Page 3 of The Viscount and the Vixen
Straightening, he drew himself up to his full height, which had him fairly towering over her. “You presume me to be the footman?”
She gave him a slow once-over that caused his skin to tighten as though her fingers were trailing along wherever her eyes touched. When her perusal was complete, she turned up her pert little button of a nose. “Butler, footman, it doesn’t matter to me. Trunk needs to be brought in. Bring it in.”
“You also presume that Lord Marsden is going to give you one look and still wish to marry you?”
“I have a contract with him. He’ll be marrying me or he’ll pay a pretty penny.”
His father might have mentioned that little fact. Obviously Locke had misjudged all the trouble his father could stir up from within his chambers. He’d thought he did little more than gaze longingly out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of his love frolicking over the moors.
“My dear,” his father announced, suddenly at Locke’s side, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it, even as he managed to artfully skirt her past Locke and into the foyer. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
Lowering herself into a graceful deep curtsy, she smiled up at his father as though he were the answer to every childish wish she’d ever made. “My lord, I’m delighted to be here, more than I can say.”
Locke narrowed his eyes. Why would anyone on God’s earth take any delight whatsoever in being delivered to hell’s small corner of the world? And yet there was an intriguing honesty to her tone that he couldn’t deny. Was she that good of an actress?
“Locke, fetch her trunk, then join us in the parlor.”
His father appeared absolutely besotted. Not good, not good at all if Locke had any hope whatsoever of squelching this arrangement. “I’ll join you in the parlor first. The trunk is perfectly safe where it is. No one is going to wander off with it, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to miss a single word of this conversation.”
“You’re rather impertinent for a servant,” she chastised, with enough edge to indicate she was securing her position as mistress in the manor and reminding him of his place within it.
“I would agree—if I were a servant. As I’m apparently to become your son before the afternoon is done, allow me to introduce myself: Killian St.John, Viscount Locksley, at your service.” He mockingly made a sweeping bow. She had to be as mad as his father. Or a woman intent on taking advantage of another’s madness. He’d wager on the latter. There was a calculating sharpness in those eyes. He didn’t trust them—or her—one whit.
Again she curtsied deeply, elegantly, but for him there was no smile, no emotion whatsoever. The swiftness with which she’d donned her armor fascinated him, more so because she’d accurately judged him a threat. She was no fool, this one. “It’s a pleasure, my lord.”
Oh, he very much doubted it would turn out to be that.
“This way, my dear. We have very little time to get acquainted before the nuptials.” His father led her into the parlor, situated her in a plush chair near the fireplace. Dust rose up as she settled onto the plump cushion. So much for the housekeeper’s cleaning abilities.
His father took the chair opposite hers. Locke dropped onto the sofa, sitting on the far end so as to procure the best angle for observing her. She was young, couldn’t be much older than twenty-five. Her clothing was well made, in excellent condition. No fraying, no tatters.
She lifted her arms, reaching for her hatpin, and her pert breasts lifted as well. They were the perfect size to fill the palms of his hands. Those very same hands could span her waist, close around it, draw her up against him. Why the devil was he noticing things that had no bearing on his strategy?
She swept the hat from her head, and his breath caught. Her hair was a fiery red that rivaled the flames in a hearth for brilliance. The strands appeared heavy, abundant, and in danger of tumbling down at any moment. He wondered exactly how many pins he’d have to remove to make it do just that. Not many, he’d wager. Two, three at the most.
Shifting to ease the discomfort of his body reacting as though he hadn’t been near a woman since he’d left the classroom, he draped his arm along the back of the sofa, striving for a nonchalance he wasn’t feeling. He didn’t care about her hair, her eyes, or her figure. Or those plump, full lips the shade of rubies. He cared about her motives. Why would a woman as young and enticing as she was be willing to marry a man as old and decrepit as his father? She had to have young bucks fawning over her. She drew attention. So what did she hope to gain here that she couldn’t gain elsewhere?
“Now, my dear—” his father began, leaning forward.
“Here we are, m’lord!” Mrs.Barnaby sang out as she bustled in, carrying a tea service. Her hair, more white than black, was pulled back in her usual tight bun, her black dress pressed to perfection. “Tea and cakes, just as you requested.” After setting the tray on the small table that rested between the two chairs, she straightened, cocked her head to the side as she studied their guest, her brow furrowing. “She is rather young, m’lord.”
“An old woman isn’t going to give me an heir now is she, Mrs.Barnaby?”
“I suppose there is that.” She gave a little curtsy, her arthritic knees creaking as she did so. “Welcome to Havisham, Mrs.Gadstone. Shall I pour the tea?”
“No, I’ll see to it, thank you.”
“Oh.” Mrs.Barnaby’s shoulders slumped. She was obviously crestfallen to be dismissed before hearing anything of note she could share below stairs.
“That’ll be all, Mrs.Barnaby,” his father said gently.
Heaving a huge sigh, she turned to go. Locke held out his hand. “I’ll have the keys, Mrs.Barnaby.”
She slapped her hand over the large ring dangling from her ample waist as though he’d asked for the Crown Jewels and she was determined to guard them with her life. “They’re my responsibility.”
“I may have a need for them. I’ll return them to you later.” His need depended on how this conversation went.
With a mulish expression, she reluctantly handed them over before marching from the room with righteous indignation shimmering off her in waves. He didn’t know why she clung to them so tenaciously when they were more ornament than use. He supposed because they heralded her vaunted position in the household, one she’d acquired because she’d stuck around when many of the parlor maids had gone in search of greener pastures. Or ones less haunted.
