She had to take such care in answering his questions that it was trying beyond measure. There had never been a husband. She wasn’t a widow. But there had been a love, what she had thought was a grand love. What a fool she’d been. She wasn’t going to make the mistake of falling in love again. He had no interest in it and neither did she. Which should have made them perfect for each other. Instead it served to tie her stomach into knots. She could have coerced the marquess into caring for her. She didn’t stand a chance of doing that with his obstinate son.

Yet she felt this insane urge to be as honest as she could with him. If he ever discovered the full truth, he would at least see that she had limited her deception as much as she was able. Of course, if he discovered the full truth, it would all be moot, as he was likely to kill her anyway. Put those strong hands of his about her neck and choke the very life from her.

But she couldn’t worry about the future. She had to concentrate on the present. And presently he was leading her down the hallway to the library. He strode into what she was certain could easily become her favorite room. While it was tidy, it still had a musty scent to it that wasn’t completely a result of all the books that lined the shelves. She wondered how long it had been since the room was aired, the carpets beaten, and the draperies washed.

He walked over to a painting of dogs on a hunt, flipped it aside as though it were a door, and revealed a safe. While she couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, she heard a series of metal clicks. Then there was a clack. The clinking of coins, followed by more clanking before he swung the painting back into place.

He returned to her side, held up his hand. She extended hers, palm up. He dropped a velvet pouch into its center. She was incredibly tempted to open it and count out the money, but it had the correct heft and there should be some trust in their relationship. He gave her what she could only describe as a disappointing smile before heading for his desk.

“Go ahead and count it,” he said.

“I trust you.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “No, you don’t.”

Had he been able to read her mind? That would be unfortunate. “If I discover it short later, I know where to find you.”

He hoisted a hip onto the edge of the desk, crossed his arms over that wide chest. “Anything you require I will purchase for you, so why do you need an allowance?”

“For things that aren’t required.”

“Such as?”

She lifted a shoulder. “A frivolous bonnet.” A residence. “An extra pair of slippers.” Food. “Chocolates.” A new life. Safety. Security.

“You are my wife, Portia. It is my duty to see after your care.”

“The care of my person, yes, but the care of my heart? I daresay you no doubt draw the line there.”

“I want you to find happiness here.”

He almost made her feel guilty for taking advantage—almost. But too much was at stake. She held up the pouch. “I have.”

He shoved himself up off the desk. “I have to get to the mines. Enjoy your day. And be prepared for tonight. You won’t get another reprieve.”

“I didn’t ask for one,” she reminded him sharply. “I was willing to have a go at it this morning, but you turned me down.”

He strode up to her, stopping within a hairbreadth of her. “You can’t possibly imagine what that cost me.” He cradled her face with one large, powerful hand. “This will probably cost me as well in torment for the remainder of the day, but damn if you don’t have the most kissable-looking lips I’ve ever seen.”

Then his mouth was on hers, proving his point. And damn if his lips were just as kissable. They were full, his mouth broad, and his tongue so very skilled at stroking and exploring. She found herself flattened against him, not certain if she’d stepped into him or he’d drawn her near. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way his hands rubbed her back with sureness, with possession, the manner in which he angled his head to taste her more fully, providing access so she could taste him more intimately. Whatever he’d eaten for breakfast was washed away by the dark coffee he drank. She wasn’t surprised he didn’t begin his morning with tea. She suspected he was a man of strong desires in all matters: spirits, food, coffee, women.

He wouldn’t take her lightly or gently. He might take her slowly, but when it came down to it, he would crush her, be as demanding as he was now, insist that she not hold back, that she give fully all she had.

He might be the lord of the manor, her husband, the head of the house, but when it came to the mattress she could hold her own. She’d been tutored by the best. She wouldn’t retreat, wouldn’t allow him to master her between the sheets. They would be equal, true partners. A day might come when he regretted having her for a wife, but she made a vow then and there that he would never regret having her for a bed partner.

Tearing his mouth away, he stared down at her, his breaths coming swift and heavy. She slowly ran her tongue around her lips to have a final taste of him. His groan was that of a tormented creature as his eyes darkened.

“Until tonight, Lady Locksley,” he ground out before spinning on his heel and charging from the room.

She could do little more than gape after him. She’d fully expected him to shove her onto the desk and take her there. Dear God, but he was a man of incredible restraint and strength of purpose. She’d not be able to bend him to her will easily.

On the other hand, it was that very aspect of him that excited her. He could stand his ground against anyone. He could safeguard her, as long as she gave him a compelling reason to want to protect her. A child would accomplish that. She needed to ensure they consummated their marriage tonight.

With her coins nestled in her skirt pocket, she spent half an hour in the library looking over the books, striving to find something to read, to occupy her time. But it wasn’t the assortment of literature she wanted to explore. It was the residence itself, even if it was nothing more than a series of locked doors. Except that the locks had keys.

She made her way down to the kitchens and found Mrs. Barnaby rocking in a chair in her office, sipping a cup of tea.

“Mrs. Barnaby,” she said.

The older woman’s eyes widened, and she shoved herself to her feet, her bones creaking along the way. “M’lady.”

“Mrs. Barnaby, I’d like to borrow your keys for a spell.”

Much as she had the day before the housekeeper slapped her hand against the large ring. “They’re my responsibility.”

“Yes, I know. And I will return them before the day is done.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Lady Locksley, but I can’t give them to you.”

“Oh, I believe you can.”

She shook her head more forcefully. “I can’t.”

With a deep sigh, Portia held out her hand. “You can and you will.”

“You can’t command me.”

“I’m the lady of the manor.”

“We’ll see what his Lordship has to say about that.”

Before Portia could respond, the woman was rushing—faster than Portia had thought her capable—out of the room. “His Lordship has gone to the mines,” she called out after her.

“Not the viscount,” Mrs. Barnaby shouted over her shoulder. “The marquess. He won’t stand for this at all.”

Portia almost called her back, almost rescinded her request, but it was a matter of pride now. She would not be cowed, nor would she bother her husband with this. She was relatively certain he would agree with her position, but it was her hope to lessen his burdens, not add to them. Whether or not the marquess was in agreement with her right to have the keys was another matter. She suspected it had to do with where his mind was this morning.

She followed Mrs. Barnaby up the stairs and waited outside the marquess’s bedchamber as the woman knocked briskly.

“Come in,” he called out.

With a flourish, Mrs. Barnaby opened the door and marched in. Portia went in as well. The marquess was sitting in a thick cushioned chair near the window, looking out.

“She wants me keys,” Mrs. Barnaby announced sharply.

Glancing over his shoulder, Marsden squinted. He seemed smaller today, more frail. “Who wants your keys?”

“Lady Locksley.”

“Lady Locksley?”

Oh, dear Lord, had he already forgotten who she was? She stepped around Mrs. Barnaby. “My lord—”

“Ah, yes.” He held up a gnarled finger. “Lady Locksley. If she wants the keys, Mrs. Barnaby, give them to her.”

“But she’s not the marchioness. She’s not the lady of the house.”

“She is my son’s wife. He manages our affairs now, which makes her the lady of the house. Give her the keys.”

“We don’t know what she might do with them.”

“I suspect, Mrs. Barnaby, that she’s going to unlock a door.”

“I could do that for her.”

“Obviously she wants to do it for herself. It is not our place to question the viscountess, so hand over the keys.”

With a mulish expression similar to the one she’d given Locksley the day before, Mrs. Barnaby unhooked the ring from her waist and held it out toward Portia, who took it, feeling as though she’d just won something significant.

“I need them back,” Mrs. Barnaby said, looking as though she were on the verge of weeping.

“Yes, of course. I’ll return them later this afternoon.”

With a harrumph, the housekeeper marched from the room.

Portia tiptoed over to stand nearer to Marsden, although he’d given his attention back to gazing out the window.

“I’m sorry we had to disturb you with that little misunderstanding,” she said softly.

“Mrs. Barnaby is a good soul but she is set in her ways. She’s gone a long time without a mistress to answer to, considered herself the mistress of the household. My fault as I never corrected her. Damage was done by the time Locke finished his travels and settled in to take care of things.”

“It’s not a problem. She and I shall work things out and get along just fine.”

“I’m sure you will, my dear.” His gaze drifted back toward the window.

Portia sat in a chair opposite him. “We missed you at breakfast.”

“You and my son need time alone to get to know each other better. I saw him ride out earlier, going to the mines I suspect.” He winked at her. “Did he give you our heir last night?”

She supposed when one got to a certain age, he no longer felt the need to censor his tongue. “I fell asleep.”

A stunned expression crossed his features. “I thought he’d have more enthusiasm, be more virile. I didn’t think he’d be so sloth-like that you’d be able to go to sleep as though he wasn’t even there.”

She released a self-conscious laugh. “No, that’s not it at all. He was preparing a bath after his journey onto the moors. I was waiting for him and drifted off.”

“Ah, and he was too polite to wake you.” He shook his head. “A man shouldn’t be that polite on his wedding night. Prepare yourself. He’ll be twice as randy tonight.”

Her cheeks grew so warm she was surprised they didn’t ignite. She had a need to turn the conversation away from being bedded by his son. “Are you searching for your wife?”

He shook his head. “She doesn’t come out during the day. Sun doesn’t agree with her. So I just wait, watch the shadows move with the daylight, lengthen as it weakens, until the darkness brings her back to me.”

“You loved her very much.”

“She was everything. Still is.” He wrinkled his nose. “She gets angry at me. Says I wasted my life. But Ashe, Albert, and Edward all married for love. Even if Albert and Edward married the same woman.”

She knew that Albert had died and Edward had married his brother’s widow in Switzerland, which had created quite the scandal among the peerage.

“And now Locke is married. I didn’t do bad by them, so how could I have wasted my life?”

“I don’t think you did,” she said with conviction.

“You’re a sweet thing. Locke will come around to loving you.”

Her chest tightened. “I don’t require his love, my lord.”

“We all require love, my dear. The more we think we don’t need it, the more we do.”

Again, another topic she wanted to leave behind. “Would you like for me to read to you?”

He shook his head. “Go do whatever it was you wanted to do with the keys.”

“I wish to explore the residence a bit, but I won’t disturb anything.”

He nodded, a faraway look coming into his eyes, and she suspected that she’d lost him, that he was out on the moors with his love. Standing, she leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. He barely acknowledged her.

Clutching the keys, she walked from the room, wondering where to start. With the bedchambers. She could find one to secretly make into her own, except that Locksley was correct. When would she use it? Every hour of the night would be spent in his bed.

Surely there was another room that would serve better. A small library, a sitting room, a parlor, a little haven hidden away where she could escape to find peace. She wouldn’t have to tell anyone about it. It would be her private sanctuary. And as the marquess appeared to not wander about, her actions weren’t likely to upset him, as he probably wouldn’t stumble across whatever room she decided to clean.

And cleaning it would be the first order of business. She’d seen evidence of the neglect when Locksley had shown her the ballroom, and it was repeated in every room into which she stepped. Cobwebs, dust, decayed flowers. The suffocating odor of disuse. She needed a room with an abundance of windows so she could air it out quickly.

But as she wandered from various parlors and sitting rooms to drawing rooms and conservatories, melancholy began to take hold, to blot out any optimism. She could envision a time when all these rooms were well maintained, warm, and welcoming. They would have brought pride to the marquess and marchioness.

An even greater sadness washed through her as she realized that Locksley would have known none of what had once been. He grew up with the abandonment and dilapidation. Locks on doors couldn’t contain it. Knowing what rested on the other side of the doors, she could now feel it seeping into the hallways. It might have been better for all had the structure burned to the ground after the marchioness’s passing.

Then she opened a door that made her grateful the residence still stood. Light filtered in through a narrow parting between the draperies, but it was enough for her to see that she had stepped into a magnificent music room. Windows lined one wall. Near them rested the largest pianoforte she’d ever seen. So grand. Or it would be if the dark wood was polished to a sheen.

She approached with the reverence it deserved.

It had been years since she’d set fingers to keyboard, not since she’d left home. She’d offered to play for Montie, but he’d explained that when it came to her he was only interested in the music of passion that was created between the sheets. She’d been flattered, swept away by the notion that he wanted her so badly. It was a while before she understood that being wanted for only one purpose created a very lonely existence.

The type she would have with Locksley. At least he was honest with her, being forthright that he wanted from her only what Montie had wanted, but Montie had wooed her with pretty words and promises of love. Even if Locksley offered them, she was too wise now to believe them. She would not open her heart to him, merely her thighs.

As she neared the piano, she wanted to weep because it had gone years without being played, without anyone listening to the glorious music with which it would fill the air. Unappreciated, unloved, its potential unrealized. Tapping a key, cringing as a tinny sound reverberated, she wasn’t surprised it was in need of tuning, but that could be handled easily enough.

Slowly she began to turn in a circle, stopping when she noticed the life-size portrait of a woman hanging over the massive stone fireplace. She wasn’t particularly fetching, but there was warmth in her eyes, her smile. Portia had never known anyone to grin during a sitting, yet she couldn’t imagine this woman without a happy expression. Finding herself drawn to the painting, she took a couple of steps nearer. Based on the style of her royal blue gown, she had to be a recent marchioness, no doubt Marsden’s dead wife. She was covered in dust and cobwebs, and yet there was an ethereal quality to her that seemed to glow when her surroundings should have dulled the painting.

“How fortunate you were to be so loved,” she whispered.

Holding out her arms, Portia completed her circle, her joy burgeoning as she took in the various sitting areas, the shelves displaying books, statuettes, and vases, and the various decorations arranged throughout waiting to be released from their shroud of dust.

Clapping her hands together, she released the smallest of squeals. She had found her room.

It was late afternoon by the time Locke, covered in sweat and grime, strode into the kitchen. He didn’t know why he believed that if he worked in the mines alongside the miners that fortune was more likely to smile on them and they’d discover a tin-rich vein after two years of nothing. It had made the men uncomfortable when he’d begun digging beside them. He was a lord. It had taken them a while to accept his help, his determination. But he enjoyed stretching his muscles, pushing himself to the limit of near physical exhaustion. It kept his mind from traveling the path of despair. Today it had kept him from breaking his promise to his wife that the day belonged to her.

He shouldn’t have kissed her before he walked out, because her taste had stayed with him far too long, had kept his body tense and in need until he’d gone down into the pits where there was always a danger that he wouldn’t come out.

So perhaps his father had the right of it. He really did need to get the next heir lined up. Robbie would no doubt let the mines go, sell the land, since it wasn’t part of the entailment. He wouldn’t appreciate his heritage or what the marquesses who had come before him had built.

“You’re a bit early,” Mrs. Dorset told him, a knowing smile on her face. “Although to be honest, I was expecting you sooner, what with a new bride and all. Been warming your bathwater for some time now.”

He was in the habit of bathing after a day in the mines, which was the reason he’d established a room for bathing near the kitchen. For the convenience of procuring hot water and not tracking dirt through the residence. While he wasn’t particularly pleased with how anxious he was to be with his wife, he had no wish for her to see him in this state, to know he engaged in backbreaking work to secure their future—or how much that seventy-five quid a month was really costing him. They were not truly a couple who shared joys and burdens. They were merely bedmates. Or they would be by night’s end.

Still, when he was finished with his bath and shave, he did find himself missing her fingers knotting his neck cloth as he put on the clothes he’d changed out of that morning before leaving. For the mines he needed sturdier material.

When he stepped out of the bathing room, he nearly tripped over Mrs. Barnaby, who it seemed had been awaiting his appearance.

“She took me keys,” she announced, her hands clutched at her waist, her brow deeply furrowed.

“She?”

“Your wife.”

“For what purpose?”

She gave her eyes an exaggerated roll. “To open doors.”

He’d assumed as much. In hindsight his question was rather pointless. He hadn’t even bothered to consider how Portia would fill her day. Obviously by wandering the hallways and sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.

“She’s yet to return them, and it’s nearly dark. They’re my responsibility. I warned his Lordship—”

“You spoke to my father about them?”

She nodded. “I wanted his approval before handing them over to her. She’s not the marchioness.”

“She is, however, the lady of the manor.”

Her eyes widened at his forceful tone, which he had not meant to come out so sharp, but regardless of how little he might personally care for Portia and her greedy little fingers, she was his wife and as such would be accorded the respect she deserved.

Mrs. Barnaby’s mouth turned down. “Your father said the same thing.”

Of course he had.

“Where will I find Lady Locksley?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not her keeper. Wandering about somewhere I suppose.”

He wasn’t particularly pleased with her answer. He and his father before him had been rather lax with the servants. Perhaps it was time he prodded Mrs. Barnaby toward retirement. He’d consider it. Meanwhile he had a wife to locate.

She could be anywhere in this massive mausoleum. As he began trudging through it, he considered that she had probably gone in search of a bedchamber that she could claim without his knowing. Upstairs then. He should have asked how long she’d been in possession of the keys. There were maybe fifty bedchambers. How long would it take her to go through them, to find one that suited her?

Having her own bedchamber would be a waste. She had to understand that. Every moment of every night was going to be spent with him. He’d made that clear.

He was halfway up the stairs when he stopped, considered. Perhaps she’d merely wanted to explore. He and his father’s wards had certainly done their share of nicking the housekeeper’s keys and sneaking into rooms at midnight. Perhaps he’d plan a little adventure for his wife, take her on a tour in the wee hours when everything creaked and moaned. He thought of her clinging to him—

No, she wasn’t one to cling. He knew that instinctively. She’d probably be leading the way.

Night was falling. Soon she would be looking for him. He should simply settle in his library and wait. Only as he headed back down the stairs, he wasn’t in the mood to wait for her. He wanted to find her, discover exactly what she was up to. It was possible that she was planning to collect small items that would fetch a pretty penny, things that she believed wouldn’t be noticed missing. Although the truth was that he couldn’t see her as a thief, no matter how much money seemed to matter to her. It had irritated him when she’d asked for her seventy-five pounds that morning, had irritated him more when he could tell that she wanted to count it. Theirs was a business arrangement. Security for an heir. It was silly of him to fault her now when he’d known all along that she cared about only titles and coin.

She wasn’t going to steal anything, but he suspected she was taking inventory, striving to determine how much they were worth. She would no doubt be methodical about it. If she was unlocking every door, examining the contents of every room, he doubted that she’d have made it upstairs yet. No doubt, she was still on the main level somewhere.

He strode briskly down hallways, trying doors. Locked, locked, locked.

But as he came to the end of one monstrously long and wide hallway, he could see a faint swath of light that could only come from an open doorway. Quieting his tread, he cautiously approached and peered inside, completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

With a scarf covering her hair and her sleeves rolled up past her elbows, she was on her knees near a bookshelf, pulling items off the bottom shelf, wiping them, setting them aside. Suddenly with a screech, she jumped up and back. He saw the huge spider scurrying out, racing past—

She lifted her skirt slightly and stopped the creature’s progress forever with a hard stomp.

He stared at the foot, which had come down with unerring determination. “Are you wearing one of my Hessians?” he asked incredulously.

With a start, she faced him squarely, her eyes wide, that luscious lovely mouth of hers slightly open. “You’re home.”

He didn’t like the way that her words seemed to pierce his armor, made him glad that he was in the residence. He was accustomed to having his bath, a drink, a quiet dinner, an evening reading. Alone. Always alone until he looked in on his father before retiring. Solitude had been the order of the night. She was going to change all that, whether he wanted her to or not. “Indeed I am. The boot?”

Raising her skirt, she extended the foot, turning it one way then the other as though surprised to find the polished black leather encasing a good part of her leg. “Your feet are much larger than mine, which makes it easier to kill the spiders and provides a little distance from them as I do so.” She glanced up at him. “There are an inordinate number in here. And they are remarkably large. And beastly ugly.”

“Cardinal spiders, no doubt. They say Wolsey had an aversion to them.”

“Smart man.”

Approaching her, he wondered why it was that he found himself drawn to her more than ever. She more closely resembled a street sweeper than the wife of a lord. Yet drawn to her he was. “You have a spider web in your hair—”

“What? No!” She began slapping at her head.

He grabbed her wrists. “Hold still.”

Although she looked fairly petrified, she moved not at all. He wasn’t even certain she was breathing. Those whiskey eyes held a measure of trust that he didn’t want to disappoint. Somehow she seemed more vulnerable with the trail of dust along her cheek. He didn’t like her appearing in such a state. He preferred her strong and tough. He brushed the back of his hand across the silken strands that rested against her hair and scarf, drawing them away. “There. All gone.”

“I hate spiders.”

“Then you’d despise going into the mines.”

Her brow furrowed. “Do you go into them?”

He hadn’t meant to disclose how he spent his day. “Occasionally. After all, we own them; therefore, it behooves me to give them a look.” A change in topic was in order. “What are you doing in here?”

“I would think that answer is obvious.”

With the danger of the spiders gone, she was back to her tart self. Much easier to deal with. “Then I suppose the better question is why are you doing it when I’ve already stated that change upsets my father?”

“Surely this room is far enough away from him that he’ll never know what I’ve done.” She stepped away, swept her arms wide as though to encompass everything surrounding them. “It’s such a glorious room. How could I leave it in disarray?”

She rushed over to the piano. The fading light cast her in silhouette, and yet still he could see her brilliant smile. “Isn’t this gorgeous? Or it will be once I’ve polished it. I could play for you in the evenings.”

“I had a different sort of play in mind.”

Her shoulders slumped, and all the exuberance seemed to leak out of her as air did from a balloon. “Yes, of course. Silly of me to think we might have more.” She trailed a finger along a curved edge, inhaled deeply. Disappointment radiated from her.

He hated that he’d killed her smile. “Do you play?”

She glanced over at him. “I do. Not since I left home, so I’m terribly out of practice, and the pianoforte needs tuning, so it would no doubt not be a pleasurable experience for you. But this room . . . it must have been so magnificent once.”

He fought to convince himself that she wanted that magnificence for herself. That she wanted the grandness of this room to enhance her own majesty, and yet he couldn’t quite persuade himself of the truth of that. There was an honesty in her voice when she spoke of the room that made him think she was being more candid with him at that moment than she’d been since he opened the door to her yesterday afternoon. It had nothing to do with baubles, coin, title, or gain. She saw this room as it might have once been. All his life he’d strived not to see any of the chambers as they’d appeared in the past, hadn’t wanted to see the potential in them, had never wanted to envision laughter echoing between the walls, joy spreading to the ceilings, gladness sweeping along the floor. These rooms merely served as evidence that no good could come from love, that it was best to avoid—

“Is that your mother?” she asked tenderly, cutting into his thoughts.

He didn’t want her to be tender or soft. He wanted her to be as cold as the coins she craved. Still he followed her gaze toward the portrait hanging over the fireplace. His father possessed a miniature of the same woman that he always carried with him and sometimes showed to Locke. Her eyes, her smile always drew him in. As a lad, he’d resented her for dying, for leaving him. It was many years before he understood she’d had no choice.

Staring at her behind a film of grime, he could understand why his father had loved her. Even though she existed now only in oils, her image seemed vibrant. She possessed the ability to warm his heart, to make him feel guilty that he hadn’t accepted Portia’s offer to play the pianoforte for him. “Yes.”

“I didn’t think so at first, but the more I’ve gazed at her from different angles, I’ve decided she was very beautiful.”

“Beautiful enough to drive a man insane.”

“Losing her drove him insane, not her. There is a difference.”

He looked over at her. A corner of her mouth and one brow tilted up ever so slightly.

“You would go mad if I were to die,” she said teasingly.

Slowly he shook his head, unwilling to take this matter lightly. “I’ll not give you my heart, Portia. I was clear on that aspect of our relationship. We can have the marriage annulled tomorrow if you went into this arrangement believing you could somehow acquire it.”

She paled, no doubt at the mention of an annulled marriage that would deny her all she sought to gain. “I have no illusions regarding what you want of me, my lord. I suppose we should make haste toward the consummation of this marriage.”

Why was it that her haughty tone could make him feel like such an ass, when it should merely confirm why she’d sought the marriage with his father to begin with? He touched the dirt on her cheek, and she went still, so very still. With his gaze following, he trailed his finger along the smudge that journeyed past her mouth to her chin. “You’re in need of a bath. I’ll cart the tub up to the bedchamber.”

“You don’t have to go to that bother.”

He didn’t want her to be considerate, damn it. He needed her to demand spoiling. “As you no doubt discovered this morning, the bathing room stays chilly.” Pressing his thumb to her chin, he rubbed at the dirt, wondering why it fascinated him, why he liked seeing her in such a disheveled state. “Mrs. Barnaby wants her keys returned.”

“Of course. I’ll see to that immediately.”

He moved his thumb up to her lower lip, stroked it, considered nipping at it, but if his mouth got anywhere near hers, he was likely to toss her on top of that piano she seemed rather fond of and possess her then and there. That would certainly give it a polishing. But she needed a bath. He needed food and drink. And he didn’t want to take her quickly or roughly. Not the first time anyway.

Every other aspect of their relationship might be stiff and awkward, but he wasn’t going to tolerate it in the bedchamber. That required patience on his part. He would live with the torment of not possessing her for now. But before the night was done, he would claim her body as his own.

As he escorted her from the room, Portia was a bit surprised—based upon the way his eyes had darkened as he’d rubbed her chin—that he hadn’t tossed her on a nearby sofa and hefted up her skirts.

Once outside, she locked the door, already dreading the encounter she would have with Mrs. Barnaby regarding the keys in the morning. She was going to reclaim the room whether Locksley liked it or not. When he wasn’t around, she would entertain herself by playing the piano. She understood it was his house and his rules, but some were in need of breaking.

Carrying on down the hallway, she became very aware of her uneven gait, her slipper whispering along the floor, his boot clomping.

“How are you managing to keep my boot on?” he asked.

“I stuffed newspaper into the toe and around the sides filling up the space around my foot. A trick I learned from my mother, who always bought our shoes a bit large so we could grow into them and they’d last longer.”

“Our shoes? You had siblings?”

She grimaced. The less he knew about her, the better things would be for her. While she’d been ghastly disappointed that he had no interest in her playing the pianoforte for him, she found some solace in his merely wanting her body. He wasn’t likely to ask questions or delve into her past. But she wanted to limit her lies, because the truth was always easier to remember. “Two sisters and a brother.”

“Last night, you said you had no family.”

Because I don’t.

“Are they dead?”

It would be so much simpler to say yes. “No. But they did not approve of Montie. So I had to choose him or them.”

“You chose him.”

She nodded.

“But surely after he died . . .”

“They want nothing to do with me.”

“Even though you are now married to a peer?”

“I could marry a prince of England and they wouldn’t forgive me.” She could feel him studying her. She’d said too much. He was going to continue to question, and when he learned the truth the annulment he’d suggested earlier would become a reality. What was she thinking to be so careless with what she revealed?

“This way,” he said, turning down a hallway.

Confused by the direction, she stopped, pointed toward another corridor. “That way leads to the kitchens. I’m fairly certain of it.”

“We’re taking a detour.”

“For what purpose?”

“It’s not a woman’s place to question her husband.”

Or any man for that matter, she was well aware. If she’d questioned Montie she might not have found herself in this unconscionable position. But she wasn’t going to make the mistake of trusting blindly again. “You did not strike me as the sort who would want a sheep for a wife.”

“As you’re well aware I didn’t want a wife at all.”

There was that, she supposed. So when he started off again, she followed. She’d opened the doors in this hallway earlier in the day. She knew they contained nothing nefarious, nothing that should give her cause for worry. “But you require an heir, so eventually you would have wanted a wife.”

“Not wanted, never wanted, but eventually I would have taken one.”

“So my arrival simply moved up your timetable.”

Stopping in front of a door, he faced her. “Don’t say it as though it was a small matter and you did me a great favor.” Before she could come up with some quip, he held out his hand. “The keys.”

“There’s only a study beyond the door.”

“I know.” He snapped his fingers. “Keys.”

She dropped the ring into his broad palm, and he began sorting through the iron. “You didn’t take a very close or detailed inventory of the rooms,” he muttered.

“I didn’t inventory them at all.” For some reason, she was insulted by his belief that she would. “Did you think I was searching for silver? I was merely hoping to find a room that would serve as a sanctuary.”

He held a key between his thumb and forefinger. “So you merely peered inside and carried on?”

“For the most part, yes. Until I discovered the music room. It was as though it spoke to me.”

He arched a thick dark eyebrow over those penetrating green eyes. “You do realize that makes you sound mad.”

She scoffed. “The walls didn’t literally speak to me, you ninny. I simply meant that I found the room to be welcoming.”

“Even with the spiders?”

She twisted her lips. “Not so much once I discovered them.” She tapped his boot on the floor. “But I was able to make short work of them.”

“So you did.”

Before he turned, she almost thought she caught sight of admiration twinkling in his eyes. He unlocked the door, swung it open, and stepped inside. She followed.

“This was the marchioness’s study,” he announced as he crossed over to a small secretary desk.

She could see it now. With the daintier furniture, the lighter colors. It might have been a cheerful room had it more than one narrow window.

On the desk, he lowered a door to reveal an assortment of nooks and crannies. Pulling open a drawer, he reached inside and withdrew a ring of keys, the metal circle much smaller than the one the housekeeper used. He held it out to her. “So you don’t have to bother Mrs. Barnaby for the keys in the future.”

She stared at the offering, wondering why her eyes were stinging. He was doing more than handing her bits of iron. He was demonstrating that he trusted her, that she had a true place within the household, in his life. He was handing her freedom, more than she’d had in a good long while. Slowly, reverently, she took them from him. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say. You’re the lady of the manor. You’re entitled to a set of the keys.”

Of course he would ruin the gesture with a curt tone, but she wasn’t going to let him dampen her spirits entirely. “How did you know they were here?”

“I’ll tell you during dinner. Meanwhile, I’m quite famished and you still need your bath.”

“I’m looking rather forward to the telling.” She turned to go.

“Remember,” he called after her. “Don’t wear gloves.”

She glanced over her shoulder, giving him her most wicked smile. “I haven’t forgotten. As a matter of fact, I intend to wear very little except for my gown. Less for you to bother with later. Ponder on that during dinner.”

With her mismatched footwear, her exit wasn’t nearly as poised as she would have liked, but his low groan, bowed head, and fingers digging into the desk behind him managed to give her a great deal of satisfaction. The night might belong to him, but it was going to belong to him only on her terms.