Page 56 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“I’ll teach you.”
“Caw. Well, I’d be a fool to say no then, I suppose, wouldn’t I?”
“You don’t strike me as a fool, MissSmythe.”
“Then I’d be pleased to take the position. And I’ll give it my best.”
“I would expect no less. Could you move in tomorrow?”
“I can move in this afternoon.”
Portia smiled sublimely. “I shall look forward to welcoming you to Havisham Hall.”
Her words were like a kick to Locke’s gut. When was the last time that anyone had been welcomed to Havisham Hall? He’d be hard-pressed to say his father’s wards had been welcomed, at least at first. Other than Ashe and Edward, with their families, no one ever visited Havisham. No one was ever welcomed there.
His mind reeling with his awareness of the change to routine that Portia was bringing to Havisham, he barely acknowledged MissSmythe’s leaving.
“Are you all right?” Portia asked.
Again, her concern—except it was directed at him, and he didn’t want it. He nodded brusquely. “Yes, but we’ve delayed our return to the manor long enough. You should finish your tea.”
“I’m finished.”
She began to scrape back her chair. He darted over to assist her. When she was standing, he said, “It was very kind of you to give her such an elevated position in the household.”
“She was desperate—approaching us here, not willing to wait until an appropriate time, not willing to risk losing her chance to gain a position. She’ll work hard to further herself.”
“Perhaps she was merely ambitious.”
She shook her head. “No. I know the look of desperation and the lengths to which one will go when backed into a corner. Besides, I like her. I think we’ll get along famously.”
Skirting past him, she headed for the door. Following after her, he hoped she hadn’t come to know the look of desperation while gazing at her reflection in a mirror.
Chapter13
He thought about Portia while he was at the mines. He thought about her while he galloped his horse over the moors toward the manor. He thought about her as he bathed, while he strode through the hallways in search of her, fairly certain where he’d find her.
In the music room. He wasn’t disappointed.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the doorjamb and simply watched. Standing on a ladder, dusting his mother’s portrait, she was dressed much as she’d been the day before, sans his Hessian, as she now had two strapping lads, one about six inches taller than the other, to deal with the pesky spiders. The new footmen were moving furniture so two young women—one of them Cullie—could roll up the various carpets. He suspected they’d be getting a beating in the morning, along with the draperies that had already been removed. Another young woman was using a long-handled broom to sweep away the dust and cobwebs from the walls. White sheeting had been placed over the piano to protect it from any dust swirling about.
So much activity in this room, yet everyone seemed to know what they were to do. What he didn’t understand was why Portia—a title hunter, a woman seeking prestige and position—was in the thick of things rather than standing off to the side merely ordering her new servants about. If a stranger strode in, he was going to mistake her for a maid. Why wasn’t she lording her position over these people?
Although he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed watching her movements: her hips swaying as she dusted, the way the cloth of her bodice tautened along the side as she reached for the intricately carved corner of the gilded frame.
Hearing a short high-pitched squeal, he was about to turn in the direction of the sound—no doubt the maid at the window—when he saw Portia doing the same, only her perch was precarious. She moved too quickly, too sharply. Suddenly she gasped, her arms flailing—
He’d managed only half a dozen frenzied leaps in her direction before she landed in the arms of the taller footman, who grinned stupidly down on her as though he’d acquired the prize at some county fair game. Locke was completely unprepared for the rage rampaging through him because the man was holding his wife. It didn’t matter that he’d saved her from harm. It only mattered that he grinned like a buffoon.
Portia smiled at him, patted his shoulder. “You can release me now, George.”
He did so, slowly lowering her feet to the floor. Stepping away, she brushed at her skirts before looking up and spying Locke. The only thing that prevented him from permanently removing the grin from the lad’s face was the fact that the smile she gave Locke was brighter and more welcoming than the one she’d given the footman.
“You’ve returned,” she said.
What the devil was the matter with him? What did he care if she was glad to see him? Why should he be angry that a muscled laborer saved his wife from a crack on the head? He should be grateful for it. Instead he was ready to sack the man.
“Why are you working when we have hired servants to see to things?” he demanded to know. He jerked his head toward the ladder. “You could have broken your neck.”
