Page 100 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“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—“couldbloody 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 unkindness 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.”
