Page 101 of The Viscount and the Vixen
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.
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.”
