Page 99 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“I can explain,” she said quietly.
“Not now. We’re leaving.”
He spoke not a word as he led her around the side of the residence as though she were now something of which to be ashamed. When they reached the front, he sent one footman scurrying off to alert his driver they were ready to depart and another to fetch their things from the parlor. His face was expressionless except for the hard set of his jaw.
“You’re hurting my hand,” she said softly.
He immediately relinquished his hold, when all she’d wanted was for him to loosen his grip. When the footman arrived with their things, Locksley draped her wrap over her shoulders. After the coach arrived, he handed her inside before joining her and taking the seat across from her.
“Locksley—”
“Don’t say anything, Portia.”
His firm tone forced her to press her lips together to keep from speaking. She wanted to tell him everything, to explain it all, to help him to understand. Her desperation, her fears, her lack of options.
She held herself close. She was cold, so very cold. She didn’t know if she’d ever feel warm again.
Once the coach pulled to a stop in front of the residence, he leaped out and waited as the footman assisted her, as though he could no longer bear to touch her. Into the house they went, in silence. Up the stairs. At her bedchamber, he shoved open the door and waited as she preceded him inside. With the door banging closed, she jumped, turned, and faced him.
“Were you with child on the day we wed?” His words sliced through the air, sliced into her heart.
She held out a hand imploringly. “Lock—”
“It’s a simple question, Portia. Yes or no. Were you with child on the day we wed?”
She swallowed hard, wanted to lie, wanted the truth to be anything other than what it was. “Yes.”
The way his blistering gaze slowly traveled over her as though he were only just seeing the true her for the first time made her want to weep. She stepped toward him. “It was never supposed to be you. I wasn’t supposed to marry you. I was supposed to marry Marsden. And what would he care?” She flung out her arm. “He had his heir. You would marry and provide your heir. All I wanted was to protect this child, to give it a chance to survive, to thrive—”
“But itwasme, Portia,” he said quietly and yet his voice reverberated like the boom of thunder.
Turning on his heel, he strode from the room, slamming the door in his wake. She wanted to run after him, wanted to explain, but what more was to be said? How could she explain the inexplicable? Staggering back until her knees hit the chair, she crumpled and curled into a ball as the sobs had their way with her, causing her shoulders to shake, and her chest to ache, her throat to tighten. Devastation swept through her. She’d hurt him, deceived him, and in doing so, she’d destroyed that last bit of goodness she possessed.
Chapter23
He couldn’t stomach the thought of being in the residence with her, considered going to the club, but he couldn’t abide the notion of inflicting his foul mood on others or dealing with the possibility of running into Beaumont. He might truly kill the man if their paths ever again crossed.
So he sequestered himself in the library, with the door locked so no one could disturb him, and drank straight from a bottle of whiskey as though he were a barbarian. Everything made sense now. Why she’d answered his father’s advert. Why she refused to speak of the past. Why her family wanted nothing to do with her.
She’d been a man’s mistress.
He slung the bottle toward the fireplace, taking no solace as it shattered in the hearth, glass flying, whiskey splashing. He should be grateful there were no flames to catch the liquid alight, but at the moment he was hard-pressed to be thankful for anything. He stalked to the liquor cabinet, retrieved another bottle, and downed half the whiskey before coming up for air.
Damn her! Damn her! Damn her!
She’d made him care for her. He dropped into a chair and fought the excruciating anguish that threatened to bring him to his knees. He’d trusted her, enjoyed her company, made love to her. With her, it was more than sex. While he’d never left a lover wanting, he’d given more of himself to her than he’d ever given anyone.
Damn it all to hell if her betrayal didn’t hurt more now for it. Had only a week passed since his damned meeting with Beaumont when he’d rushed home to be with her and had almost spouted that he loved her?
She made him want to recite poetry, enticed him into smiling, laughing. She lured him into looking forward to the day and anticipating the night. She calmed his demons and brought solace.
She’d made him believe that she carried his child. Acknowledging that deception very nearly doubled him over. Instead he gulped down what remained in the bottle, anything to dull the agony that threatened to rip him apart. He’d been right to shelter his heart all those years, to close it off to the mere hint of love.
Love was not something to be sought, heralded, or admired. It was merely a false mask for cruelty and disappointment.
He’d wanted a woman he couldn’t possibly love. He’d certainly succeeded in that regard. Before dawn, he intended to wipe clear any kind thought, any joyful memory, any speck of caring where she was concerned. He would feel nothing toward her, nothing at all.
Portia had wept until exhaustion overtook her and she fell asleep fully clothed, lying on the floor. She didn’t stir until the door opened and Cullie walked in.
