Page 13 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“It’s vulgar to gloat,” she said.
“You’d be doing the same if our positions were reversed.” He arched a brow at her mulish expression. “You know you would.”
She gave him a little half smile that made him wish the vows were already exchanged so he could close the door and take her up against the wall.
“I think we’re going to get along splendidly,” he said with utter belief and conviction. “We understand each other.”
“Not as well as you might think.”
He shrugged. “Well enough. I know all I need to know.” He didn’t need to know her any better, didn’t want to know her any better. He wasn’t going to come to care for her. She was the means to an end. A bedmate for him. An heir for Havisham. Other than that, he required nothing else from her.
As he escorted her into the foyer, the front door opened and his father stepped through, the vicar in tow, and smiled brightly. “She agreed to accept you in my stead?”
“She did indeed.”
“Marvelous.” He walked over, took her hand, squeezed it. “I could not be happier. You will be as well, my dear, I promise you. Allow me to introduce Reverend Browning.”
Browning was only slightly older than Locke, relatively new to his post. He didn’t know why it bothered him to see the man holding her hand longer than he thought necessary. He wasn’t jealous. He didn’t care about her enough to be jealous, but he was possessive.
“Vicar.” He hadn’t meant for the word to come out as a bark, but it did cause the thin man to jump back, releasing Portia, his face turning an unbecoming mottled red.
“Lord Locksley, congratulations. So shall we get to it?”
He glanced over at his bride. “Black seems a bad omen for a wedding. Is there something other than black in that trunk of yours?”
She nodded. “What woman worth her salt wouldn’t have something other than black?”
He expected she was going to be worth her salt in a good many areas.
“Why don’t we give my bride a chance to freshen up after her long journey?” He assumed it was long. He suddenly realized he had no idea from whence she’d traveled. It didn’t matter. She could have traveled from Timbuktu for all he cared. “I need to see about my lady’s trunk. Then I’ll meet you gents in the library for a nip before the vows are exchanged.”
Still reeling from the sudden change in plans, Portia watched her soon-to-be-husband stride out the door. Marsden patted her shoulder.
“I’m so pleased, my dear.”
“I came here to marry you.”
He looked at her sadly. “It’s better this way.”
And she wondered if her marrying his son had been his plan all along. She’d equaled madness with stupidity. What a fool she’d been, but then she suspected most desperate souls were easily duped.
Locksley strode back into the residence, the trunk balanced on one shoulder. She’d assumed he’d fetch one of the stable lads to cart it up, had obviously misjudged his strength. He could easily kill her if he desired, might consider it if he ever learned the truth of her situation. She would have to tread very carefully where he was concerned.
“I’ll show you to your room. Precede me up the stairs,” he ordered.
She almost objected to his tone, but realized he’d no doubt be ordering her about quite a bit. It was the price she was paying for security. She started up the sweeping stairs. “I don’t know if I’ve ever known a lord who can heft a trunk with such ease.”
“It’s often to one’s advantage when traveling to see to one’s own supplies and equipment.”
“I would have thought you’d hire others for that.”
“For some things, yes, but I like to ensure I’m never caught without.” At the landing, he said, “To the left.”
The hallway was wide enough that they could walk beside each other. It was dusted, tidy, but there were no flowers, no little extras to make it pleasant.
“My father’s chamber is there.” He turned slightly to the left. “My mother’s is right beside it. It goes without saying you’re never to set foot in there.”
Yet he’d felt compelled to say it. She wondered if there would ever come a time when she wouldn’t be irritated with him. “Where is your bedchamber?”
