The Viscount and the Vixen Read online

  “Neither frugal nor practical, Locke. I agreed to pay her a hundred pounds each day the wedding is delayed.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I signed a contract. If she doesn’t marry today, I have to pay her a hundred pounds every day until she is wed. If I call off the wedding completely I have to pay her ten thousand quid.”

  Locke bolted to his feet. “Have you gone mad?” Of course he had. He’d gone mad years ago.

  “I had to give her some sort of reassurance that she wasn’t making this trip for nothing. That my intentions were honorable. That I wasn’t seeking to take advantage.”

  But she was. Locke shifted his gaze to Portia, who was wearing a beguiling yet almost innocent smile, her eyes on him, screaming satisfaction, as though she had bested him. The little witch. She’d mentioned the contract. Had known when she walked through the door that no matter how much he might not wish it so, this marriage was going to take place, or he was going to pay her a hefty purse. She’d said as much.

  He’d been so intrigued by her damned eyes that he hadn’t thought to question it then. “I want to see this damned contract.”

  “I thought you might,” she said sweetly. Reaching into her reticule she withdrew a small leatherette, untied the cord, and removed several folded sheaves of paper. He snatched them out of her hand and proceeded to scour the contents.

  “Tearing them up won’t help,” she said blithely. “My solicitor has a copy.”

  “I have a copy as well.”

  Not helping, Father.

  He read the words carefully. The Marquess of Marsden might be mad, but he wasn’t an idiot. He’d have provided himself with some avenue of escape. And there it was, carefully hidden among a gibberish of words. Locke almost laughed aloud, the wily old bugger. He was clever.

  Locke slid his gaze over to Portia Gadstone and, for the first time, clearly saw her for what she truly was. A mercenary, a title chaser, someone wanting to rise so badly above her station she would use any means necessary to accomplish her goal, including taking advantage of an aging gentleman. The sort of woman he could never grow to care for, could never love, could never give his heart to.

  She was bloody perfect.

  “I’ll marry her.”

  Chapter 4

  In horror, still reeling from Locksley’s proclamation, Portia watched as he turned to Marsden. “I assume you have no objections.”

  The marquess smiled. “None whatsoever. I was rather hoping for this outcome when all was said and done.”

  Locksley turned back to her. “What say you, Portia? Much better to be my wife than my mother, don’t you think?”

  “No.” The word came out harsh, abrupt, but inside she was screaming, No, no, no, no, no! She could not marry the viscount. Absolutely could not. She was here to marry the marquess. An old man who thought he needed an heir when he already had one.

  Not his strapping son, who caused her insides to flutter every time he looked at her, her body to warm when he touched her, her entire being to dissolve into a heated puddle when he kissed her. She could not, would not, marry him.

  “No,” she repeated with the authority of her conviction.

  With a cluck of his tongue, he tossed the papers onto her lap and settled against the sofa in an insolent lounge, his arm resting along the back of it, his fingers tapping merrily. “Then the contract is null and void and we’re done here.”

  “No.” She looked imploringly at Marsden. “You and I are to marry. That’s what we agreed to.”

  He gave her a sad smile, the wrinkles shifting over his face. “That’s what we discussed in our correspondence, but the contract is worded a bit differently. It states you must provide me with an heir.”

  “I can’t provide you with an heir if I’m not married to you.”

  “You provide him with an heir by providing me with one,” Locksley said, his voice teeming with arrogance.

  Jerking her attention to him, she wanted to snatch that smug, self-satisfied smile right off his gloriously handsome face. He thought he’d won, when he didn’t even know what she was battling for, what was at stake. If she told him . . . God, if she told him he wouldn’t be sympathetic, he wouldn’t understand. He’d cast her out as brutally as her family had.

  “The contract states that you marry and provide the Marquess of Marsden with an heir. It doesn’t specify whom you marry. If you give me a son, you have in essence provided him with his heir. And actually much tidier. If you give my father a son, you’ve merely given him a spare. Who may or may not inherit. Give me a son, and you’ve provided the next heir apparent. Honestly, Portia, I don’t understand why you’re not throwing yourself at me. That’s what you want, isn’t it? A son who will inherit titles, estates, power, wealth. Is it that you object to being merely a viscountess rather than a marchioness? The marchioness title will come eventually, but perhaps not soon enough for your aspirations.”

  She heard the disgust, revulsion in his voice. How could marriage to him be pleasant when he hated her before the vows were even exchanged?

  But if she said no, where would she go? What would she do? How would she survive? She could not return to what her life had been. It would destroy her. He would destroy her.

  She rose to her feet and turned to the fireplace. Cold, so cold. She wished there was a fire, but she doubted even that would warm her, as she was chilled to the very marrow of her bones. She needed to find a reason for him to cast her aside, while ensuring that Marsden would still want her. “But surely you want a noble woman, someone with a proud lineage to stand by your side.”

  “It wasn’t one of my father’s requirements. No need for it to be one of mine.”

  “He’s a good man, my son,” the marquess said. “You couldn’t want for better.”

  “Oh, I suspect she could. Why don’t you go outside and see if you can catch sight of the vicar arriving, tell him we need a little more time?”

  “Jolly good idea. Give you two a moment alone to sort things out.”

  She heard the creak of his bones as he got up, the shuffling of his footsteps as he made his way out. She didn’t want to be alone with his son. Never again did she want to be alone with him.

  She was acutely aware of Locksley suddenly standing beside her, the heat and power emanating from him, even though he wasn’t touching her. Why did she have to be so blasted aware of him?

  “You judged me correctly, Portia, when you said I wanted to protect my father. I will do whatever necessary to shield him from anyone who would dare to take advantage of him or wish him harm.”

  “I’ve told you that I don’t wish him harm. I will provide him with companionship, another child, an absence of loneliness.”

  “I don’t trust you not to take advantage of him. As you saw, he’s not always in his right mind.”

  She faced him. “So you will marry a woman you detest?”

  “I have no interest whatsoever in love. I never have. I watched it drive my father insane. I will not follow that path. But I do require an heir. I could hardly do better than a woman who is willing to let me take her from behind, on her knees, or upside down.”

  She slammed her eyes closed. She’d been trying to shock him, put him in his place, get him to leave off. That approach certainly hadn’t produced the results she’d wanted.

  He touched his finger to her jaw. Opening her eyes, she jerked back.

  He angled his head, mockingly lifted a corner of that wicked mouth. “Not exactly the response on the terrace.”

  “Damn you.”

  “You can’t deny there’s an attraction between us, so we’ll have that at least. I can assure you that within my bed you will find pleasure.”

  “Not arrogant, are you.”

  “I’ve traveled the world. I’ve learned a good many things. You’ll benefit from the knowledge.”

  “And outside of the bed?”

  “We’ll be polite to each other. Respectful. The day will be yours to do with as you pl
ease. The night will belong to me.”

  The way his eyes darkened with the last few words told her exactly how the night would belong to him. She didn’t dread what he might do to her; she dreaded only that she might not be able to resist falling under his spell. Once before she’d tumbled head over heels for a man who exhibited confidence, boldness, assertiveness, but every aspect of him paled when compared with Locksley. He not only knew his place in the world, but he owned it, commanded it. She suspected he never had doubts, never questioned himself. She was drawn to that self-assurance like a moth to a bright flickering flame. He could destroy her so easily if she weren’t careful. But without him she hadn’t even a glimmer of hope for survival.

  “Will I have an allowance?”

  He grinned darkly. “Naturally, my little mercenary.”

  “How much?”

  “What would please you?”

  “A million quid a month.”

  He laughed, a deep rich sound that circled around her, through her, and took up residence in her soul. “Fifty.”

  “One hundred.”

  “Seventy-five.”

  She could make do with that, set aside enough to ensure she would never be penniless again, wouldn’t be totally dependent on his kindness.

  He cradled her face, and this time she stayed as she was, gave him leave to touch her. “You’ll never suffer at my hands. I can be quite generous.”

  She almost scoffed. She’d heard that before, lies painted so prettily, only then she’d been young and naïve enough to believe the falsehoods, to embrace them, to pin all her hopes and dreams on them. Never again would she fall under any man’s spell to such an extent that she lost sight of herself.

  “Then, in case you need a reminder, there is always this.”

  He blanketed her mouth with his, urging her lips to part, then his tongue was slowly stroking hers, creating sensations that she wanted to deny brought her any sort of joy. But what was to be gained?

  She’d already lost her advantage. He wasn’t going to step aside and allow her to marry Marsden. And she couldn’t risk leaving here with nothing. He was suddenly her only hope. If she didn’t anger him further, if she pleased him as a wife, perhaps he would protect her with as much vigilance and determination as he did his father.

  So she rose up on her toes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and flattened her breasts to his chest. He knew her to be a widow. No sense in playing the shy miss. She knew how to pleasure a man. It would certainly be no hardship to be intimate with him.

  With a growl, he crushed her to him, angled his head slightly, took the kiss deeper. Hunger thrummed through him. Need. He wanted her. She could feel just how badly he did pressed against her belly. She understood it was reckless, dangerous to accept his terms when she knew so little about him except for what she’d heard from the gossips. But he was the lesser of two unfavorable choices.

  Drawing back, breathing heavily, he skimmed his thumb over her swollen, tingling lips. “Take a day to think about it. It’s worth a hundred quid to me for you to be sure.”

  With that he released her abruptly, causing her to stagger back, and headed for the door. For some strange reason, his words erased all her doubts.

  “I don’t need a day.”

  That stopped him in his tracks. He swung back around. “You’ve made your decision?”

  She’d made it the moment she answered the advert. She had no choice. She’d never had any choice. “I’ll marry you.”

  Locke was taken aback by the sharp relief sweeping swiftly through him. He hadn’t realized how desperately he wanted her to say yes. Not that he wanted a wife, but he did want her in his bed, with her luscious mouth and her tart words and her whiskey eyes. He liked the way she challenged him, suspected she’d be challenging him every night. They could have fun with each other. Not ideal for a marriage but not the worst reason either.

  He held out his hand to her, watched as she inhaled deeply before crossing over to him and placing her hand in his. He squeezed her fingers before wrapping her arm around the crook of his elbow and patting her hand where it now rested on his forearm.

  “It’s vulgar to gloat,” she said.

  “You’d be doing the same if our positions were reversed.” He arched a brow at her mulish expression. “You know you would.”

  She gave him a little half smile that made him wish the vows were already exchanged so he could close the door and take her up against the wall.

  “I think we’re going to get along splendidly,” he said with utter belief and conviction. “We understand each other.”

  “Not as well as you might think.”

  He shrugged. “Well enough. I know all I need to know.” He didn’t need to know her any better, didn’t want to know her any better. He wasn’t going to come to care for her. She was the means to an end. A bedmate for him. An heir for Havisham. Other than that, he required nothing else from her.

  As he escorted her into the foyer, the front door opened and his father stepped through, the vicar in tow, and smiled brightly. “She agreed to accept you in my stead?”

  “She did indeed.”

  “Marvelous.” He walked over, took her hand, squeezed it. “I could not be happier. You will be as well, my dear, I promise you. Allow me to introduce Reverend Browning.”

  Browning was only slightly older than Locke, relatively new to his post. He didn’t know why it bothered him to see the man holding her hand longer than he thought necessary. He wasn’t jealous. He didn’t care about her enough to be jealous, but he was possessive.

  “Vicar.” He hadn’t meant for the word to come out as a bark, but it did cause the thin man to jump back, releasing Portia, his face turning an unbecoming mottled red.

  “Lord Locksley, congratulations. So shall we get to it?”

  He glanced over at his bride. “Black seems a bad omen for a wedding. Is there something other than black in that trunk of yours?”

  She nodded. “What woman worth her salt wouldn’t have something other than black?”

  He expected she was going to be worth her salt in a good many areas.

  “Why don’t we give my bride a chance to freshen up after her long journey?” He assumed it was long. He suddenly realized he had no idea from whence she’d traveled. It didn’t matter. She could have traveled from Timbuktu for all he cared. “I need to see about my lady’s trunk. Then I’ll meet you gents in the library for a nip before the vows are exchanged.”

  Still reeling from the sudden change in plans, Portia watched her soon-to-be-husband stride out the door. Marsden patted her shoulder.

  “I’m so pleased, my dear.”

  “I came here to marry you.”

  He looked at her sadly. “It’s better this way.”

  And she wondered if her marrying his son had been his plan all along. She’d equaled madness with stupidity. What a fool she’d been, but then she suspected most desperate souls were easily duped.

  Locksley strode back into the residence, the trunk balanced on one shoulder. She’d assumed he’d fetch one of the stable lads to cart it up, had obviously misjudged his strength. He could easily kill her if he desired, might consider it if he ever learned the truth of her situation. She would have to tread very carefully where he was concerned.

  “I’ll show you to your room. Precede me up the stairs,” he ordered.

  She almost objected to his tone, but realized he’d no doubt be ordering her about quite a bit. It was the price she was paying for security. She started up the sweeping stairs. “I don’t know if I’ve ever known a lord who can heft a trunk with such ease.”

  “It’s often to one’s advantage when traveling to see to one’s own supplies and equipment.”

  “I would have thought you’d hire others for that.”

  “For some things, yes, but I like to ensure I’m never caught without.” At the landing, he said, “To the left.”

  The hallway was wide enough that they could walk beside each other. It was
dusted, tidy, but there were no flowers, no little extras to make it pleasant.

  “My father’s chamber is there.” He turned slightly to the left. “My mother’s is right beside it. It goes without saying you’re never to set foot in there.”

  Yet he’d felt compelled to say it. She wondered if there would ever come a time when she wouldn’t be irritated with him. “Where is your bedchamber?”

  “End of the hallway, last door on the right.”

  “And mine?”

  “End of the hallway, last door on the right.”

  She stopped walking. He turned to face her, arched a brow.

  “Will I not have my own room?” she asked. Surely Marsden had prepared a room for her or had he expected her to share his? His she wouldn’t have minded sharing, but Locksley’s? She was fairly certain he’d dominate the space.

  “I don’t see the point, do you? You’ll be with me all night.”

  “Still, it might be nice to have a place where I can be myself.”

  “Are you not being yourself now?”

  Did he have to read something sinister into everything she said? “I simply meant that my own little sanctuary where I can relax would be very much appreciated.”

  “The room is large with a sitting area that should suffice. I won’t bother you there during the day.”

  “Because you have your library. I will feel as though I’m a prisoner if I am relegated to one room.”

  “You can use the parlor.” He spun on his heel. “What the bloody hell is in this trunk? It’s heavy as the dickens.”

  So he was human, after all, not some god who could balance the world on his shoulders. She took grim satisfaction in the knowledge.

  He reached the end of the hallway. “Can you get the door?”

  She was tempted to take her sweet time doing it, but she needed to keep him in an amicable mood to ensure things between them became as pleasant as possible. After swinging open the door, she followed him in, watched as he set her trunk at the foot of a massive bed, and had no success not envisioning lying there with his large and powerful body hovering over her. Her mouth went as dry as sawdust.