Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(13)

“She has just arrived, Constance. Don’t run our guest off so soon with your prying questions.”

Snapping her gaze away, she dismissed her granddaughter as she poured a cup of tea from the impeccably polished ser vice before them. “Come, Portia, this will fortify you. What a ghastly day for travel. You wouldn’t believe it’s spring.”

Lady Moreton’s words rang inside her head, reminding her of her exchange with a certain dark-haired stranger and his quick refutation that it was not yet spring. A small smile curved her lips.

She wondered if she lingered in his mind the way he lingered in hers, then gave her head a swift shake. Such thoughts were nonsense. Romantic claptrap that had no place in her life.

“Thank you, Lady Moreton.” She accepted the cup and took a long sip, telling herself that the warm liquid sliding down her scratchy throat made her feel better. Wrapping her chilled fingers around the warm teacup, she tried to ignore the cat sharpening its talons on her thigh.



A crackling fire burned nearby in a hearth so large Portia could stand in it. At home, they could afford to burn no more than coals. Just the same, the luxury of those fire-burning logs did little to warm her blood.

“You must tell me all about Town,” Mina encouraged, her blue eyes shining brightly.

Portia managed a weak smile. “What would you like to know?” she asked, pretending not to notice Constance’s glower.

“Everything. Leave nothing out.” Mina clapped her hands in delight. “Almack’s, Vauxhall, the theaters…are the balls really splendid? Have you met our young queen? What is she like?” She scowled. “My brother won’t so much as permit me to attend a local assembly. He’s an absolute tyrant.”

Portia raised a brow as she set her teacup down with a hand that annoyingly shook. The earl sounded like a stodgy old boor. She’d have to reevaluate her plan for chasing him off. Diatribes on the innovations of ancient Roman road construction may not bore such a profound prig. She may need to rattle on about fashion and the latest on dit. Or perhaps current philosophies on female empowerment. That ought to chase off any gentleman averse to society, tonnish ways and freethinking females.

“And don’t think I’ve had a come-out.” Mina went on to say, pressing a hand to her bosom. “Can you imagine? Twenty-one and never a Season. Why, it’s barbaric.”

Portia could think of countless things more barbaric than that—the poor sanitary conditions in London slums that bred cholera, yellow fever, influenza, and typhus epidemics; women selling their bodies in order to feed their starving families; children working long, exhaustive hours in unsafe foundries for miserly wages—but she held her tongue. This was neither the time nor place to air her many views on societal reform.

“That’s enough, Mina,” her sister said through tight lips, setting her cup down on its saucer with a sharp clink. Without looking down, Constance gave the cat at her ankles a swift kick. With a moaning meow, the ball of fur darted across the room in a streak of gray.

“Constance, stop tormenting Cleo,” Lady Moreton reprimanded, turning an aggrieved look on Portia. “That one is always antagonizing my poor pets.”

“My brother is a tyrant,” Mina repeated, her pretty face scrunched in a scowl.

“We may yet sway your brother into giving you a Season. Your youth has not completely passed.” Sighing, Lady Moreton looked to Portia in entreaty. “It’s tragic, but my grandson has…set notions that have prevented him from granting his sisters their come-outs. How old were you when you made your curtsey?”

Portia wet her lips, hating to be used as an example. “Seventeen.”



“And still unwed,” Constance leapt to point out, her voice ringing with smug satisfaction. “See, Grandmother, a Season does not guarantee matrimony.”

“I have no doubt that you are firmly on the shelf, Constance. But Mina?” Lady Moreton gave a swift shake of her head, her shiny sapphire-and-diamond earbobs swinging. “She still has prospects.”

Color flooded Constance’s face and Portia felt a stab of empathy. She had grown well accustomed to the veiled insult—and not so veiled. She knew firsthand how it felt to be scorned by one’s family.

Lady Moreton clucked her tongue. “Don’t scowl so, Constance. It ages you.”

With a rueful smile at Portia, Lady Moreton selected a biscuit from the ser vice, seemingly oblivious to having offended her granddaughter as she began tearing off pieces to feed the cat clawing Portia’s thigh. Instantly, cats of all colors and size descended upon the settee. Portia swallowed back her startled cry at the invasion. How many bloody cats did Lady Moreton possess?

“It’s all horribly unfair,” Mina complained, blithely unaware as Portia busily fended off an army of felines. “Before long I, too, shall be firmly on the shelf.”

Color spotting her cheeks, Constance muttered, “I’m sure Lady Portia has no wish to hear you prattle on about your life’s injustices.”

Mina’s bottom lip pushed out in a pout as Portia dropped one skinny tabby and then another that looked to be its twin onto the carpet. “I don’t mind—”

“Oh, but I do, Lady Portia.” The eldest Moreton sister fixed a chilly stare on her.

Portia blinked.

“Oh, cease being such a shrew, Constance,” Lady Moreton reprimanded over a cacophony of purring.