Page 37 of The Viscount and the Vixen
He never would have expected to find Portia on her hands and knees cleaning. Granted, Mrs.Barnaby was no spring chicken and her efforts yesterday with the parlor had been sadly lacking, but she’d made the room habitable. And she was the housekeeper. It was her job to keep house.
But Portia had begun seeing to things herself, had been uncomfortable with him preparing her bath. She didn’t want to be pampered. He hadn’t expected that, didn’t know quite what to make of her. Every woman he’d ever been with had wanted to be spoiled, had insisted upon it. In fact, they’d wanted constant compliments, numerous baubles, and his undivided attention.
Based upon Portia’s reasons for being here, what she hoped to gain, what she sought, she should seek to be spoiled more than any woman he’d ever known. But she’d been covered in dust and cobwebs, with grime on her face and hands. Something was wrong with him for finding that so incredibly sensual. Wives of lords did not crawl about in the muck. Yet she’d seemed comfortable with it.
WhowasPortia Gadstone St.John?
A bit late to be wondering that, old chap.
He didn’t want to be intrigued or fascinated by her. He didn’t want to know her. He merely wanted to bed her, slake his lust, ensure she earned the title that marriage to him had gained her.
Hearing light footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder. Christ, she was gorgeous. If she entered a ballroom wearing that deep purple gown that revealed her shoulders so enticingly and suggestively, she would have had a hundred suitors. Why answer an old man’s advert? What did it matter now? She was his wife.
“You did away with the Hessian, I see,” he said as she approached, her satin slippers occasionally peering out from beneath the hem of her skirt.
“You’re here now. I’m sure you’ll save me from any hideous eight-legged creatures.”
He had the passing thought that he would save her from anything.
“Based on the flow of your skirts, it appears you’re not wearing petticoats.” He hadn’t truly expected her to honor her words about not wearing any undergarments. She’d merely been attempting to taunt him.
She angled her head, a wickedness in her smile. “No petticoats. Only a corset, otherwise my bodice would droop unbecomingly.”
His mouth went dry. “Only a corset?”
“Only a corset. Well, and stockings. They were needed for the shoes. But you don’t have to remove the silk to have your way with me. Or the shoes for that matter.”
He imagined her naked, except for the stockings and shoes, her legs in the air—
“Drawers?”
She shook her head, her teeth pressing into her lower lip.
“Chemise?”
Another teasing smile. “Corset only.”
“Jesus.” As he downed what remained of his scotch, he didn’t miss her look of satisfaction. His father was correct. There were definite advantages to taking to wife a woman with experience. He was beginning to wonder why men so highly coveted virginity in their brides. “A drink before dinner?”
“No, thank you.”
Well, he needed another. On his way to the sideboard, he passed the desk. It occurred to him that he could just take her there. Unencumbered by petticoats, ease those skirts up to her waist, unfasten his trousers, sink into her before they dined. But he had the impression that she would view it as a victory. He would resist for a while longer.
“Dinner is served, my lord,” Gilbert announced.
A pity. The drink would wait.
Walking over to Portia, he extended his arm. She placed her hand on it, squeezed.
“I wouldn’t have objected to the desk,” she said sweetly, before releasing her hold and walking from the room, her hips swaying provocatively.
Through gritted teeth, he released a feral curse. He’d been so focused on saving his father from Portia that he hadn’t considered the need to save himself.
Montie had been attracted to her, had wanted her. He’d made that clear the evening he introduced himself. But he’d never looked at her with the smoldering intensity that Locksley did. While he sat across from her, several feet away, she was acutely aware of the desire thrumming off him as the wine was poured. Althoughdesireseemed too tame a word.
He’d wanted to spread her out on the desk and have his way with her. She’d seen it in his eyes. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted that he managed to keep his urges under control.
She would be wise not to taunt him so brazenly, not to give the impression that she was somewhat of a wanton, but she needed the marriage consummated before the sun next rose. It was the only way to ensure this arrangement couldn’t be easily undone, was the only way to guarantee a measure of protection should Montie discover where she was hiding.
