“Anyway, I was having afternoon tea with Sophie and mentioned my disappointment that someone else would raise my child, that my son or daughter would grow up away from me, and that I had no idea how often I might be allowed to visit my little one.” Clasping her hands tightly before her, she forced herself to plow through. “Sophie explained that when Beaumont said that someone would take care of my child, he didn’t mean that person would nurture and care for it. Rather he meant that she would kill it.”
The silence that descended over the room was nearly deafening. Portia wanted Locksley to say something, anything, but she quite understood his inability to speak. After Sophie had hit her with the truth, she’d stared at her teacup for long minutes striving to deal with the horrendous reality of her child’s future.
“He had a mistress before you, you know?” Sophie had said.
She hadn’t known.
“She lived in the same residence as you. I came to know her rather well. She, too, got with child and he farmed out the babe. He took the bairn from her within minutes of her giving birth, when she was too weak to stop him.”
Her heart clutched and tears welled. “That’s awful.”
“She never forgave him. When she was strong enough, she tried to find the babe. But it was too late, of course. She became so despondent that he simply cast her out.”
Portia had never felt so ill in her life. Every tender feeling she’d ever held for Beaumont had withered at his heartlessness and cruelty.
“I suppose you confronted him,” Locksley said now.
Slowly she shook her head. “No, he’d made his position clear, and I learned that he handled the babe of his mistress before me in the same manner. It was her child I described when you asked me about my fertility. Where Beaumont was concerned I decided it better to pretend ignorance until I determined a course of action. They advertise, these baby farmers. It’s usually a widow, offering to take on a sickly babe for a certain amount per week with the option of paying a larger amount and being done with it.” Looking at Locksley, she took some comfort in the horror etched on his face. “People are actually wagering on how long the child will live. Is it cheaper to pay by the week or more advantageous to hand over the higher single fee? I didn’t believe Sophie at first. No one could be so cruel as to neglect a child until it dies. But I scoured the papers for the advertisements, found a couple and while I was at it, I spied your father’s. I saw his as a way to save my child.”
“Surely you had other options.”
“I wrote my parents, telling them that I’d gotten into a bit of trouble and wanted to come back home. My father informed me that I was dead to them. Beaumont never gave me an allowance. I never thought to ask for one. He provided everything I required. So I had no coins of my own. He gave me several pieces of jewelry but he kept them in a safe, to be worn only when he saw fit. I didn’t know how to access it. I considered pawning off some of his possessions, but I feared I’d find myself charged with being a thief. A man who had no qualms about killing his own child would surely have no regrets when it came to making his mistress suffer for disappointing him. Marriage to your father seemed my only salvation. A woman in my position is vilified. I’d have not been able to find employment, not even in service. So tell me, my lord, how was I to survive and keep my child alive?”
“There had to be another way.”
The impertinence of him thinking that she hadn’t exhausted all her options irritated her beyond reason. “Yes, well, when you think of it be sure to let me know. Meanwhile, it’s late and I’m tired. I’m going back to sleep.” She turned for the bed.
His arm whipped out. He grabbed her, hauled her up against him. The fury was still burning in his eyes, but she saw something else there, something that almost looked like unimaginable pain.
“You should have told me,” he ground out.
While the guilt surged through her because she hadn’t, she couldn’t escape the truth of where that path would have led. “What difference would it have made? I fully understand what I am: a disgrace, a loose woman with no morals. If I’d told you before we were married, would you have still married me? No? Allowed me to marry your father as I’d planned? I seriously doubt it. Given me a house, an allowance, vowed to care for me and my child anyway? Or sent me on my way? If I’d told you after we were married, would you be any happier than you are now?”
He plowed one of his hands into her hair. “I might want to throttle you less. Do you have any idea how much restraint it took on my part not to murder Beaumont on the veranda? That’s why you hesitated to go to London. You knew the truth would come out.”
“I knew there was a chance. I prayed my secret would remain hidden, but it seems of late my prayers are not being answered.” Which meant in all likelihood, she would give birth to a son.
“You could have warned me before we went to London.”
Only she’d known she’d lose him. She’d wanted to hold on to him a bit longer. She shook her head as tears burned her eyes. “I couldn’t. I knew the truth would cause you to hate me and I’d made the ghastly mistake of falling in love with you.”
He gave a caustic laugh. “You seem to fall quite easily.”
Anger fissured through her. “I will not stand here and suffer through your unkind regard.”
She made to move past him, but he grabbed her arm, swung her around to face him. “I was raised by a man who gave his heart only once. You gave yours to Beaumont. You think that feeling the same for me is some sort of honor when I know what a scapegrace he is?”
Had his pride been pricked? Or was it that he didn’t believe her? Why should he believe her after all the lies she’d told him? “What I feel for you, I never felt for him. Not this intense, not this huge, not this terrifying. I would give anything for this child to be yours. The one thing that I don’t regret about the past two years is that it provided me with the opportunity to come to know you.”
“Damn you, Portia. Damn you for getting under my skin, for burrowing so deeply that the very thought of extricating you makes me even angrier.”
Was that his way of saying he cared for her, that she had disappointed him, ruined his life? She released a bitter laugh. “Oh, I have no doubt that I am damned.”
“We’re both damned. We might as well enjoy our time in hell.” His mouth landed on hers with a sureness and a purpose to which she no doubt should have objected, but she couldn’t turn him away, not when she wanted him so much, not when she felt raw and exposed and so terribly alone.
She could draw strength from him, from his desire for her. He might not love her—at that moment, he no doubt despised her—but they could revel in their bodies coming together. Besides, she wanted him as she’d wanted very little in her life.
Looking back, she could see now that she’d held affection for Beaumont, but it hadn’t been soul-deep, hadn’t absorbed her very essence. Otherwise, she’d not have been able to walk away so easily, without a backward glance, without any regrets. The same could not be said of Locksley. What she felt for him defied description. Under normal circumstances they’d have never met, but if they had he certainly would have never married her. And yet, despite the agony of losing him, she couldn’t quite regret it.
He dragged his mouth along her throat and she dropped her head back to grant him easier access. It had been torment to sleep alone, to have not had him in her bed after Beaumont’s cutting words.
“I’m drunk,” he growled. “Send me away.”
If he were sober he wouldn’t be here. If she were the good and decent girl her father had tried to bend her into being, she wouldn’t be here. But she was neither good nor decent, and if drunk was the only way she could have him, she’d take him drunk. “No,” she breathed on a raspy sigh.
They tumbled onto the bed, and he went still, completely still. She heard a sonorous snore. For the best. In the morning, he wasn’t going to remember a thing about tonight. Lying on her side, she pressed her back against his ches
t, drawing comfort from his nearness, knowing she might never have it again. He draped his arm over her, his splayed fingers coming to rest against her swollen belly. The child moved, his hand flinched, before he pressed it more firmly against her.
“I wish it were mine,” he murmured.
Her heart nearly broke. Things between them would never be the same, never be right again, because he now possessed the knowledge about something that couldn’t be undone, that could never be overlooked or forgotten.
She wished it was his as well, but it wasn’t. It never would be. She’d been wrong to believe it ever could be.
Chapter 24
Locke awoke with his head feeling as heavy as his heart. He rather wished that he hadn’t asked Portia about her history with Beaumont, because he had a strong need to return to London and pummel the man to within an inch of his life. He’d caught glimpses of her innocence when she killed spiders, fell into the arms of a waiting footman and laughed, danced her fingers over the piano keys. He wished he’d known her before Beaumont had torn away her guilelessness, although he recognized that he’d have considered her too pure for the likes of him, would have given her little thought because she would have been likeable and the last thing he’d wanted was a woman he could fancy.
How ironic then that he’d ended up with one he could love.
He shouldn’t have come to her, should have resisted, but where she was concerned he’d had no resistance from the moment he opened the door to her. He cursed her for bringing a loneliness to his life that he’d never before experienced. He’d never had any trouble sleeping alone, and now he despised doing so. He missed her, damn it, and with enough spirits coursing through him, his determination to avoid her had weakened. Not that he needed the spirits as an excuse. She occupied his thoughts every minute of every hour. And yet she’d placed him in an unconscionable position: choosing between duty and desire, between happiness and misery, between forgiveness and pride.
Between journeying back to Havisham and lying in this bed all day, pretending that London had never happened.
Reaching for her, he encountered naught but rumpled sheets. Squinting, he lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the blindingly bright sunlight streaming in through the window, light that caused not only his eyes but his head to ache. God, what time was it? How long had they slept?
It seemed the gods wanted them to have a day without reality crashing in on them. He’d take it.
With a groan, he shoved himself up. His skull revolted, threatening to split in two if he didn’t move slowly. He wondered if it were possible that Portia was bringing him some strong black coffee and something to eat. His stomach probably wouldn’t like it, but he needed to get himself straightened out so he could think more clearly. Surely this situation had a solution. He doubted it would be very tidy, but he’d spent his youth living in an untidy residence. Neatness was overrated, as far as he was concerned.
He sat on the edge of the bed for what seemed like forever, waiting for Portia to return. It was in her nature to care for people, for things. Surely she recognized that he’d be suffering upon awakening. On the other hand, she wasn’t prone to drinking and she’d never seen him in such a state. Perhaps she hadn’t a clue regarding how miserable too much drink could make a man.
Gingerly, slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. A quick look in the mirror caused him to grimace. He was far from being at his best. He’d feel better after tidying himself up and joining his wife for a quick bite.
Only he determined quite quickly that she wasn’t sitting at any of the tables, because the tavern was fairly empty.
“Afternoon, m’lord,” the proprietress squawked, her voice reminding him of the harsh cry of an irritating bird he’d run across during his travels.
Afternoon was it? Good Lord, he had slept in. “Mrs. Tandy, might I have some coffee?”
“Absolutely, m’lord. I’ll fetch it straightaway.” She turned to go.
“By the by, have you seen Lady Locksley?”
She spun back around and looked at him as though he were some strange new species of insect. “Aye, m’lord. I saw her first thing this morning, bright and early.”
Speaking with her was like carrying on a conversation with the servants at Havisham. Sometimes they took questions far too literally. “Do you happen to know where I would find her now?”
“Well, let’s see. It’s been about six, nearly seven hours, so I’d say close to two hundred miles away if she just kept on going.”
Staring at her, he realized he really needed the damned coffee. “I beg your pardon? Two hundred miles away? Are you saying my coaches have already left?” It didn’t matter, as he was riding his horse, but it made no sense.
“No, m’lord. I’m saying she hopped on a mail coach.”
He rushed outside for no good reason, as though he expected to see the offending vehicle on the horizon. Of course he couldn’t. He saw his coaches waiting to have horses harnessed to them, and one of his coachmen leaning against the building, speaking with a serving girl. As Locke approached him, the coachman looked guilty as hell. No doubt because he’d been caught flirting. “Did you see Lady Locksley leave this morning?”
His eyes rounded, his mouth dropped. “No, m’lord. How could she leave? The coaches are still here.”
He wasn’t going to get into it with the man. “Have you seen Cullie?”
“At breakfast. She went back to her room to await her Ladyship’s need of her.”
Damn it all to hell. Why hadn’t he noticed that his wife had packed up and left? Because her things were still there. He might be feeling rotten but he wasn’t blind. So where was she going and how was she going to make her way?
He dashed back into the tavern, up the stairs, and into the room they’d shared. Like a madman, he began tearing through her belongings.
“M’lord?”
He spun around at the sound of Cullie’s voice. She appeared horrified by his actions, was going to be even more horrified when she learned the truth of the situation. “I’m searching for Lady Locksley’s pearls. Where did you pack them?”
“She was carrying them in her reticule.”
It would be left out in the open but was nowhere to be seen. He slammed his eyes closed. She could take them to a fence, trade them for coins. Not enough to get her far, but enough to see her through for a bit. But where would she go? How would she manage? What the devil was she thinking?
And with her gone from his life, why did he suddenly feel as though he might go mad?
It was the very worst place she could come, but she had nowhere else to go. Knocking on the servants’ door, she held her breath, striving not to think about what might have gone through Locksley’s head—other than a great deal of pain considering how much he’d imbibed—when he awoke this morning to find her gone. Would he have even cared or would he have thought good riddance?
A footman opened the door, blinked at her, furrowed his brow, and she knew he was trying to place her. “I’m here to see Miss Sophie.”
“What is the nature of your business?”
“It’s personal.” In her reticule, she had several calling cards that Locksley had given her when they’d arrived in London in the event she made morning calls. He’d had such faith in her garnering the love and respect of Society, of being welcomed, of being accepted as his wife. Instead, she’d merely managed to ruin his life. And she’d ruin it further if she handed over a calling card and anyone discovered that Lady Locksley was very familiar with Mistress Row. “Just inform her that Portia has come to call.”
“Come in.”
Grateful for the opportunity to get beyond the sight of anyone peering out a window in a neighboring residence, she stepped over the threshold and into the small area where the butler, housekeeper, or cook usually spoke with vendors who weren’t allowed into the residence proper. She knew her place. That she had tried to step out of it marked her as a very foolish girl.
She’d arrived in London
before dark, but had waited until night fell to make her way here, hoping to avoid suspicious gazes and lessen her chances of being discovered. With Locksley snuggled against her, his hand on her belly, she’d been unable to sleep, and had simply lain there considering the unfairness of her actions. Well aware of the ramifications if this child were a boy, she should have walked away, should never have married Locksley. Exhausted, frightened, and desperate did not excuse her actions, did not justify her tainting a bloodline. She simply hadn’t truly understood the pride in their lineage that the aristocracy held on to.
The rapid patter of footsteps had her straightening her spine, forcing a smile. Sophie rounded the corner in a pink silk dressing gown, her black hair flowing down her back, over her shoulders. She didn’t stop until her arms were around Portia and she was hugging her tightly. “What are you doing here?”
Portia leaned back, fought not to look so worried. “I’m in a bit of bother again.”
Sophie glanced over her shoulder. “Sheridan could arrive at any time.” She returned her gaze to Portia. “You can stay in a back bedroom, but you must remain quiet. He’s not keen on my having company.”
“I shan’t make a peep.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
Sophie showed her to a bedchamber and had a tray brought up. Portia felt like an absolute glutton as she sat in a chair before the fireplace and dug into the beef and potatoes.
“When was the last time you ate?” Sophie asked, settling into a nearby chair, watching her fondly. She was the sister Portia had never had, so different and accepting, while her true sisters had taken after their father and constantly found fault with her.
“Breakfast.”
“That can’t be good for the bairn.”
Portia laughed. “He didn’t half let me know about it.” He’d kicked several times during day. She licked her lips. “Did Beaumont bother you when he discovered me gone?”
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 30