Page 7 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“Because it would upset my father, just as hiring additional staff, having new faces walking through the residence, would unsettle him.”
So he lived in this dreary house filled with its empty memories. For his father. She couldn’t help but believe that he was a man capable of great love, great compassion. She had a fleeting thought that if she confessed all to him, he would make it right. What a silly lass she was to think he would look at her with anything other than disgust. No, she was on her own in this matter, had to see to her own needs, protect what was hers.
“You can’t compete with her, Mrs.Gadstone. My mother.”
“I have no intention of trying. I know what your father requires, what he wants of me. I accept what the limitations of our relationship shall be.”
“Why are you willing to settle for so little?”
Because it was her only opportunity to gain so much. “The son I give him will be a lord.”
“He will be the spare. He will not inherit until I die.”
In truth, she doubted he would ever inherit. Locksley would marry, gain his own heir. “Still, he will be Lord Whatever-We-Name-Him St.John. He will move about in the right circles, have opportunities, marry well. As for myself, I will be a marchioness, also move about in the right circles, and be very well provided for. He has promised me a dower house.” She looked over the railing. “May we go down?”
“If you like.”
It wasn’t so much that she liked, it was more that she needed to distract herself from the doubts that had begun to surface. If there was another way to save herself, she couldn’t see it.
He offered his arm; she nearly refused it, except she was averse to using the dusty and cobwebby banister. As he began leading her down the stairs covered in the faded red carpeting, she didn’t like noticing how sturdy he was, how strong. Or that he smelled of sandalwood tinged with oranges.
Once they reached the center of the room, she reclaimed her hand, turned in a slow circle, and imagined all this room had once been with an orchestra playing in the balcony, guests waltzing, Lord and Lady Marsden entertaining.
“What will you do after he’s gone?” she asked quietly.
“Pardon?”
Twisting around to face him, she realized by his blank expression that while he might consider his father old andshriveled, he hadn’t truly accepted that he was in the winter of his years, would not be here forever. “When your father dies, will you restore this manor to its magnificence?”
“I hadn’t given it any thought.”
He truly hadn’t. She could see it in his eyes, and she liked him for it. What must it have been like to grow up here, alone—
Only he hadn’t been alone. “The Duke of Ashebury and the Earl of Greyling were wards of your father, lived here when they were children.”
“That’s correct.”
“They refer to all of you as the Hellions of Havisham.”
He arched a dark brow, his gaze intensified as though he could see straight into her soul and read every story etched there. “It seems you already move about in the right circles.”
Damn it. She wasn’t being as cautious as she should be when speaking with him. “I read the gossip sheets.” Needing to distract him, she gave her full attention to the wall of windows, the glass doors that led outside. “May we go out onto the terrace?”
“I insist. It’s part of the tour.”
He led the way, flicked a bolt, and swung open the door. “After you.”
She stepped onto the stone veranda, wandered over to the wrought-iron railing, and stared at what had obviously long ago been gardens but had since been reclaimed by nature. Still here and there remained evidence that great care had once been taken with it. “No gardener.”
“No. Our outside staff is comprised of a head groomsman who also serves as coachman, and a couple of stable lads.”
“A pity. I so enjoy gardens and flowers. Does your father never leave the residence then?”
“Was the answer not provided in his correspondence?”
She shifted her gaze over to him. “I didn’t think to ask.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned his hip against the railing, painting quite the picture of raw masculinity. “I wonder what else you might not have thought to ask.”
