Page 80 of The Viscount and the Vixen
He doubted that his mother would agree.
A knock sounded on the door.
“What?” he barked, not welcoming the intrusion.
The door opened and Cullie peered in. “I brought the tea and crackers for her Ladyship. The duchess thinks it’ll help settle her stomach.”
“Right. Put the tray on the table beside the bed.”
With a rapid patter of heels over wood, Cullie rushed across the room, set down the tray, and made a hasty exit.
“Does she always move about so quickly?” Locke asked.
“I think your brusque tone unnerves her.”
“I was merely trying to discourage anyone from disturbing you.”
With a deep sigh, she straightened. “I think you accomplished that. I’m going to give the tea a try.”
She wandered back to the bed, climbed into it, and took the china teacup from the tray. He returned to his position leaning against the bedpost and watched as she blew lightly over the tea. His body reacted as though she were blowing lightly over him. At a time such as this, he was an absolute cad.
“How long will you be feeling under the weather?” he asked.
“Difficult to say. The nausea shouldn’t last much longer, I shouldn’t think. I’m already feeling better. It may return tomorrow and any number of days after that. I suppose it’s my body adjusting to carrying life.”
Christ. Life. A life they’d created together. Even knowing the entire purpose behind this ludicrous arrangement had been to provide the next heir, Locke had never truly contemplated the responsibility of it.
“You don’t seem very happy by the prospect of a child,” she said quietly before sipping her tea, her eyes never leaving him.
“It seems ridiculous to say it, but I hadn’t given you getting with child a great deal of thought. I’m not unhappy about it.”
She blinked coquettishly. “Well, that makes me feel loads better.”
“Portia.” What could he say? He hadn’t expected his seed to be so competent; although to be honest he’d never before tested his own fertility. Before her, he’d always sheathed himself when with a woman. “I’m... delighted with the prospect of an heir—”
“Could be a girl.”
He was taken aback by how much the possibility of a daughter pleased him. One with Portia’s vibrant red hair and whiskey eyes. One who would live out her life as a spinster because he wouldn’t let a man get within three feet of her. “I would like that.”
Her eyes searching his face, she lowered her cup. “Would you?”
“I would.” He cleared his throat, searching for a way to reassure her that he was not dissatisfied by the developments. “I’d be equally pleased with a boy. As long as the child is healthy and you—”Surviveflashed through his mind. He realized that worry over her was tamping any sort of joy he should feel at this moment. “And you don’t find the experience too much of an ordeal.”
“You’re thinking of your mother,” she said tenderly.
Why was it that she seemed to know him far better than he knew her?
“I’m strong and healthy.” But her words offered no assurance because as far as he knew his mother had been strong and healthy as well. “I won’t die.”
Pushing himself away from the post, he moved up, leaned over her, and bussed his lips over hers. “I’ll hold you to that promise.”
Then he strode out before he said something sentimental that he’d come to regret. He was not opening his heart to the woman. He just wished he wasn’t filled with a sense of foreboding that threatened to remove any ray of sunshine from his life.
The marquess’s reaction was exactly the sort that any woman would want. He was ecstatic. Portia was certain that if he had his clothes as well tailored to fitting his body as his son did, then his buttons would have popped off his waistcoat when Locksley announced in the music room that evening following dinner that she was with child.
She was surprised everyone had held the news to themselves, but she supposed they wanted a wonderful moment for Marsden.
“Bravo!” he exclaimed, lifting his glass of scotch. “I knew it wouldn’t take you long, my dear.”
