Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(12)

“Enough. Both of you,” Portia commanded, pressing the back of her hand to first one overheated cheek, then the other. Drawing a deep, shaky breath, she ignored the way her head spun and said,

“I simply want to reach Moreton Hall…as we should have done yesterday.” She glanced at Nettie. “Forget breakfast. I want to be gone from here. Now.”

For once, the two obeyed and fell in step behind her as she marched out of the inn. Clouds hung low in the sky, either remnants of yesterday’s storm or a hint of more rain to come. A cold mist clung to the air and she lifted her chin, glad for it, hoping that it might cool her flushed face.

Once settled in the carriage, she leaned back on the squabs and closed her eyes.

“You feeling all right?” Nettie asked.

“Fine,” Portia answered, eyes still closed. A shiver shook her, belying her words.

“You look awful.”

“Good.” God forbid she should appear attractive to the Earl of Moreton. He might propose.



“Welcome, Lady Portia. We’ve been expecting you.” The Dowager Countess of Moreton glided forward, her perfectly coiffed head held high, a fat, black Persian cat tucked in one arm.

Portia blinked, finding it difficult to reconcile the graceful creature in the elegantly appointed parlor as Grandmother’s girlhood friend. Both were of like age, both widows of lofty rank, both determined to see their grandchildren wed. But the similarity ended there. Lady Moreton was slim and elegant, a vision of loveliness in deep blue muslin. Portia’s grandmother stuck solely to her widow’s weeds, as she had for the past twenty-five years. Nothing save black bombazine hung in her wardrobe.

“Apparently you forgot to inform me we were to have company, Grandmother.” The statement came from a woman sitting rigidly on a velvet chaise. She and a younger woman occupied the chaise. The one who spoke nudged yet another Persian away from her skirts, her expression pinched as she surveyed Portia from head to toe.

Lady Moreton tossed the woman a quelling look. “Indeed, I must have forgotten to mention it, Constance.”

A serene smile in place again, the countess faced Portia, keen blue eyes examining her closely.

Portia recognized the inspection. Had suffered it time and time again. The critical assessment of her looks, her form, the attempt to determine whether she would satisfy as a bridal candidate.

Portia stifled a sigh, wishing she could put an end to the pretense, wishing she could open her mouth to proclaim that she would never meet the Earl of Moreton’s satisfaction. It would certainly spare all involved a great deal of time. But that would never do. She had to frighten him away as she had the others. Had to appear as if she tried to be suitable. Her family could never know, must never suspect that she deliberately chased away her suitors. After all, she had plans.

And they didn’t include matrimony.

“I feel that I already know you from Robbie’s letters.”

Portia started. Robbie? Some of her shock must have shown, for Lady Moreton laughed, a rich, throaty sound so at odds with the very proper picture she made in her high-necked gown. Not a single crease in the heavily starched fabric of her dress. Not a silver blond hair out of place. In her travel-wrinkled dress and mussed hair, Portia felt tattered and untidy in comparison.

“I see that you’ve never heard someone refer to your grandmother as Robbie.”

“No.” Portia had never even heard someone use her grandmother’s Christian name of Roberta.

“Forgive me. I suppose it is rather undignified.” Lady Moreton led her to a brocade-covered settee and gestured for her to sit. “A habit leftover from childhood.”



Portia sank down with a grateful sigh. For some reason, her legs felt weak and trembly. Lady Moreton sat beside her. The cat immediately curled up between them and set to kneading Portia’s thigh with its paws. Even through her skirts, she could feel the tiny daggerlike claws.

“These are my granddaughters.” Lady Moreton nodded to the two young women across from them. “Constance and Wilhelmina.”

“I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you, Lady Portia,” Wilhelmina trilled, fairly bouncing where she sat. “Please call me Mina.”

Lady Moreton stroked the ear of another cat that appeared as if by magic on the arm of the settee.

“Do sit still, child. We don’t want Portia to think you ill-mannered.”

“It would seem,” Constance began in a flat voice, still nudging the cat with the toe of her slipper as it wove in and out from under her skirts, “We aren’t all of us surprised by your arrival. That being the case, why not apprise me of a few items, Lady Portia? Where have you traveled from to treat us with this visit? And how long do you intend to stay?”

Treat was uttered with such derision that Portia immediately knew she had already won the disfavor of one Moreton. “From London…and please call me Portia.” Portia left the latter question unanswered.

Constance arched a brow. “But you’ll miss the Season. No doubt you wish to return soon.”

Portia frowned, unsure what she had done to earn such immediate dislike. Usually it required a little time and effort on her part.

Lady Moreton cleared her throat and pinned a hard stare on her granddaughter. In that instant, Portia recognized the similarity between the countess and her grandmother, could well understand how the two had formed a bond that lasted fifty-odd years. The two termagants ran roughshod over everyone in their sphere.