As Portia stared at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing table, she was somewhat nervous about the arrival of the marquess’s wards this afternoon. It was one thing to be paraded about the village as the viscount’s wife. It was quite another to socialize with respectable ladies who were well above her not only in station but in reproach when it came to behavior. After all, one was married to a duke, the other to her second earl. While the countess’s second marriage and the early arrival of her son had created quite the scandal, it didn’t change the fact that she had noble blood coursing through her veins.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were dreading today,” Locke said.

She glanced over to where he’d sat to tug on his boots. Finished with the task, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. So remarkably handsome, so self-assured. He had no plans to go to the mines today. She suspected he wouldn’t frequent them until after their guests left. “I’m simply trying to decide which gown to wear.” Swinging around on the bench, she faced him squarely. “I don’t want to embarrass you or behave in a manner I ought not.”

Narrowing his eyes, he scrutinized her. “Surely when you answered my father’s advert, you expected to entertain nobility.”

“To be quite honest, no. I knew him to be a recluse and rather thought that my time would be spent with him and him alone.” She waved a hand. “Oh, I thought you might be here on occasion, but I suspected you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

“If you never expected to entertain, why the devil are you tidying the rooms?”

The billiards room had not been high on her list to be set to rights, although in hindsight, she supposed it should have been. It would bring pleasure to her husband. When she’d first walked through it, she’d seen evidence of footprints left by young boys. Over the years, the dust had covered them but it hadn’t filled them in. She could well imagine the excitement that had thrummed through them when they’d discovered the contents of that room on one of their midnight excursions.

“Because it seemed a shame for a residence as magnificent as this one to be uncared for. Surely you want your children to treasure their heritage. How can they if we leave it all to rot?”

She’d also cleaned up the nursery. The marquess had sat in the chamber and watched while she and the servants saw to that task. He wore a soft smile as though envisioning his grandchildren sleeping and playing in there. The guilt had taken hold and she’d been unable to shake it off completely. Women were so much more intuitive than men. Perhaps that was what she feared: that the ladies would see right through her, would recognize the reasons behind her desperation, would figure her out.

As for the rooms for their guests, she’d discovered that Ashebury and Greyling both had bedchambers down the hall. They’d merely needed to be tidied.

She didn’t like that her husband held his tongue and continued to study her as though he was beginning to realize the truth about her.

“I’m a commoner, Locksley,” she felt compelled to remind him.

“So is Minerva.”

The Duke of Ashebury’s wife. “Her mother is nobility, so she has some blue blood in her veins. Regardless, she grew up among the aristocracy. Her father is wealthy enough that a king would have asked for her hand.”

“Read that in the gossip sheets, did you?”

Gossip shared by a couple of women she knew, silly women like her who had thought they were headed for better things only to find themselves in a far worse predicament. “I’m afraid I might set a foot wrong and they’ll think you a fool for taking me as your wife.”

After unfolding that tall, lean body of his that only an hour earlier had her screaming his name, he walked over to her, crouched, and brushed stray strands of her hair back from her face. “You may have been born a commoner, Portia, but you are now a lady. As such, you will be afforded respect and nothing you do will be questioned—least of all by those who are arriving today. The Marquess of Marsden is the closest thing to a father that Ashe and Edward have had for nearly a quarter of a century now. From the moment they arrived, they became my brothers. Think of them as family. As for their wives, they’re extraordinary women. I assure you that they’ll not sit in judgment. But if they do, they’ll find you remarkable.”

Her lips parting slightly, she stared at him, surprised by his compliment, so rarely did he offer her praise. As though embarrassed, he shot to his feet and headed for the door. “Wear the lavender gown.”

With that, he was gone.

Things between them were changing—slowly, irrevocably. He was coming to truly care for her. She was rather certain of it. She wouldn’t feel guilty about it, would not wish that she wasn’t coming to care for him as well. Instead she would merely pray that he never learned the truth.

Having spotted the coaches from an upstairs window, Locke had escorted Portia outside so they could welcome their guests. He wasn’t surprised that the four coaches arrived at the same time, two bearing the Ashebury crest and the others bearing the Greyling crest. He’d assumed that his friends would meet up so they could arrive together in order to receive the same first impression of his wife.

He didn’t know why Portia’s nervousness called to his protective nature. Perhaps because since she’d come to Havisham Hall she’d been so fiercely independent, stood toe to toe with him, that he’d assumed she never doubted, never wavered, never had second thoughts. He didn’t like her appearing vulnerable, susceptible to hurt. Had he opened his door to see the worry in her eyes and the number of times she licked her lips while waiting for the coaches to draw to a halt, he might have taken more pity on her that first day. He still wouldn’t have allowed her to marry his father, but things between them might have started out on a different foot.

“You have nothing to prove to them,” he said quietly, and she snapped her head around to stare at him. He disliked the moments when she appeared so young, so vulnerable. “They didn’t ask me to approve their selection in wives. I’m not going to ask them to approve mine.”

“Do they know how our marriage came about?”

“I’m not sure what my father may have told them. I merely wrote that I’d taken a wife—just a bit of information in case they visited. Show them the backbone you showed me that first day and you’ll do fine.”

“It was easier then as I didn’t care whether or not you liked me.”

He laughed. “I didn’t care if you liked me either.”

“I didn’t. I thought you a pompous ass.”

He grinned. “Imagine them the same way then.”

“I’d prefer they fancy me a bit.”

They were going to adore her. He stiffened with the thought that had sprung forth so easily, with such surety. If they felt that way toward her, how could he not? Except he refused to allow anything other than his head to rule him and his emotions. It was merely practical to like her, as it made things between them more pleasant and enjoyable. He wasn’t going to confuse practicality with love. Thank goodness the coaches finally drew to a halt. He needed to turn his attention to matters other than striving to explain his ludicrous thoughts. Before he even realized what he was doing, his hand was on Portia’s waist, giving a gentle squeeze. “Let’s introduce them to Lady Locksley.”

Portia was determined to be a good hostess. Her parents had entertained frequently enough that she’d learned early on how to make someone feel comfortable. On occasion they’d even welcomed nobility into their home.

But none of their guests had been as important on a personal level as those who were pouring out of the coaches were to Locksley. She not only wanted to make him proud, she wanted him to be pleased with her efforts. Remaining where she was, she watched as servants and children spilled out of the last two coaches while her husband greeted with a handshake and a clap on a shoulder the man who agilely leaped out of the first coach bearing a ducal crest. The Duke of Ashebury. They were of equal height, the duke’s hair not quite as black as Locksley’s. Beside Ashebury, her husband appeared darker, more dangerous, more forbidden. He looked to be the sort her mother would have warned her against.

Yet he was the one who’d saved her.

She shook off that thought as the duke turned back and assisted from the coach a woman with hair that appeared at once both dark and red, depending on how the sun played over it. The former Miss Minerva Dodger, now the Duchess of Ashebury. Her smile was bright as she gave Locksley a hug. Portia was taken aback by the sharp stab of jealousy that pierced her chest. The woman was married to a dashing duke. She wasn’t going to seek a dalliance with the viscount, although her easy manner told Portia that she would be as comfortable greeting a prince or a king. But then according to the gossip sheets, Minerva’s dowry had equaled the treasury of some small countries. Portia assumed when one was graced with so much money, one was relaxed around a good many people.

A wheat-haired gentleman and dark-haired lady had exited the earl’s coach and now approached Locksley. He hugged the woman, pressed a kiss to her cheek. The Countess of Greyling, who had won the hearts of two earls. Then Locksley was shaking hands with Greyling. They exchanged a few words, a grin, a chuckle.

Watching the camaraderie shared between the group, Portia had never felt so isolated or alone. Instinctually, she knew they’d never abandon each other, regardless of foolish mistakes or errors in judgment. She’d have traded her soul for such loyalty in friends or family.

Locksley turned to her and held out his hand. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she walked to him, placed her palm against his, and welcomed his fingers closing firmly around hers. “Allow me the honor of introducing my wife, Portia.”

“According to your letter I expected her to be a toad,” Ashebury said. “Pleasantly surprised to discover she’s not.”

“I didn’t describe her in my letter.”

“Exactly.”

“Don’t speak of her in the third person as though she’s not here,” Minerva said, slapping her husband playfully on the arm, before turning to Portia. “Ashe is a photographer. He spends a great deal of time noticing how things appear and trying to capture the truth about them through the lens of his camera.”

Then Portia was determined to never sit for him, because she didn’t need him uncovering her truth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Graces.”

“Oh, please, let’s not be quite so formal. I’m Minerva. This is Julia.” She indicated the dark-haired woman. “And Grey.”

“I prefer Edward,” Greyling said, taking Portia’s hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“He’s not yet quite comfortable with the title,” Julia said, moving in and bussing a light kiss over Portia’s cheek. “Welcome to the family.”

“Thank you. I hope you’ll find the accommodations to your liking, but if there is anything—”

“What are you up to, sweetheart?” Edward asked, and Portia looked over to see him reaching down to a small girl less than three who was holding on to his trouser leg and peering around it. He hefted her up into his arms. “Say hello, Lady Allie.”

She buried her face against his shoulder. “My brother’s daughter is a bit shy among strangers.”

“A hellion, though, once she gets used to you,” Ashe assured Portia.

She received only a quick introduction to the Ashebury and Greyling heirs, held by their nannies, before Locksley was whisking them all to the terrace where the marquess was waiting for them.

The affection that both couples and their children felt for Marsden was obvious and heartwarming. It was also apparent that he adored the children, no doubt part of the reason that he’d taken matters into his own hands to acquire an heir. Tears threatened to well up as she imagined the love he would shower upon her child. All of London might think him mad but she thought when it came to love he could very well prove to be the sanest person she’d ever met.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Locksley asked near her ear, standing slightly behind her.

She shook her head. “I rather like them. Your father is wonderful with the children.” She watched as the marquess took Lady Allie’s hand and began walking with her through the weeds. Portia sighed. “I need to get to work on the garden.”

“Not today,” he groused.

She laughed. “Not today.” But soon. If Marsden didn’t object. Perhaps she’d plant his wife’s favorite flowers. Watching him, watching his wards and their wives, watching the children, all made her long for the warmth of family she’d never had, for the love she knew her husband would never shower upon her.

“So how did you meet her?” Edward asked. “She’s not familiar.”

He, Ashe, and Locke were sitting in chairs near the fireplace in the library, glasses of scotch in hand. Portia had taken the women to the morning room for a spot of tea. His father had claimed to be in need of a nap, although Locke suspected he was playing with the children in the nursery. He would not feel guilty because his father seemed to take such delight in the little ones and Locke had yet to provide him with an heir. “Know every woman in London, do you?”

“Quite a few, yes.”

As a bachelor, Edward had been the most promiscuous among them, but as the second in line to the title, he’d never expected to marry. Then he’d fallen in love with his brother’s widow and that was that.

“So she’s from London?” Ashe asked.

“She traveled from London. Her family lives in Yorkshire.” He gave Edward a pointed look. “Gadstone?”

“Not familiar with the name.”

Locke grimaced. “Actually Gadstone is her married name. I don’t know her family name.”

“Bit odd that,” Ashe mused.

“My father arranged to marry her. Until she arrived for the wedding I’d never met her.”

Ashe and Edward exchanged glances before Ashe said, “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a long story, but my father took out an advert for a wife. She answered it. Except I didn’t trust her.”

“So you married her?” Edward asked incredulously.

“Better me than my father.” The whole thing sounded ludicrous and made him come across as a fool. “He signed a damned contract stating that the girl would marry when she arrived. It was either him or me.”

Edward burst out laughing. “The clever bugger. I’d wager that all along he planned for it to be you.”

“You’d win that wager. I figured it out a bit late. Not that I have any complaints. She’s comely enough and quite talented in areas where I appreciate talent.”

“Good in bed then?” Ashe asked boldly.

“Marvelous in bed.”

“Your father had been after you to take a wife,” Edward pointed out.

“He never much liked us not obeying him, did he?”

“He seems . . .” Ashe’s voice trailed off as he studied his scotch. “Happier I suppose is the word I’m looking for. More at ease.”

“Portia has changed things around here a bit. They’re not quite so gloomy.” Understatement. Not all the changes she’d made were visible. He expected at any minute for the clocks to simply start ticking on their own. “It’s been a while since my father was out chasing wraiths over the moors.”

“You don’t suppose he’s upstairs filling the children’s heads with tales of ghosts snatching them in the night, do you?” Edward asked, clear concern in his voice.

“They’re too young to fully comprehend what he may be spouting,” Ashe assured him.

“Allie’s not. She’s sharp as a whip, that one. Took after her father. If I don’t finish with a bedtime story, she’ll remind me the next night exactly where I left off. Uncanny the things she comprehends and recalls.”

“Is it difficult raising your brother’s daughter?” Locke asked.

Edward shook his head. “Not a day goes by that I don’t wish Albert were still here, but having Allie in my life is no hardship, even if I’m not the one who sired her. I see a good deal of Albert in her.”

Which meant he saw a good deal of himself. Although Locke had never had difficulty telling the twins apart, some people had.

“Do you suppose we have time before dinner for a quick ride over the moors?” Ashe asked.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Locke said.

“I could stay in this room all day,” Minerva mused on a soft sigh.

Portia had brought them to the morning room to enjoy their tea and biscuits. They were sitting in the area near the windows that would be jutting out into a garden if they possessed one. It would no doubt be next year before she had flowers blooming.

“Whenever we visited,” Julia began, “I was curious about the rooms hidden behind closed doors, but was always afraid I’d find a ghost lurking about.”

“No, only spiders,” Portia assured her.

Julia visibly shuddered. “You are courageous.”

“Hardly. It just made me sad to think of everything being left to ruin.”

“This house has needed a woman’s touch for a good many years,” Julia said. “I’m glad you’re here. It feels different already, more welcoming, less frightening. And the marquess seems quite content.”

“He’s anticipating an heir.”

“Are you with child?” Minerva asked.

Portia quickly shook her head. “It’s too soon.”

Minerva smiled. “Not really. It can happen the first time as easily as any other time. Of course I am assuming that Locksley has exercised his husbandly rights.”

Portia wondered if she’d suddenly landed in the middle of summer. Her skin was clammy and warm. “Fervently and rather often,” she said, her voice low. She’d discussed men quite frankly and openly with a couple of other women when she lived in London. She didn’t know why she was uncomfortable with these two. Perhaps because they were ladies, and she’d always assumed the upper-crust females never carried on conversations about what went on behind closed doors.

“Honestly, Minerva, leave off,” Julia said, making Portia grateful for the rebuke. “Poor Portia is turning as red as an apple. Not everyone is as comfortable as you discussing such intimate topics.”

“But we should be. There should be no shame in our bodies or the way they function. It’s part of life, to be celebrated really.”

“Would you care for more tea?” Portia asked, ready to move on to something less personal.

“I hope I didn’t offend,” Minerva offered.

“No, not at all.”

“Oh, there they go,” Julia said.

Portia looked to the window where her guest was gazing out. She saw Locksley and the others galloping off over the moors. “You say that as though you expected it.”

Turning back to her, Julia smiled softly. “They usually ride out shortly after we arrive. I think it reminds them of when they were young and wild, although I suspect back then they were hoping to sight a ghost.”

“Julia knows them better than anyone,” Minerva said. “Well, I know my husband better than she does, of course, but she’s known them longer.”

“I’ve been in the family longer,” Julia conceded. “Although they may not be related by blood, they are a family. Albert and Edward were only seven when their parents died. Ashe was eight. Locke was six when they moved here.”

Portia eased up to the edge of her chair. “It must have been strange for him. He told me that he was alone before they arrived, had no other children with whom to play, not even from the village.”

“As I understand it, yes, he was quite isolated here. The marquess was still in the depths of his despair over the loss of his wife, even though it had been years since her death. He never abused them, though. You won’t hear a one of them say a bad word about him.”

Still, she tried to imagine what it had been like for Locksley. Perhaps he climbed walls to gain his father’s attention. “What was he like when you met him?”

Julia laughed. “Younger than he is now. I suppose it’s been eight years or so since I met him. He was always more contemplative than the others. Quieter. Not one to engage in idle conversation. Not that the ladies seemed to mind. As long as he danced with them, they didn’t care if he didn’t speak at all. Although actually he seldom attended a ball.” She shook her head. “To be quite honest, he hardly ever spent any time in London. I think he prefers the solitude and barrenness of this place.”

“Although I daresay there probably isn’t quite as much solitude now that you’re here,” Minerva said. “By the by, how did you manage to capture his attention and lure him into marriage?”

Portia released a deep sigh. She didn’t really want to go into the details. “The marquess arranged it. I required security; he required an heir. Locksley obliged. I don’t think you’ll find a marriage in all of Britain that is based on more convenience than ours.”

“But you love him,” Minerva said.

Portia felt as though Minerva had slammed her balled fist into the soft area just below her sternum. She was no longer a young, naïve girl foolish enough to fall in love with a man who would never truly love her. “No.”

She did wish the word rang truer, sounded more firm.

“You do realize he cares for you,” Julia offered.

Once again, Portia was feeling warm, almost dizzy. She forced out the words. “I assure you that he holds no deep affection for me.”

Julia and Minerva exchanged a knowing glance.

“My dear, I believe you’re wrong there,” Minerva said. “Based on the way Locksley looks at you, I’d say he was besotted.”

She shook her head. He couldn’t love her. It would make things more difficult if he did. She’d married him because she’d known he’d never love her. It was so much easier when he wanted from her only one thing, when he viewed her as merely a bedmate, a body to be used. That her silly heart might long for his love was merely wishful thinking. It wasn’t practical, and her head knew it to be a terrible notion.

“You’re wrong,” Portia insisted. “He has sworn to never love.”

“She has a point, Minerva,” Julia said. “It is his favorite mantra to repeat.”

“He can repeat it all he likes. The heart hardly ever listens to what we tell it. It has a tendency to go its own way. He might not be madly in love but I’d wager my entire fortune that his heart is not locked up as tightly as he might wish.”

Contrary to what Minerva might believe, Portia knew that did not bode well for her future.

Locke couldn’t remember ever being with a woman who made his chest swell with pride. He’d certainly not expected it of Portia when he’d married her, but then nothing about his marriage to her was as he’d predicted. Well, except for what passed in the bedchamber. He’d judged her abilities correctly there.

But he hadn’t anticipated that she’d be an outstanding hostess. During dinner, the fare had been splendid, the wine excellent, the conversation pleasant. It didn’t matter who was discussed, Portia was familiar with them—not personally but based on their exploits captured in the gossip sheets. She’d mentioned before that she read them, but now he was beginning to think the woman devoured them. He made a mental note to begin having some delivered to Havisham Hall from London.

He also needed to order some more recent music sheets. The ones his wife now used to entertain them in the music room were remnants from his mother. Portia seemed perfectly content with them, but he did wonder what sort of music she would prefer to play. He found himself pondering a good deal about her, even as he cautioned himself against the curiosity.

Ashe and Edward seemed to like her. The women obviously did. Although she was a commoner, she fit in nicely with the aristocracy, could hold her own. A chameleon. Which gave him pause. Where had she learned to be comfortable around all walks of life?

Ashe leaned over. “She’s delightful, deserving of better than a man who claims to have no heart.”

“Her performance is deserving of silence,” Locke shot back quietly.

Ashe had the audacity to merely chuckle.

The marquess had joined them for dinner, and now he sat with his eyes closed, his face relaxed. Locke imagined he was traveling back to a time when another woman played the piano for him. He’d spent a good deal of his life not asking questions about his mother, not wanting to bring forth memories that might upset his father. Only now was he beginning to realize that by curtailing his inquisitiveness, he may have been allowing his father to remain lost in his grief. Although to be honest, neither had he wanted to know what his mother’s death had denied him: a ruffling of his hair at bedtime, a soft smile when his lessons were completed satisfactorily, a gentle laugh when he presented her with a handful of plucked wildflowers. His life would have been different had his mother not died. He’d never truly wanted to acknowledge that fact. He’d opted for pragmatism and accepted life as it was.

Portia made him long for more. She made him want to embrace life with unyielding passion. For all her claims to be a commoner, there was nothing common about her.

The final chords she’d struck lingered, like memories reluctant to fade away. Everyone clapped. She ducked her head, blushed. It always amazed him that a woman as bold as she would blush. It made her all the more endearing, which wasn’t what he particularly wanted—and yet Ashe was correct. She deserved a man willing to open his heart to her.

“Would anyone else care to play?” she asked.

“I never mastered the piano,” Minerva said.

“Which is odd, considering how nimble your fingers are when it comes to cheating at cards,” Ashe responded with far too much pride reflected in his voice.

“You cheat at cards?” Portia repeated.

“On occasion, if I need to win. It depends on the stakes. I can teach you if you like.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Locke said, although he couldn’t recall a single time when his wife had followed his edicts. If she wanted to learn to cheat, she’d find a way—just as she’d tidied rooms he’d forbidden to be tidied, showed him the possibilities so he couldn’t object. She was clever that way. Never asking for permission but risking his wrath and managing to avoid it when all was said and done.

“To be quite honest, I’m rather exhausted,” Julia said. “It’s been a long day, with the traveling and all. I believe I’m going to have to turn in.”

“We both shall, shall we?” Edward asked, coming to his feet and assisting his wife.

Locke didn’t know if he’d ever grow accustomed to Edward being so solicitous to her. For years, Edward had claimed to abhor the woman and she despised him. How odd it was now to see them so deeply in love.

His father shoved himself up out of the chair, walked to the window, and gazed out. “Linnie appreciated seeing you all here tonight.”

Locke exchanged glances with Ashe and Edward. In spite of all the changes that Portia had heralded, some things remained untouched.

“It is rather late,” Locke admitted. “We should no doubt all retire.”

His father turned. “When the time comes you’re to bury me beside her.”

As though Locke would ever consider anything else. “Yes, well, the time isn’t going to come for a good long while yet.”

“I suppose you’re right. Still much to be done, although you’re the one who needs to be doing it. An heir, Locke, you need an heir.”

“Working on it, Father.” Every night. Not that he found the task daunting or unpleasant. Characterizing it as work was inaccurate.

“Then we should all get to bed and let you get back to it,” his father said.

Locke couldn’t stifle his groan. Honestly, the man didn’t think before he spoke. He’d have a time of it if he ever decided to return to London and polite society. His father began ushering them out as though they were children again. Perhaps in his mind they were. It was difficult to tell sometimes when his father slipped into the past.

In the hallway of bedchambers, Locke bade their guests good night while Portia offered them sweet dreams. Only after they closed their doors, leaving Locke, Portia, and his father in the corridor, did he turn to the marquess. “Sometimes you say the most inappropriate things.”

“I’m old enough not to care. Time is short. I must be direct.” He winked at Portia. “You were a marvelous hostess, my dear. I knew you would be.”

“It’s easy when our company is so pleasant.”

“You look tired.”

“It’s been a long day.”

His father studied her as though searching for something before finally nodding. “I suppose it has. I’ll see you both in the morning.” He wandered into his room. Locke turned the key in the door.

“I do wish you didn’t have to do that,” she said.

He wished it as well. “A lot of memories stirred up today. He’ll be wandering the moors if I don’t.”

“He seemed so content tonight.”

Locke almost turned the key the other way. “Because he believes my mother was gazing in through the window. Don’t make me feel guilty about my desire to keep him safe.”

“You’re right, of course. I’m sorry.”

He offered his arm, led her into their bedchamber, fighting to ignore the stirrings he heard in the chambers they passed. It seemed his friends were a randy lot. Not that he blamed them. Something about the isolation out here called to one’s baser instincts. In London, during any of his travels, he’d never been as desperate to possess a woman as he was to have Portia. If he wasn’t striving to maintain a bit of decorum and distance, he’d have taken her hand and dashed to their room.

Closing the door behind them, he pivoted around to find her waiting in the center of the room, her back to him. His unlacing her gown had become a nightly ritual. After shrugging out of his jacket, he tossed it onto a nearby chair. His waistcoat and neck cloth joined it before he approached her. He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. On a soft sigh, she dropped back her head.

“Father was correct. You are an exceptional hostess.”

“The additional servants helped.”

Why was she always so reluctant to take credit for her achievements? That first day, modesty was not something he’d expected of her. He went to work unlacing her gown. “You’ll have to hire more as you continue cleaning out the residence.”

“I thought I would cease with those efforts until the mines are paying off again.”

His fingers stilled at the small of her back. He wished she didn’t know the truth of the mines. “No need. We’re not beggars, Portia.” Not yet, anyway.

He eased her gown down to floor. After she stepped out of it, she faced him. “Will you discuss the mining situation with Ashebury and Greyling?” she asked.

“No. They know naught about mining.” He cradled her cheek. “You are an incredible lady of the manor. Let me pamper you.”

Once he had all her clothes removed and her hair unpinned, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Another ritual. He didn’t know why he enjoyed it so much when she could just as easily walk those remaining few feet. But he liked that he dictated the pace, that he determined if they went slowly or quickly.

“Roll over onto your stomach,” he ordered. She didn’t object. She never did, and for the first time, he wondered if she would tell him if there was something she didn’t like. Ashe and Edward were more in tune with their wives. It had been evident all night. They would have no doubt known if their wife was exhausted long before they retired to the bedchamber. It wasn’t that he didn’t pay attention. He simply didn’t know Portia as well as his friends knew their wives.

But then they’d known their wives a good deal longer than he’d known his. However, even as he sought the excuse, he knew the truth was that he’d had no desire to truly know her.

Opening a drawer in the table beside the bed, he reached in and removed a vial.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“A musk-scented oil I purchased during one of my travels. The seller assured me it would bring heightened pleasure. I thought to test it on you.”

“If the pleasure you bring me is heightened any further, I’m likely to expire on the spot.”

It was a good thing he’d removed his waistcoat. The buttons might have popped off with the swelling of his pride. He’d never doubted that he brought her pleasure. He couldn’t explain why he wanted to bring her so much more. Nor did he know why a shiver of foreboding went through him at the thought of her dying. “Let’s give it a try, shall we?” he asked, brushing her hair aside until it all pooled on her pillow.

She came up on her elbows. “With company about? I don’t need to be screaming tonight.”

“Bite down on the sheet.” He rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, loosened the buttons at his throat. He removed the stopper from the vial, poured some cool oil into his palm, and rubbed his hands briskly together to warm the liquid. He pressed his hands to the small of her back. With a moan, she flattened herself against the mattress and closed her eyes.

He took long leisurely strokes up and down either side of her spine, well aware of her going limpid beneath his touch. “What is your father’s name?”

The tightness instantaneously returned. “Why are you asking?”

“When I was talking with Ashe and Edward earlier, in the library, they had questions to which I had no answers. It made me curious.”

“He’s no longer in my life so his name is of no concern.”

He moved his fingers in circles over her shoulders. She’d told him that before, but it suddenly seemed important that he know, if not that, at least something about her. “Share with me a memory from your childhood.”

She sighed long and softly. “I’m too tired.”

So her defenses were down and he was the worst sort of scoundrel to take advantage, but then a hellion must live up to his reputation. “You’re very good at entertaining. Did you learn that skill at home?”

“Yes, we often had visitors and were expected to put on a good show.”

Furrowing his brow, he caressed the length of her back, kneaded her enticing bottom. “What sort of show?”

“That we were a happy family. That my father was a good man.”

“Wasn’t he?”

She rolled onto her back. He gave her a devilish smile. “Are you ready for me to massage your front?”

“I’m ready for you to cease with the questions. Who I was, how things were—they don’t affect now. Us. What is or is not between us. I left all that behind.”

“All what?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You married me without it mattering. It can’t matter now.”

“Did he hurt you?”

With a grimace, she closed her eyes. “He didn’t believe in sparing the rod. I’ll say that much.”

He wondered if memories of the bite of the rod had caused her grimace. She had no scars, but one could inflict pain without breaking skin.

She opened her eyes. “Please leave the past in the past.”

Words he’d often muttered in connection with his father. If he’d heeded them perhaps Locke would have held a different attitude toward love, perhaps he wouldn’t now be married to Portia or dribbling fragrant oil on her chest, watching it pool in the hollow between her breasts. Setting the vial aside, he splayed his fingers wide, gathered up some of the oil on his thumbs and began spreading it over her skin, up to her collarbone, down to her hips. He shouldn’t be concerned by the fact that Ashe and Edward knew the smallest of details about their wives while he knew not the largest one about his.

He knew what mattered. She wasn’t averse to working. She considered herself superior to no one. She was an excellent hostess, kind to his father, and worried about the mines not because of what their failure might deny her but what it might deny the estate.

Reaching up, she combed her fingers through his hair, cradling her palm around the back of his head, and drawing him down until his lips met hers. She never only took. He should have known she wouldn’t tonight, no matter how exhausted she claimed to be.

He took her slowly, gently. With no rush, no blistering needs, no fury. When the passion rose and she was on the cusp, he covered her mouth, swallowed her screams, relished her body tightening around him, unleashing sensations that threatened to tear him apart even as they made him feel more powerful, invincible.

Panting, still trembling in the aftermath of the explosive release, he rolled to his side, drew her in close, flicked the sheets over them both. She was correct. The past didn’t matter, but damned if he didn’t wish he’d met her when she was a young girl so now he would know everything about her.