“Bravo!” Marsden exclaimed, clapping, his green eyes lively. “I daresay, Mrs. Gadstone, you certainly set my son in his place. Well done!”

“Please, you must call me Portia.”

While standing up to Locksley had gained her some favor with Marsden, it still took everything within Portia to keep her hand from shaking as she handed the marquess a cake. Tremors were cascading through her like a never-ending waterfall. It wasn’t just righteous indignation that was causing her to tremble. It was a strange and unwanted attraction to Viscount Locksley that was igniting every damned nerve ending she possessed.

Although she had never met him, she’d heard enough stories about him, listened as women waxed on about his good looks, that she’d known who he was the moment he opened the door. She’d been unprepared for the magnetism that his incredible emerald eyes had sparked within her or the desire that had hit her with such force that she’d nearly spun on her heel and gone racing after the coach. His hair, black as midnight, longer than was fashionable, served to make the brilliant hue of his eyes stand out all the more. She’d never in her life had such an immediate visceral reaction to any man. That she found him so incredibly alluring was distracting beyond measure, entirely unacceptable, and remarkably dangerous.

In spite of the rude and off-putting manner in which he was doing it, she knew he was striving to protect his father and couldn’t help but respect and admire him for it. Unfortunately for him she had someone to protect as well and she was going to do it at any cost, with any means available to her. Her mind, her body, her soul. She would use them all, in any manner required—no matter how unpleasant or unsavory—to accomplish her goal.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he reached a large hand inside his jacket and withdrew something from a breast pocket. A newspaper clipping that he began to unfold. Based on its size, she knew exactly how it would read. It seemed he was preparing to fire the next volley in this silently declared clash of wills. She shored up her defenses.

“Do you find the countryside to your liking, Mrs. Gadstone?” the marquess asked kindly. She would have liked to have known him when he was younger. She suspected he’d been quite the charmer.

“Strong,” Locksley declared before she could answer.

Unlike his son, who was sadly lacking in charm. Although one wouldn’t know it based upon all the tittering about him the females of London did. He’d swept half of them off their feet and into his bed if stories were to be believed.

Marsden sighed with obvious annoyance. “I shared my advert so you would know the qualifications I sought, not so you could use it against Mrs. Gadstone. She and I have already corresponded several times. I know she meets all the requirements I seek in a woman to provide me with an heir.”

“Surely then there can be no objection to my reassuring myself.” His narrowed gaze landed on her like a weighty thing that could crush a weaker woman. “Strong,” he repeated. “You must forgive my impudence, Mrs. Gadstone, but you don’t look as though you have the strength to shove that chair from one side of the room to the other.”

“I do, however, have the strength to call in a footman to do it for me.”

“How many households have you visited where the head housekeeper serves the tea?” He held up the keys he’d procured earlier and gave them a little shake, their tinkling echoing between them. “Our indoor staff includes only the butler, the cook, and the housekeeper.”

“Surely you have the means to provide for more staff.”

“We do, but my father is more comfortable with the staff we have.”

She smiled tenderly at Marsden. “Then I shall be so as well.”

“Hire as many as you like.”

Locksley’s jaw clenched, and she fought to keep her expression neutral. It seemed he wasn’t only engaged in a battle of wills with her. There was a sharpness to Marsden that belied the rumors claiming he was mad. Already his protectiveness of her reassured her that she’d made the correct decision in answering his advertisement.

“Healthy,” Locksley barked.

This time, she didn’t hold back the smugness. “I have never been ill a day in my life.”

“Even as a child?”

“Even as a child. I was never colicky. Never fevered. I still have all my teeth, so they’re healthy as well. Would you care to count them?” Regretting that last offer when his eyes darkened as though he’d count them by running his tongue over them, she waited with bated breath for his retort, grateful when he merely clucked his tongue and gave his head a small shake.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

She was actually surprised that he would take her word for anything. As he studied her, she waited, dreading the last one, hoping he might spare her—

“Fertile?”

Bastard. Here was the tricky part.

“There was a son. A dear sweet thing. He died before his first year.”

Locksley flinched, his eyes filling with regret as though he wished he hadn’t asked as much as she did. “I’m sorry for your loss. It was not my intent to cause you pain.”

At least he possessed some compassion, even if he was putting her through her paces. She should stop here but she’d come too far to leave any doubt as to her suitability. While she was marrying the marquess, it was evident that his son would play a large part in their lives, and he was the heir apparent. She would be providing the spare. It was imperative that she and Locksley not constantly be at odds.

“The boy was healthy and strong. He died through no fault of his own. The woman who was supposed to see to his care . . . was negligent.” She turned to Marsden. “I will hire neither a nanny nor a governess to oversee your son’s care. I will tend to him myself. He shall grow to maturity, good and noble, deserving of your family name.”

“I never doubted it, my dear.” He raised an eyebrow at his son. “Finished with your inquest? We have only an hour before the vicar arrives.”

She wondered how he knew that without looking at his watch. The clock on the mantel was obviously broken. It had shown the time as forty-three minutes past eleven when she walked in, continued to reflect the same hour and minutes even though she felt as though an eternity of interminable seconds had ticked by.

“I’d like a few moments alone with Mrs. Gadstone to ensure she understands exactly what it is to which she is agreeing.”

“As I mentioned, she and I have already corresponded. I’ve told her everything.”

“I’m sure you have. But sometimes a different perspective can cause enlightenment.”

“I don’t want you chasing her off.”

His gaze slid over to her. “She doesn’t strike me as someone who is easily chased off.”

Was that respect she heard in his voice? Or a challenge?

Picking up the ring of keys, he unfolded his long, lean body. “Allow me to show you what will become your new home, Mrs. Gadstone. I swear to you that I shall behave as a proper gentleman.”

She didn’t want time alone with him, and it wasn’t because she feared he’d misbehave. She was relatively certain he wouldn’t. Her concern was that he was too handsome by half, too tempting, too masculine. She knew from the gossips that he did not live a life of complete leisure, but was prone to traveling in barbaric, challenging parts of the world. He was broad of shoulder and muscled, but not overly so. There was a sleekness to his form. She could envision him slicing through water, galloping over the moors, hefting an ax to chop wood with equal measure.

She should decline, assure him it wasn’t necessary. Her mind was made up. As though deducing the path of her thoughts, he angled his chin down slightly, his gaze penetrating. A challenge. Drat him!

Slowly she tugged on her gloves. If he offered his arm, she was going to want the extra layer of material separating her skin from his. Rising to her feet, she took a deep fortifying breath. “I would be delighted to have you give me a tour of the place.”

“You don’t have to go with him,” Marsden said.

“Not to worry. I’m sure he’ll behave. And I do want your son and I to become fast friends.” She looked at the son from whom she knew she was best served keeping her distance. “Shall we be off?”

He walked over and extended his arm. Swallowing hard, she placed her hand on his forearm. She’d been wrong. The kidskin offered no protection whatsoever from the heat of his flesh, firmness of his muscles, and raw masculinity that radiated through him. If she didn’t think he would dub her spineless, she’d step back and tell him that she’d changed her mind. But the one thing she could claim with certainty was that she’d never been a coward.

She could hold her own against him, keep a distance between them.

The problem was, she wasn’t certain she wanted to.

When she placed her hand on his arm, his body reacted as though she’d placed her entire naked form against his. What the devil was the matter with him to have such a strong reaction to her nearness? Blast it all, he would be going to the village this very night. He could not stay in this residence, envisioning her in his father’s bed—

He clenched his back teeth together until his jaw ached. He was not traveling that path in his mind.

Leading her into the hallway, he cursed each breath that filled his nostrils, his lungs, with her jasmine fragrance. No common rose scent for her. Nothing about her was common. But still he couldn’t fathom why she would marry an old man when she could have a young swain.

“I wish to apologize for my insensitivity in questioning your fertility. I didn’t mean to bring forth such devastating memories.” The pain glazing over her eyes as she talked about her son had hit him like a punch to the gut. If he could have gone back and cut out his tongue before he began his asinine inquisition he would have.

“The boy is never far from my thoughts, Lord Locksley. His death haunts me and guides my actions. Which you see is to your benefit as it makes me empathetic to your cause. I know you are striving to protect your father from someone who would take advantage of him. I assure you that I wish him no harm.”

“Still, Mrs. Gadstone, I am flummoxed as to why you would not seek out love but would be willing to marry a man who is at least thirty-five years your senior.”

“I’ve known love, my lord. It provided little security. Now I am in want of security.”

“How long were you married?”

“We were together for two years.”

“How did he die?”

She sighed. “Illness. He took a fever.”

“Again, my condolences. How long ago?”

“Six months.” She peered up at him, a slight lifting to her lips. “You should ask your father to let you read our correspondence. All your questions would be answered.”

He doubted that. He suspected a lifetime would not be long enough to get the answers to the myriad questions he had about her.

“Are all the clocks in the residence broken?” she asked as they passed a tall one standing in the hallway.

He began escorting her up a set of stairs. “As far as I know none of them are. They were all simply stopped at the hour of my birth and the moment of my mother’s passing.” Half an hour was all the time she’d been given to hold him, all the time he’d been given to know her love.

“How did your mother die?”

“I killed her.” At the top of the stairs, he turned and faced her, surprised to see horror etched over her finely formed features. Apparently his father’s correspondence to her didn’t answer all questions. “During childbirth. Why do you think he named me Killian?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “I’m sure it’s only coincidence. He wouldn’t be that deliberately cruel to a child, to label him a killer.”

“I’m not certain cruelty was his intent. He merely wanted to ensure that neither of us would ever forget. I believe it’s important that you understand what life here at Havisham Hall entails. Let’s begin here, shall we?” Sorting through the keys on the ring, he found the one he required, slipped it into the lock, turned it, and swung open the door. He swept the cobwebs away before extending his arm toward the massive room, with its mirrored walls that stood two floors tall. “The grand salon. They hosted a magnificent ball here the Christmas before my mother died.”

Portia hesitated only a second before stepping over the threshold and onto the landing that led to the stairs descending into the musty-scented room. Cautiously, expecting the dull floor to give way beneath her feet with each step, she walked to the railing. She wanted to wrap her hands around it, allow it to provide some sort of support, but it was covered in a thick layer of dust. As far as she could see, everything was adorned in powdery film, decorated with lacy cobwebs. At the grimy windows that lined one wall, the faded red draperies were drawn back, revealing dust motes waltzing in the afternoon sunlight that filtered in to touch the vases filled with withered and dried stalks of flowers, their blooms long gone.

“On our way here, we passed several rooms with closed doors. Are they all neglected such as this one?” she asked softly, almost reverently. The setting seemed to call for quiet.

“Yes. After my mother passed, my father ordered that nothing be touched, that everything in the residence be left just as it was when she died.”

Trying to fathom what sort of impact growing up in a house like this might have on a lad, she looked over her shoulder at him. He stood tall and erect, his face reflecting no sadness, no happiness, no joy, no sorrow. He was accustomed to this bizarre attempt to keep everything as it was. “But nothing stays the same, nothing goes unchanged.”

“No, it does not.”

“You’re grown now. I have the impression you’re the one managing things. Why don’t you have the rooms tidied up, restored to what they were?”

“Because it would upset my father, just as hiring additional staff, having new faces walking through the residence, would unsettle him.”

So he lived in this dreary house filled with its empty memories. For his father. She couldn’t help but believe that he was a man capable of great love, great compassion. She had a fleeting thought that if she confessed all to him, he would make it right. What a silly lass she was to think he would look at her with anything other than disgust. No, she was on her own in this matter, had to see to her own needs, protect what was hers.

“You can’t compete with her, Mrs. Gadstone. My mother.”

“I have no intention of trying. I know what your father requires, what he wants of me. I accept what the limitations of our relationship shall be.”

“Why are you willing to settle for so little?”

Because it was her only opportunity to gain so much. “The son I give him will be a lord.”

“He will be the spare. He will not inherit until I die.”

In truth, she doubted he would ever inherit. Locksley would marry, gain his own heir. “Still, he will be Lord Whatever-We-Name-Him St. John. He will move about in the right circles, have opportunities, marry well. As for myself, I will be a marchioness, also move about in the right circles, and be very well provided for. He has promised me a dower house.” She looked over the railing. “May we go down?”

“If you like.”

It wasn’t so much that she liked, it was more that she needed to distract herself from the doubts that had begun to surface. If there was another way to save herself, she couldn’t see it.

He offered his arm; she nearly refused it, except she was averse to using the dusty and cobwebby banister. As he began leading her down the stairs covered in the faded red carpeting, she didn’t like noticing how sturdy he was, how strong. Or that he smelled of sandalwood tinged with oranges.

Once they reached the center of the room, she reclaimed her hand, turned in a slow circle, and imagined all this room had once been with an orchestra playing in the balcony, guests waltzing, Lord and Lady Marsden entertaining.

“What will you do after he’s gone?” she asked quietly.

“Pardon?”

Twisting around to face him, she realized by his blank expression that while he might consider his father old and shriveled, he hadn’t truly accepted that he was in the winter of his years, would not be here forever. “When your father dies, will you restore this manor to its magnificence?”

“I hadn’t given it any thought.”

He truly hadn’t. She could see it in his eyes, and she liked him for it. What must it have been like to grow up here, alone—

Only he hadn’t been alone. “The Duke of Ashebury and the Earl of Greyling were wards of your father, lived here when they were children.”

“That’s correct.”

“They refer to all of you as the Hellions of Havisham.”

He arched a dark brow, his gaze intensified as though he could see straight into her soul and read every story etched there. “It seems you already move about in the right circles.”

Damn it. She wasn’t being as cautious as she should be when speaking with him. “I read the gossip sheets.” Needing to distract him, she gave her full attention to the wall of windows, the glass doors that led outside. “May we go out onto the terrace?”

“I insist. It’s part of the tour.”

He led the way, flicked a bolt, and swung open the door. “After you.”

She stepped onto the stone veranda, wandered over to the wrought-iron railing, and stared at what had obviously long ago been gardens but had since been reclaimed by nature. Still here and there remained evidence that great care had once been taken with it. “No gardener.”

“No. Our outside staff is comprised of a head groomsman who also serves as coachman, and a couple of stable lads.”

“A pity. I so enjoy gardens and flowers. Does your father never leave the residence then?”

“Was the answer not provided in his correspondence?”

She shifted her gaze over to him. “I didn’t think to ask.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned his hip against the railing, painting quite the picture of raw masculinity. “I wonder what else you might not have thought to ask.”

“I was striving to make conversation, my lord. I don’t care whether he goes out. I obtained the answers to the questions that mattered to me.”

“Perhaps I should read your correspondence. I’d like to know what questions mattered to you.”

“I’m an open book, my lord.”

“I very much doubt that.”

“You are a suspicious sort.”

“Am I wrong?”

No, he wasn’t. She had secrets she would keep carefully guarded from him, from his father. She doubted the marquess would mind, but she suspected his son would care a great deal. Marsden merely wanted an heir. Locksley wanted to understand her. “I assume you go to London for the Season.”

She would welcome the months he was away.

“Occasionally. Not as often as I should. I don’t like leaving my father alone. Although it appears he can get into as much mischief when I’m here as he can when I’m gone.”

“With me about, you won’t be leaving him alone. You can go to London as much as you like. I’ve also heard you enjoy traveling. Where do you plan to venture off to next?”

“I haven’t journeyed anywhere in a couple of years now. Have no plans to in the near future.”

“But again, with me here, you’re free to do whatever you wish, go wherever you want.”

“Why am I left with the impression that you’re striving to be rid of me?”

Because she was and he was no fool. Still, she knew the value of a good bluff. “I’m simply trying to be a suitable mother to you. Give you some freedom. Lessen your burdens.”

Unfolding his arms, he stepped forward and touched his thumb to her lips, before very slowly outlining them, his gaze homed in on her mouth. Heat slammed into her. While he was only caressing the edges, it felt as though he was tracing his thumb along the very essence of her.

“I have to confess, Mrs. Gadstone, that I’m going to have a very difficult time viewing you as my mother.”

“You promised to behave.” Sounding breathless, her voice raspy, every aspect of her body attuned to his, she cursed him for his ability to stir to life what she was striving so hard to keep banked.

“So I did. But you are not yet wed. It seems like we should at least have a taste of each other before you are.”

He moved in. Her hand shot up to the center of his chest, his firm hard chest. Beneath her fingers she could feel the steady thudding of his heart, the tension riffling through him. “No.”

His eyes became heavy lidded, slumberous. “Afraid you’ll like it too much?”

Terrified that she would indeed be enamored of it. Although he was no doubt testing her loyalty. “I’m betrothed to your father.”

He angled his head slightly. “Betrothed is a bit of a stretch, isn’t it? You answered an advert. It’s not as though he caught sight of you across a ballroom floor, became ensnared by your beauty, and courted you. Before today, you’d never met.”

“Still, we are to marry.”

“What can it hurt to simply have a sample?” In spite of her hand pushing on him, he managed to lean in until his breath skimmed over her cheek. “He’ll never know.”

“I’ll know.”

“So you are afraid. I’d wager you’re as aware of me as I am of you.”

“You’d lose that wager.”

“Prove it.” His lips, soft and warm, landed at the corner of her mouth. “Prove you’re not drawn to me, that there is naught between us.” He pressed his lips to the other corner. “Surely your resolve to marry my father will not be undone by one kiss.”

It was dangerous, so very dangerous. She needed to shove him away, knew it was the wise course, but her strength seemed to leave her while he nibbled on her lower lip. Her eyes slid closed as the heat swamped her. His tenderness took her off guard. It had been so long since anyone had shown her any tenderness, since anyone had enticed her with a light lapping at the seam of her mouth. She couldn’t prevent the moan from escaping, and in the sound he must have heard her surrender, because the gentleness receded and his mouth came down on hers, hot and hard, hungry and greedy. She should push him aside, kick him, step on his foot, but the awareness had been shimmering between them since he’d opened the door. He was young and virile. Where was the harm in one last kiss of youth, of being held in strong, sturdy arms, of having her breasts flattened against a firm, broad chest? Everything within her screamed that she should run. But his mouth was working its delicious, glorious magic.

And she melted against him.