He couldn’t stomach the thought of being in the residence with her, considered going to the club, but he couldn’t abide the notion of inflicting his foul mood on others or dealing with the possibility of running into Beaumont. He might truly kill the man if their paths ever again crossed.

So he sequestered himself in the library, with the door locked so no one could disturb him, and drank straight from a bottle of whiskey as though he were a barbarian. Everything made sense now. Why she’d answered his father’s advert. Why she refused to speak of the past. Why her family wanted nothing to do with her.

She’d been a man’s mistress.

He slung the bottle toward the fireplace, taking no solace as it shattered in the hearth, glass flying, whiskey splashing. He should be grateful there were no flames to catch the liquid alight, but at the moment he was hard-pressed to be thankful for anything. He stalked to the liquor cabinet, retrieved another bottle, and downed half the whiskey before coming up for air.

Damn her! Damn her! Damn her!

She’d made him care for her. He dropped into a chair and fought the excruciating anguish that threatened to bring him to his knees. He’d trusted her, enjoyed her company, made love to her. With her, it was more than sex. While he’d never left a lover wanting, he’d given more of himself to her than he’d ever given anyone.

Damn it all to hell if her betrayal didn’t hurt more now for it. Had only a week passed since his damned meeting with Beaumont when he’d rushed home to be with her and had almost spouted that he loved her?

She made him want to recite poetry, enticed him into smiling, laughing. She lured him into looking forward to the day and anticipating the night. She calmed his demons and brought solace.

She’d made him believe that she carried his child. Acknowledging that deception very nearly doubled him over. Instead he gulped down what remained in the bottle, anything to dull the agony that threatened to rip him apart. He’d been right to shelter his heart all those years, to close it off to the mere hint of love.

Love was not something to be sought, heralded, or admired. It was merely a false mask for cruelty and disappointment.

He’d wanted a woman he couldn’t possibly love. He’d certainly succeeded in that regard. Before dawn, he intended to wipe clear any kind thought, any joyful memory, any speck of caring where she was concerned. He would feel nothing toward her, nothing at all.

Portia had wept until exhaustion overtook her and she fell asleep fully clothed, lying on the floor. She didn’t stir until the door opened and Cullie walked in.

“M’lady!” The young girl rushed over and knelt beside her.

“I’m all right,” Portia assured her as she pushed herself up. She ached inside and out, but the inner pain was so much worse. Had she known Locksley then as she knew him now, she wouldn’t have married him. But she’d thought him a man with no heart, who would never care for her, never care for their children. A man ruled by obligation.

A man she hadn’t liked and didn’t care if she deceived. But then Beaumont had taught her to trust no man. That every man cared about only his own selfish needs. So what was wrong with a woman doing the same?

So much, she realized now. So much was wrong with it. How would she ever live with herself?

“Here, m’lady, let me help you up.”

She moaned as Cullie assisted her in standing. Her neck popped as she twisted it one way, then the other. Arching, she rubbed the small of her back. What a silly woman she’d been not to rouse herself and crawl into bed.

“You do look a fright, m’lady, but I think we can get a quick bath in if you like before we leave.”

It seemed Portia’s mind was as sluggish as her body. “Leave? What are you talking about?”

“We’re returning to Havisham. His Lordship has ordered us to be packed and ready to depart within the hour.”

But they were planning to stay until the end of the Season. She slammed her eyes closed. How could they after last night’s revelation? “Where is Lord Locksley?”

“In the library.”

“Do prepare a bath.” She felt incredibly soiled, should have washed off Beaumont’s touch from the night before, but she’d been too devastated by Locksley’s reaction and words to do much of anything except wallow in regret. “I’ll return momentarily.” First she had to speak with her husband.

He was in the library just as Cullie had informed her. Sitting behind his desk, he looked as ghastly as she felt, shadows beneath his eyes, unshaven, his jacket, waistcoat, and neck cloth absent. With her arrival, he didn’t bother to rise. Merely handed two envelopes to the waiting butler. “See that those are dispatched in the post today.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Burns pivoted sharply and headed for the door. He bowed his head slightly as he neared her. “M’lady.”

“Burns.” She waited until he was gone to approach the desk where Locksley had returned to scribbling pen over parchment, totally ignoring her. “I thought we were staying until the end of the Season, that you had business to attend to.”

“Introducing you to Society was the business. Anything else I can handle from Havisham.” He tossed down his pen, leaned back, and held her gaze, his green eyes revealing nothing, completely emotionless. “After last night, London has left a sour taste in my mouth.”

“Will you let me explain?”

“What is there to explain, Portia? You were Beaumont’s mistress. He got you with child and no doubt refused to marry you. For some reason, after living in sin for two years, you drew the line at bringing a bastard into the world. I suppose I should admire that you had a line you wouldn’t cross when it came to improper behavior, but I’m hard-pressed under the circumstances to admire anything at all regarding you. You sought marriage to my father, taking advantage of a gentleman who isn’t quite right. When I stepped in to protect him, you accepted me as a substitute knowing full well that another man’s child”—he shoved back the chair and pushed himself to his feet—“could bloody well be my heir!”

She didn’t know if she preferred the coldness of his gaze or the fury that now burned within the green depths. He was entitled to his anger. She wouldn’t hold it against him nor would she turn away even as each second under his harsh glare flayed her heart.

“Have I the right of it?” he demanded.

“I’ve been praying for a daughter.”

He laughed harshly. “Then let’s bloody well hope that God answers that prayer, shall we? Between us, our child would have either red hair or black. How were you going to explain presenting me with a blond-haired child?”

“My father is blond, as I told you. It’s possible—”

“You conniving tart, you have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

His words were as hurtful as physical blows. She’d walk out if she weren’t keenly aware that she deserved the unkindness he threw at her. Swallowing hard, she took a step nearer. “If you want to divorce me, I’m willing to publicly acknowledge that I was unfaithful.” It would destroy her, but she had to make this right.

“Ah, yes, let’s have all of London question my foolishness in marrying. There will be no divorce, as I suspect it will do no good, since that babe is coming at least two months early, isn’t he? No matter how insistently either of us deny it, the law will make him mine. Even if I disowned him, even if I went to Parliament and admitted to being a fool—”

“You’re not a fool.”

“Of course I am. No, there will be no divorce.” He moved around the desk and began to stalk toward her. “You will remain my wife.”

She backed up. He advanced.

“But I want no more from you than I wanted the day we wed: for you to warm my bed when the need strikes.”

She came to a halt so abrupt that he nearly slammed into her. “I will not be your whore.”

“You were his.”

The crack of her palm making contact with his cheek echoed through the room. “I was not his whore,” she stated with utter conviction. His mistress, yes. The woman who had foolishly loved him, yes. But she’d never given herself to Beaumont for gain.

Locksley’s gaze burned into hers. She could see the bright red hue of where she’d smacked him. His face had to be stinging as much as her hand.

“You’d do well to eat breakfast before we leave.” He spun on his heel, presenting her with his back, walking away from her. “Our sojourn to Havisham will not be leisurely. We’ll be stopping only at night.”

At that moment, she realized she’d been mistaken when she believed Beaumont had broken her heart. He’d merely bruised it. Only Locksley had the power to shatter it, and he’d done it with remarkable ease.

He had chosen to ride his horse rather than travel in the coach with her. Whenever they rounded a curve, she would look out the window and see him trotting ahead, such a lonely figure, the sight of which caused an ache in her chest. Although even from this distance, she could sense the anger roiling off him. He sat so stiffly in the saddle. Even when the dark clouds rolled in and the rain started, he didn’t seek shelter within the confines of the vehicle. She should have welcomed his absence. Instead she mourned it.

Reaching into the wicker basket that the cook had presented to her before leaving, she removed a block of cheese, took a bite, and slowly chewed. There had to be some way to make this situation right. She didn’t expect him to ever forgive her, wasn’t certain she’d ever forgive herself. At the time, she’d had no choice, no options—or at least not any that she could see. In hindsight—

A light fluttering just below her waist caused everything within her to still. She dared not breathe, but simply waited for it to come again. Detecting the tiniest flickering, she placed her hand on her slightly rounded stomach and slowly released the air she’d been holding. Her babe. Tears stung her eyes. Her little one. How was it possible to love someone so much when she had yet to meet her—or him?

She’d burn in hell for the path she’d chosen to save this child. But at that particular moment she didn’t care about her own welfare. She cared only that she knew beyond any doubt that no matter how furious Locksley may be at her, he’d not do what Beaumont had threatened: he’d not have the baby killed.

Locke had driven them hard all day. It wasn’t that he was particularly anxious to return to Havisham, but he wanted to put as much distance between him and London as possible. Although he wasn’t willing to kill the horses, so when the Peacock Inn had come into view he’d called for them to stop for the night.

He’d secured rooms, escorted his wife to hers, arranged for a tray to be taken to her, then settled at a table in the corner of the tavern. In need of a bath and shave, he more closely resembled a highwayman than a lord. But he hadn’t the aspiration to see to either. He was beginning to understand why his father paid so little attention to his own appearance.

When one had been betrayed—whether by death or deception—the will to carry on shriveled into nothing. The depth of his despondency astounded him.

He’d thought of the child Portia carried as his, had believed it was his, had anticipated its arrival more than he’d thought possible. Then to discover that another man had planted the seed—

Every time he considered that moment on the terrace and the words Beaumont had flung at him, he wanted to put his fist through a wall—or better yet, through the blighter’s handsome mug. When he contemplated the earl touching Portia, gliding his hands over her, kissing, suckling, thrusting—

God help him, he thought he would go mad.

It made no sense. He’d known when he married her that she’d been with another man, but he’d viewed him as an abstract shadow, given him very little thought. Besides, he’d believed him to be dead. Knowing the man was very much alive made everything repugnant. That she had willingly given herself—

His dark laughter had those sitting nearby turning their heads to stare at him. He finished off his ale and slammed the tankard on the table, getting the barmaid’s attention. Not even a minute passed before he was gulping down a fresh pint.

He’d bedded women who weren’t married to him, weren’t married at all, and he’d never been disgusted by them. On the contrary, he’d considered them adventurous and fun. If he had met Portia under other circumstances, at a ball or a dinner or a garden party, he couldn’t claim with certainty that he wouldn’t have tried to seduce her. He’d wanted her the moment he’d opened the damned door to her. He’d have reveled in taking her, enjoyed every moment, and never once would he have blamed her or been put off by the fact that they weren’t married.

I was never his whore.

Because she had loved the fellow. That portion of her story was true.

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

He couldn’t reconcile the fact that Beaumont had possessed her love and had tossed it away. Not that Locke had ever had any desire to possess her love or even wanted it—

“I’ve had a bath prepared for you.”

He jerked his gaze up to Portia, who, by the looks of her, had bathed. Her cheeks were rosy, her hair was pinned up, and her traveling frock showed nary a wrinkle. “I’m not in need of a bath.”

“I daresay even from here I can dispute that claim. Think of your poor horse. You wouldn’t want him to expire from the fumes.”

She was not going to make him smile or lessen his anger. “Return to your room, madam.”

Instead of obeying him, she had the audacity to pull out the chair opposite him and take a seat. “Our arrangement was that we would at least be respectful to each other.”

“That was before I knew you to be capable of horrendous deception.”

“Once we married, I never lied to you.”

“But you were certainly full of deceit before we married.”

At least she had the good graces to flinch. “Will you not at least let me explain?”

“No.”

“But if I—”

“No!” Once again, he garnered the unwanted attention of the tavern customers. “Do you not understand that I can barely stomach the sight of you? Why the devil do you think I’d prefer riding in the rain to traveling in a well-sprung conveyance?”

The woman who had stood up to him so many times blanched. Tears welled in her eyes. He wouldn’t soften toward her. Ever. “I thought you a cold bastard.”

“Even a cold bastard should have the choice of serving as father to another man’s leavings.”

“Would you have married me if you’d known?”

“No.”

“Would you have allowed me to marry your father?”

“No.”

“So you’d be out ten thousand quid.”

“It would have been money well spent.” But even as he spit out the words, he wasn’t certain he spoke the truth. He wanted to hurt her as he’d been hurt, his agony making no sense. How was it that she had the power to decimate him?

“It must be a wonderful thing indeed to have never felt powerless, to have never been frightened, to have never been completely alone, abandoned by all those whom you thought had loved you. To experience the overwhelming responsibility of knowing an innocent child was completely dependent on you for survival.” She pushed back the chair and stood. “I don’t regret my actions, not a single one. I do regret that I seemed to have hurt you when I thought you were a man immune to hurt, to caring, to love.”

“I don’t love you.”

“That’s obvious. Good night, my lord.”

She walked away. He ordered more ale, intending to drink himself into oblivion so he could forget, at least for a few hours, that never in his life had he been as content as he’d been with her before he walked out onto the terrace, that he’d begun to believe his father had given him a treasured gift when he’d brought Portia into his life.

He recalled the horror on her face when he’d announced that he would marry her. It had pricked his pride that she’d been so adamantly opposed to the notion. He was a good catch for any woman, but especially for a commoner who didn’t move about in aristocratic circles. He understood now that she hadn’t objected because she didn’t want him; she’d objected because she didn’t want to burden him with the child she carried.

She was correct that for his father it wouldn’t have mattered. Locke fully intended to provide a son someday. To his father, the child would have merely been a welcome addition to the family. If only she’d told them the truth—

Locke would have scoffed and declared the contract voided.

What of the child she’d claimed had died? It would have been a bastard. Why not give the same care to it as she had to the second? Unless there had been no first child, unless she’d lied about its existence as a way to prove her fertility because she’d known an announcement she was with child would come shortly after they were wed. No wonder she’d been so concerned with consummating the marriage. If he hadn’t been so randy, he would have messed up her plans. Instead he’d played right into her hands, taking her so often that it would be impossible to believe he hadn’t gotten her with child.

Little wonder she hadn’t been thrilled with the prospect of going to London and facing the possibility of running into Beaumont. Before Locke had interrupted their little tryst on the terrace, he’d seen her face marred with disgust, had heard her order him to unhand her. Had heard Beaumont’s veiled threat that she come to him—no doubt because he’d tell Locke everything if she didn’t.

He’d told him anyway, and Locke had seen the devastation crumple her face. But in his fury, he’d ignored it. He hadn’t wanted to comfort her; he’d bloody well wanted to strangle her for playing him for a fool.

Why shouldn’t she? He’d claimed to never love. He’d been forthright that he wanted only one thing from her: her body. She’d no doubt seen the scapegrace Beaumont in Locke; only Locke was offering what Beaumont wouldn’t: marriage.

Why shouldn’t she have grabbed it with both hands?

Sitting here with far too much drink coursing through his veins, a thousand questions swirled through his mind, a thousand things he should have asked her. He should have pressed her regarding her reasons for responding to the damned advert, but he’d wanted to fill his palms with her breasts and fill her with his cock. He hadn’t gone in search of the truth because he’d feared that it would prevent him from tasting her fully.

Perhaps he was no better than Beaumont. Perhaps he deserved her deception. He’d acted as a barbarian. Why should she have cared about the cost he would pay when he’d treated her no better than a whore?

Portia lay on her side beneath the covers, staring at the pale moonlight filtering in through the windows. Her life had been a series of escapes, of running away, each one leading to something worse than what had come before. Reading the gossip sheets, she’d never considered the nobility to be very noble. The men were womanizers; the ladies were silly chits who cared only about gowns, fans, and dance partners. None of them had real troubles or concerns. Through Montie, she’d learned they were a selfish lot concerned only with their own wants and needs.

The other mistresses she’d known had seen the upper crust as a means to an end. Nice residence, fancy clothes, fine jewelry. And if it meant giving up one’s good name and reputation, they thought it worth it for all they gained to be spoiled and pampered, even if it meant indulging the whims of a specific gentleman anytime day or night. To be his bird in a gilded cage, to sing when prompted, to keep silent otherwise.

Mistresses mistakenly believed they had some prestige, some power that eluded those silly shopgirls. Portia would have preferred to be a shopgirl.

She hadn’t followed Beaumont to London to become his mistress. She’d followed him to become his wife.

Although she doubted Locksley would understand. She wished she hadn’t been so quick to discourage any talk of their pasts. She’d been so worried that he’d figure her out that she hadn’t given him a real opportunity to get to know her. Perhaps if she had, he’d have been more understanding when he learned the truth. Perhaps if she’d known him better, she’d have grasped how to tell him before Beaumont could toss out his hateful rejoinder.

She’d made such a mess of things, handled everything poorly. But knowing what Beaumont had planned for this child—his offspring—she’d seen no other choice in order to ensure the child’s safety as well as her own. She’d needed someone who could stand up to the earl. Could a farmer or a shopkeeper or a blacksmith have taken Beaumont to task? Could any of them have struck him and not found themselves brought before a magistrate? Could any of them have threatened him with ruination and carried through on it if it came to that?

Locksley could. Locksley had and when his fist had struck Beaumont, at that moment, she loved him more than she thought it possible to love.

Hearing a key scraping in a lock, she bolted upright and reached over to increase the flame in the lamp. The door burst open. Locksley charged in, slammed it behind him, and stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes those of a madman. She’d seen him angry before, but he was always controlled. At that moment, it appeared he was barely holding on to a strained tether, that he was contemplating murder.

As she scrambled out of bed, he staggered across the room, stumbled, grabbed the post at the foot of the bed, and glared at her. “How did you come to be his mistress?” he demanded, revulsion hardening his voice.

She wanted to explain, to confess all, to tell him everything, but not when he was in this condition. “You’re foxed.” She didn’t bother to hide her disgust at seeing him in this unkempt and repulsive state.

“At least three sheets to the wind, if not more.” He wavered, tightened his grip on the post until his knuckles turned white. “Answer me, my lady. How the devil did you come to be his mistress?”

“Do you really want to do this here, where people might hear through the walls?”

“Bloody well explain to me what possessed you to crawl into his bed.”

“I never crawled, damn you. I loved him. I thought he was going to marry me. I gave myself to him because I believed he loved me as well.” Tears stung her eyes.

“For two years?”

She laughed bitterly, hollowly. “Where does a woman go once she is ruined? Once her family has washed their hands of her, declared she is dead to them? I loved him,” she repeated. “I thought he would marry me. He never said he wouldn’t. He only said it took a while. For the first time in my life I was happy. I felt cherished and appreciated. I don’t expect you to understand, you who has an aversion to love, but having his cherished regard made me so much more than I was. I was so glad to have him in my life I would have done anything to keep him there, did do anything.”

Breathing heavily, he closed his eyes, widened them as though he struggled to stay focused on her. “How did you meet him?”

Clutching her hands together, she realized it all sounded so stupid now. What a silly chit she was. “His estate is near the village where my father serves as vicar. There was a fall festival. I was always forbidden from attending at night when the bonfires were flaring and the music played and people were laughing and dancing. But I could hear the festivities, the joviality. I was all of nineteen, and I decided I was missing out on life. So I slipped out through my bedchamber window, climbed down a tree, and ran off into the night like some wanton, experiencing my initial taste of freedom. He was there. He danced with me and spoke with me and strolled with me. Just before dawn he kissed me. It was so gentle and sweet.”

Not like the first time Locksley had kissed her: demanding, devouring, determined.

“So you ran off to London with him.”

She hated that he sounded so blasted judgmental. It wasn’t as though he’d led the life of a saint. She’d actually returned home to an existence that involved hours on her knees, at her father’s command, praying that the devil would not have his way with her. Whenever she could, she would sneak off to be with Beaumont. For a year it was picnics and rowing and strolling and innocent kisses. But Locksley was too drunk to care about all that. “Not right away. My father discovered what we were about. He insisted that I was sinning with a lord even though our time together wasn’t carnal, but Father was determined I wouldn’t bring him shame. He arranged for me to marry a farmer.”

“A farmer when you wanted a lord,” he sneered.

She was growing weary of his thinking the worst of her. “I wasn’t opposed to marrying a farmer but he was three times my age.”

“A bit of irony there in you answering my father’s advert.”

“One does what one must. Beaumont asked me to come to London with him, promised he would always take care of me, that he loved me with all his heart. I assumed he meant to marry me. So I ran off with him. He was exciting, young, handsome, and a lord. What woman could want for more?”

Releasing his hold on the bedpost, Locksley bounded forward and wrapped his fingers around the post nearer to her as though he still needed the support to keep himself upright. “And when you got to London?”

The truth stared her in the face but she refused to see it. “He set me up in a house on a street commonly known as Mistress Row. Several lords lease townhomes there for their fallen women. At the time, I thought it temporary. Still, I was so pleased to be away from Fairings Cross and my father and marriage to an old man that when Beaumont kissed me with a bit more urgency and claimed he’d die if he didn’t have me, I didn’t resist. After all, we were going to marry.”

“But you didn’t marry.”

“No. I was silly enough to believe we would until I got with child. Before that, he put me off by saying that we had to wait until he was established within the aristocracy, until he was respected enough by everyone that he would be forgiven for marrying a commoner. Otherwise life for me would be unpleasant. He was trying to protect me, you see? Or so he said. And why shouldn’t I believe him when he loved me and I loved him?”

“Then you got with child and realized he was a scoundrel.”

She held his gaze. “I realized he was much worse than that. He told me that we would farm the baby out and someone else would take care of it. I was devastated. I wanted to care for the child, hire a nanny. But he assured me that wasn’t the way the aristocracy handled matters. Are you familiar with baby farming?”

He blinked, released his hold on the bedpost, and leaned his shoulder against it. “No.”

“The upper class’s dirty little secret. Sophie lived in the townhome next to mine. Lord Sheridan’s mistress.”

“You danced with him at the ball.”

She released a burst of laughter. “Indeed, and it curdled my stomach.” Fortunately he’d never met her although she’d spied him on occasion entering Sophie’s residence.

“You didn’t seem displeased by his attentions.”

“When you serve as a man’s mistress, you learn to disguise your feelings. Without the lessons I learned from Beaumont, I’d have never made it through my first day at Havisham. You’d have figured me out in a flash.

“Anyway, I was having afternoon tea with Sophie and mentioned my disappointment that someone else would raise my child, that my son or daughter would grow up away from me, and that I had no idea how often I might be allowed to visit my little one.” Clasping her hands tightly before her, she forced herself to plow through. “Sophie explained that when Beaumont said that someone would take care of my child, he didn’t mean that person would nurture and care for it. Rather he meant that she would kill it.”

The silence that descended over the room was nearly deafening. Portia wanted Locksley to say something, anything, but she quite understood his inability to speak. After Sophie had hit her with the truth, she’d stared at her teacup for long minutes striving to deal with the horrendous reality of her child’s future.

“He had a mistress before you, you know?” Sophie had said.

She hadn’t known.

“She lived in the same residence as you. I came to know her rather well. She, too, got with child and he farmed out the babe. He took the bairn from her within minutes of her giving birth, when she was too weak to stop him.”

Her heart clutched and tears welled. “That’s awful.”

“She never forgave him. When she was strong enough, she tried to find the babe. But it was too late, of course. She became so despondent that he simply cast her out.”

Portia had never felt so ill in her life. Every tender feeling she’d ever held for Beaumont had withered at his heartlessness and cruelty.

“I suppose you confronted him,” Locksley said now.

Slowly she shook her head. “No, he’d made his position clear, and I learned that he handled the babe of his mistress before me in the same manner. It was her child I described when you asked me about my fertility. Where Beaumont was concerned I decided it better to pretend ignorance until I determined a course of action. They advertise, these baby farmers. It’s usually a widow, offering to take on a sickly babe for a certain amount per week with the option of paying a larger amount and being done with it.” Looking at Locksley, she took some comfort in the horror etched on his face. “People are actually wagering on how long the child will live. Is it cheaper to pay by the week or more advantageous to hand over the higher single fee? I didn’t believe Sophie at first. No one could be so cruel as to neglect a child until it dies. But I scoured the papers for the advertisements, found a couple and while I was at it, I spied your father’s. I saw his as a way to save my child.”

“Surely you had other options.”

“I wrote my parents, telling them that I’d gotten into a bit of trouble and wanted to come back home. My father informed me that I was dead to them. Beaumont never gave me an allowance. I never thought to ask for one. He provided everything I required. So I had no coins of my own. He gave me several pieces of jewelry but he kept them in a safe, to be worn only when he saw fit. I didn’t know how to access it. I considered pawning off some of his possessions, but I feared I’d find myself charged with being a thief. A man who had no qualms about killing his own child would surely have no regrets when it came to making his mistress suffer for disappointing him. Marriage to your father seemed my only salvation. A woman in my position is vilified. I’d have not been able to find employment, not even in service. So tell me, my lord, how was I to survive and keep my child alive?”

“There had to be another way.”

The impertinence of him thinking that she hadn’t exhausted all her options irritated her beyond reason. “Yes, well, when you think of it be sure to let me know. Meanwhile, it’s late and I’m tired. I’m going back to sleep.” She turned for the bed.

His arm whipped out. He grabbed her, hauled her up against him. The fury was still burning in his eyes, but she saw something else there, something that almost looked like unimaginable pain.

“You should have told me,” he ground out.

While the guilt surged through her because she hadn’t, she couldn’t escape the truth of where that path would have led. “What difference would it have made? I fully understand what I am: a disgrace, a loose woman with no morals. If I’d told you before we were married, would you have still married me? No? Allowed me to marry your father as I’d planned? I seriously doubt it. Given me a house, an allowance, vowed to care for me and my child anyway? Or sent me on my way? If I’d told you after we were married, would you be any happier than you are now?”

He plowed one of his hands into her hair. “I might want to throttle you less. Do you have any idea how much restraint it took on my part not to murder Beaumont on the veranda? That’s why you hesitated to go to London. You knew the truth would come out.”

“I knew there was a chance. I prayed my secret would remain hidden, but it seems of late my prayers are not being answered.” Which meant in all likelihood, she would give birth to a son.

“You could have warned me before we went to London.”

Only she’d known she’d lose him. She’d wanted to hold on to him a bit longer. She shook her head as tears burned her eyes. “I couldn’t. I knew the truth would cause you to hate me and I’d made the ghastly mistake of falling in love with you.”

He gave a caustic laugh. “You seem to fall quite easily.”

Anger fissured through her. “I will not stand here and suffer through your unkind regard.”

She made to move past him, but he grabbed her arm, swung her around to face him. “I was raised by a man who gave his heart only once. You gave yours to Beaumont. You think that feeling the same for me is some sort of honor when I know what a scapegrace he is?”

Had his pride been pricked? Or was it that he didn’t believe her? Why should he believe her after all the lies she’d told him? “What I feel for you, I never felt for him. Not this intense, not this huge, not this terrifying. I would give anything for this child to be yours. The one thing that I don’t regret about the past two years is that it provided me with the opportunity to come to know you.”

“Damn you, Portia. Damn you for getting under my skin, for burrowing so deeply that the very thought of extricating you makes me even angrier.”

Was that his way of saying he cared for her, that she had disappointed him, ruined his life? She released a bitter laugh. “Oh, I have no doubt that I am damned.”

“We’re both damned. We might as well enjoy our time in hell.” His mouth landed on hers with a sureness and a purpose to which she no doubt should have objected, but she couldn’t turn him away, not when she wanted him so much, not when she felt raw and exposed and so terribly alone.

She could draw strength from him, from his desire for her. He might not love her—at that moment, he no doubt despised her—but they could revel in their bodies coming together. Besides, she wanted him as she’d wanted very little in her life.

Looking back, she could see now that she’d held affection for Beaumont, but it hadn’t been soul-deep, hadn’t absorbed her very essence. Otherwise, she’d not have been able to walk away so easily, without a backward glance, without any regrets. The same could not be said of Locksley. What she felt for him defied description. Under normal circumstances they’d have never met, but if they had he certainly would have never married her. And yet, despite the agony of losing him, she couldn’t quite regret it.

He dragged his mouth along her throat and she dropped her head back to grant him easier access. It had been torment to sleep alone, to have not had him in her bed after Beaumont’s cutting words.

“I’m drunk,” he growled. “Send me away.”

If he were sober he wouldn’t be here. If she were the good and decent girl her father had tried to bend her into being, she wouldn’t be here. But she was neither good nor decent, and if drunk was the only way she could have him, she’d take him drunk. “No,” she breathed on a raspy sigh.

They tumbled onto the bed, and he went still, completely still. She heard a sonorous snore. For the best. In the morning, he wasn’t going to remember a thing about tonight. Lying on her side, she pressed her back against his chest, drawing comfort from his nearness, knowing she might never have it again. He draped his arm over her, his splayed fingers coming to rest against her swollen belly. The child moved, his hand flinched, before he pressed it more firmly against her.

“I wish it were mine,” he murmured.

Her heart nearly broke. Things between them would never be the same, never be right again, because he now possessed the knowledge about something that couldn’t be undone, that could never be overlooked or forgotten.

She wished it was his as well, but it wasn’t. It never would be. She’d been wrong to believe it ever could be.