Three evenings later, after returning from a day at the mines, Locke was disappointed to find the door to the music room locked. He’d grown accustomed to finding his wife there, to having a few minutes to observe her before someone spotted him lurking in the doorway and gasped or shrieked in surprise. In spite of his assurances that no ghost was hovering about, it seemed some were still expecting the sudden appearance of a wraith.

He didn’t much like that he anticipated seeing Portia at the end of the day, that she had so quickly become an intricate part of his life. He awoke with her in his arms, and if he were fortunate enough to find the sun had yet to appear, then he began his morning with a rousing sexual encounter. She was the most enthusiastic partner he’d ever known—or perhaps it was simply that he took such satisfaction in pleasuring her. Her moans and cries inflamed his desires.

Even now, standing before the blasted locked door, he wanted her. But he wouldn’t take her, not until they dined. He was determined to maintain some control, to not let her see how desperately he wanted her naked and beneath him.

He pressed his ear to the door, listening intently to ensure she and the servants weren’t inside, hadn’t locked him out unintentionally—or intentionally, for that matter. He considered fetching the keys from Mrs. Barnaby in order to make certain that no one was within the room, but it was so quiet on the other side that it seemed highly unlikely that anyone was hidden away in there. So where was she? And why did it irritate the devil out of him that it had been half an hour since his bath and he had yet to see her?

He nearly pounded a fist on the damned door, was glad he hadn’t when he spun around to find her standing in the hallway, her head half-cocked as though she’d been studying him for a while.

She was already dressed for the evening in her blue gown with her hair piled up in that intriguing style that called for his fingers to muss it up. Now that she had her servants, she was no longer dependent upon him for her bath. He was not going to be jealous of a couple of footmen because they could see to her needs. They were lugging water, for God’s sake, not bringing her pleasure.

“Were you looking for me?” she asked, her smile one of immense satisfaction, as though she already knew the answer, which of course she did.

“It is almost night.”

“So it is.” She offered him a sultry look, half lowering her lashes. Damn it. He began silently uttering the refrain Dinner first. Dinner first. Dinner first.

“I wasn’t expecting to find the door locked,” he said, wondering why he sounded so disgruntled. Because he wanted her—now. And he was denying himself.

“We finished tidying the room this afternoon. I thought I would give it an official unveiling after dinner. Perhaps even play for you.”

He began stalking toward her. “What sort of games did you have in mind?”

Pressing her lips together, she rolled her eyes. “I meant the pianoforte. It’s been tuned, sounds quite marvelous now.”

He didn’t stop until his legs were brushing her skirts and his hand was cradling her jaw. “Perhaps one song.”

Then his resistance broke and he claimed her mouth as his own. He didn’t understand this need to possess her that continually rifled through him. Perhaps it was the eagerness with which she welcomed him, the speed with which she wrapped her arms around his neck or pressed her body to his. Perhaps it was the fervor with which her tongue explored and demanded that he not hold back. Her zeal when it came to passion was equal to his. He didn’t set the tempo or nurture a spark into a flame. She matched him step for step. She created a conflagration with her first touch.

She was bold and daring and intrepid within the bed and out of it. He thought of his father’s advert. He’d sought the wrong things in a wife, and yet somehow Locke had ended up with one that exceeded expectations.

He tore his mouth from hers, stared down into those smoldering whiskey eyes. Her lips were wet and swollen. He was going to make other parts of her wet and swollen after dinner.

He cringed. No, after a tune in the music room. One tune. To humor her. To give the impression of being a good husband instead of the randy one he was. Christ, by now he should have lost some interest in her, the novelty should have worn off. Instead it all seemed to have increased tenfold. If he believed in witches, he might have thought her one.

“I need a drink before dinner,” he stated, striving for a neutral tone that wouldn’t give away the war raging within him to go ahead and have her now, here in this hallway, up against a wall.

“I’ll join you.”

As though she had a choice. He could see through the windows at the end of the corridor that darkness had fallen. She was his now. Absolutely and completely—until the sun once again emerged.

Anticipation was an aphrodisiac. Portia could not help but believe that as she enjoyed her dessert. She had been tempted earlier to unlock the door, to share with Locksley then and there the results of her—and her servants’—efforts. But all through dinner she tingled with the awareness of what was to come. While she knew it was quite likely he would not be as taken with the room as she was now that it was put back together, her enthusiasm for sharing it was not dimmed. It was her sanctuary. She had made it so with each spider killed, each cobweb swept away, each fleck of dust removed, every inch of wood polished, every bit of cloth and carpet beaten until the years of neglect faded away.

With that one room tidied and vibrant again, she could envision the magnificence that had once encompassed the entire residence. It was a shame, a crime even, that this house had been left to ruin. She wanted to give back to Locksley what it had once been.

That he had grown up with such decay and neglect saddened her beyond all reason. She knew he fancied her for only the physical comforts she could provide but she viewed him as more, wanted more between them. She had no doubt that it would be slow in coming, but perhaps in a few years once she had filled his life with the laughter of children . . .

If for no other reason, this residence needed to be set to rights so their children would know joy and comfort and gladness. This wallowing about, allowing the residence to continue its slow decline, could not stand. She wouldn’t allow it, even though she knew she had to move unhurriedly and with caution to bring him over to her side of things. She might have entered into this marriage as a last resort, but she was determined that neither of them would ever regret it.

As she took her final bite of pudding and set aside her spoon, Thomas moved in to take the dish away. She wasn’t certain where Gilbert had found the livery for the footmen or Mrs. Barnaby had secured the clothing for the maids. As the servants now reeked heavily of cedar, she assumed the items had been packed away in cedar chests somewhere, simply waiting for the day when the residence would be brought back to life.

She looked to the end of the table. Her husband had finished off his wine and was lounging back, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair, his chin supported by his hand, his finger stroking just below his lower lip. That finger would be stroking her later.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I’m not certain I’ve ever witnessed anyone exhibiting such pleasure while eating dessert. In the beginning, I thought it was because you’d gone a while without sweets, but if that were the case you should be accustomed to it by now. But I can actually see your excitement building as we near the end of the meal.”

“We had dessert only on rare occasions when I was growing up. My father was a strict man who didn’t believe in indulging in practices that brought pleasure.”

“You don’t have seemed to have adopted his beliefs.”

She shook her head. “I believe we must secure happiness where we can. I’m happy when I eat pudding, and where is the harm? I’m also happy when I’m playing the piano. Shall we adjourn to the music room?”

He shoved back his chair, stood, and began walking toward her. “I’ll want to drop by the library first for a bit of port.”

He stopped by her chair, pulled it out, and extended his hand. Not until she was standing did she say, “I added decanters of liquor to the music room.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “You’re very good at determining my needs.”

She smiled. “I try.”

The way his eyes darkened, she doubted she’d make it through the first song before he was whisking her up to his bedchamber. She supposed there were worst things than being madly desired by one’s husband.

She placed her hand on his proffered arm and fought back the nerves that suddenly made an appearance, causing her to doubt that he would take any pleasure at all in her efforts, that he would care about the room, that he would ever care about her.

She did not need love, but quite suddenly she found herself wanting it. Which made her a very silly girl indeed, as he was not a man to love, but perhaps with time he would feel some affection toward her. For tonight, she merely wanted him to favor the room half as much as she did.

When they reached their destination, she removed the key from a small hidden pocket in her gown and extended it to him. “You may do the honors.”

With a tilt of his head in acknowledgment, he took the offering, unlocked the door, and swung it open. She glided over the threshold, then turned quickly to gauge his reaction as he followed her inside.

Locke was familiar with the surroundings, of course. He’d explored them as a boy, and he’d watched her and the servants working to tidy things up. Yet he was unprepared for the magnificence that greeted him. Every wooden, glass, and marble surface gleamed. Fresh flowers in vases scented the air. The draperies over the windows were drawn back to reveal the night. “You changed the furniture.”

It seemed an insignificant thing to say but he was having difficulty reconciling this room with what he’d always known.

“Moths did quite a bit of feasting in here. I kept what was salvageable. Mr. Wortham reupholstered several pieces. A few are still with him, but I was too impatient to share the room. I’m very pleased with how it all came together.”

And she was nervous as well. He could hear it in the tinny pitch of her voice. Usually so raspy and sultry. His opinion mattered to her. He didn’t want to matter to her; didn’t want her to matter to him. But he couldn’t deny her the truth. “You’ve done a remarkable job.”

He glanced over at the portrait over the fireplace. He’d never known the colors to look so rich, for the painting to seem so lifelike that for a moment it appeared his mother might actually step off the canvas and into the room. He took several strides toward it.

“I was very glad to discover it was merely dust dulling the portrait,” Portia said.

Other portraits were scattered on the walls throughout the room, but his mother’s dominated.

“I wish I’d known her,” Portia mused softly.

“My father seldom spoke of her.”

“Perhaps you should ask him about her.”

“It will only make him more sad.” He spun toward the corner where he had earlier spied the decanters. “Would you care for something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

He poured himself a finger of scotch, downed it, poured two more fingers’ worth before facing her.

“Does the room upset you?” she asked.

It didn’t upset him, but it did unsettle him. He was accustomed to the decay. This was change. Perhaps he wasn’t that different from his father. He didn’t like alterations. “It will take some getting used to, I suppose.”

“Would you prefer to return to the library to finish your drink?”

He wanted to go to their bedchamber, but to do so would make him feel as though this room had somehow beaten him. It unsettled him further because she was able to tell that he wasn’t completely comfortable here. He didn’t want her to know him that well. So while he might want to leave, he would stay. “I would like to hear you play the piano.”

The smile she gave him took his breath, and he could not comprehend why her husband would have wandered. He, himself, had an irrational urge to do whatever necessary to keep her smiling.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said before spinning on her heel and strolling to the shining instrument. He suspected she had polished it herself, with care, using strokes very similar to the caresses one gave a lover.

As he settled into a nearby chair, not a single speck of dust rose up. Before his mother’s death, he suspected all the rooms had been kept as pristine. He had a momentary flash of thought that his father had done his mother a disservice to allow the residence to fall into neglect. It had never mattered before Portia arrived. There was no one to see it except for those who resided within these walls. And what did they care?

It bothered him to realize that perhaps they should have cared a great deal.

He refocused his thoughts on more pleasant matters, on Portia, as she lowered herself to the bench. “I’m a bit out of practice,” she said, “so don’t judge too harshly.”

He almost responded that he wasn’t one to judge but they would both know that for the lie it was. He’d judged her before she’d even arrived at Havisham Hall, before he knew the color of her eyes or the shade of her hair, before he knew her tart tongue could slay him with words and kisses. “I have made it a habit to avoid musical entertainments as much as possible, so I have little against which to compare you. So please proceed in the knowledge that I am not likely to be disappointed.”

She placed her fingers on the keys. He sipped his scotch and waited. Her eyes closed.

The first chord struck deep, reverberating throughout the room, and what followed was a haunting melody that wove through him and threatened to draw him in. He watched the way Portia swayed with the movements of her fingers. Her head tipped back slightly and she seemed to be lost in ecstasy—without him. He refused to be jealous of a damned musical instrument.

But dear God, to observe her was in itself a sexual experience. He was beginning to understand what she might have felt when she strode into this room and first saw the abandoned piano, why she had needed to set this chamber to rights. It had called to her soul and now she was setting that soul free, absorbed by the music that she so skillfully created.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. From the moment she had walked through the front door, she had thrown herself into everything with complete abandon, whether it was besting him during an inquisition, kissing him, tidying a room, eating dessert. She possessed a passionate nature that he had barely tapped into. At this moment, she mesmerized him, drew him in as though she’d woven a web around him and was gently tugging him forward.

He didn’t want to be on the edge observing. He wanted to be in the midst of her passion, wanted to experience it, enhance it. Setting aside his glass, he stood. As quietly as possible, so as not to disturb her, he crept toward her. When he was near enough, he knelt and wrapped his hand around the hem of her skirt. Her eyes flew open and she stared down at him.

“Keep playing,” he ordered, lifting her skirts and positioning himself between her legs.

Keep playing? Was he mad? If not for the wicked challenge in his eyes before he disappeared beneath her skirts, she might have kicked him out of the way. Instead she returned her fingers to the keys while he bracketed her hips and slid her to the very edge of the bench. She struck a wrong chord, cringed. She was not going to allow the kisses he was trailing along the inside of her thigh to distract her. It mattered not that she could scarcely breathe or that she was suddenly so warm she could have sworn the room had caught afire.

Then his mouth landed on the bud of her desire and she nearly came up off the bench. Instead she pounded the keys as his tongue circled, as the pleasure mounted. She dropped her head back, unable to concentrate on the tune, simply striking random chords. What did it matter when he was doing such wicked, wicked things, when he was distracting her, causing her to be perched on the threshold of so many incredible sensations swirling through her, urging her to cry out—

“Locke, what the devil—”

With a screech at the sound of Marsden’s voice, Portia leaped to her feet, heard a mash of chords striking as Locksley’s head hit the underside of the piano. With a harsh curse, he crawled out from beneath her skirts, out from beneath the piano, until he was standing beside her, none too pleased by the interruption based upon the hard expression marring his face.

“What were you doing down there?” the marquess asked.

Her husband’s cheeks burned a bright red that at any other time she would have taken satisfaction from and teased him about. “Listening for any chords that needed to be tuned.”

“It seems as though you could have done that just as well—if not better—from over here.”

The absurdity of it all. She couldn’t help it. She began laughing so hard that tears formed and her legs weakened. Covering her mouth with her hand, she dropped back down onto the bench.

“It’s not funny, Portia,” Locksley stated succinctly, clearly as irritated with her now as he was with his father.

“I’m sorry.” But she couldn’t seem to stop the peals of laughter from rolling out. She was mortified to have been caught with her husband’s head nestled between her thighs. It was either cry or laugh, and she’d learned long ago that it was always better to laugh. Taking a deep breath, working to stifle the chuckles, she pressed her palms against her burning cheeks. They were no doubt as red as Locksley’s.

“What the deuce are you doing here?” he asked his father.

“I heard the piano.” He took a step forward. He’d obviously donned his jacket quickly as one side of the collar was tucked under, caught beneath the cloth at his shoulder. “I thought it was Linnie playing. She loved to play the pianoforte. She was so good at it.”

“I’m not very good,” Portia felt compelled to say.

“You were wonderful. Will you play for me?” Before she could answer, he added, “Locke, fetch me some scotch.” Then he dropped down into the chair that Locksley had vacated.

With a sigh, Locksley strode toward the corner, stopping to pick up his glass along the way. She watched as he added scotch to his glass before pouring some for his father. She turned toward Marsden. “I feared you might be upset that I had tidied this room.”

He glanced around as though only just noticing. “I haven’t been in here since I lost her. It was her favorite place to be. Other than in my bed, of course.”

The heat that had been fading from Portia’s cheeks returned. She was grateful that he hadn’t seen what had become of this room, was even gladder that she had set it to rights.

“Your inappropriate mention of your bed is making my wife blush,” Locksley said as he handed his father a glass.

“Why is it that lovemaking, which can be so glorious, is only whispered about as though it’s something tawdry?” the marquess asked. “Or done beneath a piano.”

She could have sworn that she heard Locksley growl. “I told you. I was striving to hear the chords more clearly.”

“Going deaf, are you?”

Locksley sat in a chair near his father. “I would be grateful not to hear you talking.”

“You never were one for being teased. Besides, I fully understand how this room and the music can seduce. I think you were conceived on top of that piano.”

“Oh, dear God,” Locksley muttered. “There are some things I’d rather not know.”

“And too many things that you should but I have failed to tell you. She’s watching us now, you know. Your mother. I think it pleases her to peek through the parted draperies and see us sitting here.”

She watched as sadness drifted slowly over her husband’s face, and knew that he was bothered by his father’s fantasy that the Marchioness of Marsden was still able to look in on them. “Shall I play now?” she asked, hoping to brighten Locksley’s mood.

Marsden lifted his glass. “Please.”

Rather than play from memory as she’d done before, she used the sheet music that had been in a position on the piano to indicate that it was probably the last song to have been played, or perhaps it had merely been queued up to be played in the future. It didn’t matter. She was rather certain that at some point, the Marchioness of Marsden had performed the tune for her husband.

As her fingers flew over the keyboard, she dared a quick glance at the marquess. He looked at peace, his eyes closed, his mouth turned up ever so slightly at the corners. She did hope he was recalling pleasant memories.

And she wondered if a time would ever come when her own husband would recall pleasant memories about her.