Page 97 of The Viscount and the Vixen
Locke glanced over at the glass containing amber liquid, took it, and enjoyed a long swallow. “Where did you find that?”
“Card room. So who has earned your ire?”
He didn’t know if the man had earned it. “Sheridan.”
“Ah, dancing with Portia, I see.”
And before Sheridan, it had been Avendale, who everyone knew was madly in love with his wife. No danger there of his seeking a dalliance with Portia, and even if he did, she would decline. If there was one thing regarding his wife of which he was absolutely convinced, it was her loyalty.
“You made quite the splash with your arrival. You had to know men were going to want to dance with her,” Ashe said.
“They don’t have to hold her so close or look so beguiled.”
“She’s beguiling.”
Locke glared at his longtime friend.
Ashe held up a hand. “Not to me, of course. Minerva is the only woman who interests me. Good God, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were jealous, but that would require that you care for her.”
“I care that she is my wife. Those randy swells should respect that.”
Ashe had the audacity to chuckle low. “We didn’t when we were bachelors.”
“We engaged in harmless flirtation.”
“So are they.”
Only it didn’t look harmless. It looked bloody irritating.
“Come play a hand of cards.”
“No, I’m claiming the next dance.” And the one after that. Christ, what was wrong with him? They were just dancing—in the middle of a crowded dance floor, chandeliers glowing, mirrors capturing their reflection. It was impossible for anything untoward to occur without all of London witnessing it. She wouldn’t engage in such unconscionable behavior. She wouldn’t embarrass him.
“I think you have come to care for her,” Ashe said, a fissure of glee in his tone.
“You talk too damned much.” How long was this stupid tune? He should simply cut in.
“Growing up under the care of your father, I convinced myself that love was to be avoided. I was wrong. Loving Minerva has enriched my life beyond all imagining.”
“I don’t love Portia.” The words were delivered succinctly, flatly.
Ashe patted him on the shoulder. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Thank God his friend finally walked away, leaving him to brood in peace. He didn’t love her, he couldn’t love her, he wouldn’t love her. But the fact remained that of late, he was at peace when he was with her. She calmed his soul, made the future seem less bleak. She wore optimism like a spring cloak. She looked at a decaying room and saw possibilities.
His heart was as decaying as those rooms: never touched, never visited, never opened. She made him want to take a chance, made him want to offer what she so richly deserved. Only now she carried his child and the possibility of her death hovered. Standing here, he was likely to do something he’d come to regret if he didn’t drive himself mad first. Ashe was right. He needed a distraction. A hand or two of cards. Then when he no longer felt like killing someone he’d dance with his wife.
He was halfway up the stairs when the music stopped, reached the landing when he realized that he had no desire whatsoever to play cards. He wanted to be with Portia, to take her on a walk about the garden, kiss her in the shadows. The very last thing any man should want from a woman he could kiss anytime night or day, but he yearned for it with an unsettling fierceness.
Spinning around, he caught sight of her slipping out through the open doors that led onto the terrace. He didn’t blame her for needing some fresh air. Instead of standing around disliking that she had the attention of so many men, he should have rescued her from her many admirers.
He headed back down the stairs.
As Portia stepped onto the terrace, she welcomed the cool night air brushing over her skin. Had she known she’d be dancing so much, she’d have brought a second pair of slippers. She wasn’t certain how much longer the ones she was wearing would last, the soles already worn incredibly thin.
The terrace was remarkably absent of guests lingering about, most opting to walk through the gardens. The paths were lined with gaslights, which provided a soft glow that left the couples unidentifiable. She longed for a walk but deemed it would be improper without her husband to escort her, so she moved off to the far side of the tiled veranda where the shadows were thicker, and wrapped her gloved fingers around the wrought-iron railing. Inhaling deeply, she couldn’t help but feel that the night had been a success. The only thing that would have made it more enjoyable was if Locksley had been her constant dance partner. No one else moved as smoothly as he did. With no one else did she feel as comfortable or as in tuned. With no one else—
“Hello, Portia.”
