he would go mad.
It made no sense. He’d known when he married her that she’d been with another man, but he’d viewed him as an abstract shadow, given him very little thought. Besides, he’d believed him to be dead. Knowing the man was very much alive made everything repugnant. That she had willingly given herself—
His dark laughter had those sitting nearby turning their heads to stare at him. He finished off his ale and slammed the tankard on the table, getting the barmaid’s attention. Not even a minute passed before he was gulping down a fresh pint.
He’d bedded women who weren’t married to him, weren’t married at all, and he’d never been disgusted by them. On the contrary, he’d considered them adventurous and fun. If he had met Portia under other circumstances, at a ball or a dinner or a garden party, he couldn’t claim with certainty that he wouldn’t have tried to seduce her. He’d wanted her the moment he’d opened the damned door to her. He’d have reveled in taking her, enjoyed every moment, and never once would he have blamed her or been put off by the fact that they weren’t married.
I was never his whore.
Because she had loved the fellow. That portion of her story was true.
I’ve known love, my lord. It provided little security. Now I am in want of security.
He couldn’t reconcile the fact that Beaumont had possessed her love and had tossed it away. Not that Locke had ever had any desire to possess her love or even wanted it—
“I’ve had a bath prepared for you.”
He jerked his gaze up to Portia, who, by the looks of her, had bathed. Her cheeks were rosy, her hair was pinned up, and her traveling frock showed nary a wrinkle. “I’m not in need of a bath.”
“I daresay even from here I can dispute that claim. Think of your poor horse. You wouldn’t want him to expire from the fumes.”
She was not going to make him smile or lessen his anger. “Return to your room, madam.”
Instead of obeying him, she had the audacity to pull out the chair opposite him and take a seat. “Our arrangement was that we would at least be respectful to each other.”
“That was before I knew you to be capable of horrendous deception.”
“Once we married, I never lied to you.”
“But you were certainly full of deceit before we married.”
At least she had the good graces to flinch. “Will you not at least let me explain?”
“No.”
“But if I—”
“No!” Once again, he garnered the unwanted attention of the tavern customers. “Do you not understand that I can barely stomach the sight of you? Why the devil do you think I’d prefer riding in the rain to traveling in a well-sprung conveyance?”
The woman who had stood up to him so many times blanched. Tears welled in her eyes. He wouldn’t soften toward her. Ever. “I thought you a cold bastard.”
“Even a cold bastard should have the choice of serving as father to another man’s leavings.”
“Would you have married me if you’d known?”
“No.”
“Would you have allowed me to marry your father?”
“No.”
“So you’d be out ten thousand quid.”
“It would have been money well spent.” But even as he spit out the words, he wasn’t certain he spoke the truth. He wanted to hurt her as he’d been hurt, his agony making no sense. How was it that she had the power to decimate him?
“It must be a wonderful thing indeed to have never felt powerless, to have never been frightened, to have never been completely alone, abandoned by all those whom you thought had loved you. To experience the overwhelming responsibility of knowing an innocent child was completely dependent on you for survival.” She pushed back the chair and stood. “I don’t regret my actions, not a single one. I do regret that I seemed to have hurt you when I thought you were a man immune to hurt, to caring, to love.”
“I don’t love you.”
“That’s obvious. Good night, my lord.”
She walked away. He ordered more ale, intending to drink himself into oblivion so he could forget, at least for a few hours, that never in his life had he been as content as he’d been with her before he walked out onto the terrace, that he’d begun to believe his father had given him a treasured gift when he’d brought Portia into his life.
He recalled the horror on her face when he’d announced that he would marry her. It had pricked his pride that she’d been so adamantly opposed to the notion. He was a good catch for any woman, but especially for a commoner who didn’t move about in aristocratic circles. He understood now that she hadn’t objected because she didn’t want him; she’d objected because she didn’t want to burden him with the child she carried.
She was correct that for his father it wouldn’t have mattered. Locke fully intended to provide a son someday. To his father, the child would have merely been a welcome addition to the family. If only she’d told them the truth—
Locke would have scoffed and declared the contract voided.
What of the child she’d claimed had died? It would have been a bastard. Why not give the same care to it as she had to the second? Unless there had been no first child, unless she’d lied about its existence as a way to prove her fertility because she’d known an announcement she was with child would come shortly after they were wed. No wonder she’d been so concerned with consummating the marriage. If he hadn’t been so randy, he would have messed up her plans. Instead he’d played right into her hands, taking her so often that it would be impossible to believe he hadn’t gotten her with child.
Little wonder she hadn’t been thrilled with the prospec
t of going to London and facing the possibility of running into Beaumont. Before Locke had interrupted their little tryst on the terrace, he’d seen her face marred with disgust, had heard her order him to unhand her. Had heard Beaumont’s veiled threat that she come to him—no doubt because he’d tell Locke everything if she didn’t.
He’d told him anyway, and Locke had seen the devastation crumple her face. But in his fury, he’d ignored it. He hadn’t wanted to comfort her; he’d bloody well wanted to strangle her for playing him for a fool.
Why shouldn’t she? He’d claimed to never love. He’d been forthright that he wanted only one thing from her: her body. She’d no doubt seen the scapegrace Beaumont in Locke; only Locke was offering what Beaumont wouldn’t: marriage.
Why shouldn’t she have grabbed it with both hands?
Sitting here with far too much drink coursing through his veins, a thousand questions swirled through his mind, a thousand things he should have asked her. He should have pressed her regarding her reasons for responding to the damned advert, but he’d wanted to fill his palms with her breasts and fill her with his cock. He hadn’t gone in search of the truth because he’d feared that it would prevent him from tasting her fully.
Perhaps he was no better than Beaumont. Perhaps he deserved her deception. He’d acted as a barbarian. Why should she have cared about the cost he would pay when he’d treated her no better than a whore?
Portia lay on her side beneath the covers, staring at the pale moonlight filtering in through the windows. Her life had been a series of escapes, of running away, each one leading to something worse than what had come before. Reading the gossip sheets, she’d never considered the nobility to be very noble. The men were womanizers; the ladies were silly chits who cared only about gowns, fans, and dance partners. None of them had real troubles or concerns. Through Montie, she’d learned they were a selfish lot concerned only with their own wants and needs.
The other mistresses she’d known had seen the upper crust as a means to an end. Nice residence, fancy clothes, fine jewelry. And if it meant giving up one’s good name and reputation, they thought it worth it for all they gained to be spoiled and pampered, even if it meant indulging the whims of a specific gentleman anytime day or night. To be his bird in a gilded cage, to sing when prompted, to keep silent otherwise.
Mistresses mistakenly believed they had some prestige, some power that eluded those silly shopgirls. Portia would have preferred to be a shopgirl.
She hadn’t followed Beaumont to London to become his mistress. She’d followed him to become his wife.
Although she doubted Locksley would understand. She wished she hadn’t been so quick to discourage any talk of their pasts. She’d been so worried that he’d figure her out that she hadn’t given him a real opportunity to get to know her. Perhaps if she had, he’d have been more understanding when he learned the truth. Perhaps if she’d known him better, she’d have grasped how to tell him before Beaumont could toss out his hateful rejoinder.
She’d made such a mess of things, handled everything poorly. But knowing what Beaumont had planned for this child—his offspring—she’d seen no other choice in order to ensure the child’s safety as well as her own. She’d needed someone who could stand up to the earl. Could a farmer or a shopkeeper or a blacksmith have taken Beaumont to task? Could any of them have struck him and not found themselves brought before a magistrate? Could any of them have threatened him with ruination and carried through on it if it came to that?
Locksley could. Locksley had and when his fist had struck Beaumont, at that moment, she loved him more than she thought it possible to love.
Hearing a key scraping in a lock, she bolted upright and reached over to increase the flame in the lamp. The door burst open. Locksley charged in, slammed it behind him, and stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes those of a madman. She’d seen him angry before, but he was always controlled. At that moment, it appeared he was barely holding on to a strained tether, that he was contemplating murder.
As she scrambled out of bed, he staggered across the room, stumbled, grabbed the post at the foot of the bed, and glared at her. “How did you come to be his mistress?” he demanded, revulsion hardening his voice.
She wanted to explain, to confess all, to tell him everything, but not when he was in this condition. “You’re foxed.” She didn’t bother to hide her disgust at seeing him in this unkempt and repulsive state.
“At least three sheets to the wind, if not more.” He wavered, tightened his grip on the post until his knuckles turned white. “Answer me, my lady. How the devil did you come to be his mistress?”
“Do you really want to do this here, where people might hear through the walls?”
“Bloody well explain to me what possessed you to crawl into his bed.”
“I never crawled, damn you. I loved him. I thought he was going to marry me. I gave myself to him because I believed he loved me as well.” Tears stung her eyes.
“For two years?”
She laughed bitterly, hollowly. “Where does a woman go once she is ruined? Once her family has washed their hands of her, declared she is dead to them? I loved him,” she repeated. “I thought he would marry me. He never said he wouldn’t. He only said it took a while. For the first time in my life I was happy. I felt cherished and appreciated. I don’t expect you to understand, you who has an aversion to love, but having his cherished regard made me so much more than I was. I was so glad to have him in my life I would have done anything to keep him there, did do anything.”
Breathing heavily, he closed his eyes, widened them as though he struggled to stay focused on her. “How did you meet him?”
Clutching her hands together, she realized it all sounded so stupid now. What a silly chit she was. “His estate is near the village where my father serves as vicar. There was a fall festival. I was always forbidden from attending at night when the bonfires were flaring and the music played and people were laughing and dancing. But I could hear the festivities, the joviality. I was all of nineteen, and I decided I was missing out on life. So I slipped out through my bedchamber window, climbed down a tree, and ran off into the night like some wanton, experiencing my initial taste of freedom. He was there. He danced with me and spoke with me and strolled with me. Just before dawn he kissed me. It was so gentle and sweet.”
Not like the first time Locksley had kissed her: demanding, devouring, determined.
“So you ran off to London with him.”
She hated that he sounded so blasted judgmental. It wasn’t as though he’d led the life of a saint. She’d actually returned home to an existence that involved hours on her knees, at her father’s command, praying that the devil would not have his way with her. Whenever she could, she would sneak off to be with Beaumont. For a year it was picnics and rowing and strolling and innocent kisses. But Locksley was too drunk to care about all that. “Not right away. My father discovered what we were about. He insisted that I was sinning with a lord even though our time together wasn’t carnal, but Father was determined I wouldn’t bring him shame. He arranged for me to marry a farmer.”
“A farmer when you wanted a lord,” he sneered.
She was growing weary of his thinking the worst of her. “I wasn’t opposed to marrying a farmer but he was three times my age.”
“A bit of irony there in you answering my father’s advert.”
“One does what one must. Beaumont asked me to come to London with him, promised he would always take care of me, that he loved me with all his heart. I assumed he meant to marry me. So I ran off with him. He was exciting, young, handsome, and a lord. What woman could want for more?”
Releasing his hold on the bedpost, Locksley bounded forward and wrapped his fingers around the post nearer to her as though he still needed the support to keep himself upright. “And when you got to London?”
The truth stared her in the face but she refused to see it. “He set me up in a house on a street commo
nly known as Mistress Row. Several lords lease townhomes there for their fallen women. At the time, I thought it temporary. Still, I was so pleased to be away from Fairings Cross and my father and marriage to an old man that when Beaumont kissed me with a bit more urgency and claimed he’d die if he didn’t have me, I didn’t resist. After all, we were going to marry.”
“But you didn’t marry.”
“No. I was silly enough to believe we would until I got with child. Before that, he put me off by saying that we had to wait until he was established within the aristocracy, until he was respected enough by everyone that he would be forgiven for marrying a commoner. Otherwise life for me would be unpleasant. He was trying to protect me, you see? Or so he said. And why shouldn’t I believe him when he loved me and I loved him?”
“Then you got with child and realized he was a scoundrel.”
She held his gaze. “I realized he was much worse than that. He told me that we would farm the baby out and someone else would take care of it. I was devastated. I wanted to care for the child, hire a nanny. But he assured me that wasn’t the way the aristocracy handled matters. Are you familiar with baby farming?”
He blinked, released his hold on the bedpost, and leaned his shoulder against it. “No.”
“The upper class’s dirty little secret. Sophie lived in the townhome next to mine. Lord Sheridan’s mistress.”
“You danced with him at the ball.”
She released a burst of laughter. “Indeed, and it curdled my stomach.” Fortunately he’d never met her although she’d spied him on occasion entering Sophie’s residence.
“You didn’t seem displeased by his attentions.”
“When you serve as a man’s mistress, you learn to disguise your feelings. Without the lessons I learned from Beaumont, I’d have never made it through my first day at Havisham. You’d have figured me out in a flash.
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 29