Page 16 of The Viscount and the Vixen
Her mind played the constant refrain as the marquess escorted her to the parlor. Feeling as though she were traversing through a nightmare, Portia fought to tamp down the trembling that threatened to erupt at any moment. Never in her life had she seen such unbridled hunger in a man’s eyes. When Locksley had taken her hand, pressed his lips against it, it didn’t matter that she wore gloves. The heat emanating from him was such that she felt scorched.
As they entered the foyer, she knew if she were smart, she’d head straight out the door. She was no novice to men when it came to what they were capable of, but she suspected nothing in her experiences had prepared her for what Locksley would deliver. She’d thought being provocative would give her the upper hand, and all it had done was cause her to realize that she might be completely out of her element with him.
Even now, she felt his gaze boring into the nape of her neck, traveling across her bared shoulders, sliding down to her hips, back up. His hands would no doubt be taking the same journey after nightfall. Why, why, why hadn’t she read the contract more carefully? Why hadn’t her solicitor pointed out its flaws? Why did the viscount have to be so protective of the marquess?
As they entered the parlor, Marsden held her back while the vicar went to stand in front of the fireplace. Locksley joined him there. He dwarfed the other man. She didn’t want to consider how later tonight he might dwarf her. Swallowing hard, she bucked up her resolve not to let his size or his demeanor intimidate her. Hearing the patter of feet, she turned to see three servants scurry into the room. All appeared to be only slightly younger than Marsden.
“Allow me to introduce my staff,” the marquess said. “They’ll serve as witnesses. Gilbert, our head butler, Mrs.Dorset, our cook, and of course, you’ve met Mrs.Barnaby.”
They bowed, curtsied, smiled brightly, seemed completely at ease as though this were an everyday occurrence.
“A pleasure,” she muttered, striving to wrap her head around the fact that this was happening, while wondering if ever there had been a stranger assortment of guests for a wedding.
“I brought you these.” Mrs.Dorset extended a handful of wilted flowers, her smile bright with hope. “A bride ought to have flowers. I picked them myself from the meadow.”
“Thank you. They’re lovely.”
The woman curtsied before stepping back into line. Marsden led Portia over to the vicar, waited while she mentally gauged her distance to the door and had a final wild thought that she should make a dash for it.
Browning cleared his throat. “Who gives this bride?”
“I do,” Marsden announced, placing her hand on Locksley’s arm before stepping back once and over so he was now standing by his son, apparently serving as his best man.
The vicar waxed on about the sanctity of marriage, as though neither she nor Locksley truly understood the significance of what they were doing, as though what was happening wasn’t an utter and complete farce. Each word pounded into her as though delivered with a sledgehammer. If she were decent, she’d stop this outrageousness, but then if she were decent, she wouldn’t be here at all. She kept her gaze focused on Locksley’s neck cloth, on how perfectly it was knotted. So much easier than looking into his eyes, seeing the accusation there, the disapproval because she’d sought to marry his father for gain—only what he thought she wished to gain wasn’t at all what she wanted to obtain.
After the vicar recited the vows she was to repeat, she opened her mouth, only to find Locksley’s finger beneath her chin, scorching her as he lifted her head until she met his gaze. Why the devil didn’t the man have the decency to wear gloves for such a solemn occasion?
“Don’t make your vows to my neck cloth.”
“I wasn’t planning to.” She took no comfort in it being one of the smallest lies she’d told this day. Why did he have to make the moment so much more difficult by insisting that they look at each other as they exchanged vows?
“Repeat the words for her, Browning,” he ordered.
“I remember them,” she shot back, hating the way he studied her as though he expected her to engage in some nefarious behavior. Even knowing she should walk away, she couldn’t seem to make her feet move from this spot. It was more than his fingers and his eyes holding her captive. It was the absolute authority he wielded. He would never yield to another. He would defend what was his. She knew it with absolutely certainty, and once they were married, she would be his.
She should have negotiated better terms than an allowance and the daytime belonging to her, but it was too late now. After all her careful planning and scheming, when it had mattered the most, she had given in far too easily. But she wouldn’t regret it, not when she was gaining her ultimate goal.
Calmly, and with a voice far steadier than she felt, she reiterated the phrases, grateful that noticeably absent was any reference to love, that at the very least the promises they were making were honest, not hypocritical. She would cherish, honor, and obey, in sickness and in health, until death.
Still she was unprepared for the same vows being repeated in his strong, deep voice, with his eyes boring into hers as though he wanted them branded on her very soul. Finally, his finger dropped from her chin, but even with it no longer supporting her, she couldn’t seem to make herself look away from him.
“Have we a ring?” the vicar finally whispered.
“Ah, yes.” Marsden patted his pockets, one after another as though he’d forgotten where he’d placed it. “Here ’tis.” He handed it to Locksley. “Your mother’s.”
With his words, Portia’s gut clenched with such force and so painfully that she very nearly doubled over.
“Are you certain about this?” Locksley asked quietly.
“Quite.”
Solemnly, he turned to Portia, took her hand—
She balled up her fist. “I can’t.” She looked at Marsden, at the hope and joy reflected in eyes as green as his son’s. “You loved your wife. Your son and I don’t love each other. This is simply a marriage of extreme convenience. You can’t truly want me to wear her precious ring.”
“Linnie wants you to wear it. I shared your letters with her. She approves of you.”
Oh, God, he truly was mad. Perhaps Locksley was not only saving his father from her, but saving her from his father. Although the viscount cared not one whit about her, so why would he care if she was saddled with a madman? “Talk some sense into your father,” she implored Locksley. “Tie a piece of string around my finger. That’ll work just as well.”
