Page 69 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“I couldn’t tell him that, m’lord. It might put images in his head of other things going on in here. A decent sort doesn’t discuss bedchambers.”
Her husband heaved a great sigh. “I’ll be down in a moment.” He closed the door, pressed his forehead against it.
“It seems we’re dining again,” Portia offered.
Turning, he started buttoning his shirt. “No need for you to go down. I’ll keep him company.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll ring for Cullie. It’ll take me a while, but you go ahead and join your father.”
He dropped into a chair and began tugging on his boots. “I’ve no idea why he decided to dine with us tonight.”
“Lonely, I suspect. Maybe he wanted your company for more than an hour as I play music.”
“If anything, it’s your company he craves. I think you remind him of how things were before my mother died.”
“And how is that?”
“Full of life.”
As Locke made his way toward the dining room, he had never been more grateful for an interruption in his life. He’d been on the verge of confessing that he more than liked Portia; he held genuine affection for her. Once those words were spoken there would be no going back on them.
In the library, he’d voiced all the things he didn’t want as though that would stop her from delivering them. As though it were within her nature not to care, not to give. She returned the blasted allowance, offered to reduce her staff, was concerned with his welfare.
Of course she was, he chastised himself. Until she provided an heir, she was in danger of losing all this. But the argument ran hollow and untrue. She had shown herself that first day. But not her complete self. She was comprised of myriad facets, complex and intriguing. He could spend a lifetime striving to unravel the mysteries of Portia Gadstone St.John.
Damn it all to hell if he didn’t want that lifetime with her. He wanted her in his life until his hair turned silver and his sight faded. He wanted her when his body was stiff and bent. He’d married her expecting to want no more from her than the nights. More the fool was he because now he wanted every second of every day.
He strode into the dining room. His father, sitting at the head of table, leaned over slightly as though he wished to see around Locke.
“Portia is still readying herself,” he told his father as he drew out the chair at the foot of the table. “Forgive our tardiness. We weren’t expecting you to dine with us.”
“I decided I wanted conversation as much as listening to music. She’s changing things, Locke. More swiftly than I expected.”
Locke turned to the butler. “For God’s sake, Gilbert, pour us some wine.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Once the wine was poured, Locke took hold of the stem of his glass, swirled the burgundy contents. “I can tell her to stop, to leave things be.”
“Does she do what you tell her?”
Locke couldn’t stop the smile from spreading over his face. “Not usually, no.”
“You married her because you thought she’d run roughshod over me.”
“I deduced she might take advantage, yes. I assumed I’d be better able to keep her in line. Odd thing is, I like that she’s fiercely independent.”
His father nodded with satisfaction. “I knew you would.”
“You garnered her nature from her letters?”
The marquess shrugged. “I believed so, yes. So far, she is very much as I expected, taking the bull by the horns, making this place hers. Do you know when I leave my bedchamber and walk into the hallway, I smell jasmine rather than oranges? Your mother always smelled of oranges. I thought if I allowed nothing to change, my memories of her would remain strong. Odd thing is, since Portia arrived, my memories of your mother are stronger than ever. And speaking of the angel—” His father shoved back his chair and stood.
Locke glanced back halfway expecting to see his mother standing there. But it was his wife in a pale green gown. He did wish he’d taken more care with the blue. And he wondered if his father would consider her an angel if he knew how Portia enticed Locke into doing the most wicked things with her, if his father knew that she could hold her own in a bedchamber. If she’d married his father, the Marquess of Marsden would have been dead by dawn of his first night with his new wife.
Truly Locke had saved his father by stepping in.
“Sorry I’m a bit late,” Portia said as she took the chair Locke held out for her.
