Page 77 of The Viscount and the Vixen
He moved his fingers in circles over her shoulders. She’d told him that before, but it suddenly seemed important that he know, if not that, at least something about her. “Share with me a memory from your childhood.”
She sighed long and softly. “I’m too tired.”
So her defenses were down and he was the worst sort of scoundrel to take advantage, but then a hellion must live up to his reputation. “You’re very good at entertaining. Did you learn that skill at home?”
“Yes, we often had visitors and were expected to put on a good show.”
Furrowing his brow, he caressed the length of her back, kneaded her enticing bottom. “What sort of show?”
“That we were a happy family. That my father was a good man.”
“Wasn’t he?”
She rolled onto her back. He gave her a devilish smile. “Are you ready for me to massage your front?”
“I’m ready for you to cease with the questions. Who I was, how things were—they don’t affect now. Us. What is or is not between us. I left all that behind.”
“All what?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You married me without it mattering. It can’t matter now.”
“Did he hurt you?”
With a grimace, she closed her eyes. “He didn’t believe in sparing the rod. I’ll say that much.”
He wondered if memories of the bite of the rod had caused her grimace. She had no scars, but one could inflict pain without breaking skin.
She opened her eyes. “Please leave the past in the past.”
Words he’d often muttered in connection with his father. If he’d heeded them perhaps Locke would have held a different attitude toward love, perhaps he wouldn’t now be married to Portia or dribbling fragrant oil on her chest, watching it pool in the hollow between her breasts. Setting the vial aside, he splayed his fingers wide, gathered up some of the oil on his thumbs and began spreading it over her skin, up to her collarbone, down to her hips. He shouldn’t be concerned by the fact that Ashe and Edward knew the smallest of details about their wives while he knew not the largest one about his.
He knew what mattered. She wasn’t averse to working. She considered herself superior to no one. She was an excellent hostess, kind to his father, and worried about the mines not because of what their failure might deny her but what it might deny the estate.
Reaching up, she combed her fingers through his hair, cradling her palm around the back of his head, and drawing him down until his lips met hers. She never only took. He should have known she wouldn’t tonight, no matter how exhausted she claimed to be.
He took her slowly, gently. With no rush, no blistering needs, no fury. When the passion rose and she was on the cusp, he covered her mouth, swallowed her screams, relished her body tightening around him, unleashing sensations that threatened to tear him apart even as they made him feel more powerful, invincible.
Panting, still trembling in the aftermath of the explosive release, he rolled to his side, drew her in close, flicked the sheets over them both. She was correct. The past didn’t matter, but damned if he didn’t wish he’d met her when she was a young girl so now he would know everything about her.
Chapter18
Since they had guests, apparently Portia had instructed Mrs.Dorset to prepare a variety of breakfast offerings to be set on the sideboard so everyone could take whatever they fancied. Locke couldn’t fault the variety, finding it rather nice not to be saddled with the cook’s plated offering based on her mood.
Everyone was here, including his father; everyone except Portia. Her absence surprised him, because he’d expected her to be the first at the table to ensure everything met her expectations and to greet their guests. On the other hand, he hadn’t been able to resist having her again this morning before preparing for the day. After assisting him with dressing, she’d returned to the bed as she always did “for just a few more minutes.” He’d no doubt worn her out. As a husband, he was a cad. Not that she seemed to mind.
“How long are you all staying?” he asked now, trying not to think of the mines and how he was anxious to get back to them.
“Only until tomorrow,” Ashe said. “We wanted to welcome your wife into the family, but can’t tarry. Will you be coming to London for the Season?”
“I’m considering it.” He might actually anticipate attending balls, having the opportunity to dance with Portia, to walk in with her on his arm. Only he wanted people to see that she was more than grace and beauty. He wanted them to see all that she was capable of accomplishing. He wanted them to see her as a hostess, the lady of the manor. Was he actually considering asking her to arrange a ball in his London residence?
Because his father had never returned to London after his wife died, the residence in town had never been abandoned—although neither was it truly alive. Portia would change that. She would whisk down the hallways and through the rooms, brightening them with her presence alone. She would—
Cullie entered the room at a rather fast clip, but then the girl tended to move quickly no matter what she was doing, a trait she’d no doubt adopted from her mistress. Once reaching him, she bent down.
“Her Ladyship’s not feeling quite up to snuff this morning,” she said quietly, yet her voice still seemed to carry as everyone perked up. “She won’t be joining you for breakfast. She wanted you to know so you could carry on with your day and not be waiting about for her.”
He was on his feet before he’d even realized he’d tossed down his napkin. Portia never became ill—or so she’d claimed, too smugly for it not to be true. So what the devil was wrong with her and why was his heart hammering and his stomach roiling as though he were the one who was ill? She’d been fine this morning. She’d buttoned him up and knotted his neck cloth as she did each day. That she’d wanted to return to bed for a few minutes had been no cause for alarm.
