A sharp rap had her turning toward the door as the maid opened it and strolled in. “A gentleman caller,” she said, handing Sophie a card.
Her friend read it, her eyebrows lifted. “Well, I daresay, I don’t think he’s here for me.” She extended the card.
Portia took it, her eyes glancing over what she’d feared she might see. Her heart galloped as though it needed to leave the room, the residence, London. “What the devil is he doing here?”
“He’s come to fetch you back,” a deep familiar voice said from the doorway.
She shot up out of the chair, took two steps back, and grabbed the fireplace mantel to steady herself. He looked marvelous. Every single hair in place, his face freshly shaven, his clothes immaculate. So different from the last time she’d seen him wander into a bedchamber, the last time she’d gazed on him sprawled over a bed.
Gracefully, Sophie rose to her feet and began ushering out the maid.
“Where are you going?” Portia demanded.
“To leave you two to it.”
As she neared Locksley, he said, “You must be Miss Sophie.”
Of course she’d told him about Sophie, blast her. That knowledge had no doubt aided him in finding her.
“I am indeed, m’lord.”
He took her hand, bowed over it, and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Thank you for being her friend.”
“We loose women must stick together.” She glanced back over her shoulder at Portia. “He’s quite the charmer. I approve, for what it’s worth.”
Only her approval carried no weight, could not undo the horrendous wrong. As soon as Sophie was out of sight, he closed the door and leaned against it, never taking his gaze from Portia. She was not going to fall into the depths of green; she was not going to let him deter her from her path. “I’m glad you’re here,” she stated succinctly.
“No, you’re not.”
She bit down on the inside of her cheek. “No, I’m not, but as you appear to be somewhat sober—”
“I am completely sober.”
“You might be more open to my plan.”
“And what plan is that?”
Did he have to stand there so calmly, sound so reasonable? She released her hold on the mantel because her fingers were going numb, and clutched her hands just above her waist, above where her child was growing. “We shall fake my death.”
His flummoxed expression gave her a bit of satisfaction. Knowing she could take him as off guard as his appearance had so easily done to her was rewarding.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“You will tell people that I died—in childbirth if need be—and I will quietly slip away so you can marry again.”
He shoved himself away from the door. “So you’d have me be a bigamist? None of the children my second wife gave me would be legitimate.”
“No one need know that. However to ensure their legitimacy we’ll get a divorce first, but a quiet one, so you don’t have to suffer through the humiliation—”
He began walking toward her. “There is no such thing as a quiet divorce. Besides, it would be a matter of public record.”
“No one is going to go looking for it,” she said impatiently. He was too near now. She could smell his sandalwood-and-orange scent, wanted to inhale it into her lungs and hold it there forever. How would she ever eat an orange without thinking of him?
“Have you not learned that secrets never remain secrets? Besides, I’ve told you before, there will be no divorce.”
She didn’t back up this time because she knew he’d only advance, so she stood her ground until he came to a halt in front of her. Only then did she notice the dark circles beneath his eyes, the new creases at the corners. “Locksley, be reasonable. If I’m carrying a boy—”
“Then he will be my heir.”
“Precisely. Which is the very reason that you must rid yourself of me as quickly as possible. If there is a way to annul—”
“There will be no annulment.”
“Will you stop interrupting me? It irritates the devil out of me when you interrupt. I will tell whatever lies are necessary—”
“No more lies, Portia.”
He’d done it again, interrupted her, but before she could object, he cradled her face between his hands. So warm, so familiar. She wanted a lifetime of him touching her.
“Listen to me, carefully,” he said slowly as though she were dimwitted. “We will not get divorced, and it has nothing to do with public embarrassment, or ridicule, or shame. I don’t give a fig what people think about me. My God, I grew up among whispers about my mad father and our haunted estate. Do you really think that getting a divorce would bring me to my knees?”
“Then why not do it? If you’re willing to endure the shame of it, why not divorce me?”
“Because I am not willing to give you up. For you see, my little vixen, I’ve fallen quite madly in love with you.”
It was as though he’d closed his fist around her heart. Tears stung, filled her eyes, rolled over onto her cheeks. Beaumont had told her he loved her but the delivery had never been so heart-felt, so soul crushing. Nor so uplifting as to make her feel as though she were soaring. “But your bloodline.”
“I don’t care about my bloodline. I care only about you.” He glanced down. “And this child that means so much to you.” He raised his eyes to hers. “As I said earlier, if you are carrying a boy, he will be my heir and I shall recognize him as such. He will know me and no other as his father. My own set a good example for me. He raised two other men’s sons as if they were his. I think he would be the first to agree that family is not determined by blood.”
“Will you tell him the truth about this child?”
“He already knows it. It’s our child.”
Her sob was the most awful sound she’d ever made, but then to her best recollection, she’d never cried other than the night he’d learned the truth. She’d always been stoic, strong, and determined to carry on. But this soul-wrenching blubbering shook her shoulders. As his arms closed around her, she pressed her cheek against his chest, heard the steady pounding of his heart. “I love you, Killian. So much and for so long. I don’t know why I ever thought I’d loved another.”
“For what it’s worth, he did love you.”
In surprise, she jerked her head back, met his gaze. Slowly, she slid her hand up his cheek, around to the back of his head. “But not enough. You love me enough.”
She brought his head down, opening her mouth to him, her heart fully, her soul. He took, with no apologies, no excuses. Yet for all the kisses that had come before, this one was different, unguarded. He was no longer shielding his heart; it was no longer locked to her.
She owned him, just as he owned her. Heart, body, and soul. At long last, someone was accepting her, frailty, warts, and all. She had made mistakes, taken wrong turns, but she couldn’t regret a single one when they had led her to him. It stunned her that she could love him so much, that he could love her without conditions.
Lifting his mouth from hers, he stroked his thumb over her swollen lips before glancing around the room. “Let’s go home.”
“You should know that Beaumont never took me out in public, never introduced me to anyone in the nobility, so it is unlikely—as long as he holds his tongue—that my past will haunt us.”
“He gains nothing by hurting you, except his own ruination. He knows that. He was also an idiot for not appreciating what he had.”
“I’m rather glad he didn’t.” Otherwise, she might not have Locksley, and she was so much happier with him.
She grabbed her traveling frock and pelisse. Downstairs, she found Sophie in the parlor. “We’re leaving.”
“Of course you are,” Sophie said as she rose from the chair and came over to give her a hug.
“I’ll send back your dress tomorrow.”
“Keep it. It never fit me properly anyway. Be happy, Portia.”
“I will be.”
The front door suddenly o
pened and Lord Sheridan strode in. He came up short. “Locksley, what the devil are you doing here?”
“My wife and I were just visiting with her friend.”
“Her friend? Sophie, what’s going on?”
“As he said, I was simply catching up with an old friend. They’re on their way out now.”
Portia leaned in, kissed Sophie’s cheek, and whispered, “If you ever want another life, you know where to come.”
Lifting a shoulder, Sophie gave her a sad smile. “I love the sod.”
Portia found it odd that love could break and mend hearts. Joining Locksley in the entryway, she wrapped her hand around his arm and let him lead her out of the house and away from her past.
Chapter 26
As soon as the coach took off, Locke dragged her to his lap, latched his mouth onto the soft skin at her throat, suckled, nipped, journeyed up and down the long column, while she moaned, dropped her head back, gasped short breaths. “If you ever leave me again, without so much as a word of warning—”
“You’ll what? Spank me? Lock me in my room? There is little point in running away if you warn the person ahead of time or leave a message stating where you are.”
Threading his fingers through her hair, he brought her head level with his, held her gaze. “Never leave me again.”
“I did it for you. To spare you—”
“The agony of losing you nearly killed me.” Something he’d never admit to another soul, but to her he suddenly felt that he could admit anything.
“How did you find me?”
“Not as easily or as quickly as I should have. I went to see your parents.”
Her eyes widened. Wanting to drink in the whiskey, he wished it wasn’t dark, that they weren’t ensconced in shadows. “I told you I was dead to them.”
“Since you’d lied about other things, I thought perhaps you’d lied about that. Or maybe I was merely hoping that you had, that they wouldn’t have it within them to turn you out. I punched your father, by the way.”
Her eyes growing more circular, she covered with her hand that mouth he was about to kiss. “You did not.”
“I didn’t like him. He was the reason you hid in trees.”
She nodded, remembering how she’d recklessly revealed that information the first night. “Yes. I could never do anything right. He made me spend hours on my knees praying for my soul. It only made me want to rebel more.”
“They know you’re a viscountess now. Should you ever wish to invite them to Havisham, I shall strive to behave, but I can’t promise I won’t strike him again.”
“I might invite them just to see you smack him.” She shook her head. “No, I’ll never invite them. I will not have them ruin Havisham for me as they ruined Fairings Cross. But they wouldn’t have known where I was, so how could they help you?”
He skimmed his fingers over her face, her brow, her cheek, her chin. He couldn’t get enough of touching her. “They didn’t, but then I remembered you mentioning Sophie, so I had a talk with Beaumont. He now has a broken nose.”
Laughing, she pressed her face to his shoulder, angling herself so she could kiss the underside of his chin. “I had no idea you were so violent.”
“He called my father a nutter, a disparaging term for a madman. He may not be totally sane but he is still a marquess and entitled to respect.”
“I’m glad you hit him.”
He grinned. “You’re a bit bloodthirsty yourself.”
“Your father is a kind, sweet man. He misses his wife. Nothing wrong in that.”
Months before, Locke was convinced his father missed her too much, but that was before he knew what it was to lose someone he loved—and he’d only lost her temporarily. He’d known she was alive and he would locate her whereabouts, reclaim her. For his father, there was no hope of finding his wife again. At least not until he died.
But Locke didn’t want to ponder that, consider the fact that his father was mortal. He wanted to think only about Portia. He returned his mouth to her neck, nibbling his way along until he neared her lips.
She placed her hand on his shoulder, pushing him back slightly. “You’re distracting me, and I still have questions. Beaumont didn’t know where I was, so how did he help?”
“He knew where you’d lived and you told me about a neighbor you visited. Once I knew which was your residence, I had only to knock on doors until I found the correct one. Fortunately I found her on the second try.”
“How far would you have gone?”
“Down the entire blasted street.” He cradled her face. “Portia, do you not understand that I was lost without you?”
“I didn’t want to leave.” She knocked her head against his shoulder. “I sold the pearls.”
“They’re replaceable. You’re not.”
Straightening, she met his gaze. “I like you very much when you’re in love.”
“You’re going to like me a good deal more before the night is done.”
She was still laughing when the coach drew to a stop outside the London residence. A footman opened the door. Locke leaped out, turned back, and handed Portia down. As soon as her feet hit the pebbled path, he lifted her into his arms.
“I can walk,” she stated.
“You need to conserve your energy.”
He carried her up the front steps, into the residence, barely acknowledging the butler before bounding up the stairs to their bedchamber. Word would make the rounds that Lady Locksley had returned. Her maid would be alerted but he trusted that the girl was smart enough to know she wouldn’t be needed until morning.
He set Portia on her feet. Because the frock wasn’t hers, because it was an atrocious fit, because he’d overheard that she didn’t need to return it, he ripped it from her, taking satisfaction in the rending of material. Other than the evening when she’d worn no undergarments, he didn’t know if he’d ever divested her of her clothing so quickly.
It had only been a few nights since he’d last seen her naked, but it seemed as though her body had changed, or perhaps he’d just not looked as closely. But her breasts were larger, her stomach more swollen. Now that he knew she was further along than he’d realized, he supposed changes would be happening more quickly.
Filling his hands with her delightful orbs, he pressed a kiss to the valley between them. Scraping her fingers through his hair, she dropped her head back on a moan. Then to ensure she understood his dedication to her, he dropped to his knees and kissed her belly.
“Locksley,” she whispered on ragged breath.
He looked up at her gazing down on him. “I love you, Portia. Every aspect of you, every part of you. And I shall love this child if for no other reason than because some part of it is you.”
“I don’t deserve you.”
“You’ve told me on numerous occasions that I’m an ass. I don’t think you’re getting any great prize here.”
“You’re wrong there. I’m getting the greatest prize of all: love.”
He shot to his feet. “Take off my clothes.”
She gave him a seductive and wicked grin. “Gladly.”
He’d always loved that about her, how comfortable she was with the body, with sex. He didn’t know if it came from her being a mistress or the devil in her, as her father claimed. It wasn’t important. He was coming to realize that a good many things he’d worried over didn’t matter. With her at his side, he was going to have everything he’d ever wanted, ever needed.
She took her sweet time disrobing him, tormenting him, slowly rubbing skin that became visible, licking it, taking it between her teeth, nipping. When he was completely nude, he moved to take her in his arms and she stopped him with a hand pressed to his chest. Her eyes, her intoxicating whiskey eyes, held his for two heartbeats before she went to her knees.
“Portia, you don’t have—”
“I’ve always wanted to do this. I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never done it. I never wanted to and Beaumont didn’t force me. But I want
to now.”
His mouth had gone so dry that he doubted he could have spoken had the residence caught on fire and he needed to warn people. He merely nodded.
The rough edge of her tongue traced the length of him, up and down, over and over. His groan echoed through the room, and he thought she would be the death of him. Then her lips were taunting and teasing. He’d never known such exquisite torture. He fully intended to return the favor.
“Ah, my little vixen. You have the power to bring me to my knees.”
“It would make it more difficult to do this.”
He couldn’t believe he was chuckling. Before her, he never laughed when bedding a woman, although he realized it had been a good long time since he’d thought of himself as bedding her. Sometime between the moment that he married her and now, he’d begun to think of himself as making love to her.
Her mouth enveloped a good part of him, heated silk against velvet, her tongue swirling over him. He plowed his hands into her hair because he had to touch her, had to complete a circle. Christ, he was beginning to think like a poet. The next thing he knew he’d be spouting rhymes.
Although for her, he’d spout anything she wanted. With each sweep of her tongue, the pleasure spiraled through him, with each stroke of her mouth sensations set his nerve endings afire. She was innocence and vixen, daring yet unschooled, and he loved her all the more for it. Reaching down, he slipped his hands beneath her arms and brought her to her feet. Her mouth was wet, swollen, and he took it, tasting the saltiness of his skin on her tongue.
He backed her up until the backs of her knees hit the bed. Then he lifted her up and placed her gently on the mattress so he could feast on her.
She’d not yet had her fill of him, but she’d sensed his tension, his quivering need. She’d been driving him to the brink of madness. She’d understood that well enough as he did it to her far too often and easily.
Spreading her thighs, he skimmed his mouth up one leg and down the other. Up again and down. Up again . . . and hovering there. Blowing on her curls, using his fingers to open her up as though she were a rose that needed help unfurling. Then just as she’d tormented him, he tormented her with long slow licks, knowing exactly when to apply pressure and when to recede. He came at her like the waves of an ocean, undulating, forceful, retreating but leaving dampness behind. Burying her fingers in his hair, she wondered if he truly understood the power he held over her. She would do anything he asked, even remain his wife.
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 32