Page 61 of The Viscount and the Vixen
When they reached their destination, she removed the key from a small hidden pocket in her gown and extended it to him. “You may do the honors.”
With a tilt of his head in acknowledgment, he took the offering, unlocked the door, and swung it open. She glided over the threshold, then turned quickly to gauge his reaction as he followed her inside.
Locke was familiar with the surroundings, of course. He’d explored them as a boy, and he’d watched her and the servants working to tidy things up. Yet he was unprepared for the magnificence that greeted him. Every wooden, glass, and marble surface gleamed. Fresh flowers in vases scented the air. The draperies over the windows were drawn back to reveal the night. “You changed the furniture.”
It seemed an insignificant thing to say but he was having difficulty reconciling this room with what he’d always known.
“Moths did quite a bit of feasting in here. I kept what was salvageable. Mr.Wortham reupholstered several pieces. A few are still with him, but I was too impatient to share the room. I’m very pleased with how it all came together.”
And she was nervous as well. He could hear it in the tinny pitch of her voice. Usually so raspy and sultry. His opinion mattered to her. He didn’t want to matter to her; didn’t want her to matter to him. But he couldn’t deny her the truth. “You’ve done a remarkable job.”
He glanced over at the portrait over the fireplace. He’d never known the colors to look so rich, for the painting to seem so lifelike that for a moment it appeared his mother might actually step off the canvas and into the room. He took several strides toward it.
“I was very glad to discover it was merely dust dulling the portrait,” Portia said.
Other portraits were scattered on the walls throughout the room, but his mother’s dominated.
“I wish I’d known her,” Portia mused softly.
“My father seldom spoke of her.”
“Perhaps you should ask him about her.”
“It will only make him more sad.” He spun toward the corner where he had earlier spied the decanters. “Would you care for something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
He poured himself a finger of scotch, downed it, poured two more fingers’ worth before facing her.
“Does the room upset you?” she asked.
It didn’t upset him, but it did unsettle him. He was accustomed to the decay. This was change. Perhaps he wasn’t that different from his father. He didn’t like alterations. “It will take some getting used to, I suppose.”
“Would you prefer to return to the library to finish your drink?”
He wanted to go to their bedchamber, but to do so would make him feel as though this room had somehow beaten him. It unsettled him further because she was able to tell that he wasn’t completely comfortable here. He didn’t want her to know him that well. So while he might want to leave, he would stay. “I would like to hear you play the piano.”
The smile she gave him took his breath, and he could not comprehend why her husband would have wandered. He, himself, had an irrational urge to do whatever necessary to keep her smiling.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she said before spinning on her heel and strolling to the shining instrument. He suspected she had polished it herself, with care, using strokes very similar to the caresses one gave a lover.
As he settled into a nearby chair, not a single speck of dust rose up. Before his mother’s death, he suspected all the rooms had been kept as pristine. He had a momentary flash of thought that his father had done his mother a disservice to allow the residence to fall into neglect. It had never mattered before Portia arrived. There was no one to see it except for those who resided within these walls. And what did they care?
It bothered him to realize that perhaps they should have cared a great deal.
He refocused his thoughts on more pleasant matters, on Portia, as she lowered herself to the bench. “I’m a bit out of practice,” she said, “so don’t judge too harshly.”
He almost responded that he wasn’t one to judge but they would both know that for the lie it was. He’d judged her before she’d even arrived at Havisham Hall, before he knew the color of her eyes or the shade of her hair, before he knew her tart tongue could slay him with words and kisses. “I have made it a habit to avoid musical entertainments as much as possible, so I have little against which to compare you. So please proceed in the knowledge that I am not likely to be disappointed.”
She placed her fingers on the keys. He sipped his scotch and waited. Her eyes closed.
The first chord struck deep, reverberating throughout the room, and what followed was a haunting melody that wove through him and threatened to draw him in. He watched the way Portia swayed with the movements of her fingers. Her head tipped back slightly and she seemed to be lost in ecstasy—without him. He refused to be jealous of a damned musical instrument.
But dear God, to observe her was in itself a sexual experience. He was beginning to understand what she might have felt when she strode into this room and first saw the abandoned piano, why she had needed to set this chamber to rights. It had called to her soul and now she was setting that soul free, absorbed by the music that she so skillfully created.
He shouldn’t have been surprised. From the moment she had walked through the front door, she had thrown herself into everything with complete abandon, whether it was besting him during an inquisition, kissing him, tidying a room, eating dessert. She possessed a passionate nature that he had barely tapped into. At this moment, she mesmerized him, drew him in as though she’d woven a web around him and was gently tugging him forward.
He didn’t want to be on the edge observing. He wanted to be in the midst of her passion, wanted to experience it, enhance it. Setting aside his glass, he stood. As quietly as possible, so as not to disturb her, he crept toward her. When he was near enough, he knelt and wrapped his hand around the hem of her skirt. Her eyes flew open and she stared down at him.
