Page 62 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“Keep playing,” he ordered, lifting her skirts and positioning himself between her legs.
Keep playing? Was he mad? If not for the wicked challenge in his eyes before he disappeared beneath her skirts, she might have kicked him out of the way. Instead she returned her fingers to the keys while he bracketed her hips and slid her to the very edge of the bench. She struck a wrong chord, cringed. She was not going to allow the kisses he was trailing along the inside of her thigh to distract her. It mattered not that she could scarcely breathe or that she was suddenly so warm she could have sworn the room had caught afire.
Then his mouth landed on the bud of her desire and she nearly came up off the bench. Instead she pounded the keys as his tongue circled, as the pleasure mounted. She dropped her head back, unable to concentrate on the tune, simply striking random chords. What did it matter when he was doing such wicked, wicked things, when he was distracting her, causing her to be perched on the threshold of so many incredible sensations swirling through her, urging her to cry out—
“Locke, what the devil—”
With a screech at the sound of Marsden’s voice, Portia leaped to her feet, heard a mash of chords striking as Locksley’s head hit the underside of the piano. With a harsh curse, he crawled out from beneath her skirts, out from beneath the piano, until he was standing beside her, none too pleased by the interruption based upon the hard expression marring his face.
“What were you doing down there?” the marquess asked.
Her husband’s cheeks burned a bright red that at any other time she would have taken satisfaction from and teased him about. “Listening for any chords that needed to be tuned.”
“It seems as though you could have done that just as well—if not better—from over here.”
The absurdity of it all. She couldn’t help it. She began laughing so hard that tears formed and her legs weakened. Covering her mouth with her hand, she dropped back down onto the bench.
“It’s not funny, Portia,” Locksley stated succinctly, clearly as irritated with her now as he was with his father.
“I’m sorry.” But she couldn’t seem to stop the peals of laughter from rolling out. She was mortified to have been caught with her husband’s head nestled between her thighs. It was either cry or laugh, and she’d learned long ago that it was always better to laugh. Taking a deep breath, working to stifle the chuckles, she pressed her palms against her burning cheeks. They were no doubt as red as Locksley’s.
“What the deuce are you doing here?” he asked his father.
“I heard the piano.” He took a step forward. He’d obviously donned his jacket quickly as one side of the collar was tucked under, caught beneath the cloth at his shoulder. “I thought it was Linnie playing. She loved to play the pianoforte. She was so good at it.”
“I’m not very good,” Portia felt compelled to say.
“You were wonderful. Will you play for me?” Before she could answer, he added, “Locke, fetch me some scotch.” Then he dropped down into the chair that Locksley had vacated.
With a sigh, Locksley strode toward the corner, stopping to pick up his glass along the way. She watched as he added scotch to his glass before pouring some for his father. She turned toward Marsden. “I feared you might be upset that I had tidied this room.”
He glanced around as though only just noticing. “I haven’t been in here since I lost her. It was her favorite place to be. Other than in my bed, of course.”
The heat that had been fading from Portia’s cheeks returned. She was grateful that he hadn’t seen what had become of this room, was even gladder that she had set it to rights.
“Your inappropriate mention of your bed is making my wife blush,” Locksley said as he handed his father a glass.
“Why is it that lovemaking, which can be so glorious, is only whispered about as though it’s something tawdry?” the marquess asked. “Or done beneath a piano.”
She could have sworn that she heard Locksley growl. “I told you. I was striving to hear the chords more clearly.”
“Going deaf, are you?”
Locksley sat in a chair near his father. “I would be grateful not to hear you talking.”
“You never were one for being teased. Besides, I fully understand how this room and the music can seduce. I think you were conceived on top of that piano.”
“Oh, dear God,” Locksley muttered. “There are some things I’d rather not know.”
“And too many things that you should but I have failed to tell you. She’s watching us now, you know. Your mother. I think it pleases her to peek through the parted draperies and see us sitting here.”
She watched as sadness drifted slowly over her husband’s face, and knew that he was bothered by his father’s fantasy that the Marchioness of Marsden was still able to look in on them. “Shall I play now?” she asked, hoping to brighten Locksley’s mood.
Marsden lifted his glass. “Please.”
Rather than play from memory as she’d done before, she used the sheet music that had been in a position on the piano to indicate that it was probably the last song to have been played, or perhaps it had merely been queued up to be played in the future. It didn’t matter. She was rather certain that at some point, the Marchioness of Marsden had performed the tune for her husband.
As her fingers flew over the keyboard, she dared a quick glance at the marquess. He looked at peace, his eyes closed, his mouth turned up ever so slightly at the corners. She did hope he was recalling pleasant memories.
