He did it properly. It led to another round. One that went a little quicker than the first, but was no less intense. She was so blasted tight that at first he’d thought she was a virgin. But there had been no blood to clean up. And she was far too comfortable with a man’s body not to have been around one before. Still if he didn’t know better, he’d think the pleasure she’d experienced had taken her by surprise.

They’d finally gotten around to moving the bedding aside. She was lying on her back, one arm raised, her hand toying with strands of his hair, while he rested up on an elbow and trailed his fingers over her sternum, along her ribs. He’d tried going down her side to her hips only to discover she was a bit ticklish. Who’d have thought?

“I’ve never done this,” she said quietly.

He stilled, his hand a quarter of an inch away from cupping her breast. “You were a virgin? But you were married. There was no blood.”

She laughed lightly, running her fingers up over his scalp. “No, just lay here afterward, just . . . I don’t know. It’s as though the pleasure hasn’t quite dissipated completely, and we’re keeping it alive by still touching.”

“Your husband didn’t touch you afterward?” He wanted to bite his tongue for asking the question, hated even more the spark of jealousy that ignited within him because another man had known her as he had.

She shook her head. “He always fell asleep right after.”

He cupped her breast. “And you?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Would watch him. Feel lonely.” She emitted a sound that was part scoff, part laugh. “I’m being silly. I don’t want to talk about before.”

He didn’t want to know that she’d found her love less than satisfactory, that she might have learned it wasn’t worth the pain it could bring. He bracketed her ribs, felt her stiffen—no doubt in anticipation of his going along her side to torment her with tickles. Another night he might. Not tonight. Tonight was about building trust so every night would be as good as or better than this one.

“Afterglow,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“A woman I once . . . spent time with described the way she felt after sex as a glowing, told me I couldn’t leave her or fall asleep until the glow went away. She would refer to it as the afterglow.”

“It does rather feel that way. Was she pretty?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”

He liked that she sounded almost jealous. “Can you imagine me with an ugly woman?”

She studied him until he became uncomfortable with her perusal and was considering that it was time to plow into her again, before this conversation went someplace he didn’t want it to go.

“Yes,” she finally said. “But you would be with her out of kindness.”

“I’m not a saint. I like beauty in my women.” Leaning down, he laved his tongue over her nipple, took satisfaction in her soft sigh, before lifting his head to look at her again. “But there is all kinds of beauty in the world, some of it not always clearly visible. Even those spiders you hate have it within them to create the most intricate and beautiful webs.”

“You look below the surface of things.”

“I recognize that not all things should be judged by their appearance.”

“Would you have married me if I were a toad?”

If those whiskey eyes of hers had still held the challenge that they did— “Probably. Although I am quite grateful that you’re not a toad.”

Her lips quirked up slightly as she moved her hand around to the nape of his neck and began kneading. “Well, you have the toad’s voice anyway.”

“Pardon?”

Her cheeks flushed a pale pink. “My voice. It’s deep. Like a toad’s.”

“It’s one of the most sensual things about you.”

She seemed genuinely surprised.

“Did you not know that?” he asked.

Slowly, she shook her head. “I’ve been told it’s rather unbecoming.”

“By your husband?”

Her response was nothing more than her blush deepening. He couldn’t help himself. “Forgive me for asking, but why the devil did you marry him? He sounds like a complete ass.”

Laughing, she rolled onto her side and buried her face against his chest. He didn’t want to admit how much he enjoyed having her there, her breaths skimming along his skin, the feel of her smile broadening. “He was. I simply didn’t realize it until it was too late.”

Her slender, delicate shoulders were shaking with her laughter as he closed his arms around her and held her close. Dear God, but love never did anyone any favors. It had caused his father to go mad, had caused Portia to marry a man undeserving of her. He should leave it there. He knew all he needed to know, and yet his competitive nature refused to remain silent. “Did you find satisfaction in his bed?”

Her laughter abruptly stopped. She tilted her head back, while he tipped his down. He didn’t know why it was imperative that he look into her eyes when she answered. Even if her answer was none of your business; go to the devil.

“Sometimes,” she whispered. “But not like I did in yours tonight.”

His mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding. She was going to find satisfaction in his bed at least once more before she went to sleep.

Locke woke her up before dawn so he could have her before sunlight stole into the room. Then—even though she invited him to stay—to prove to himself he still possessed enough willpower to resist her charms, he dressed and went to the library to study his ledgers. Instead, he kept seeing her sitting in the chair before the fireplace that first night. They would probably spend many a night there. Either there or in his bedchamber or wandering the hallways. It wasn’t as though he was providing her with an abundance of options.

Not that she needed any options. She was there to warm his bed, provide him with an heir. She wasn’t supposed to make him want to laugh. She wasn’t supposed to make him want to give her more.

Nor was she supposed to make him glad for her presence when he walked into the breakfast dining room after growing tired of staring at her empty chair in the library. She was dressed in the dark blue she’d worn the day before, which he supposed signaled that she was going to tidy up the music room a bit more. He refrained from lifting her skirts to see if she was again sporting one of his Hessians.

“Good morning,” he said as he took his seat. “Again.”

She blushed. “Good morning, my lord. I didn’t have the opportunity to voice the words earlier.”

“You communicated quite well without them and provided me with a good morning indeed.” He nearly laughed watching Gilbert turn red as a beet while he poured Locke’s coffee.

“I’ll get your plate, m’lord,” he said gruffly before quickly vacating the room.

“I think you embarrassed him,” Portia said, lifting her teacup.

“I’m not certain he’s ever had a woman.”

Her eyes widened. “Truly?”

“It’s not as though Havisham is teeming with opportunities for dalliances. Why do you think I traveled the world?”

“For the adventures.”

“Most women are an adventure.”

She began slicing her bacon. “In comparison, I’m certain I pale.”

“Looking for a compliment?”

Lifting her head, she held his gaze, shook her head. “No.”

He might have let it go if he hadn’t known about the ass she’d married. “I’ve never been more intrigued by a woman.”

“But you must have known some exotic women.”

“A few, and if we keep talking about them, perhaps I’ll remember them well enough to change my answer.”

“None were memorable?”

Not since she walked through the door.

Gilbert reentered and set the plate before Locke, then took up his position by the wall. Locke had no desire to discuss his conquests in front of the butler or to give the impression there was a need to reassure his wife. Servants weren’t supposed to have opinions but still he didn’t want the old gent’s censure. He scooped up some egg. “I’ve a need to go to the village. I realize the day is yours and I don’t mean to interfere with that, but I thought you might want to come with.”

He tried to sneak a glance at her face, to judge her reaction, then gave up the pretense of caring about the food on his plate and looked at her directly. He didn’t care for finding her surprise so rewarding.

“I’d like that very much,” she said.

He cared even less for the relief that went through him with her answer. “Good. I thought to place an advert in the Village Cryer, the local newspaper, letting it be known that we’re seeking a couple of maids of all work and some lads to haul things around until you can get in touch with the servant registry office in London in order to hire some proper footmen.”

“You’re hiring servants?”

“I can’t have my wife messing around in the muck. If you’re intent on cleaning the music room, you need someone on hand to do it. And you’ll want to hire a lady’s maid. Mrs. Barnaby shouldn’t be traipsing up and down the stairs with her creaking knees.”

The smile she bestowed upon him made his chest tighten uncomfortably. It was as though she thought he’d bestowed upon her the grandest gift in the world.

“I don’t need to send to London for proper footmen or any servants. I like the notion of hiring locally. I can teach the girls what they need to know—with Mrs. Barnaby’s help, of course.”

Smart girl, to make certain the housekeeper felt useful.

“And Gilbert could teach the lads how a footman behaves. Couldn’t you, Gilbert?” she asked.

In his entire life, Locke had never seen the butler stand so straight. He nodded. “Starting out as a footman here, myself, I welcome the opportunity to keep a couple of lads out of the mines. Lost two brothers to them. They were just boys at the time.”

Sadness touched her eyes. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“I appreciate it, m’lady, but it was nearly forty years ago now.”

“Mining is safer these days,” Locke said.

“It’s never safe when you’re going beneath the ground,” Gilbert grumbled.

“Not contradicting the man who pays your salary, are you, Gilbert?” Locke asked.

“No, m’lord.” He stared straight ahead.

“Are the mines safer?” Portia asked Locke.

“They are, and I don’t allow children to work in them.”

She leaned back as though she’d discovered something important about him. “You care for children.”

“I care that work is done properly, and children are sometimes careless.” He didn’t know why he didn’t tell her that he’d once seen a lifeless child carried from the mines, and didn’t want to be responsible for the death of another body that small. “They are better suited to play than work.”

“You can sound as gruff as you like. I think you care about them.”

“Think what you want. It was a business decision.”

“I always think what I want. Therefore, I am more convinced than ever that sending to London for servants is not the way to go. We can educate staff here, provide other opportunities for employment.”

“We’re not opening a school for servants. Two maids-of-all-work and two footmen.”

“And a lady’s maid,” she reminded him.

He nodded.

“And a valet,” she said.

“I don’t need a valet.”

“You’re a lord.”

“I don’t need a valet.”

She twisted her lips into a show of disapproval—no doubt at his stubbornness rather than his lack of a man to dress him. “Perhaps your father should have one.”

“He seldom leaves his room. What would the chap do?”

“I suppose you have a point.”

Of course he did. He wasn’t one to argue simply for the sake of arguing, although he had to admit that he’d never enjoyed pitting himself against anyone as much as he did against her. He liked that she challenged him, wasn’t afraid to let her position be known. He returned his attention to his eggs. “Do you have a riding habit?”

“I don’t like horses. They’re so large with such enormous teeth. I’d rather go in a carriage.”

Her words surprised him as he’d pictured her as someone who would relish galloping over the moors, with her hair coming loose and blowing wildly behind her. “I thought you fearless.”

“Not when it comes to horses. An incident as a child forever scarred me.”

“I didn’t notice any scars on you, and I gave you quite a thorough examination.”

She gave him a pointed glare and patted her chest. “In here.”

It had to have been quite horrific to leave her with a fear of riding. He almost asked her for the details, but he didn’t want to know of anything unhappy that might have happened during her childhood, didn’t want to feel any sympathy for her. “A carriage it is then. For today. Although we may have to work on your aversion to horses. I enjoy riding. I suspect you would as well.”

“At night? Over the moors? That’s the only time left to us as I promise you that I would never ride a horse during an hour that belongs to me.”

“I often ride over the moors at night. It can be quite invigorating.”

“I thought you were warned not to go out at night—unless you absolutely had to.”

“Do I strike you as one who heeds warnings?”

“No.” She gave him a wicked little smile. “When did you first break that rule?”

“When I was fifteen. There was the largest moon in the sky, a blood moon. I wanted to be beneath its light so I snuck out, saddled up a horse, and rode until dawn.”

“During all that time, you never saw your mother’s ghost?”

“Not once.”

“Maybe when you snuck out, she snuck in.”

“I doubt it.”

A sadness coming into her eyes, she gazed toward the windows. “There’s a part of me that wishes your father did indeed see her.”

“Perhaps it’s enough that he believes he does.”

She gave her attention back to him, a slight crease between her brows. “I can’t imagine a love that grand.”

“Wasn’t yours?”

Slowly she shook her head, melancholy washing off her in waves. “No, not even in the beginning, when our love was new and untried.”

“What of your parents? Did they not love each other?”

“In their own way I suppose they did.” She stood, signaling the end to that topic. He wasn’t even certain why he’d asked. “I should get ready for our outing.”

She walked from the room, and he had the oddest realization: he rather wished the love that had cost her so much had been a grand one.