Page 82 of The Viscount and the Vixen
The eyes of their guests landed on her with an almost audible thud.
“You had a child?” Minerva asked, sadness and sorrow clearly reflected in her voice.
“He died.” She shook her head. “My present condition is supposed to be a cause for celebration and joy, not melancholy. I believe Ishallplay.”
Before anyone could object, she rose to her feet, walked quickly to the pianoforte, sat, and struck a hard, deep chord. Moving into a lighter, face-paced tune, she allowed the music to wash over her, through her, calming her nerves. She wouldn’t contemplate that she might not live to see this child grow up. The earl was correct. Women survived all the time. She wasn’t going to spend the next few months worrying. All would be well. It had to be. After everything she’d done, it had to be.
With the first whisper of dawn easing in through the windows, Locke watched as his wife slept. Normally, he would have slowly awoken her with kisses on her bared shoulder and gentle nudges, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to disturb her slumber this morning. Not when it might hasten the roiling of her stomach.
Last night he’d taken her three times before she’d contentedly drifted off to sleep. While he’d spent much of the time staring into the darkness, listening to her rhythmic breathing, inhaling her jasmine fragrance. He was hoarding the most insignificant of memories as though she would be snatched away from him. It was ludicrous that he should worry so much when other matters were pressing in on him: ensuring his heir inherited an estate that was worthy of him with an income that would sustain him.
In a single day, everything had changed; everything seemed more urgent. He needed to spend more time at the mines, needed the men to work with more perseverance. It was more imperative than ever that they find an ore-rich vein soon. He would double his efforts, lengthen the hours they toiled. But even as he contemplated longer hours, time spent away from Portia, something within him rebelled. He wanted more hours, more days, more months with her.
Why did his seed have to be so damned potent?
Her eyes fluttered open. Her lips curled up into a soft smile. “Lost interest in me now that I’m with child?”
He loved her voice first thing in the morning, when it was raspy from sleep, hoarse from disuse. It added a sultry element to her cries of pleasure that always caused his body to tighten all the more. “Last night should have convinced you otherwise.”
“Why haven’t you woken me then?”
His gaze drifted down to her stomach, and he wondered when it would begin to round, when he would look at her and see the evidence of his child growing within her. “After yesterday I wasn’t certain you’d be up for it.”
She scraped her fingers through his hair, drawing his attention back to her eyes. “The nausea didn’t hit me until later.”
“Still, we haven’t much time with our guests leaving soon. I should probably—”
She sat up, the sheet slipping down to her waist, leaving those lovely breasts of hers exposed. Pushing on his shoulder, she forced him back down to the mattress before swinging a leg over him and straddling his hips. Leaning down, she nibbled on his lips. “I’m not fragile.”
The woman’s appetite was as insatiable as his. He’d never known anyone like her. Nor could he resist her.
Three hours later, after a lazy coupling and a leisurely breakfast, he was standing on the drive between Portia and his father, watching as the coaches carrying his childhood friends and their families disappeared down the lane.
“It’s good to see them doing so well,” his father said. “They’re happy. That’s what matters most. And they have their heirs.” He patted Locke’s shoulder. “You will, too, soon.”
He began to wander off, not in the direction of the manor, but toward the area where the marchioness had been laid to rest. Locke had little doubt that he was going to spend some time talking to his mother’s headstone.
“He’ll be disappointed if it’s a girl,” Portia said quietly.
“I doubt it,” he assured her. “Did you not see the attention he gave Allie?”
She looked up at him. “Will you be disappointed?”
As long as she didn’t die, he’d be pleased. “Why would I be disappointed when it means we’d just have to try all the harder?”
She smiled as a blush crept up her cheeks. “Will you be going to the mines?”
“How are you feeling?”
She seemed surprised by his question. He’d noticed during breakfast that she merely nibbled on a piece of toast and sipped her tea.
“The queasiness comes and goes, although I think I shall lie down for a while.”
“I can stay—”
“No. No sense in that when there’s nothing you can do. I’m not ill, Locksley. This will all pass.”
He was torn between wishing her pregnancy would pass quickly and that it would take forever. The distraction of the mines would be welcomed, would occupy his thoughts so he could ward off all the worst-case scenarios that fought to intrude on his peace of mind.
