He thought about Portia while he was at the mines. He thought about her while he galloped his horse over the moors toward the manor. He thought about her as he bathed, while he strode through the hallways in search of her, fairly certain where he’d find her.

In the music room. He wasn’t disappointed.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the doorjamb and simply watched. Standing on a ladder, dusting his mother’s portrait, she was dressed much as she’d been the day before, sans his Hessian, as she now had two strapping lads, one about six inches taller than the other, to deal with the pesky spiders. The new footmen were moving furniture so two young women—one of them Cullie—could roll up the various carpets. He suspected they’d be getting a beating in the morning, along with the draperies that had already been removed. Another young woman was using a long-handled broom to sweep away the dust and cobwebs from the walls. White sheeting had been placed over the piano to protect it from any dust swirling about.

So much activity in this room, yet everyone seemed to know what they were to do. What he didn’t understand was why Portia—a title hunter, a woman seeking prestige and position—was in the thick of things rather than standing off to the side merely ordering her new servants about. If a stranger strode in, he was going to mistake her for a maid. Why wasn’t she lording her position over these people?

Although he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed watching her movements: her hips swaying as she dusted, the way the cloth of her bodice tautened along the side as she reached for the intricately carved corner of the gilded frame.

Hearing a short high-pitched squeal, he was about to turn in the direction of the sound—no doubt the maid at the window—when he saw Portia doing the same, only her perch was precarious. She moved too quickly, too sharply. Suddenly she gasped, her arms flailing—

He’d managed only half a dozen frenzied leaps in her direction before she landed in the arms of the taller footman, who grinned stupidly down on her as though he’d acquired the prize at some county fair game. Locke was completely unprepared for the rage rampaging through him because the man was holding his wife. It didn’t matter that he’d saved her from harm. It only mattered that he grinned like a buffoon.

Portia smiled at him, patted his shoulder. “You can release me now, George.”

He did so, slowly lowering her feet to the floor. Stepping away, she brushed at her skirts before looking up and spying Locke. The only thing that prevented him from permanently removing the grin from the lad’s face was the fact that the smile she gave Locke was brighter and more welcoming than the one she’d given the footman.

“You’ve returned,” she said.

What the devil was the matter with him? What did he care if she was glad to see him? Why should he be angry that a muscled laborer saved his wife from a crack on the head? He should be grateful for it. Instead he was ready to sack the man.

“Why are you working when we have hired servants to see to things?” he demanded to know. He jerked his head toward the ladder. “You could have broken your neck.”

“Unlikely. It wasn’t that far a drop. At the most I’d have bruised my backside. Although I am grateful to George for rescuing me.” She patted George’s arm before glancing toward the windows. “Sylvie, why did you squeak? Is everything all right?”

Sylvie, of the black hair and blue eyes that were far too round, curtsied. “I saw his Lordship standing there in the doorway. His presence took me by surprise.”

“I’ve told you that you don’t have to curtsy every time you’re addressed.”

The girl curtsied. “Yes, m’lady.”

With a patient shake of her head, Portia turned back to Locke. “How long were you standing there?”

“Not long, but again, Portia, why are you climbing ladders and dusting?”

“There’s so much to be done. I didn’t see the harm in helping.”

“I don’t want you scaling ladders”—and falling into the arms of well-built young men—“and putting my heir at risk should you already be with child.”

She paled to such an extent that he was surprised she didn’t swoon. “Yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking.” She shook her head. “You’re quite right. I shan’t ascend ladders anymore. I’ll find another way to help.”

He didn’t know why he didn’t feel victorious with her acquiescence. Why did the woman have to constantly confound him? He’d determined her character before he married her. She had no right not to be as he knew her to be. “I’ll have your bath prepared,” he said, far more curtly than he’d intended.

“No need. George and Thomas can see to hauling the tub and water up. Since you want them doing their job.”

As long as they weren’t imagining her in that water. What the devil was the matter with him? He’d had women in his life and never experienced jealousy—even when he was fully aware that he wasn’t their only lover. But this was different. She was his wife. They’d exchanged vows. So it wasn’t jealousy he was experiencing, merely conscientiousness of a certain expectation from her and those around her. The male servants shouldn’t be lusting after her, grinning at her, or cradling her in their arms. Training was definitely in order. He’d speak to Gilbert about it.

“You’re quite right,” he said now. “We’ll have the footmen see to it.”

“Very good. Allow me to introduce you.” She turned to the others in the room and clapped her hands. “Please come forward.” They did as she bid, albeit a bit hesitantly. “Queue up,” she ordered. “Straight line, stand tall.”

Once they were positioned to her satisfaction, she moved to one end. “Cullie you’ve met, of course.”

He nodded toward the girl. “Cullie.”

“M’lord.” A quick bob of a curtsy.

“Sylvie.”

Who gave him three curtsies. He assumed she would have curtsied until her knees gave out if Portia hadn’t placed her hand on her arm and said, “That’s sufficient.”

Marta was the final housemaid. One very nice curtsy from her. The lads, George and Thomas, followed with bows.

“It’s a pleasure to have you all at Havisham Hall,” Locke said.

“Is it really haunted?” Marta asked.

Sylvie jabbed her elbow into Marta’s side. “You’re not supposed to ask questions of his Lordship.”

“It’s quite all right,” Locke said. “But, no, it is not haunted.”

“I’ve seen her ghost on the moors,” George said.

“Merely swirling mist, I assure you,” Locke told him.

“But—”

“You don’t contradict his Lordship,” Portia said sternly.

“ ’Cuz the nobility is never wrong.” There was a snide quality to his tone.

Before Locke could bring him to task, Portia was standing before him. “George, have I misjudged your readiness for this position?”

The lad clenched his jaw, shook his head. “No, m’lady.”

“I shall hope not, but bear in mind that I shan’t tolerate any behavior that is not to my liking, nor shall I keep in our employ anyone who vexes me or his Lordship.”

“Yes, m’lady, but I did see her.”

“It might be best to keep that to yourself.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

She faced Locke. “Did you wish to add anything?”

He slowly shook his head. The woman was mercurial. One moment she was acting as though she were the servants’ equal and the next she reasserted herself as mistress of the household. A chameleon of sorts. During his travels, he’d seen enough creatures with the ability to blend into their surroundings that he knew they could be quite dangerous, had the sense that the same could be said of her. “No, I believe you handled it well enough.”

“Right.” She clapped her hands again to gain everyone’s attention. “As it’s nearly nightfall, I shall begin my preparation for dinner. Cullie, come with me. Sylvie and Marta, assist Mrs. Dorset in the kitchen. Thomas and George, report to Mr. Gilbert once you’ve seen to my bath. Will you be waiting for me in the library, my lord?”

As though there was anyplace else for him to wait. “Yes, I will.”

It would take her a while, though, so he decided to visit with his father. He went to the library first to secure them each a glass of scotch before making his way to the master bedchamber. He knocked on the door, waited for his father to invite him in. Once inside, he handed his father a glass, leaned a shoulder against the window near where his father sat, and watched the sky turning a darker gray and shadows spreading over the land.

“I wanted you to know that we’ve hired a few servants,” he told his father.

“I’m aware. Portia introduced them to me earlier. That George is going to be a handful, I think. Bears watching.”

“She can keep him in his place.”

“Is that respect I hear in your voice?” his father asked.

He sipped his scotch, kept his gaze on the land. “Merely an observation.”

“Careful, Locke, you’re going to start liking the girl.”

“I don’t dislike her.” He placed his back against the wall, studied the amber liquid in his glass. The rich hue reminded him of her eyes. “She’s comfortable ordering people about. She’s equally comfortable doing the work. One moment she gives the impression she’s a country lass, the next she takes on the airs of the nobility. What is her background exactly?”

His father remained silent. Locke glowered at him. “No harm in telling me.”

“Commoner, as she said.”

“What of her husband?”

“Well off enough that she managed a household. At least she claimed to manage one.”

“Yet he left her with nothing.”

“Men are not always the best that they can be. Nor, unfortunately, do they always appreciate the women in their lives. Or he was young enough to think there was plenty of time to make arrangements for her in the event of his death. That’s probably it. You never expect to go young. Always time to see to business later.”

Locke glanced back to the moors. Almost dark now. “I should like to read the letters that she wrote to you.”

His father chuckled low. “That would be too easy. If you want to know something more about her, ask her. Talk with her, have a discourse. Flirt.”

He glared at his sire. “A man doesn’t flirt with his wife.”

His father looked at him as though he’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t. “Don’t be a fool, boy. Of course he does.”

“He’s obtained her. What’s the point?”

“The point is to make her eyes sparkle like the rarest of jewels, to bring color to her cheeks, to cause the corners of her mouth to turn up ever so slightly. To let her know she is appreciated, still regarded as special, worth the effort. To give her cause to fall a little bit more in love. I flirted with your mother until the day she died.” He lifted a slender shoulder, rounded with age. “Still do from time to time.”

It took everything within Locke not to roll his eyes. “Trust me, she felt bloody well special last night in my bed.”

His father didn’t refrain from rolling his eyes, did so with a great deal of exaggeration and obvious disappointment. “Courtship is just as important outside of the bed as in it—in some ways more so. I have failed miserably in educating you when it comes to women.”

“I am well educated in regard to women.”

“When it comes to their physical pleasure, I’ve no doubt. But a relationship requires more than that to flourish.”

Locke downed the remainder of his drink. He needed nothing to flourish. “You should join us for dinner.”

“You need time alone with your wife.”

“I have all night to enjoy her without company.”

“And you do enjoy her.”

No point in not admitting it. “More than I expected.”

“Then I shan’t interfere.”

“You wouldn’t be interfering. I suspect she’d welcome your presence.”

His father scratched his chin, the scrape of his fingers over bristle creating a soft grating sound. “Not tonight.”

“Perhaps we should hire a valet for you.”

His father shook his head. “Gilbert serves well enough. Shouldn’t you be with your wife now?”

“She’s preparing for the evening. But yes, I should be off.” He pushed himself away from the wall, headed for the door.

“Locke?”

He turned back.

“If you want to know more about her past, ask her. I suspect she’d welcome your interest.”

“I know all I need to know, Father. I was merely making conversation.”

“It’s an unwise man who lies to himself.”

Then he supposed he was going to go to his grave as an incredibly unwise man.