Page 95 of The Viscount and the Vixen
They walked into the foyer and Portia was struck not only by its magnificence but by the sense that it was truly a home. Love resided here.
They were guided into the front parlor where they deposited her wrap, his hat, and his cane. Then they followed the line up the stairs. Locksley acknowledged those standing nearest to them, introduced her, but she was too in awe of her surroundings to remember names.
She’d once dreamed of this, of attending an affair such as this one. She’d thought when she’d left Fairings Cross that this was her future, only she’d anticipated standing beside a different man, one who loved her, one whom she loved. She’d finally arrived but not at all as she expected.
They walked through a doorway and onto a landing. A gentleman was announcing guests, who would then descend into the ballroom. The mirrors glistened; the chandeliers sparkled. She imagined the ballroom at Havisham would have held its own against this one.
One couple was before them. She was keenly aware of Locksley leaning down, brushing his lips over her ear. “I’m equally proud to have you at my side this evening, Portia.”
Gratitude washed through her, even as guilt pricked at her conscience. Before she could utter so much as a syllable, he’d straightened, stepped forward, and handed the invitation to the majordomo.
“Lord and Lady Locksley!” he announced.
Then her husband was escorting her down the stairs that would lead her into either heaven or hell.
Chapter22
During the entire journey down the interminable flight of stairs, Portia not only saw but felt all the eyes coming to bear on them and feared someone would discern the truth and yell out, “Fake, liar, deceiver!”
But she heard only quiet murmurings, spotted an eyebrow or two raised in curiosity. She straightened her spine, lifted her chin. She’d spent a good deal of her life playing a role. No reason to stop now.
As she stepped onto the floor, Locksley led her over to the Duke and Duchess of Lovingdon, who were greeting their guests. They were a handsome couple, the duke as dark haired as her own husband, the duchess with hair a much more pleasant shade of red than her own. She’d always felt hers was too fiery, too harsh—perhaps because her father had thought it a sign that she was possessed of the devil.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” the duchess said with a kind smile.
“I’m honored,” Portia said, dipping into a deep curtsy.
“Where did you find such a treasure, Locksley?” the duke asked.
“My father introduced us. I could not resist marrying her.”
Portia held back the grimace at the words that she had little doubt he would be repeating throughout the evening.
“How is the marquess?” Lovingdon asked.
“Quite well. Not up to traveling but holding his own.”
“Having lost my father at an early age, I envy you somewhat having yours still about.”
“On most days I’m grateful for his presence, although there are times when he gets up to some mischief with which I’d rather not have to deal.” His smile was self-deprecating and when he winked at her, she understood clearly that she was the mischief to which he was referring.
“We must get together for tea sometime,” the duchess said to her.
“I look forward to it.” Portia meant the words more than she thought possible. She had no doubt that the duchess would prove a strong ally should one ever be needed.
As Locksley led her away, she fought to shake off her awe that she was walking among the nobility and being treated as though she was one of them. They hadn’t gone far before they were surrounded by a mad crush of people. She’d known her husband was a darling of Society, easily forgiven any transgression, but it was a revelation to witness how he was genuinely welcomed and adored—and their acceptance of him was transferred to her. As though she was worthy simply because he’d taken her to wife.
The array of introductions was dizzying. She wanted to make him proud but it was all so overwhelming as she struggled to associate names she recognized with faces she didn’t. Then there were those she’d never heard of, older couples who might have been gossiped about in their youth, but were now settled into mediocrity. Locksley seemed to know them all, was comfortable with them. She kept her posture perfect, took the appropriate curtsies when necessary, expressed delight at making their acquaintance, and was quick to pose a question before one was asked of her, a little trick her mother had taught her. When one had something to hide, it was better to be the one listening than the one talking.
People always welcomed an opportunity to speak about themselves, and her interest in them flattered them. Her mother’s attentiveness had always been feigned. Portia’s wasn’t. For as long as she could remember the aristocracy had enamored her. That tiny captivation had led to her downfall, if she were honest about it. Odd that her disgrace had led her to be where she had once thought to socialize.
“I must beg your forgiveness,” Locksley said, “but Lady Locksley’s favorite tune is starting up and I promised her a dance. If you’ll excuse us...”
Before she even knew what was happening, his hand was at her waist and he was expertly wending them around couples, causing them to part with no more than a dashing smile and an occasional word. Then he was sweeping her over the dance floor, and for the first time since their arrival, she finally felt as though she could breathe.
“I’m not familiar with this song,” she confessed.
“They’d have never let us go if we told them that. You held up rather well under the circumstances.”
