Page 63 of The Viscount and the Vixen
And she wondered if a time would ever come when her own husband would recall pleasant memories about her.
Chapter15
A week later, Portia unlocked a door and led her newest staff members into a room that she was fairly certain had been at least one marchioness’s morning room. At the far end, the windows jutted out to create a little alcove, with bookshelves along the wall on either side. She could imagine herself curling up—book in hand—in one of the two large plush chairs near the windows and reading to a little girl nestled in the other.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” she ordered as she whipped the draperies open, coughing as the dust floated around her.
Since the marquess hadn’t seemed disturbed by the tidying of the music room—in fact he seemed to relish it, since he joined them there each evening shortly after she began to play—she had attacked the marchioness’s study with gusto. Now she had a place where she could write letters—if she’d had anyone who would welcome receiving a letter from her. The cook met her there each morning to go over the menu for the evening meal. She kept the midday fare simple—bread, cheese, sometimes soup. She would have a tray carried up to Marsden’s bedchamber and she would take her meal there. Without much prompting, she could entice him into speaking about his love. She thought it the most wonderful thing in the world that after so many years, he could still love his Linnie so deeply. She wished she’d an opportunity to know the woman, although through her afternoon visits with the marquess, Portia was beginning to have a sense of his wife’s personality and temperament. Of course, over the years, he’d no doubt idealized her, for surely no woman could be that perfect.
But she had obviously been perfect for the marquess. Unlike Portia, who was the absolute worst choice for a wife that the viscount could have made. Although of late, she was finding it a bit difficult to keep up with him in the evenings. She’d begun taking a short nap following her time with the marquess so she wouldn’t be completely exhausted when her husband wasn’t content with one session of lovemaking but was in the mood for two or three, usually keeping them going until long past midnight. Not that she minded. He was incredibly thorough and was never satisfied unless her pleasure equaled or exceeded his. She wasn’t accustomed to such considerations. Sometimes guilt nagged at her because he was a far better husband than she was a wife.
As she began examining each piece of furniture to determine which might need to be taken to Mr.Wortham for a bit of repair, she supposed she’d have more energy for the evenings if she stopped helping the staff as they worked to make each room habitable. But being involved made the days pass more quickly. She’d had two years of being little more than an ornament, waiting to be taken off the shelf. She delighted in all the activity during the day, although she had begun finishing up an hour earlier so she could be bathed and dressed by the time Locksley returned from the mines. He was rather punctual, always arriving home just before the sun set.
Once the furniture was sorted, moved about, rugs rolled up and draperies pulled down so they could all receive a good beating, Portia began on a set of shelves, removing the books one by one and carefully wiping the years of collected dust from them. She didn’t know why Locksley insisted on going to the mines every day. She thought he would be better served to hire a capable foreman to see to matters. After all, Locksley was born to be a lord, not a laborer.
But whenever she tried to speak to him of the mines, of why he needed to keep such a close watch on things, he’d merely say, “Not to worry, Portia. I have the means to provide you with your allowance.”
His tone was always so blasted snide that she sometimes wanted to reach across the table and tweak his nose. It was the one aspect of their arrangement that disappointed her—that he found fault with her for wanting financial security. If she had insisted Montie provide her with an allowance—and if she’d had the foresight to save it—she would have had options, she wouldn’t have been forced to choose a route that left her sick to her stomach. But she had loved him and trusted him and believed him when he’d promised to always take care of her. Was there a greater fool in all of England than she? She would not be so foolish this time around.
“There’s his Lordship, returning from the mines,” Cullie announced.
Blinking, Portia looked up from the stack of books she’d been sorting—she wanted them returned to the shelves according to author—and gazed out the windows. The afternoon had gotten away from her. She’d learned to judge the hour by the shadows as she couldn’t quite bring herself to start the clocks keeping time again.That, she had decided, might indeed upset the marquess.
She shoved herself to her feet and walked into the alcove to get a better view of the rider. He seemed to be the same size as Locksley but his clothing was wrong. Instead of the well-tailored clothes the viscount wore, the man’s attire was coarse and didn’t mold itself to the shape of his body.
“When this room is ready,” Cullie said, “you can sit here in the afternoons and await his Lordship’s return.”
“Only that’s not his Lord—” The man was nearer now. His worn hat was pulled low over his brow, shadowing much of his face, but she could see the strong square cut of his jaw. She shook her head. “Why is he wearing such drab clothing?”
“Well, he don’t want to wear his finery down into the mines. They’d get ruined right quick while he was working,” Cullie said.
Portia’s brow was furrowing so deeply that she thought she might give herself a megrim. “He doesn’t actually labor in the mines.”
When Cullie remained silent, Portia turned to her. The girl looked as though she feared getting sacked. “Cullie? He doesn’t labor in the mines.”
Cullie’s gaze darted around the room, landing on each servant in turn as though she expected one of them to speak. Finally, she settled her eyes back on Portia, licked her lips, took a deep breath. “Yes, m’lady, he does.”
“No, he goes in occasionally to check on things.” He’d told her as much. “That’s the extent of his involvement.”
Cullie shook her head. “No, m’lady. He works in the mines.”
“You mean digging for ore?”
“Yes, m’lady, and it took some time for the miners to get used to him being beside them, but since the tin played out, he’s been trying to help them find more.”
Played out? She swung back around, but she could no longer see Locksley. He always came to her smelling of a recent bath. Part of the reason that she’d begun readying herself earlier was so the tub would be back in the bathing room when he returned home. She’d thought he was simply meticulous about being clean. Instead, he’d been working to rid himself of any evidence of his efforts.
“We’re finished in here for the day,” she called out as she began marching from the room.
“Will you be wanting a bath before dinner?” Cullie asked.
“Later.”
First she needed a word with her husband.
Locke poured the steaming water into the tub in the bathing room. Mrs.Dorset didn’t understand why he didn’t have one of the footmen prepare his bath, but the servants were Portia’s, not his. He didn’t need to take them away from whatever chores his wife had them doing. Besides, the fewer people who saw him in this ragtag state, the better.
After setting down the pail, he arched his back and looked up at the ceiling. Christ, he was tired. But he knew once he saw Portia, the weariness would fade away. Her smile of greeting always seemed to revitalize him. He’d even begun to enjoy her evening recitals, no longer viewing them as an irritating delay to his possessing her, but rather embracing them as a slow, sensual building of awareness. She found a bit of ecstasy in gliding her fingers over the ivory, and he became enthralled watching her.
