Page 113 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“How did you find me?”
“Not as easily or as quickly as I should have. I went to see your parents.”
Her eyes widened. Wanting to drink in the whiskey, he wished it wasn’t dark, that they weren’t ensconced in shadows. “I told you I was dead to them.”
“Since you’d lied about other things, I thought perhaps you’d lied about that. Or maybe I was merely hoping that you had, that they wouldn’t have it within them to turn you out. I punched your father, by the way.”
Her eyes growing more circular, she covered with her hand that mouth he was about to kiss. “You did not.”
“I didn’t like him. He was the reason you hid in trees.”
She nodded, remembering how she’d recklessly revealed that information the first night. “Yes. I could never do anything right. He made me spend hours on my knees praying for my soul. It only made me want to rebel more.”
“They know you’re a viscountess now. Should you ever wish to invite them to Havisham, I shall strive to behave, but I can’t promise I won’t strike him again.”
“I might invite them just to see you smack him.” She shook her head. “No, I’ll never invite them. I will not have them ruin Havisham for me as they ruined Fairings Cross. But they wouldn’t have known where I was, so how could they help you?”
He skimmed his fingers over her face, her brow, her cheek, her chin. He couldn’t get enough of touching her. “They didn’t, but then I remembered you mentioning Sophie, so I had a talk with Beaumont. He now has a broken nose.”
Laughing, she pressed her face to his shoulder, angling herself so she could kiss the underside of his chin. “I had no idea you were so violent.”
“He called my father a nutter, a disparaging term for a madman. He may not be totally sane but he is still a marquess and entitled to respect.”
“I’m glad you hit him.”
He grinned. “You’re a bit bloodthirsty yourself.”
“Your father is a kind, sweet man. He misses his wife. Nothing wrong in that.”
Months before, Locke was convinced his father missed her too much, but that was before he knew what it was to lose someone he loved—and he’d only lost her temporarily. He’d known she was alive and he would locate her whereabouts, reclaim her. For his father, there was no hope of finding his wife again. At least not until he died.
But Locke didn’t want to ponder that, consider the fact that his father was mortal. He wanted to think only about Portia. He returned his mouth to her neck, nibbling his way along until he neared her lips.
She placed her hand on his shoulder, pushing him back slightly. “You’re distracting me, and I still have questions. Beaumont didn’t know where I was, so how did he help?”
“He knew where you’d lived and you told me about a neighbor you visited. Once I knew which was your residence, I had only to knock on doors until I found the correct one. Fortunately I found her on the second try.”
“How far would you have gone?”
“Down the entire blasted street.” He cradled her face. “Portia, do you not understand that I was lost without you?”
“I didn’t want to leave.” She knocked her head against his shoulder. “I sold the pearls.”
“They’re replaceable. You’re not.”
Straightening, she met his gaze. “I like you very much when you’re in love.”
“You’re going to like me a good deal more before the night is done.”
She was still laughing when the coach drew to a stop outside the London residence. A footman opened the door. Locke leaped out, turned back, and handed Portia down. As soon as her feet hit the pebbled path, he lifted her into his arms.
“I can walk,” she stated.
“You need to conserve your energy.”
He carried her up the front steps, into the residence, barely acknowledging the butler before bounding up the stairs to their bedchamber. Word would make the rounds that Lady Locksley had returned. Her maid would be alerted but he trusted that the girl was smart enough to know she wouldn’t be needed until morning.
He set Portia on her feet. Because the frock wasn’t hers, because it was an atrocious fit, because he’d overheard that she didn’t need to return it, he ripped it from her, taking satisfaction in the rending of material. Other than the evening when she’d worn no undergarments, he didn’t know if he’d ever divested her of her clothing so quickly.
