The Viscount and the Vixen

She had a feeling he was going to make her pay for it later—in screams of pleasure that might shatter the windows.

She gave him a slow once-over that caused his skin to tighten as though her fingers were trailing along wherever her eyes touched. When her perusal was complete, she turned up her pert little button of a nose. “Butler, footman, it doesn’t matter to me. Trunk needs to be brought in. Bring it in.”
“You also presume that Lord Marsden is going to give you one look and still wish to marry you?”
“I have a contract with him. He’ll be marrying me or he’ll pay a pretty penny.”
His father might have mentioned that little fact. Obviously Locke had misjudged all the trouble his father could stir up from within his chambers. He’d thought he did little more than gaze longingly out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of his love frolicking over the moors.
“My dear,” his father announced, suddenly at Locke’s side, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it, even as he managed to artfully skirt her past Locke and into the foyer. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
Lowering herself into a graceful deep curtsy, she smiled up at his father as though he were the answer to every childish wish she’d ever made. “My lord, I’m delighted to be here, more than I can say.”
Locke narrowed his eyes. Why would anyone on God’s earth take any delight whatsoever in being delivered to hell’s small corner of the world? And yet there was an intriguing honesty to her tone that he couldn’t deny. Was she that good of an actress?
“Locke, fetch her trunk, then join us in the parlor.”