Page 87 of The Viscount and the Vixen
It was a frivolity, and yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to object when she considered the pleasure it would bring him. Such a simply request really. There were times when she was astounded that she could please him so easily.
He led her up the steps and through a doorway where another footman stood holding the door open. Walking into this residence was nothing at all like walking into Havisham. It smelled of roses and lilies, as an assortment was arranged in various vases throughout the grand entryway. On either side were rooms, doors open, draperies drawn aside so sunlight could spill through the clear windows. She doubted she’d find a single cobweb or spider in the place. Farther down, wide stairs swept up to the next level.
A stately man approached and bowed his head. “Welcome home, my lord.”
Locksley placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “Lady Locksley, allow me to introduce Burns.”
“It’s a pleasure,” she said.
“The pleasure is all ours, my lady. I’ve assembled the staff.”
As she made her way along the line of servants, each greeted her with a curtsy or a bow and a reverent welcome. No one here was going to challenge her if she wanted the keys.
Just as she finished meeting the last servant—the scullery maid—the footmen walked in, carrying their trunks. Cullie followed them, her eyes growing wide as she took in her surroundings. After Portia introduced her to Burns, who ordered another servant to show Cullie to the bedchambers so she could unpack her Ladyship’s trunk, Locksley took Portia on a tour of the residence.
The rooms not in use were shrouded in white but they didn’t carry the scent of disuse or musty dust. With very little effort, merely the yanking away of sheets, the rooms would be ready for guests.
When they reached the library, she wasn’t at all surprised to find the furniture uncovered, fresh flowers on a credenza by the window, and books filling shelves. Nor was she astonished when her husband separated himself from her and strode over to a table housing an assortment of crystal decanters.
While he poured himself some scotch, she wandered over to a window that looked out onto a gorgeous garden. “Do you think the gardener would let me take some cuttings back to Havisham?”
“The gardener will let you do anything you desire.” Locksley pressed a shoulder to the window casing, glanced out, took a swallow of his scotch. “What do you think of the place?”
“It’s not too shabby.”
He chuckled low, his eyes glittering when they met hers. “I wouldn’t be surprised to discover you’d scouted it out before you responded to my father’s advertisement.”
It would have been the wise thing to do, but she hadn’t cared about any London holdings. She’d been concerned only with moving away from the city as quickly and secretly as possible. Still, his suspicions caused a heaviness to settle in her chest. After all this time, why did he still think she was after the wealth, the power, the prestige? Would he ever see her character as it truly was? Although with her past it was nothing to brag about.
“To be quite honest, I was under the impression your father never came to London, so I assumed there was no residence.”
He lifted his glass so the sun could shine through it. “Quite right. He hasn’t been to London since my mother died.”
“Is this your residence then?”
“No, it’s his. I’ll inherit it, of course, but since he never came here, there was never an edict that nothing be touched.”
She glanced toward the mantel. “The clock isn’t ticking but the hour doesn’t match the one at Havisham.”
“My father didn’t stop them. I did. They drove me mad the first night I stayed here.”
“So you stopped it”—she narrowed her eyes, focusing on the hands—“at two fifteen. In the morning, I presume.”
“Charged through the entire blasted place like a madman, shouting at the servants to get up and stop the infernal ticking. I swore I could hear the tick-tock in distant corners of the residence, even though my rational self knows that can’t be the case.”
“Once you get accustomed to the sound, you don’t really notice it. I hear the absence of clocks more than their presence. Which I suppose makes no sense either.”
“Maybe with you here, I won’t notice the echoing so much.” He turned his attention back to the garden, swallowed more scotch.
He could live here with the beautiful gardens and fresh fragrances and rooms readied in the blink of an eye. Instead he’d opted to live at gloomy Havisham—because his father and the mines needed him.
“Do you like London?” she asked.
“I’ve never come to know it very well. I don’t stay long. Compared to Havisham it’s ungodly noisy and crowded.”
She smiled. “It is that. I always enjoyed the hustle and the bustle.”
“Yet you made the decision to marry a man who would keep you from it.”
