Page 75 of The Viscount and the Vixen
He also needed to order some more recent music sheets. The ones his wife now used to entertain them in the music room were remnants from his mother. Portia seemed perfectly content with them, but he did wonder what sort of music she would prefer to play. He found himself pondering a good deal about her, even as he cautioned himself against the curiosity.
Ashe and Edward seemed to like her. The women obviously did. Although she was a commoner, she fit in nicely with the aristocracy, could hold her own. A chameleon. Which gave him pause. Where had she learned to be comfortable around all walks of life?
Ashe leaned over. “She’s delightful, deserving of better than a man who claims to have no heart.”
“Her performance is deserving of silence,” Locke shot back quietly.
Ashe had the audacity to merely chuckle.
The marquess had joined them for dinner, and now he sat with his eyes closed, his face relaxed. Locke imagined he was traveling back to a time when another woman played the piano for him. He’d spent a good deal of his life not asking questions about his mother, not wanting to bring forth memories that might upset his father. Only now was he beginning to realize that by curtailing his inquisitiveness, he may have been allowing his father to remain lost in his grief. Although to be honest, neither had he wanted to know what his mother’s death had denied him: a ruffling of his hair at bedtime, a soft smile when his lessons were completed satisfactorily, a gentle laugh when he presented her with a handful of plucked wildflowers. His life would have been different had his mother not died. He’d never truly wanted to acknowledge that fact. He’d opted for pragmatism and accepted life as it was.
Portia made him long for more. She made him want to embrace life with unyielding passion. For all her claims to be a commoner, there was nothing common about her.
The final chords she’d struck lingered, like memories reluctant to fade away. Everyone clapped. She ducked her head, blushed. It always amazed him that a woman as bold as she would blush. It made her all the more endearing, which wasn’t what he particularly wanted—and yet Ashe was correct. She deserved a man willing to open his heart to her.
“Would anyone else care to play?” she asked.
“I never mastered the piano,” Minerva said.
“Which is odd, considering how nimble your fingers are when it comes to cheating at cards,” Ashe responded with far too much pride reflected in his voice.
“You cheat at cards?” Portia repeated.
“On occasion, if I need to win. It depends on the stakes. I can teach you if you like.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Locke said, although he couldn’t recall a single time when his wife had followed his edicts. If she wanted to learn to cheat, she’d find a way—just as she’d tidied rooms he’d forbidden to be tidied, showed him the possibilities so he couldn’t object. She was clever that way. Never asking for permission but risking his wrath and managing to avoid it when all was said and done.
“To be quite honest, I’m rather exhausted,” Julia said. “It’s been a long day, with the traveling and all. I believe I’m going to have to turn in.”
“We both shall, shall we?” Edward asked, coming to his feet and assisting his wife.
Locke didn’t know if he’d ever grow accustomed to Edward being so solicitous to her. For years, Edward had claimed to abhor the woman and she despised him. How odd it was now to see them so deeply in love.
His father shoved himself up out of the chair, walked to the window, and gazed out. “Linnie appreciated seeing you all here tonight.”
Locke exchanged glances with Ashe and Edward. In spite of all the changes that Portia had heralded, some things remained untouched.
“It is rather late,” Locke admitted. “We should no doubt all retire.”
His father turned. “When the time comes you’re to bury me beside her.”
As though Locke would ever consider anything else. “Yes, well, the time isn’t going to come for a good long while yet.”
“I suppose you’re right. Still much to be done, although you’re the one who needs to be doing it. An heir, Locke, you need an heir.”
“Working on it, Father.” Every night. Not that he found the task daunting or unpleasant. Characterizing it as work was inaccurate.
“Then we should all get to bed and let you get back to it,” his father said.
Locke couldn’t stifle his groan. Honestly, the man didn’t think before he spoke. He’d have a time of it if he ever decided to return to London and polite society. His father began ushering them out as though they were children again. Perhaps in his mind they were. It was difficult to tell sometimes when his father slipped into the past.
In the hallway of bedchambers, Locke bade their guests good night while Portia offered them sweet dreams. Only after they closed their doors, leaving Locke, Portia, and his father in the corridor, did he turn to the marquess. “Sometimes you say the most inappropriate things.”
“I’m old enough not to care. Time is short. I must be direct.” He winked at Portia. “You were a marvelous hostess, my dear. I knew you would be.”
“It’s easy when our company is so pleasant.”
“You look tired.”
