Page 30 of The Viscount and the Vixen
He strode up to her, stopping within a hairbreadth of her. “You can’t possibly imagine what that cost me.” He cradled her face with one large, powerful hand. “This will probably cost me as well in torment for the remainder of the day, but damn if you don’t have the most kissable-looking lips I’ve ever seen.”
Then his mouth was on hers, proving his point. And damn if his lips were just as kissable. They were full, his mouth broad, and his tongue so very skilled at stroking and exploring. She found herself flattened against him, not certain if she’d stepped into him or he’d drawn her near. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way his hands rubbed her back with sureness, with possession, the manner in which he angled his head to taste her more fully, providing access so she could taste him more intimately. Whatever he’d eaten for breakfast was washed away by the dark coffee he drank. She wasn’t surprised he didn’t begin his morning with tea. She suspected he was a man of strong desires in all matters: spirits, food, coffee, women.
He wouldn’t take her lightly or gently. He might take her slowly, but when it came down to it, he would crush her, be as demanding as he was now, insist that she not hold back, that she give fully all she had.
He might be the lord of the manor, her husband, the head of the house, but when it came to the mattress she could hold her own. She’d been tutored by the best. She wouldn’t retreat, wouldn’t allow him to master her between the sheets. They would be equal, true partners. A day might come when he regretted having her for a wife, but she made a vow then and there that he would never regret having her for a bed partner.
Tearing his mouth away, he stared down at her, his breaths coming swift and heavy. She slowly ran her tongue around her lips to have a final taste of him. His groan was that of a tormented creature as his eyes darkened.
“Until tonight, Lady Locksley,” he ground out before spinning on his heel and charging from the room.
She could do little more than gape after him. She’d fully expected him to shove her onto the desk and take her there. Dear God, but he was a man of incredible restraint and strength of purpose. She’d not be able to bend him to her will easily.
On the other hand, it was that very aspect of him that excited her. He could stand his ground against anyone. He could safeguard her, as long as she gave him a compelling reason to want to protect her. A child would accomplish that. She needed to ensure they consummated their marriage tonight.
With her coins nestled in her skirt pocket, she spent half an hour in the library looking over the books, striving to find something to read, to occupy her time. But it wasn’t the assortment of literature she wanted to explore. It was the residence itself, even if it was nothing more than a series of locked doors. Except that the locks had keys.
She made her way down to the kitchens and found Mrs.Barnaby rocking in a chair in her office, sipping a cup of tea.
“Mrs.Barnaby,” she said.
The older woman’s eyes widened, and she shoved herself to her feet, her bones creaking along the way. “M’lady.”
“Mrs.Barnaby, I’d like to borrow your keys for a spell.”
Much as she had the day before the housekeeper slapped her hand against the large ring. “They’re my responsibility.”
“Yes, I know. And I will return them before the day is done.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Lady Locksley, but I can’t give them to you.”
“Oh, I believe you can.”
She shook her head more forcefully. “I can’t.”
With a deep sigh, Portia held out her hand. “You can and you will.”
“You can’t command me.”
“I’m the lady of the manor.”
“We’ll see what his Lordship has to say about that.”
Before Portia could respond, the woman was rushing—faster than Portia had thought her capable—out of the room. “His Lordship has gone to the mines,” she called out after her.
“Not the viscount,” Mrs.Barnaby shouted over her shoulder. “The marquess. He won’t stand for this at all.”
Portia almost called her back, almost rescinded her request, but it was a matter of pride now. She would not be cowed, nor would she bother her husband with this. She was relatively certain he would agree with her position, but it was her hope to lessen his burdens, not add to them. Whether or not the marquess was in agreement with her right to have the keys was another matter. She suspected it had to do with where his mind was this morning.
She followed Mrs.Barnaby up the stairs and waited outside the marquess’s bedchamber as the woman knocked briskly.
“Come in,” he called out.
With a flourish, Mrs.Barnaby opened the door and marched in. Portia went in as well. The marquess was sitting in a thick cushioned chair near the window, looking out.
“She wants me keys,” Mrs.Barnaby announced sharply.
Glancing over his shoulder, Marsden squinted. He seemed smaller today, more frail. “Who wants your keys?”
