She was going to drive him mad. He was fairly certain of it as he sipped his scotch, stared out the window of the library into the darkness, and waited for her arrival.

After hauling up the tub and water, he’d been incredibly tempted to lounge against the wall and watch as she removed her clothes, as she stepped into the bath, as she dribbled water over her skin. But if he’d stayed, he doubted that she’d get so much as her tiniest toe wet before he had her on her back. He yearned for her with a fierceness he didn’t want to acknowledge. Never before had any woman affected him as she did.

So he’d walked out simply to prove—more to himself than to her—that he could.

He never would have expected to find Portia on her hands and knees cleaning. Granted, Mrs. Barnaby was no spring chicken and her efforts yesterday with the parlor had been sadly lacking, but she’d made the room habitable. And she was the housekeeper. It was her job to keep house.

But Portia had begun seeing to things herself, had been uncomfortable with him preparing her bath. She didn’t want to be pampered. He hadn’t expected that, didn’t know quite what to make of her. Every woman he’d ever been with had wanted to be spoiled, had insisted upon it. In fact, they’d wanted constant compliments, numerous baubles, and his undivided attention.

Based upon Portia’s reasons for being here, what she hoped to gain, what she sought, she should seek to be spoiled more than any woman he’d ever known. But she’d been covered in dust and cobwebs, with grime on her face and hands. Something was wrong with him for finding that so incredibly sensual. Wives of lords did not crawl about in the muck. Yet she’d seemed comfortable with it.

Who was Portia Gadstone St. John?

A bit late to be wondering that, old chap.

He didn’t want to be intrigued or fascinated by her. He didn’t want to know her. He merely wanted to bed her, slake his lust, ensure she earned the title that marriage to him had gained her.

Hearing light footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder. Christ, she was gorgeous. If she entered a ballroom wearing that deep purple gown that revealed her shoulders so enticingly and suggestively, she would have had a hundred suitors. Why answer an old man’s advert? What did it matter now? She was his wife.

“You did away with the Hessian, I see,” he said as she approached, her satin slippers occasionally peering out from beneath the hem of her skirt.

“You’re here now. I’m sure you’ll save me from any hideous eight-legged creatures.”

He had the passing thought that he would save her from anything.

“Based on the flow of your skirts, it appears you’re not wearing petticoats.” He hadn’t truly expected her to honor her words about not wearing any undergarments. She’d merely been attempting to taunt him.

She angled her head, a wickedness in her smile. “No petticoats. Only a corset, otherwise my bodice would droop unbecomingly.”

His mouth went dry. “Only a corset?”

“Only a corset. Well, and stockings. They were needed for the shoes. But you don’t have to remove the silk to have your way with me. Or the shoes for that matter.”

He imagined her naked, except for the stockings and shoes, her legs in the air—

“Drawers?”

She shook her head, her teeth pressing into her lower lip.

“Chemise?”

Another teasing smile. “Corset only.”

“Jesus.” As he downed what remained of his scotch, he didn’t miss her look of satisfaction. His father was correct. There were definite advantages to taking to wife a woman with experience. He was beginning to wonder why men so highly coveted virginity in their brides. “A drink before dinner?”

“No, thank you.”

Well, he needed another. On his way to the sideboard, he passed the desk. It occurred to him that he could just take her there. Unencumbered by petticoats, ease those skirts up to her waist, unfasten his trousers, sink into her before they dined. But he had the impression that she would view it as a victory. He would resist for a while longer.

“Dinner is served, my lord,” Gilbert announced.

A pity. The drink would wait.

Walking over to Portia, he extended his arm. She placed her hand on it, squeezed.

“I wouldn’t have objected to the desk,” she said sweetly, before releasing her hold and walking from the room, her hips swaying provocatively.

Through gritted teeth, he released a feral curse. He’d been so focused on saving his father from Portia that he hadn’t considered the need to save himself.

Montie had been attracted to her, had wanted her. He’d made that clear the evening he introduced himself. But he’d never looked at her with the smoldering intensity that Locksley did. While he sat across from her, several feet away, she was acutely aware of the desire thrumming off him as the wine was poured. Although desire seemed too tame a word.

He’d wanted to spread her out on the desk and have his way with her. She’d seen it in his eyes. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted that he managed to keep his urges under control.

She would be wise not to taunt him so brazenly, not to give the impression that she was somewhat of a wanton, but she needed the marriage consummated before the sun next rose. It was the only way to ensure this arrangement couldn’t be easily undone, was the only way to guarantee a measure of protection should Montie discover where she was hiding.

She’d been careful, never using her name during her travels, never using a main system of transportation. Hence the journey on the mail coach where no questions had been asked, other than her destination. She felt relatively safe, and there was always a chance that Montie would welcome her absence when he discovered it.

Still, a consummated marriage was essential to her strategy. She refused to feel guilty because her plan had gone awry and she was now the wife of the viscount rather than the marquess. She wasn’t going to reconsider her plan simply because Locksley had shown a momentary kindness and given her a set of keys. Or because he truly seemed to care for his father. Or because he seemed capable of destroying her with little more than a touch.

And while she might tell herself that she wanted this marriage consummated for her own personal gain, she couldn’t deny that the glimpse he’d given her of the passion that awaited her in his bed now had her own body thrumming with needs that made her wish he had indeed taken her on the blasted desk. Be done with it. Stop torturing her by being so strong-willed.

Gilbert interrupted her thoughts as he set a bowl of turtle soup before her. Then he placed one before the viscount.

Locksley’s brow furrowed. “You can bring out all the food, Gilbert. We’ve no guests tonight.”

So he took his dinner the same way as he did his breakfast—with ease for the servants and no fanfare. She couldn’t imagine Montie being so considerate, knew beyond a doubt he wouldn’t be. Servants served and he lived to be served. He’d never been abusive but he was extremely skilled at ensuring those around him understood their place. Her heart had shattered when she’d finally come to understand hers.

“Mrs. Dorset says we can’t be serving everything on one plate anymore, not now that there’s a lady in the house,” Gilbert explained, looking somewhat guilty.

“So you’re going to traipse back and forth all during dinner?”

“Apparently so, m’lord.”

Locksley sighed. “Then for God’s sake, at least put the wine on the table so I can serve myself.”

“Mrs. Dorset—”

“Will never know.”

“Very good, sir.” After seeing to the wine, he retreated to stand by the wall.

Her husband appeared disgruntled, a man who didn’t relish being waited on. She refused to let that discovery make her like him. He’d ruined her carefully laid-out plans—even if his reasons were to be commended. She tasted the soup. Delicious. Little wonder no one argued with Mrs. Dorset regarding how the meal was to be served.

“You were going to tell me how you knew about the keys,” she said quietly.

Amusement dancing in his eyes, he leaned back and lifted his wineglass. “So I was. My father’s wards and I fancied ourselves intrepid adventurers. We’d nick the keys from Mrs. Barnaby after she fell asleep and explore the various rooms during the late hours of the night.”

“With the size of this place, that could have taken years.”

He nodded, sipped his wine. “Nearly three, as I recall. We were like archeologists sorting through the rubble of an archaic civilization, cataloguing our finds, but ensuring that nothing appeared disturbed.”

While he said it with ease, she didn’t miss the sadness—and guilt—that briefly touched the green of his eyes. The archaic civilization had been his parents’ life. She wondered what it had been like to grow up with so little known of the past. “And when you grew up, you continued to explore, but moved on to the world.”

“For a while.”

“Do you miss it?”

Gilbert took their bowls, disappeared through a doorway. Locksley tapped his wineglass. “I do hope she didn’t prepare an abundance of food. I don’t like waste.”

“I’ll speak with her tomorrow, shall I? Approve the menu. Ensure it’s not too much.”

He nodded. “You’ll no doubt find her easier to deal with than you did Mrs. Barnaby.”

A woman who ruled a kitchen? She very much doubted it, but she’d been raised to manage a household. She could take on this task easily enough. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you miss traveling?”

“Sometimes.” He gave her a tantalizingly wicked grin. “But then exploring is going to be in my very near future, isn’t it, Lady Locksley?”

Heat flushed her skin. “Must you always turn the discussion in that direction?”

“You’re the one sitting there without your drawers.”

“It’s quite lovely actually. The silk of my gown against my nether regions.”

He laughed darkly. “God, you are a tease. Most women are bashful about bedding.”

“You like that I am not.”

He lifted his glass in a salute. “Damned if I don’t.”

She didn’t quite trust the smile he gave her. He let her win too easily. She had a feeling he was going to make her pay for it later—in screams of pleasure that might shatter the windows. She suspected what she knew of pleasure was going to pale beside whatever he delivered. She anticipated and dreaded it.

Gilbert strode in and set a plate of broiled lamb and potatoes before her. She lifted her gaze to find Locksley studying her. She was beginning to wish she’d at least put on her drawers. “How was everything at the mines?”

He narrowed his eyes, his face shifting into a cold resolve. “Don’t worry, my little mercenary, your pin money is safe.”

“I wasn’t—” She stopped, unable to blame him for his low regard for her. She’d certainly given the impression that she was merely here for gain. His dislike and distrust of her provided her with a shield. But it was becoming quite heavy to keep in place. “I was merely asking after your day. If you found it satisfactory. That is what good wives do.”

A corner of his mouth tilted up. “Are you planning to be a good wife?”

“Within reason.”

He laughed deeply. “At least you’re honest.”

Only she wasn’t. She wished she could be, but his opinion of her was low enough as it was. Instead of taking her to bed, he’d rid himself of her. With all due haste. “I want things to be pleasant between us.”

“Once we’re finished with dinner, they’re going to be very pleasant between us.”

She released a very unladylike snort. “Again, must your mind always go there?” She wanted a man to desire her for more than her body. Marsden would have wanted companionship. She should have insisted that she marry the marquess. Not that this stubborn, obstinate man would have allowed it, no matter what reasons she gave.

“I thought of you for a good part of the day,” he said quietly.

She rolled her eyes. “Bedding me, I’m sure.”

“Sometimes.” He shifted his gaze to his wineglass, trailed his finger slowly up and down the stem just as he would no doubt be trailing it over her before long. Seemed he wasn’t the only one whose mind continued to journey to bedchambers. “Sometimes I find myself wondering what truly brought you here.”

His gaze, compelling and demanding, slammed into hers. If she thought for a moment that he truly cared, that he would be decent about it, she might confess all. “Your father’s advert.” She hated that the words came out on a croak.

“Did you know they call him the mad Marquess of Marsden?”

She gave a slight nod. “Is that the reason you spend so little time in London?”

“How do you know how much time I spend in London?”

“I believe I mentioned the gossip sheets. Truth be told, I’m rather addicted to reading them. You and the other Hellions are frequently reported on.” She creased her brow. “How did the moniker come about, by the way?”

“We tended to break the rules in our youth. But we’re always forgiven. Our pasts made us such tragic figures we could get away with a good deal of bad behavior.”

“You were also known for being reckless.”

“We were indeed. Ashe almost became a lion’s dinner once. And of course Albert died on safari, leaving Edward to inherit the title, after pretending for months to be Albert. It was madness.”

“I remember it in the papers. It created quite the scandal when his duplicity was discovered.”

“It did. Then he did something even more audacious by taking his brother’s widow to Switzerland and marrying her. They’re not quite accepted yet, but people are beginning to come around. When they visit here, I shall expect you to welcome them.”

“Of course. I am not one to cast stones.”

He held her gaze. “And why is that, Lady Locksley?”

She stilled, her breath timid about leaving her lungs. I know what it is to be disgraced, ostracized, cast out.

“Had a few stones cast your way?” he asked.

More than a few. “As I mentioned, my family did not approve of Montie. His did not approve of me. But our love was grand enough that it didn’t matter.” The last had turned out to be a lie, but her younger self had believed it with all her heart.

“But you’re not seeking love now.”

“No, my lord. I’ve closed my heart to it. It’s easier that way.” Another lie, this one perpetuated by her cynical self because she knew he would never love her and it was pointless to wish otherwise. On the other hand, neither would she ever love him.

But life with Montie had taught her to hide her feelings, and she’d become very good at it. She hoped only that she hadn’t learned to hide them from herself.

She licked the pudding from her spoon, slowly, provocatively, all the while making little moaning sounds that caused him to harden, his skin to tighten, his breath to hitch. He had no doubt that she knew precisely how much she was tormenting him and was taking delight in doing so.

He wanted to throttle her. He wanted to kiss every inch of her. He wanted to laugh, a large boisterous guffaw that would echo through every corner of the manor. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d enjoyed a woman so much—and he had yet to enjoy her fully.

His own pudding remained untouched. “Perhaps you’d care to partake of my dessert,” he offered when she finally set her spoon aside.

“Don’t you like pudding?” she asked.

“I haven’t much fondness for sweets, which must be why I like you. You’re so tart.”

Surprise washed over her features. “You like me?”

Had he said that? Damn it all to hell, he had. Without thinking of the repercussions or how she might interpret the words. That she might find hope in them for something more between them. “You challenge me, Portia. I can’t deny that I enjoy that aspect of our relationship. I’ve never much cared for mewling misses.”

She gave him a lascivious look. “How about purring ones?”

Oh, yes, he definitely wanted her purring. “Is there anything else to be brought out, Gilbert?”

“No, my lord. The pudding was the last bit.”

Thank God. He shoved back his chair, stood. He considered for half a heartbeat inviting her to the library for an after-dinner cognac. But he was weary of delaying the inevitable, of pretending to be a gentleman when she managed so easily to turn him into a barbarian who wanted only to ravish her from head to toe.

He felt rather predatory walking to her end of the table, and some of his thoughts must have shown because quite suddenly she appeared a trifle wary of him. Good. She might have the upper hand out of the bed, keeping him hard and ready for her, but by God, he would have the advantage once they landed on the mattress. He pulled out her chair, waited as she rose with such elegance, stepped away from the table—

He swept her up into his arms, taking satisfaction in her small squeak.

Her face level with his, she stared at him. “Surely you plan to enjoy a drink after dinner.”

All he wanted was to drink in the whiskey of her eyes. Not that he was fool enough to state such drivel. “I think we’ve delayed matters long enough.”

He watched the delicate movements of her throat as she swallowed. He was going to nibble on those fragile tendons quite soon. Then he became incredibly aware of the outline of her legs, their warmth seeping into his arms. No damn petticoats. He rather liked it.

He thought he detected a tremor traveling through her before that rounded little chin of hers jutted out a fraction and she gave a barely imperceptible nod. As she licked her lips, she placed her hand just below his jaw, her fingers coming to rest against his neck where his pulse was pounding in an erratic rhythm. She lowered her eyelashes slightly, invitingly. “I’m anxious to discover if you’re as good as you claim.”

If he’d known wives taunted and teased more provocatively than the highest-paid light skirt he’d ever experienced, he might have taken one sooner. He may have growled or perhaps he sounded as though he was strangling, because as he began striding from the room with urgency, she laughed lightly, running a hand over a portion of his chest and shoulder, whatever she could reach. Leaning in, she nipped at his ear.

“Keep that up, you little minx, and I won’t be able to walk up the stairs.”

“I like that you want me.”

Want was too tame a word, but he had no wish to frighten her by revealing the full extent of how desperately he desired her. Nor did he wish to give her quite that much power over him. She was going to be the one unable to walk before the night was done. He already knew once wouldn’t be enough for him. Hell, a dozen times might not be enough.

As he reached the stairs, she settled her head on his shoulder, and a fierce protectiveness swept through him that nearly caused him to stumble back. Something about the trusting gesture made him regret that he wanted her for only one purpose: to warm his bed. From the moment he’d opened the door to her, he’d had an insane desire to possess her, to claim her . . . to win.

He didn’t trust her or her motives for agreeing to marry his father. That hadn’t changed. He’d been determined to best her at her own game—in hindsight, it occurred to him that he might have walked right into her trap, yet he couldn’t seem to regret it. Not when it guaranteed she would be writhing beneath him. And writhe she would.

She might tempt him and play the naughty flirt, but he was the master of the night.

At the top of the stairs, he turned down the hallway toward his bedchamber, was acutely aware of her breaths shortening, of the anticipation thrumming through her. She incited his own desires with so little effort. He was mad to want her this desperately.

He strode past his father’s room, stopped, cursed. He wanted no disturbances this night, no interruptions. Once he had her in his bedchamber with the door closed, he didn’t want it opened until dawn.

“We should check in on your father,” she said softly.

He didn’t like the tightness in his chest because she sounded as though she truly cared about his sire. It didn’t matter how she felt about the marquess. Locke wasn’t going to care about her, refused to allow himself to soften toward her, to be wrapped around her finger. Theirs was a relationship defined by emotional distance. It suited them both. Still, he lowered her feet to the floor. “I won’t be but a moment. Wait here.”

He was leaning in to give her a quick peck on the lips when the anger rushed over her features and stilled him.

“I’m not a dog to be commanded about,” she said. “I wish to say good night to the marquess, and so I shall, with or without your approval.”

He considered reminding her of a woman’s place—to obey her husband in all matters—but that would no doubt result in a quarrel, as she wasn’t the sort to obey anyone. It was one of the aspects to her that drew him in. Besides, he liked that she wasn’t a withering violet, that she stood toe to toe against him, would even stomp on his toe if need be. But he required some sort of victory, so he darted in for a quick kiss before turning to the door and giving it a sharp rap.

“Come in,” his father announced.

Opening the door, he indicated for her to precede him. She waltzed in with a victorious flourish. She was in need of taming, but he didn’t have it within him to kill her spirit. Standing behind her, he fought not to estimate how many seconds it would take him to undo the lacings of her gown.

“Twelve,” his father announced.

Locke looked over her shoulder to where his father sat by the window. “Pardon?”

“It’ll take you twelve seconds to get those lacings undone.”

His jaw tautened. He didn’t like being so easy to read. “Eight.”

“We’re not here to discuss my lacings,” she chastised, and he liked that she didn’t wither or stammer with the knowledge that they were discussing what was to come. “We’re here to see if you require anything before we retire.”

“An heir. But I’ll get that after you retire.”

“Honestly, my lord, you need to expand your interests. Perhaps you’d like for me to read to you for a bit.”

“No,” Locke growled.

She glanced back innocently, and he knew there was no innocence in her. Wicked woman was only seeking to torment him further. “We are not reading to him tonight,” he ground out.

“As you wish.” She turned back to his father. “We missed you during dinner.”

“I prefer to dine here.”

“Solitude does not become you, my lord.”

“I’m never alone, my dear, and you must call me Father.”

She did blush then. She really wasn’t comfortable with it, and he briefly wondered why. “Well, if there’s nothing you need, we’ll be off to bed,” he said.

“Bit early for bed.”

Locke fought not to stare. Had they not just been discussing her lacings and an heir? “I’ve had a long day.”

The wrinkles on his father’s face shifted downward. “I saw you riding out, to the mines I assume. You’ve been going there a lot lately. Is something amiss?”

He didn’t plan to discuss the troubles with him ever, but especially not tonight. “Everything is fine.”

Portia gave him a speculative look that he didn’t want to interpret.

“I’ll be locking the door now,” he told the marquess gently. “I just wanted you to know.”

His father waved a hand as though bothered by a fly. “Go ahead. Your mother will be here soon.”

Locke didn’t want to feel guilty about this. It was for his father’s protection as much as anything. “Are you certain you have everything you need?”

“I haven’t had everything I need since your mother died. But no matter. You don’t need to listen to an old man’s grumblings. Go bed your wife. Give me my heir.”

With those words, his guilt eased, and he noticed that the top of Portia’s ears turned red. Maybe she blushed more than he thought. Just not always on her face. Interesting. He’d have to explore the possibility further. He liked the idea of her blushing in other areas.

Walking forward, she kissed his father on the cheek. “Sweet dreams, my lord.”

“Father,” the marquess insisted.

She smiled, nodded, tried to look contrite, but she didn’t repeat the word. Locke had a feeling she never would. She walked past him, out the door.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” his father asked, regaining Locke’s attention. “Prettier than your mother, but don’t tell your mother that.” He patted his chest. “Your mother’s beauty was all inside. Portia has a good bit in there as well. Don’t forget to look there.”

The woman was a conniving vixen. That his father failed to see it only reaffirmed that Locke had made the correct decision in marrying her. She would have had his father wrapped around her finger five seconds after the marriage papers were signed.

“I require only that she warms my bed. I don’t have to like her for that.”

“Don’t be a fool, Locke. Open that damned heart of yours.”

So I can live my life in misery should she die? Not likely. “Sleep well, Father.”

As for himself, he didn’t plan to sleep a single wink.