Page 60 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“I wasn’t expecting to find the door locked,” he said, wondering why he sounded so disgruntled. Because he wanted her—now. And he was denying himself.
“We finished tidying the room this afternoon. I thought I would give it an official unveiling after dinner. Perhaps even play for you.”
He began stalking toward her. “What sort of games did you have in mind?”
Pressing her lips together, she rolled her eyes. “I meant the pianoforte. It’s been tuned, sounds quite marvelous now.”
He didn’t stop until his legs were brushing her skirts and his hand was cradling her jaw. “Perhaps one song.”
Then his resistance broke and he claimed her mouth as his own. He didn’t understand this need to possess her that continually rifled through him. Perhaps it was the eagerness with which she welcomed him, the speed with which she wrapped her arms around his neck or pressed her body to his. Perhaps it was the fervor with which her tongue explored and demanded that he not hold back. Her zeal when it came to passion was equal to his. He didn’t set the tempo or nurture a spark into a flame. She matched him step for step. She created a conflagration with her first touch.
She was bold and daring and intrepid within the bed and out of it. He thought of his father’s advert. He’d sought the wrong things in a wife, and yet somehow Locke had ended up with one that exceeded expectations.
He tore his mouth from hers, stared down into those smoldering whiskey eyes. Her lips were wet and swollen. He was going to make other parts of her wet and swollen after dinner.
He cringed. No, after a tune in the music room. One tune. To humor her. To give the impression of being a good husband instead of the randy one he was. Christ, by now he should have lost some interest in her, the novelty should have worn off. Instead it all seemed to have increased tenfold. If he believed in witches, he might have thought her one.
“I need a drink before dinner,” he stated, striving for a neutral tone that wouldn’t give away the war raging within him to go ahead and have her now, here in this hallway, up against a wall.
“I’ll join you.”
As though she had a choice. He could see through the windows at the end of the corridor that darkness had fallen. She was his now. Absolutely and completely—until the sun once again emerged.
Anticipation was an aphrodisiac. Portia could not help but believe that as she enjoyed her dessert. She had been tempted earlier to unlock the door, to share with Locksley then and there the results of her—and her servants’—efforts. But all through dinner she tingled with the awareness of what was to come. While she knew it was quite likely he would not be as taken with the room as she was now that it was put back together, her enthusiasm for sharing it was not dimmed. It was her sanctuary. She had made it so with each spider killed, each cobweb swept away, each fleck of dust removed, every inch of wood polished, every bit of cloth and carpet beaten until the years of neglect faded away.
With that one room tidied and vibrant again, she could envision the magnificence that had once encompassed the entire residence. It was a shame, a crime even, that this house had been left to ruin. She wanted to give back to Locksley what it had once been.
That he had grown up with such decay and neglect saddened her beyond all reason. She knew he fancied her for only the physical comforts she could provide but she viewed him as more, wanted more between them. She had no doubt that it would be slow in coming, but perhaps in a few years once she had filled his life with the laughter of children...
If for no other reason, this residence needed to be set to rights so their children would know joy and comfort and gladness. This wallowing about, allowing the residence to continue its slow decline, could not stand. She wouldn’t allow it, even though she knew she had to move unhurriedly and with caution to bring him over to her side of things. She might have entered into this marriage as a last resort, but she was determined that neither of them would ever regret it.
As she took her final bite of pudding and set aside her spoon, Thomas moved in to take the dish away. She wasn’t certain where Gilbert had found the livery for the footmen or Mrs.Barnaby had secured the clothing for the maids. As the servants now reeked heavily of cedar, she assumed the items had been packed away in cedar chests somewhere, simply waiting for the day when the residence would be brought back to life.
She looked to the end of the table. Her husband had finished off his wine and was lounging back, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair, his chin supported by his hand, his finger stroking just below his lower lip. That finger would be stroking her later.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m not certain I’ve ever witnessed anyone exhibiting such pleasure while eating dessert. In the beginning, I thought it was because you’d gone a while without sweets, but if that were the case you should be accustomed to it by now. But I can actually see your excitement building as we near the end of the meal.”
“We had dessert only on rare occasions when I was growing up. My father was a strict man who didn’t believe in indulging in practices that brought pleasure.”
“You don’t have seemed to have adopted his beliefs.”
She shook her head. “I believe we must secure happiness where we can. I’m happy when I eat pudding, and where is the harm? I’m also happy when I’m playing the piano. Shall we adjourn to the music room?”
He shoved back his chair, stood, and began walking toward her. “I’ll want to drop by the library first for a bit of port.”
He stopped by her chair, pulled it out, and extended his hand. Not until she was standing did she say, “I added decanters of liquor to the music room.”
A corner of his mouth quirked up. “You’re very good at determining my needs.”
She smiled. “I try.”
The way his eyes darkened, she doubted she’d make it through the first song before he was whisking her up to his bedchamber. She supposed there were worst things than being madly desired by one’s husband.
She placed her hand on his proffered arm and fought back the nerves that suddenly made an appearance, causing her to doubt that he would take any pleasure at all in her efforts, that he would care about the room, that he would ever care about her.
She did not need love, but quite suddenly she found herself wanting it. Which made her a very silly girl indeed, as he was not a man to love, but perhaps with time he would feel some affection toward her. For tonight, she merely wanted him to favor the room half as much as she did.
