Page 102 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“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 prospect 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.
