Page 109 of The Viscount and the Vixen
Locksley grabbed his cards, tossed them down. “He’s out.”
“See here—”
The viscount swung back around to glare at him. There was a tenseness, a danger, to him that had no doubt led to his surviving his treks into the wilds. Not even the king of the jungle would want to tangle with a man who looked as though he’d take great delight in devouring his prey for dinner.
“Outside.”
One word. A command. But Beaumont wasn’t a complete fool. He needed to be certain there were plenty of witnesses so he didn’t suddenly disappear from the face of the earth. “The library.”
A curt nod, and the viscount stepped back. Regaining his composure, Beaumont glanced around the table. “I shall return.” He hoped, prayed. “Hold my winnings for me.”
The Dragons might be a club of vice, but it was an honest one. Reluctantly he followed Locksley to the library, remembering the night when he’d joined him here in hopes of learning more about his marriage to Portia, of striving to determine when he might see her.
Not surprisingly, Locksley chose a seating area in a back corner of the room, away from everyone else. When they’d settled in, he did little more than study Beaumont with an intense stare until a footman delivered their drinks. Beaumont hated that his hand shook as he lifted his glass, took a fortifying swallow, and leaned forward. “Look, I haven’t said a word regarding Portia’s past—”
“Where is she?” Locksley was curt, to the point, except Beaumont didn’t know what the point was.
Leaning back, he glanced around. “Who?”
“Portia.”
“How the devil should I know?” Then the point came to him, sharp, clear, and ever so satisfying. He couldn’t help but grin like a lunatic. “She ran off.”
It boosted Beaumont’s pride to know he wasn’t the only one she’d left. Locksley narrowed his eyes until they resembled the finely honed edge of a sword. Beaumont’s smile dwindled and he fought the urge to scurry away. “She didn’t come to me.”
But dear God, he wished she had. He missed her more than he thought it possible to miss anyone. He’d handled things poorly on the terrace. Instead of ordering her about, he should have wooed her as he had in the beginning. He could have won her back with the proper approach.
“Where was her residence?”
With the viscount’s obvious need of his assistance, suddenly he was feeling quite superior. “You nearly broke my jaw. It still aches.” The bruise was an embarrassment, but worse was the fact that he had to cut his food into tiny pieces because he could barely widen his mouth.
“If you don’t tell me where she lived, the next blow will surely break it, then.”
He sighed. “You’re not going to punch me here.”
The stony look he gave said he would indeed. Beaumont sipped his scotch, studied his glass. “She’s not there. My current mistress is the jealous sort. She’d have not welcomed her.”
“It didn’t take you long to replace her.”
“A man has needs,” he said indignantly. “Besides, no one could replace her. I loved her, you know.”
“You had a strange way of showing it.”
“She brought neither coin nor position to a marriage. I’m in need of both.”
“You were going to have the child she carried killed,” he hissed.
“Wives don’t like having bastards running around. My father took care of his in the same manner. Anyway, I can’t afford to take care of a passel of children.”
“But you can afford a mistress.”
“As I stated, a man has needs. One must prioritize.”
“I have an overwhelming need to punch you again. You’re spared only because I have no wish to touch you.”
He hated that this man who was beneath him in station was commanding him about and lording over him. “Well, at least my father wasn’t a nutter.”
Locksley struck so fast that Beaumont didn’t even see it coming, but the pain that shot through his face told him that his nose, at least, was broken. His eyes watered as he dug his handkerchief out of his pocket to collect the blood pouring down.
