Page 71 of The Viscount and the Vixen
She’d also cleaned up the nursery. The marquess had sat in the chamber and watched while she and the servants saw to that task. He wore a soft smile as though envisioning his grandchildren sleeping and playing in there. The guilt had taken hold and she’d been unable to shake it off completely. Women were so much more intuitive than men. Perhaps that was what she feared: that the ladies would see right through her, would recognize the reasons behind her desperation, would figure her out.
As for the rooms for their guests, she’d discovered that Ashebury and Greyling both had bedchambers down the hall. They’d merely needed to be tidied.
She didn’t like that her husband held his tongue and continued to study her as though he was beginning to realize the truth about her.
“I’m a commoner, Locksley,” she felt compelled to remind him.
“So is Minerva.”
The Duke of Ashebury’s wife. “Her mother is nobility, so she has some blue blood in her veins. Regardless, she grew up among the aristocracy. Her father is wealthy enough that a king would have asked for her hand.”
“Read that in the gossip sheets, did you?”
Gossip shared by a couple of women she knew, silly women like her who had thought they were headed for better things only to find themselves in a far worse predicament. “I’m afraid I might set a foot wrong and they’ll think you a fool for taking me as your wife.”
After unfolding that tall, lean body of his that only an hour earlier had her screaming his name, he walked over to her, crouched, and brushed stray strands of her hair back from her face. “You may have been born a commoner, Portia, but you are now a lady. As such, you will be afforded respect and nothing you do will be questioned—least of all by those who are arriving today. The Marquess of Marsden is the closest thing to a father that Ashe and Edward have had for nearly a quarter of a century now. From the moment they arrived, they became my brothers. Think of them as family. As for their wives, they’re extraordinary women. I assure you that they’ll not sit in judgment. But if they do, they’ll find you remarkable.”
Her lips parting slightly, she stared at him, surprised by his compliment, so rarely did he offer her praise. As though embarrassed, he shot to his feet and headed for the door. “Wear the lavender gown.”
With that, he was gone.
Things between them were changing—slowly, irrevocably. He was coming to truly care for her. She was rather certain of it. She wouldn’t feel guilty about it, would not wish that she wasn’t coming to care for him as well. Instead she would merely pray that he never learned the truth.
Having spotted the coaches from an upstairs window, Locke had escorted Portia outside so they could welcome their guests. He wasn’t surprised that the four coaches arrived at the same time, two bearing the Ashebury crest and the others bearing the Greyling crest. He’d assumed that his friends would meet up so they could arrive together in order to receive the same first impression of his wife.
He didn’t know why Portia’s nervousness called to his protective nature. Perhaps because since she’d come to Havisham Hall she’d been so fiercely independent, stood toe to toe with him, that he’d assumed she never doubted, never wavered, never had second thoughts. He didn’t like her appearing vulnerable, susceptible to hurt. Had he opened his door to see the worry in her eyes and the number of times she licked her lips while waiting for the coaches to draw to a halt, he might have taken more pity on her that first day. He still wouldn’t have allowed her to marry his father, but things between them might have started out on a different foot.
“You have nothing to prove to them,” he said quietly, and she snapped her head around to stare at him. He disliked the moments when she appeared so young, so vulnerable. “They didn’t ask me to approve their selection in wives. I’m not going to ask them to approve mine.”
“Do they know how our marriage came about?”
“I’m not sure what my father may have told them. I merely wrote that I’d taken a wife—just a bit of information in case they visited. Show them the backbone you showed me that first day and you’ll do fine.”
“It was easier then as I didn’t care whether or not you liked me.”
He laughed. “I didn’t care if you liked me either.”
“I didn’t. I thought you a pompous ass.”
He grinned. “Imagine them the same way then.”
“I’d prefer they fancy me a bit.”
They were going to adore her. He stiffened with the thought that had sprung forth so easily, with such surety. If they felt that way toward her, how could he not? Except he refused to allow anything other than his head to rule him and his emotions. It was merely practical to like her, as it made things between them more pleasant and enjoyable. He wasn’t going to confuse practicality with love. Thank goodness the coaches finally drew to a halt. He needed to turn his attention to matters other than striving to explain his ludicrous thoughts. Before he even realized what he was doing, his hand was on Portia’s waist, giving a gentle squeeze. “Let’s introduce them to Lady Locksley.”
Portia was determined to be a good hostess. Her parents had entertained frequently enough that she’d learned early on how to make someone feel comfortable. On occasion they’d even welcomed nobility into their home.
But none of their guests had been as important on a personal level as those who were pouring out of the coaches were to Locksley. She not only wanted to make him proud, she wanted him to be pleased with her efforts. Remaining where she was, she watched as servants and children spilled out of the last two coaches while her husband greeted with a handshake and a clap on a shoulder the man who agilely leaped out of the first coach bearing a ducal crest. The Duke of Ashebury. They were of equal height, the duke’s hair not quite as black as Locksley’s. Beside Ashebury, her husband appeared darker, more dangerous, more forbidden. He looked to be the sort her mother would have warned her against.
Yet he was the one who’d saved her.
She shook off that thought as the duke turned back and assisted from the coach a woman with hair that appeared at once both dark and red, depending on how the sun played over it. The former MissMinerva Dodger, now the Duchess of Ashebury. Her smile was bright as she gave Locksley a hug. Portia was taken aback by the sharp stab of jealousy that pierced her chest. The woman was married to a dashing duke. She wasn’t going to seek a dalliance with the viscount, although her easy manner told Portia that she would be as comfortable greeting a prince or a king. But then according to the gossip sheets, Minerva’s dowry had equaled the treasury of some small countries. Portia assumed when one was graced with so much money, one was relaxed around a good many people.
A wheat-haired gentleman and dark-haired lady had exited the earl’s coach and now approached Locksley. He hugged the woman, pressed a kiss to her cheek. The Countess of Greyling, who had won the hearts of two earls. Then Locksley was shaking hands with Greyling. They exchanged a few words, a grin, a chuckle.
Watching the camaraderie shared between the group, Portia had never felt so isolated or alone. Instinctually, she knew they’d never abandon each other, regardless of foolish mistakes or errors in judgment. She’d have traded her soul for such loyalty in friends or family.
Locksley turned to her and held out his hand. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she walked to him, placed her palm against his, and welcomed his fingers closing firmly around hers. “Allow me the honor of introducing my wife, Portia.”
