Page 2 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“I need an heir.”
Although it was unseemly for a lord to drop his jaw, Locke did so anyway. “I’m your heir.”
“With no plans to marry.”
“I never claimed I wouldn’t marry.” He insisted he would never love. Knowing his father had descended into lunacy after losing the love of his life, he had no desire whatsoever to give any woman his heart and risk traveling the same path.
“So where is she, this woman you will wed?” his father asked, looking around as though he expected her to materialize in a corner at any second. “You reached your thirtieth year two months ago. I was married at twenty-six, a father at thirty. Yet you’re still out sowing wild oats.”
Not as much as he once had, and if he took his responsibilities any more seriously he was likely to go mad as well. “I will marry. Eventually.”
“I can’t take that chance. I require another heir. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let my greedy cousin Robbie and then his drunkard of a son inherit. I’ll not have my title traveling downthatbranch of our family tree, I promise you. And neither is Havisham Hall. You’ll inherit first, yes, but when you draw your last, your brother, at least thirty-some-odd years your junior depending upon the fertility of this girl’s womb, will be around to step in. Hopefully he won’t have your aversion to marriage and will already have the next heir lined up.”
His father was breathing heavily as though he’d run around the room while delivering his diatribe. Locke came to his feet. “Father, are you ill?”
He waved his hand. “I’m tired, Locke, I’m simply tired, but I must secure my legacy. I should have married before now, provided a spare. But I was encumbered by grief.” He sank against the back of the chair as though little strength remained to him. “Your mother, bless her, should have gone on to her just reward instead of waiting around here for me.”
Statements such as that one always tore at Locke, made dealing with his sire that much more challenging. His mother wasn’t out on the moors waiting. His father simply refused to let her go.
“I will marry, Father. I will provide an heir. I won’t let your titles or your estates go to Cousin Robbie. I simply have to find the right woman first.” A woman with a churlish disposition he could never, ever love.
“Mrs.Portia Gadstone could be the one, Locke. I daresay, if you like her when we meet her, I shall be a gentleman, step aside, and give you my blessing to marry her this very afternoon.”
As though Locke were open to that happening. Unfortunately for Mrs.Gadstone, when she arrived, he would be showing her right back out the door.
The Marquess of Marsden is in need of a strong, healthy, fertile woman to provide an heir. Send queries care of this publication.
As the coach bounced over the rough road, Portia Gadstone folded up the advert she had clipped from the newspaper and slipped it back into her reticule. Turning her attention to the bleak countryside she reflected that it wasn’t nearly as bleak as her life. Agreeing without compunction or remorse to marry a man whom all of London knew to have lost his sanity pretty much said it all.
Her life was in shambles, she was penniless, and she had nowhere else to turn.
But marriage to the marquess suited her plans beautifully. Havisham was a large estate in Devonshire at the edge of Dartmoor. Isolated. No one ever visited. The marquess never left. It was unlikely that anyone would think to look for her there. But if they did, she would be a marchioness, a woman who had gained power—power she was willing to wield if necessary, to protect herself and all she loved.
The marquess had sent her funds for her journey, but fearing discovery of her escape, she’d purchased neither railway nor coach ticket, opting instead to travel in a mail coach. The driver, a big burly fellow, was kind enough, didn’t bother her, and hopefully, after delivering her to her destination, would forget he’d ever set eyes on her.
Reaching into her reticule she removed a hard peppermint sweet from a paper sack and popped it into her mouth. She’d been traveling for far too long, was tired and hungry, but nothing good ever came of complaining. Best to just get on with the task no matter how unpleasant it might be, and she was fairly certain that today would be filled with naught but unpleasantness. But she would push through and ensure the marquess never regretted taking her to wife.
As they rounded a curve, she saw the monstrous building—black as Satan’s soul, with towers, turrets, and spires reaching for the heavens—looming before her, growing larger each time the horses’ hooves hit the ground. It could be no other than Havisham Hall. A chill skittered down her spine. If she had any other choice—
Only she didn’t.
With her marriage to the marquess she would step into the aristocratic circle. Marchioness of Marsden. She would garner respect simply because of her position at his side. And the child she delivered to him would be safe, under his protection.
No one would dare harm the child. No one would dare hurt her.
Ever again.
Standing at an upper-floor window, gazing out on the drive, Locke laughed aloud at the scene below him. She’d arrived in a mail coach. A mail coach, for God’s sake. Could this farce get any more ludicrous?
He couldn’t get a good impression of her. She seemed rather small, petite. Ample curves. She wore black. That didn’t bode particularly well for the success of a marriage. A ridiculously large black hat covered her head, a veil draped over her face. He thought she might have dark hair. Difficult to tell.
The burly driver struggled to get a large trunk down from the top of the coach and set it at the woman’s feet. He tipped his hat, climbed back up to his seat, and was gone. No one tarried at Havisham.
She spun on her heel and began marching with purpose toward the residence. Locke dashed down the stairs. He had to put an end to this madness posthaste.
A banging echoed through the foyer just as he reached it. She was certainly determined to make use of the knocker. He swung open the door. She’d lifted the veil, and he found himself staring into the most unusual shade of eyes he’d ever seen. The color reminded him of whiskey, full of temptation, intoxicating, and threatening to bring a man to ruin.
“I’m here to marry his Lordship,” she said in a throaty voice that caused everything below his waist to come to immediate attention. Damn it all to hell. Instead of securing a village wench for his father, he should consider securing one for himself. Obviously he’d gone too long without a woman if it took merely her voice to get a rise out of him. “Fetch my trunk.”
