Page 105 of The Viscount and the Vixen
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 chest, 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.
Chapter24
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.
