Page 6 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“Not to worry. I’m sure he’ll behave. And I do want your son and I to become fast friends.” She looked at the son from whom she knew she was best served keeping her distance. “Shall we be off?”
He walked over and extended his arm. Swallowing hard, she placed her hand on his forearm. She’d been wrong. The kidskin offered no protection whatsoever from the heat of his flesh, firmness of his muscles, and raw masculinity that radiated through him. If she didn’t think he would dub her spineless, she’d step back and tell him that she’d changed her mind. But the one thing she could claim with certainty was that she’d never been a coward.
She could hold her own against him, keep a distance between them.
The problem was, she wasn’t certain she wanted to.
When she placed her hand on his arm, his body reacted as though she’d placed her entire naked form against his. What the devil was the matter with him to have such a strong reaction to her nearness? Blast it all, he would be going to the village this very night. He could not stay in this residence, envisioning her in his father’s bed—
He clenched his back teeth together until his jaw ached. He was not traveling that path in his mind.
Leading her into the hallway, he cursed each breath that filled his nostrils, his lungs, with her jasmine fragrance. No common rose scent for her. Nothing about her was common. But still he couldn’t fathom why she would marry an old man when she could have a young swain.
“I wish to apologize for my insensitivity in questioning your fertility. I didn’t mean to bring forth such devastating memories.” The pain glazing over her eyes as she talked about her son had hit him like a punch to the gut. If he could have gone back and cut out his tongue before he began his asinine inquisition he would have.
“The boy is never far from my thoughts, Lord Locksley. His death haunts me and guides my actions. Which you see is to your benefit as it makes me empathetic to your cause. I know you are striving to protect your father from someone who would take advantage of him. I assure you that I wish him no harm.”
“Still, Mrs.Gadstone, I am flummoxed as to why you would not seek out love but would be willing to marry a man who is at least thirty-five years your senior.”
“I’ve known love, my lord. It provided little security. Now I am in want of security.”
“How long were you married?”
“We were together for two years.”
“How did he die?”
She sighed. “Illness. He took a fever.”
“Again, my condolences. How long ago?”
“Six months.” She peered up at him, a slight lifting to her lips. “You should ask your father to let you read our correspondence. All your questions would be answered.”
He doubted that. He suspected a lifetime would not be long enough to get the answers to the myriad questions he had about her.
“Are all the clocks in the residence broken?” she asked as they passed a tall one standing in the hallway.
He began escorting her up a set of stairs. “As far as I know none of them are. They were all simply stopped at the hour of my birth and the moment of my mother’s passing.” Half an hour was all the time she’d been given to hold him, all the time he’d been given to know her love.
“How did your mother die?”
“I killed her.” At the top of the stairs, he turned and faced her, surprised to see horror etched over her finely formed features. Apparently his father’s correspondence to her didn’t answer all questions. “During childbirth. Why do you think he named me Killian?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “I’m sure it’s only coincidence. He wouldn’t be that deliberately cruel to a child, to label him a killer.”
“I’m not certain cruelty was his intent. He merely wanted to ensure that neither of us would ever forget. I believe it’s important that you understand what life here at Havisham Hall entails. Let’s begin here, shall we?” Sorting through the keys on the ring, he found the one he required, slipped it into the lock, turned it, and swung open the door. He swept the cobwebs away before extending his arm toward the massive room, with its mirrored walls that stood two floors tall. “The grand salon. They hosted a magnificent ball here the Christmas before my mother died.”
Portia hesitated only a second before stepping over the threshold and onto the landing that led to the stairs descending into the musty-scented room. Cautiously, expecting the dull floor to give way beneath her feet with each step, she walked to the railing. She wanted to wrap her hands around it, allow it to provide some sort of support, but it was covered in a thick layer of dust. As far as she could see, everything was adorned in powdery film, decorated with lacy cobwebs. At the grimy windows that lined one wall, the faded red draperies were drawn back, revealing dust motes waltzing in the afternoon sunlight that filtered in to touch the vases filled with withered and dried stalks of flowers, their blooms long gone.
“On our way here, we passed several rooms with closed doors. Are they all neglected such as this one?” she asked softly, almost reverently. The setting seemed to call for quiet.
“Yes. After my mother passed, my father ordered that nothing be touched, that everything in the residence be left just as it was when she died.”
Trying to fathom what sort of impact growing up in a house like this might have on a lad, she looked over her shoulder at him. He stood tall and erect, his face reflecting no sadness, no happiness, no joy, no sorrow. He was accustomed to this bizarre attempt to keep everything as it was. “But nothing stays the same, nothing goes unchanged.”
“No, it does not.”
“You’re grown now. I have the impression you’re the one managing things. Why don’t you have the rooms tidied up, restored to what they were?”
