Page 15 of The Viscount and the Vixen
She pressed her forehead to the glass, felt the tears threaten, and cursed her weakness to perdition. She was gaining what she wanted, just not the person with whom she’d hoped to gain it. Instead of a few years of marriage, she’d have a lifetime. It would be forever before she acquired her dower house, her independence. Whether or not she and the viscount got along, she knew the years ahead of her were going to be extremely long indeed.
Striding into the library, Locke was greeted with the robust laughter of his father and the vicar. He really thought a man of God should be more solemn, but Browning was obviously enjoying the spirits the marquess had offered him. Both men were sitting in front of the fireplace, each holding a glass half filled with amber liquid.
Locke went to the sideboard, poured himself two fingers of scotch, and joined them, pressing his shoulder against the mantel.
Appearing far too merry, his father lifted his glass. “Cheers to the groom.”
Taking a sip, Locke considered. “There is the small matter of the license.”
His father patted his chest. “Special license right here.”
Locke held out his hand. “May I?”
His father reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out the folded paper, and handed it to Locke, who gave it a brisk snap to open it. “My name is on it.”
The marquess didn’t even have the decency to appear contrite. “I’ve been after you for two years to marry. Can you blame me for nudging things along?”
“And if I hadn’t been quite so gullible?”
“I have a license in my name. I wasn’t going to break my promise to the girl that she’d marry today. Don’t look so disgruntled. You’re drawn to her, that much was obvious in the parlor. I’d wager you kissed her when you got her alone.”
He’d never doubted his father’s sharpness, only his ability to remain in reality. “How much do you really know about her?”
“She’s strong, healthy, and fertile. That’s all that’s required for her to provide you with an heir. You’ve imprisoned your heart, Locke. I know that, so whether you could love her was never a consideration.”
Nor apparently was love a consideration for his little mercenary. “How many women responded to your advertisement?”
“She was the only one.” He skewed up his face. “Seems I have a reputation for being mad. Makes me a risky prospect. Your mother wouldn’t have liked it anyway, my getting married. But she will be thrilled with the news that you’ve taken a wife.”
The vicar had begun shifting in his chair, as though just realizing that everything within this household might not be quite right. Locke couldn’t recall him ever visiting. “You all right, Browning?”
“Oh, yes, just considering that all this is rather unconventional.”
“Have you not heard that the St.Johns are seldom conventional?”
As though fearing he might have insulted them, he said, “The church does appreciate the new pews the marquess is providing.”
So that was how he’d managed to get the vicar to agree to perform the marriage here. Should have known. Everyone had a price, including his lovely bride. He wouldn’t resent it, but neither would he ever feel any warmth toward her. He would view her as little more than a high-priced—
Every thought in his head scattered as she strolled in wearing a gown of deep blue, sleeveless, revealing alabaster skin that the black had kept covered. Her neck was long, sloping down to delicate shoulders and the barest hint of swells that indicated he might have misjudged how her breasts would fill his hands. They were likely to overflow. He wanted to peel off the white gloves that rode past her elbows as slowly as she had peeled off the black. She’d tidied her hair in such a way that it demanded he mess it up.
Before he crushed his glass, he placed it on the mantel. He wanted to sweep her up into his arms, cart her to his bedchamber, and have his way with her now, this very moment. The vows could be exchanged later. The sultry look she gave him told him that she knew the exact path his thoughts traveled.
“Isn’t she a vision of loveliness?” Mrs.Barnaby declared.
She was a vision of raw sensuality, and she damned well knew it. Ah, the little vixen. She fully intended to make him suffer until he could get her into bed.
Oh, yes, they were going to get along splendidly.
His long strides ate up the distance separating them. Taking her hand, he held her gaze as he pressed his lips to her gloved knuckles. “I approve.”
She blinked slowly as a corner of her luscious mouth lifted. “I thought you might.”
“Step aside, Locke,” his father said, shoving on his shoulder. “You’re not supposed to be this close to the bride until you’re exchanging vows. My son is a savage. Allow me to escort you to the parlor.”
He certainly felt uncivilized, barbaric as his father offered her his arm and she placed her small, delicate hand on it. He consoled himself with the knowledge that as soon as the vows were exchanged, he was taking her to bed.
Run, run,run!
