Page 57 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“Unlikely. It wasn’t that far a drop. At the most I’d have bruised my backside. Although I am grateful to George for rescuing me.” She patted George’s arm before glancing toward the windows. “Sylvie, why did you squeak? Is everything all right?”
Sylvie, of the black hair and blue eyes that were far too round, curtsied. “I saw his Lordship standing there in the doorway. His presence took me by surprise.”
“I’ve told you that you don’t have to curtsy every time you’re addressed.”
The girl curtsied. “Yes, m’lady.”
With a patient shake of her head, Portia turned back to Locke. “How long were you standing there?”
“Not long, but again, Portia, why are you climbing ladders and dusting?”
“There’s so much to be done. I didn’t see the harm in helping.”
“I don’t want you scaling ladders”—and falling into the arms of well-built young men—“and putting my heir at risk should you already be with child.”
She paled to such an extent that he was surprised she didn’t swoon. “Yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking.” She shook her head. “You’re quite right. I shan’t ascend ladders anymore. I’ll find another way to help.”
He didn’t know why he didn’t feel victorious with her acquiescence. Why did the woman have to constantly confound him? He’d determined her character before he married her. She had no right not to be as he knew her to be. “I’ll have your bath prepared,” he said, far more curtly than he’d intended.
“No need. George and Thomas can see to hauling the tub and water up. Since you want them doing their job.”
As long as they weren’t imagining her in that water. What the devil was the matter with him? He’d had women in his life and never experienced jealousy—even when he was fully aware that he wasn’t their only lover. But this was different. She was his wife. They’d exchanged vows. So it wasn’t jealousy he was experiencing, merely conscientiousness of a certain expectation from her and those around her. The male servants shouldn’t be lusting after her, grinning at her, or cradling her in their arms. Training was definitely in order. He’d speak to Gilbert about it.
“You’re quite right,” he said now. “We’ll have the footmen see to it.”
“Very good. Allow me to introduce you.” She turned to the others in the room and clapped her hands. “Please come forward.” They did as she bid, albeit a bit hesitantly. “Queue up,” she ordered. “Straight line, stand tall.”
Once they were positioned to her satisfaction, she moved to one end. “Cullie you’ve met, of course.”
He nodded toward the girl. “Cullie.”
“M’lord.” A quick bob of a curtsy.
“Sylvie.”
Who gave him three curtsies. He assumed she would have curtsied until her knees gave out if Portia hadn’t placed her hand on her arm and said, “That’s sufficient.”
Marta was the final housemaid. One very nice curtsy from her. The lads, George and Thomas, followed with bows.
“It’s a pleasure to have you all at Havisham Hall,” Locke said.
“Is it really haunted?” Marta asked.
Sylvie jabbed her elbow into Marta’s side. “You’re not supposed to ask questions of his Lordship.”
“It’s quite all right,” Locke said. “But, no, it is not haunted.”
“I’ve seen her ghost on the moors,” George said.
“Merely swirling mist, I assure you,” Locke told him.
“But—”
“You don’t contradict his Lordship,” Portia said sternly.
“ ’Cuz the nobility is never wrong.” There was a snide quality to his tone.
Before Locke could bring him to task, Portia was standing before him. “George, have I misjudged your readiness for this position?”
