Page 98 of The Viscount and the Vixen
Her thoughts skittered to a stop, her lungs ceased to function. For two hours, as she’d danced, she’d worried that the Earl of Beaumont would cross paths with her, but when he’d failed to materialize, she’d begun to believe that he wasn’t in attendance. Regaining her wits, knowing how dangerous it was to have her back to him, she spun around, her skirts brushing against his legs because he stood so near, angled her chin haughtily, and looked down on him as much as she was able considering he stood several inches over her. She hated that he was as handsome as ever, the slight breeze toying with his blond curls as she once had. “Montie.”
His hand, gloveless, bracketed her cheek, held her with a firmness that promised he’d make a scene if she tried to break free. He leaned in, inhaled sharply. “I’ve missed your fragrance.”
“Unhand me. I’m married now, a viscountess—”
Rather than obey her, he merely wrapped his other hand around her upper arm. “Yes, I saw the announcement in the paper.” So had she. Soon after the marquess had ordered his son to send their marriage news to theTimes. Beaumont had known there was a possibility of running into her at a ball, had no doubt been keeping an eye out once the gossip sheets announced that Viscount Locksley and his new bride were in London. Her former paramour drew back, his dark eyes glittering, his lips twisted into a sneer. “Does your husband know about us?”
He jerked her closer until she could feel his breath on her cheek. Why had she ever thought she could escape him?
“No?” he asked mockingly. “I thought not. Otherwise, why would he have married you? How did you manage to snag the last Hellion?”
“I need to return to the ballroom before he misses me.”
“To miss you, he’d have to care about you. I know him well enough to know he’s not a man who would give his heart. Unlike me, who loved you then and loves you still.”
“You never loved me. Not really. If you did, you’d have not broken all your promises. You’d have married me.”
“One does not marry for love; one marries for gain. Isn’t that the reason you married Locksley? Because of what you would gain through him? A title. Position. But you are still mine. I want you to come to me tonight.”
“No.”
“I’ll tell him everything.”
She slammed her eyes closed. How had she ever thought she would be safe? And if he told Locksley the truth, what then? What recourse would he have except to toss her out on her ear? And she wouldn’t blame him one whit.
“Take your hands off my wife.”
Portia’s eyes flew open at the quietly spoken words that echoed with warning and the promise of retribution. Even in the shadows, she could see Beaumont’s victorious smile as he released her and slowly turned to the man whose face reflected a mask of fury that caused her own breath to back up painfully in her lungs.
“Locksley. I was just congratulating my former mistress on her recent marriage.”
The rage remained as Locksley’s gaze shifted from Beaumont to her. She could have sworn that for the briefest of moments she saw something else reflected in his eyes: pain. She wanted to die, wanted to beg his forgiveness, wanted to punch Beaumont until that handsome face of his was no longer handsome.
“Did she not tell you?” Beaumont asked cockily. “Two years—”
“Montie, don’t,” she whispered, despising her pleading tone.
“Oh, my dear, nothing good comes from secrets in a relationship. He deserves to know.” His gaze never left Locksley. “For two years she warmed my bed—”
“Take her advice and hold your tongue,” Locksley said.
Beaumont had the audacity to chuckle. “Surely you’re curious.”
“Get the hell out of here.”
“As you wish. Farewell, sweet Portia. I wish you every happiness.”
As though she could have that now. He’d ruined everything. How had she ever loved him?
He’d taken two steps forward, stopped when he stood even with her husband. “I can also see that other congratulations will soon be in order. Still I’d carefully count the months if I were you, Locksley.”
Locksley’s fist smashed into Beaumont’s face. She heard bone cracking. Based on Beaumont’s yelp, the way he was cradling his chin and rolling back and forth on the tiled floor, she assumed Locke had broken the man’s jaw. She hoped so. She dearly did. She also prayed Locke had not damaged his hand.
Standing over Beaumont, Locksley pressed his foot to her former lover’s chest, stopping his rocking from side to side. “Touch her again, and I’ll slice off your hands. Speak to her again, and I’ll cut out your tongue. Look at her again, and I’ll pluck out your eyes. And if I hear any rumors regarding Portia’s past or the paternity of the child she carries, I will destroy you.”
He must have pressed his foot down harder because Beaumont grunted. When Locksley stepped back, the man rolled to his side and whimpered. Her husband held out his hand to her. “Let’s be off, Portia.”
She put her hand in his, trying to draw comfort from the closing of his fingers around hers, but there was nothing tender or gentle in his touch. He pulled her forward and she skirted around the moaning Beaumont.
