A week later, Portia unlocked a door and led her newest staff members into a room that she was fairly certain had been at least one marchioness’s morning room. At the far end, the windows jutted out to create a little alcove, with bookshelves along the wall on either side. She could imagine herself curling up—book in hand—in one of the two large plush chairs near the windows and reading to a little girl nestled in the other.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” she ordered as she whipped the draperies open, coughing as the dust floated around her.

Since the marquess hadn’t seemed disturbed by the tidying of the music room—in fact he seemed to relish it, since he joined them there each evening shortly after she began to play—she had attacked the marchioness’s study with gusto. Now she had a place where she could write letters—if she’d had anyone who would welcome receiving a letter from her. The cook met her there each morning to go over the menu for the evening meal. She kept the midday fare simple—bread, cheese, sometimes soup. She would have a tray carried up to Marsden’s bedchamber and she would take her meal there. Without much prompting, she could entice him into speaking about his love. She thought it the most wonderful thing in the world that after so many years, he could still love his Linnie so deeply. She wished she’d an opportunity to know the woman, although through her afternoon visits with the marquess, Portia was beginning to have a sense of his wife’s personality and temperament. Of course, over the years, he’d no doubt idealized her, for surely no woman could be that perfect.

But she had obviously been perfect for the marquess. Unlike Portia, who was the absolute worst choice for a wife that the viscount could have made. Although of late, she was finding it a bit difficult to keep up with him in the evenings. She’d begun taking a short nap following her time with the marquess so she wouldn’t be completely exhausted when her husband wasn’t content with one session of lovemaking but was in the mood for two or three, usually keeping them going until long past midnight. Not that she minded. He was incredibly thorough and was never satisfied unless her pleasure equaled or exceeded his. She wasn’t accustomed to such considerations. Sometimes guilt nagged at her because he was a far better husband than she was a wife.

As she began examining each piece of furniture to determine which might need to be taken to Mr. Wortham for a bit of repair, she supposed she’d have more energy for the evenings if she stopped helping the staff as they worked to make each room habitable. But being involved made the days pass more quickly. She’d had two years of being little more than an ornament, waiting to be taken off the shelf. She delighted in all the activity during the day, although she had begun finishing up an hour earlier so she could be bathed and dressed by the time Locksley returned from the mines. He was rather punctual, always arriving home just before the sun set.

Once the furniture was sorted, moved about, rugs rolled up and draperies pulled down so they could all receive a good beating, Portia began on a set of shelves, removing the books one by one and carefully wiping the years of collected dust from them. She didn’t know why Locksley insisted on going to the mines every day. She thought he would be better served to hire a capable foreman to see to matters. After all, Locksley was born to be a lord, not a laborer.

But whenever she tried to speak to him of the mines, of why he needed to keep such a close watch on things, he’d merely say, “Not to worry, Portia. I have the means to provide you with your allowance.”

His tone was always so blasted snide that she sometimes wanted to reach across the table and tweak his nose. It was the one aspect of their arrangement that disappointed her—that he found fault with her for wanting financial security. If she had insisted Montie provide her with an allowance—and if she’d had the foresight to save it—she would have had options, she wouldn’t have been forced to choose a route that left her sick to her stomach. But she had loved him and trusted him and believed him when he’d promised to always take care of her. Was there a greater fool in all of England than she? She would not be so foolish this time around.

“There’s his Lordship, returning from the mines,” Cullie announced.

Blinking, Portia looked up from the stack of books she’d been sorting—she wanted them returned to the shelves according to author—and gazed out the windows. The afternoon had gotten away from her. She’d learned to judge the hour by the shadows as she couldn’t quite bring herself to start the clocks keeping time again. That, she had decided, might indeed upset the marquess.

She shoved herself to her feet and walked into the alcove to get a better view of the rider. He seemed to be the same size as Locksley but his clothing was wrong. Instead of the well-tailored clothes the viscount wore, the man’s attire was coarse and didn’t mold itself to the shape of his body.

“When this room is ready,” Cullie said, “you can sit here in the afternoons and await his Lordship’s return.”

“Only that’s not his Lord—” The man was nearer now. His worn hat was pulled low over his brow, shadowing much of his face, but she could see the strong square cut of his jaw. She shook her head. “Why is he wearing such drab clothing?”

“Well, he don’t want to wear his finery down into the mines. They’d get ruined right quick while he was working,” Cullie said.

Portia’s brow was furrowing so deeply that she thought she might give herself a megrim. “He doesn’t actually labor in the mines.”

When Cullie remained silent, Portia turned to her. The girl looked as though she feared getting sacked. “Cullie? He doesn’t labor in the mines.”

Cullie’s gaze darted around the room, landing on each servant in turn as though she expected one of them to speak. Finally, she settled her eyes back on Portia, licked her lips, took a deep breath. “Yes, m’lady, he does.”

“No, he goes in occasionally to check on things.” He’d told her as much. “That’s the extent of his involvement.”

Cullie shook her head. “No, m’lady. He works in the mines.”

“You mean digging for ore?”

“Yes, m’lady, and it took some time for the miners to get used to him being beside them, but since the tin played out, he’s been trying to help them find more.”

Played out? She swung back around, but she could no longer see Locksley. He always came to her smelling of a recent bath. Part of the reason that she’d begun readying herself earlier was so the tub would be back in the bathing room when he returned home. She’d thought he was simply meticulous about being clean. Instead, he’d been working to rid himself of any evidence of his efforts.

“We’re finished in here for the day,” she called out as she began marching from the room.

“Will you be wanting a bath before dinner?” Cullie asked.

“Later.”

First she needed a word with her husband.

Locke poured the steaming water into the tub in the bathing room. Mrs. Dorset didn’t understand why he didn’t have one of the footmen prepare his bath, but the servants were Portia’s, not his. He didn’t need to take them away from whatever chores his wife had them doing. Besides, the fewer people who saw him in this ragtag state, the better.

After setting down the pail, he arched his back and looked up at the ceiling. Christ, he was tired. But he knew once he saw Portia, the weariness would fade away. Her smile of greeting always seemed to revitalize him. He’d even begun to enjoy her evening recitals, no longer viewing them as an irritating delay to his possessing her, but rather embracing them as a slow, sensual building of awareness. She found a bit of ecstasy in gliding her fingers over the ivory, and he became enthralled watching her.

She was a siren, luring his father out of his reclusiveness. Each evening, he made his way down to the music room. Locke had begun pouring a scotch and setting it on the table beside his father’s favorite chair in anticipation of the marquess’s arrival. Sometimes his father spoke of the love of his life. In the past several nights Locke had learned more about his mother than he’d learned in all the years prior.

Apparently, she’d been a bit of a hellion herself: brave, strong, and bold. He’d only ever known his father as a broken man, but perhaps he wasn’t quite as damaged as Locke had always thought.

Groaning, he stretched his arms overhead, then lowered his fingers to the water. Too tepid. Another bucket of boiling water should do the trick. Swinging around, he came up short at the sight of Portia standing just inside the doorway. He’d already set aside his dirt-covered jacket and removed his gloves, but grime had settled into the creases of his face and neck. He was well aware of his disheveled—and horribly smelly—state.

Her gaze roamed slowly over him as though she’d never seen him before. “You work the mines,” she stated quietly but with confidence.

He’d known sooner or later she might learn the truth of it. He’d have preferred later, but considering that she now had a few additional servants, and each of them were no doubt related to someone who labored in the mines, he saw no point in denying the truth, although he wasn’t going to confess it either. Apparently she had the wisdom to accurately interpret his silence.

“Does your father know?” she asked into the silence that followed her earlier words.

“No, and I prefer that he not. I also prefer that you leave so I may see to my bath.”

“How long has it been since there was any tin?”

“I’m not discussing the mines with you but rest assured, you will receive your allowance—”

“Damn you, Locksley!” she cut in with such vehemence that he snapped his head back as though she’d slapped him. Although God help him, the fire burning in her eyes was an aphrodisiac that might have drawn him in if he wasn’t embarrassed that she’d learned the truth of his days. “Do you honestly believe that’s the reason I’m asking? You’re a lord. You’re not supposed to be digging in the mines.”

“I’m another set of hands, hands for which I don’t have to provide a salary.”

“So it’s been a while.” Her tone reflected a fact in the same way a solicitor might make his case before the bench. Why did he feel as though he were the one in the prisoner box?

She took a step toward him. He backed up, slammed into the tub, cursed, pushed out the flat of his palm to still her. “Don’t come near me. I reek to high heavens and am likely to cause you to swoon.”

A corner of her mouth tilted up. “I’m not as delicate as all that. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s not your business.”

Now she was the one to jerk back as though she’d been slapped. “I’m your wife.”

“Your job is to warm my bed and provide my heir. That is the extent of your wifely duties. The estate, the management of it, the income are my duties. Nothing is to be gained by discussing them.”

“A lessening of your burdens, perhaps?”

“More likely an adding to them, as you’ll no doubt begin pestering me for details or resenting if I suggest you not spend so frivolously. You’ll not do without, Portia, so I don’t see that you need to concern yourself with my troubles.”

She gave a brusque nod. “Sometimes, Locksley, you are an utter ass.”

With that, she spun on her heel and quit the room.

For reasons he couldn’t fathom, he laughed. Long, loud, and hard. Then he did something even more confounding. He moved to the side of the tub, grabbed the edge, and heaved with all his might until he upended it and sent water cascading over the floor.

Bowing his head, he clenched his fists. Damn. Damn. Damn. He had never wanted her to learn the truth of how he spent his days, frantically tunneling at the earth, desperate to find even the tiniest vein of ore, to uncover some evidence that more tin existed, that their financial future wasn’t completely and utterly hopeless.

Nearly an hour and a half later, he stood at the window in the library, downing scotch. He’d come straight here from the bathing room, now wearing the clothes he’d donned that morning before changing into the sturdier and rougher attire that he sported when going to the mines.

Portia was correct. He’d been an ass. Was still in danger of behaving as one because he couldn’t shake off the anger that riveted through him now that she knew the truth of his situation. He was embarrassed that he got his hands dirty, that he engaged in backbreaking labor that no gentleman should. That he hadn’t paid more attention to the mines when he reached his majority, that he hadn’t noticed sooner that his father was not the best steward for the estate.

That he returned to the manor each evening covered in sweat and grime. It was bad enough the local villagers knew. But he could envision Portia in London attending a tea, tittering with a group of ladies, laughing at the notion of him working for his supper as though he hadn’t been born into an elevated position in Society.

Hearing the footsteps, he turned slightly and watched as she charged into the room, wearing the deep blue gown that always made her appear so incredibly striking, that always made him want to remove the silk in all due haste. It taunted him now because he suspected she was going to object when next he went to touch her with hands that toiled. She had married him assuming him to be a gentleman, but a gentleman did not spend his day in the dank and chilled air beneath ground. A gentleman didn’t stink of labor rather than play.

He hadn’t been certain she’d join him for dinner now that she knew the truth. He hated the relief that swamped him because she was here, that she wasn’t leaving him to stew in solitude.

She came to an abrupt halt before him, her whiskey eyes searching his features, and he wondered what she saw now when she looked at him. A man who feared he might be a worse steward than his father, a man who shouldn’t have taken her to wife, who shouldn’t be striving to get her with child when he wasn’t certain if the lands would ever again be profitable. He shouldn’t yet be bringing an heir into this world, and yet he seemed incapable of not plowing into her each night. For a while, when he was lost in the heat of her, his troubles faded away. Yet they always returned with the sun, always—

His thoughts slammed to a halt as he realized she was holding something toward him. Glancing down, he saw resting in her palm the velvet pouch that he’d handed her the morning after they’d married.

“I’m returning the coins to you. I’ll keep a tally of what I’m owed, and you can pay me the amount when the mines are again profitable.”

“I don’t need the coins returned.”

“Still, I’m returning them.”

“I don’t want them.”

She spun on her heel, marched to the desk, and tossed them onto the center of it. “I’m giving them back. You don’t have a choice.”

The growl that echoed through the room was that of a wounded animal. Portia spun around to see Locksley charging toward her. She almost hiked up her skirts and ran. But she’d fled twice before in her life, and nothing good had come from it.

This time she stood her ground. He tossed his glass aside. It landed on the rug without shattering. Then his hands were on her waist, and he was lifting her onto the desk, coming to stand between her legs.

His green eyes were feral, filled with rage. She thought she should have been frightened, but she trusted that no matter how mad he might get he wouldn’t hurt her. His pride was bruised, scored, battered. She could see that now, wished she’d understood earlier what it was costing him to toil in the mines. Why could he not see how remarkable it made him that he didn’t simply sit back and hope for the best? That like her, he would do what he must to right a horrendous situation?

“I don’t want the bloody money,” he ground out. “I don’t want you to be kind or generous or understanding.”

She tossed her chin. “Never mistake practicality for kindness. You need the funds now to ensure we have more in the future.”

His dark laughter echoing around them, he shook his head. “I don’t want you to be practical. I don’t want you bringing music and sunshine and smiles into this house. I want you for one thing and one thing only.” With those large strong hands that had brought her so much pleasure, he grabbed her bodice, corset, chemise, and ripped them all asunder with one mighty tug that caused her breasts to spill out. “This is all I want of you,” he growled before taking one nipple in his mouth and sucking hard.

She dropped her head back as pleasure tore through her. “I know.”

“I don’t want you making me anticipate the end of the day.”

He moved to the other breast, closing his mouth around the turgid pearl and tugging. “I know,” she barely managed as sensations coursed through her.

“I’m not going to like you. I’m not going to care for you. I’m not going to love you.” He bracketed her face, his gaze boring into hers. “I’m not going to give you my heart. Ever.”

She nodded jerkily. “I know.”

“I don’t want you in my life. I want you only in my bed.”

“I know,” she repeated, for what else could she say? She did know.

He buried his face against her breasts, closed his arms tightly around her. “I will not love you,” he emphasized slowly, ardently, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was striving to convince himself more than her that the words he spoke were true.

She also wondered if it would be enough for them if she loved him. Combing her fingers gently through his hair, she repeated softly, “I know.”

He pressed his lips to the inside of one breast, needing only to turn his head slightly to kiss the other. “I don’t want you to taste so damn good, to feel so damned good.”

Raising her legs, she wrapped them around him as securely as she could, considering all the inconvenient petticoats she wore. Perhaps she should apply his rule regarding gloves to her undergarments—never to be worn in the residence. She scraped her fingers through his hair, brought her hands around until she was cupping his face between her palms, tilting his head up so she could hold his gaze. “I know precisely what you don’t want. What do you want, my lord?”

His harsh curse just before he swooped in to claim her mouth should not have delighted her, but the raw intensity of it had pleasure and satisfaction spiraling through her. She thought he might very well devour her with the feverishness with which he took possession of her lips, her tongue. Always there was a wildness between them, but at that moment it was more untamed, more uncivilized than it had ever been.

She knew he had been battered and bruised by her discovery, but the truth of it was that it only made her want him more. They were more alike than he’d ever realize, willing to do whatever was necessary to protect those who needed protecting, to ensure a safe future for those they loved. Although he would claim to love no one, she was well aware that he cared deeply for his father, for the estates, for the land. She was reckless to hope that some of his caring would be directed her way.

Yet when his heated mouth branded her throat with a series of kisses and bites, she couldn’t help but feel that within the realm of pleasure, she belonged to him as he did to her. Here they communicated more honestly than they did at any other time. Here there were no barriers, no lies, no deceptions. Here at least there was raw need, primitive desires, and bared wants.

With an arm around her hips, he dragged her to the very edge of the desk, shoved up her skirts, unfastened his trousers, and plunged deep and sure. Her cry of pleasure mingled with his groan of satisfaction.

“You feel so damned good,” he growled, before again capturing her mouth, his tongue thrusting in a rhythm that matched the movements of his hips, his arm at her back supporting her.

Clinging to him, she tightened her arms around his shoulders. She was a wanton to enjoy this inappropriate coupling so much, with the cool air wafting over her breasts, her straining nipples tingling as his jacket rubbed over them. Here in the library, on the desk, he pumped into her hard and fast. His mouth left hers to taste her elsewhere: her chin, her throat, the sensitive skin just below her ear where her pulse thrummed wildly.

Trying to hold back her cries, she bit her lower lip, but the action did nothing to muffle her scream when she finally came apart in his arms, trembling with the force of her release. His groan was that of a conqueror as he tensed, pouring his seed into her. With her legs, she squeezed his hips, tightened her muscles around him. He jerked, grunted before dropping his head to her shoulder.

“You have ruined this desk for me,” he said, his breaths coming in hard, short bursts. “How can I work here now without seeing you sprawled over it?”

“I’m not sprawled.”

Lifting his head, he held her gaze briefly before lowering his eyes to her breasts. “You can’t go into dinner like that.”

She laughed lightly. “No, I suppose I can’t.”

Stepping back, he lowered her skirts, then began to fasten his trousers. She didn’t want to acknowledge how bereft she felt with his leaving. He whipped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She’d barely clutched the opening closed when she suddenly found herself in his arms, being carried from the room.

“I can walk,” she said.

“After the way you cried out, I assume you’re far too weak. Your legs are still trembling.”

She felt the heat suffuse her face. “You weren’t so quiet yourself, you know.”

“And whose fault is that?”

She didn’t bother to hide her smile as she laid her head against his shoulder.

Gilbert stepped into the hallway. “My lord, dinner—is Lady Locksley all right, my lord?”

“She has come apart at the seams, Gilbert.”

Portia slapped her hand over her mouth to stop her laughter from erupting.

“My lord?”

“My London seamstress is not as accomplished with a needle as I was led to believe,” Portia said, surprised she was able to keep her voice so steady. “Her stitching didn’t hold as it should.”

“As you can well imagine, Gilbert, Lady Locksley has had quite a shock. We’ll be dining in our bedchamber. Have Cullie bring up a tray in an hour.”

“In an hour, sir?” Gilbert asked as he managed in spite of his arthritic knees to hop out of the way as Locksley barged past him and into the foyer.

“An hour, Gilbert. I need to settle my wife’s nerves first.”

Once they were headed up the stairs, she took his earlobe between her teeth and nipped gently, relishing his groan but wanting it to sound more tortured. “When we get to our bedchamber, you might as well rip everything off. It’s beyond saving.”

His responding growl served to make her wish he’d walk faster.

He’d never known a woman like her—ever. Following along with his tale about the seams, she matched Lady Godiva for boldness, and he could well imagine her riding naked through the streets without a single blush forming anywhere on her person. And damned if he didn’t want her again with a fierceness that made him feel barbaric.

After he kicked the door to his bedchamber closed behind them, he did precisely as she suggested and ripped what remained of her clothing from her body. There was something immensely satisfying and feral in the rasp of rending satin and silk, in the way that Portia simply stood there and let him have his way with her, her eyes smoldering with needs that matched his own. When she was completely bared, he lifted her back into his arms, carried her to the foot of the bed, and tossed her onto her stomach, leaving her legs to dangle over the mattress.

Breathing heavily, she rose up onto her elbows and gazed back over her shoulder at him as he tore off his own clothes, buttons popping off and pinging onto the floor with his haste. So desperate to possess her, he’d considered merely unfastening his trousers again but he enjoyed too much the feel of her silken skin against his. He was going to take her fast and hard, but by God, he wanted no cloth between them this time.

When he’d shed the last of his clothing, he stepped between her thighs, parted them with a spreading of his own legs. Leaning over her, he layered a series of kisses along her shoulder, following the curve of her neck. “You said I could take you from behind,” he rasped.

Her eyes heated. “So I did.”

He bracketed her hips, lifted them slightly, and plunged into the molten depths, her cry of satisfaction echoing between them. He slid one hand around until he brushed the tight curls at her apex, then parted the folds and pressed a finger to the swollen nubbin. He applied more pressure, caressing her outwardly while slowly stroking her inwardly. She whimpered and wiggled. He rained kisses between her shoulder blades, could feel her tightening around him as her whimpers turned to throaty moans and her breaths became uneven.

“Fly, Portia,” he rasped near her ear before swirling his tongue along the delicate shell. “Fly.”

Her cry came as she bucked against him, and her muscles closed tightly around him. He grabbed her hips and pounded into her a mere handful of times before his own release tore through him, darkening the edges of his vision until all he could see was her profile, with lashes half lowered, lips parted in wonder.

Sinking down, he pressed his cheek to hers, placing his arms so he bore his weight, and his chest barely skimmed her back. But it was enough to tame the beast that raged within him, the one that wanted her to be different than she was, to be the fortune-hunting title chaser that he’d thought he married.

She shifted her arm slightly, and her hand was suddenly in his hair, holding him near. And he realized with unerring accuracy that he had made many mistakes in his life, but when it came to her, he may have made the greatest one of all, because it was quite possible that he could come to care for her a great deal.

And that was the very last thing he wanted. Unfortunately he feared it might be too late to worry over what he wanted.