Page 89 of The Viscount and the Vixen
Locke glanced up at the slender man who had interrupted his musings. He’d always thought him far too handsome and charming for his own good. Women tended to flock around him. “Beaumont.”
“Mind if I join you?”
The Earl of Beaumont, only a couple of years older and a couple of inches shorter than Locke, had inherited his title a few months shy of reaching his majority. Their paths crossed from time to time, mostly here at the Dragons. They were more acquaintances than friends, but he might offer some interesting conversation that would prevent Locke from returning home a mere two hours after leaving. He didn’t want Portia thinking he couldn’t abide being away from her. “Not at all.”
While waving two fingers at a passing footman, Beaumont dropped into the chair across from Locke. He still had a boyish look to his features as though he’d secured an elixir that would prevent him from aging. “I understand congratulations on a marriage are in order,” he said to Locke as a footman set a tumbler of whiskey on the table. Footmen memorized the members’ drinking preference. Beaumont raised his glass. “I wish you well.”
Locke lifted his own glass. “Thank you.” The sip didn’t satisfy as much as it might if Portia were here with him. He seemed to enjoy everything more when she was about.
“I’m trying to recall her name. It was in the paper... uh, Peony?”
“Portia.”
“Unusual name.”
“She’s an unusual woman.”
“I look forward to meeting her.” He glanced around as though he might spy her in a room reserved for only gentlemen. “Did you bring her here tonight?”
“No, she’s at the residence resting. The journey tired her out.”
“I can well imagine. Quite a trek from Havisham.” Although no one, other than Ashe and Edward, visited Havisham, most were familiar with it if for no other reason than to spread the tales that it was haunted. “How did you make her acquaintance?”
“Through my father.”
Beaumont’s brown eyes widened. “I was under the impression he never left the estate.”
“Living as a recluse doesn’t mean one is isolated from the world. He has his ways.”
He chuckled low. “No doubt. My father always spoke fondly of him, regretted that he’d stopped coming to London or visiting our estate for the annual ball my mother so enjoyed putting on.”
Locke had attended a couple of the balls. The Countess of Beaumont’s affairs were legendary. Although, with her passing, the country parties ceased. Everything changed with the death of the matriarch. As a bachelor, Beaumont certainly wasn’t going to be arranging parties at his estate or here in London.
“What of you, Beaumont? You should be looking to marry soon, I should think.” Dear God, could he sound any more established and old? He felt ancient. Where he’d once embraced gambling, drinking, and seeking out women, at the moment he wanted nothing more than to be at home sitting before a lazy fire, listening as Portia enthralled him with tales of her day. It didn’t matter how mundane or unexciting her adventures, he still took pleasure in them, in the way her eyes would light up when she reported on the progress made in readying a room.
“I have set my sights on a couple of ladies, to be sure. I shall probably settle on one of them before the Season is done, get on with it, as it were. Like you, I do require an heir.”
Settle on one of them? It sounded atrocious and terribly unfair to the girl, and yet hadn’t Locke thought the same thing when he’d decided to take Portia as his wife? He’d considered her perfect,settledon her, because he’d thought he could never love her. Christ, she deserved better than that.
He shot to his feet.
“Off somewhere?” Beaumont asked.
“I must apologize for my abrupt departure, but there is a matter that requires my attention.”
Not a matter, but a lady, one who it seemed was coming perilously close to holding the key to his heart—no matter how much he wished it otherwise.
While Locksley had left her sated, Portia had been unable to fall asleep after he left. She’d rung for Cullie and dressed for dinner, although she hadn’t much liked dining alone. Now feeling rather like a wraith, she wandered through the hallways striving to get a better sense of the place. The difference between this residence and Havisham Hall was striking. Not a single door was locked. She didn’t need keys to access anything. Every room, even the ones not in use, held flowers. But they didn’t hold what she was truly searching for: company.
She missed Locksley, damn it all. Something about the night made her all the more lonely and bereft, made her question if she should be here—not so much in London, but with him.
While living in London, she’d harbored so many dreams of love. Once she left, she thought she’d given up on them, but they were working hard to surface. The love of her child would be enough to sustain her, or so she hoped, because she was finding herself yearning for the love of a man.
She made her way to her bedchamber—hers and hers alone. She didn’t like that Locksley’s was beside hers, even if only a door separated them. How silly she’d been that first day to be forlorn because she wouldn’t have a room of her own. She doubted she’d be able to sleep without his arms around her. Perhaps she’d simply read until she heard him return and then slip into his bed and seduce him.
She rang for Cullie, grateful to get out of her confining clothes. She was going to have to do away with a corset very soon, should probably visit a seamstress while they were in town to acquire some better-fitting frocks. It seemed every aspect of her was changing. Even her shoes were beginning to feel tight.
“Will there be anything else, m’lady?” Cullie asked once she’d finished brushing out and braiding Portia’s hair.
