Page 92 of The Viscount and the Vixen
Dear God, she would sell her soul to Satan and gladly spend eternity burning in hell for the chance to go back in time, to have folded up that contract when he tossed it back into her lap, to have walked out of the residence, out of his life. She’d never expected him to want to appear in public—in London, among his peers—with her at his side. She’d stupidly thought he’d relegate her to the bedchamber as Montie had. That he’d keep her sequestered at Havisham Hall. That she would be his dirty little secret.
As she neared the townhome where she had lived for two years, memories assailed her. The joy, the happiness, the sadness, the heartbreak. She had grown up here in the presence of a man far more brutal than her father. Her father had struck at her flesh. Montie had struck at her young, vulnerable heart.
She’d thought it would forever remain shattered, but it had somehow pieced itself together and had fallen once more.
A door opened, in the townhome next to what had been hers. Portia froze, not even daring to breathe, as she watched the young woman exiting. Sophie. Portia didn’t know her last name. In this part of London, on this street in particular, women did not own up to their surnames.
Portia turned before she could be spotted and began walking in the other direction. The action shamed her. She’d once enjoyed tea with Sophie on numerous occasions. They’d pretended to be ladies of quality delicately sipping Darjeeling while chatting about tawdry things that ladies of quality would never discuss. Through Sophie—who had a reputation for being incredibly knowledgeable in the ways of men—Portia had learned the skills necessary to please a man, to act coy, to hold his interest. Although in hindsight, she had to admit she’d learned a great deal more from Locksley, yearned to please him more than she’d ever wanted to please Montie. It was a strange path she’d traveled to get where she was today. Sophie had been instrumental in helping her escape, and here Portia was running away from the only person she’d been able to call friend since the day she learned that her family refused to acknowledge her.
And here she was secretly snubbing that person for fear that she’d again be judged, that the one person she had trusted might betray her. She was stronger than this, better than this. Abruptly, she spun around.
But Sophie was nowhere to be seen. She hated the relief that swamped her. She was safe, her secret was safe. For now.
She wanted to wait here and see if anyone emerged from her former dwelling, but her curiosity, her possible peace of mind, wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, Montie’s possibly moving on didn’t guarantee that he would leave her alone. All she could do was hope that her plans weren’t on the verge of coming unraveled.
“I like your new blue gown.”
Tugging on her gloves at her dressing table, Portia glanced over to her husband standing in the doorway that joined the two bedchambers. Dressed in his evening finery that included a black swallow-tailed coat and waistcoat, pristine white shirt and a light gray cravat, he was no doubt the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on.
“It’s not exactly like the one before it,” she said, wondering how it was that after all these months he managed to take away her breath.
“Close enough. A shame your previous seamstress closed up shop.”
A small lie she’d told to explain why she was going to a different dressmaker. “I like the new one I’ve found.”
“Good.” His stride was slow, lazy, as he approached. “Also a shame you must wear gloves.”
“It’s a proper ball. A proper lady wears proper gloves to a proper ball.” As though to demonstrate, she gave a gentle tug on the end of each glove where it rested just above her elbow.
They’d been in London for a little over a week, not attending any social functions because he didn’t deem any of them grand enough for the unveiling of his wife. But tonight’s ball—hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Lovingdon—was certain to be well attended, as they were one of the most beloved couples in all of London. Thanks to the gossip sheets, Portia knew all about them. The affair would be a mad crush of people. While she might be introduced to everyone who was anyone, it was also possible that she might be able to avoid running into anyone she didn’t wish to encounter. She rose. “Let me just get my wrap.”
She was in the process of taking a step and turning when he placed a hand on her bared shoulder. “Wait.”
He had yet to put on his gloves, and the warmth of his skin on hers caused her to melt just a little. How was she going to make it through the evening without giving away how badly she wanted him whenever he touched her? “Do we really need to go out?” she asked, offering her most sultry look and placing a gloved hand so it rested partway on his waistcoat, partway on his shirt.
“Introducing you to Society was one of the reasons we came to London.”
“I thought you came here because you had matters to see to.”
“I did, and one of those matters involves tonight. I’ve been fending off questions about you since we arrived. At the Lovingdon ball, the curious will be appeased.”
“I worry that I’ll embarrass you.”
“Good God, Portia, where’s the woman to whom I opened the door, the one who mistook me for a footman?”
That woman hadn’t cared about him, hadn’t wanted to make him proud, had cared only about her own needs. She angled her chin. “I was under the impression that you weren’t too keen on me that day.”
He trailed his finger along her collarbone. “Still, you managed to win me over, didn’t you?”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. As much as she craved his love, she could think of nothing worse than obtaining it.
“Here, a little something to commemorate the night.”
Glancing down, she saw the black velvet box he extended toward her. Where had that come from? A jacket pocket obviously. Her emotions were already raw, her nerves frayed. A gift from him would only fill her with more regrets. She shook her head. “You’ve given me enough. A new gown, a dressing table, the piano tuned—”
“Let’s not argue about this.”
“But it’s jewelry, isn’t it? It’s too much, too personal.”
