Page 52 of The Viscount and the Vixen
Like the tuning of a piano?She truly didn’t know what to make of this man. “Who will decide if it’s frivolous?”
“I shall, of course.”
“I can’t quite figure you out, Locksley. On the one hand, you appear to be incredibly domineering, and yet on the other hand, you’re incredibly kind.”
He scowled, the furrows in his brow deep, his eyes as hard as the gems their shade mirrored. “I am not kind.”
“You gave me the keys.”
“Because I did not want to have to deal with an upset Mrs.Barnaby every day. Never confuse practicality with kindness.”
“I shall keep that in mind.” She wondered why he was so intent on not gaining her affection. She supposed it had to do with his aversion to love. Perhaps he feared that if she came to care for him, he might reciprocate.
It was obvious, as they wandered the streets, that many of the villagers knew Locksley, but there was a deference to their greetings: a doff of the hat, a quick curtsy, a quietly spoken “M’lord, m’lady.” A very different approach from their encounter with Mr.Moore. She’d no doubt provide some sort of gift to the villagers at Christmas. The village in which she’d been raised had been near an earl’s estate, and the countess had always delivered a basket of food to Portia’s family on Christmas. Portia had considered the woman so elegant, so refined, so well dressed, but it had been equally obvious that duty alone had brought her to their home. Portia did not intend to give the impression that she considered herself above these people, that she considered the task her duty. For her, it would be a pleasure to be able to do something for those less fortunate, no matter how small or trivial the contribution might be.
As they walked, she counted five taverns. She suspected her husband had frequented them all.
Locksley turned them onto another street. They passed a hostelry and a blacksmith. At the end of the road stood a large building with huge doors that hung open. The sign above them read “Cabinetry and Such.”
Locksley began guiding her toward it. She was rather certain why they were here, and quite suddenly she didn’t want him to give her another gift. Digging in her heels, she resisted until he stopped and looked at her. She shook her head. “I don’t need a dressing table.”
“You told me that ladies require them.”
“I was being difficult.”
He arched a brow. “As opposed to now when you are being so accommodating?”
“You’re allowing me to have servants. You’re arranging for the piano to be tuned. I can go without a dressing table. Or I can find one in an abandoned bedchamber.”
“I’ve already stated that’s not an option.”
She couldn’t explain why she wasn’t comfortable with it. She just wasn’t. “I didn’t expect you to be so generous.”
“I told you that I would be. Did you think me a liar?”
“No, I just... it’s all too much, too soon.” Although it was reassuring to know that he wasn’t striving to be kind but was merely honoring his word.
“I don’t have time to argue, Portia. I need to get to the mines. We’re here, and if we don’t see to it now, I’ll have to come to the village another day. So let’s get to it, shall we?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer, but simply placed her hand back on his arm and led her into the massive building. Wood shavings littered the floor; the tart fragrance of cedar filled the air. Three men were working. Two of them appeared to be a bit older than Locksley, the last considerably younger. One of the older men stopped planing a plank and walked toward them. A fine layer of sawdust covered his face and clothes.
“M’lord,” he said when he reached them. He bowed his head toward her. “M’lady. Congratulations to you both on the recent nuptials.”
She supposed her clothing gave away that she was the new viscountess. The last thing she’d ever expected was to be considered nobility, regardless of her marriage.
“Thank you, Mr.Wortham,” Locksley said. “We’re here as Lady Locksley is in need of a dressing table. I thought you might be up to the task.”
“Indeed, m’lord, I’d be honored. I’d wager it’s been nearly thirty years since we fashioned anything for Havisham Hall. That privilege went to my father.”
“Then it seems we’re long overdue,” Locksley said.
“Perhaps, m’lord.” Wortham’s gaze darted between her and Locksley. “However, the last piece we made for Havisham was never delivered. And it just happens to be a dressing table. The marquess was having it made for his wife”—he shifted his weight from one foot to the other—“as a surprise for after...” He cleared his throat. “...she gave birth. Then he didn’t want it. But we’ve kept it. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes,” Locksley said succinctly.
Wortham turned; Locksley took a step to follow him; Portia grabbed his arm. He stopped, stared at her.
“You can’t be thinking of taking it,” she told him.
