Page 90 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“No. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“It’s exciting being in London.”
Portia didn’t share her enthusiasm. She wished to be anywhere else. “After you help me dress in the morning, you can take the day off, go exploring.”
“Truly?”
“I’ll get you some pin money from his Lordship.”
Cullie smiled brightly. “Thank you, m’lady.”
“Have one of the footmen escort you around. There are some bad elements in this town. You’ll want to avoid them.”
“Aye, I will.” She bobbed a quick curtsy. “Good night, m’lady.”
With a smile, Portia shook her head and wandered to the window. She didn’t know if she’d ever convince Havisham’s newest female servants that they didn’t have to curtsy to her all the time. Looking out, she could see the fog rolling in, the streetlamps eerily glowing through the mist. Holding herself, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to shake off a sense of foreboding.
As she began to turn away, she caught sight of a coach drawing up in the drive. Her husband leaped out before it fully stopped. Alarm raced through her. Something was wrong, she was quite sure of it. Had he somehow discovered the truth? Or had word of something dire come from Havisham?
She dashed into the hallway, was halfway to the stairs, when he suddenly appeared on the landing. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” she asked.
His long strides ate up the distance between them. “I’ve discovered I don’t like to go places without you.”
The joy at his words hit her just as he swept her up into his arms. Laughing, she tightened her hold on his neck. “It was so lonely here without you.”
“Lonely.” He carried her into the room, set her next to the bed. “Before you, I didn’t even know what the word meant.”
“Surely there were others at the club to keep you company.”
“Boring people who spoke of new farming methods, the scourge of new wealth, their fascination with American heiresses, and tennis tournaments at Wimbledon.”
“I’ve never played tennis.”
He was kissing her neck while loosening the buttons of her nightdress. “I’ll teach you, but for now, I have another sport in mind, one in which you excel.”
Heat rushed through her body at his compliment. She knew they were well matched between the sheets but she liked having the confirmation that she pleased him. The soft cotton shimmered along her skin, pooling on the floor.
He attacked his own clothes as though they were an enemy to be vanquished. She brushed his hands aside. “We’re going to have to hire a valet just to maintain your clothing. I spend half my day sewing your buttons back on.”
“Give the chore to one of the maids.”
“I like doing it.” When he was away in the mines, it made her feel closer to him. She’d done what she’d promised herself she’d never again do: she’d fallen for someone, for him, even knowing that he had the power to destroy her.
When his clothes were piled in an untidy heap, he lifted her onto the bed and joined her there, hovering over her, looking down on her, holding her gaze as though seeing her for the first time. Lowering himself to his elbows, he grazed his knuckles over her cheeks, then he claimed her mouth as though he owned it.
She was his.
He almost said aloud the words that reverberated through his soul. She belonged to him in the same manner that clouds belonged to the sky and leaves to the trees and ore to the earth, part and parcel, a piece of the whole. He was not one for poetry, yet for her he wished he had the ability to write sonnets. He wished he’d met her at a ball, had courted her—properly with flowers, strolls, and rides in the park. But romantic gestures were as foreign to him as love.
He’d never wanted emotional entanglements, yet he couldn’t deny that she had the ability to tie him up in knots.
Sliding his mouth from hers, he grazed his lips along the underside of her chin, relishing her soft moan. She was so quick to burn. He loved that about her. From the beginning she’d never played hard to get in the bedchamber. She’d welcomed him, responded, given back.
Was it possible to love things about a person without loving the person?
So many things about her brought him pleasure. The way she laughed. The way her eyes smoldered when he kissed her. The way she smelled after she left her bath. The fragrance she carried on her after he pleasured her.
Bracketing his hands on either side of her ribs, he scooted down until he could easily take the tip of her breast into his mouth. With an urgent whimper, she lifted her hips, pressing her womanhood against his abdomen. He’d never been one to boast of his exploits or to rank his encounters with women. He accepted that each would be different, not better or worse, simply different, and he always found enjoyment in the differences.
