Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(14)

Portia set her cup down and pressed the back of her hand to her face, dismayed to feel sweat dotting her brow. Especially since she felt so wretchedly cold.

“Are you feeling well, Portia?” Mina leaned forward, her smooth brow wrinkling with concern.

“You look a bit…”

“Pasty,” Constance supplied.

Empathy for Constance rapidly fading, Portia confessed, “Actually, I am quite fatigued. It has been a long journey.”



Lady Moreton quickly stood, cats leaping to the floor in every direction. “Of course, how rude of me to subject you to so much excitement. Let me show you to your chamber, my dear.”

Portia stood, prepared to follow, when the parlor door flew open.

No. Her heart jumped to her throat and she grasped the back of a nearby chair for support at sight of him entering the room.

He paused a moment, eyeing the surprised tableau—most notably her—before his swift, long strides ate up the distance separating them, advancing on her like some kind of dark angel coming to wreak his vengeance.

Heath.

For the briefest, bewildered moment, she wondered why he had come looking for her. Surely he did not intend to follow through on the wicked promise of his hot gaze. Of course not. His glittering eyes held no joy at the sight of her, only grim resolve.

“What in the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“Heathston!” Lady Moreton exclaimed while Portia stood silently, her legs wobbly, feeling as though they might give out at any moment. “This is Lady Portia, granddaughter to my dear friend, the Dowager Duchess of Derring, and you would do well to watch your language!”

Realization washed over her, bitter as a cold wind. Heath was the Earl of Moreton. Her suitor.

The man her grandmother would have her marry.

His large body loomed in the center of the room, dwarfing the dainty furniture, fripperies, and knickknacks so inherently feminine, making him all the more threatening—male, everything she remembered from the night before.

His storm gray eyes swung to Lady Moreton. “Tell me you did not send for her.”

Burning heat seared Portia’s cheeks and she dug her fingers into the wood of the chair, feeling a nail crack from the pressure.

“She most certainly did,” Constance volunteered. “She wants you to marry her.”

His gaze stabbed Portia once again, pinning her to the spot—like that knife he had flung into the painting at the inn.

“Is this all you could find, Grandmother?” His burning gaze scorched her. A sample of Hell, to be certain. “It would take a good deal more than this bit of baggage to tempt me.”



Portia gasped, the biting lash of his words as effective as a whip. Even if it had been her intention to chase the earl off, it was another thing entirely to be rejected out of hand in such a humiliating fashion.

“Heathston!” Lady Moreton exclaimed, twin flags of red staining her cheeks as she looked back and forth between her grandson and Portia.

“Rot you, Heath,” Mina hissed. “Can you not even pretend to be a gentleman?”

He did not so much as blink in the face of his family’s censure. His silvery gaze held her hostage. A muscle in his cheek ticked dangerously. She did her level best to return his dark scowl with one of her own, but feared she only looked cross. No one could look as contemptuous and threatening as the man standing before her. His fury was palpable, searing.

“Hop in your carriage,” he began, his voice low and deep as a wolf’s growl, “and head straight back to wherever you came from. You’ll catch no husband here.”

Her rage came boiling to a head. Fury consumed her. Fury at her brother for necessitating that she marry, at her sister-in-law who pestered her to do so, at her Grandmother who sent her on this fool errand in the first place, and at the mother who long ago had promised her a different sort of life.

Most of all, she felt fury at the blackguard who stood before her. The man who yesterday had warmed her blood and filled her with never before felt longing.

Lips compressed, she nodded briskly. The movement sent the room spinning about her and she staggered back from the chair. Opening her mouth, she inhaled a steadying breath to deliver a blistering setdown. To inform the brute that nothing appealed to her more than taking her leave of his hospitality.

Unfortunately, the rush of blood to her head robbed her of speech. She shut her eyes against the spots dancing before her vision. It didn’t help. Dizziness swept through her and bile rose high in her throat.

Swaying, she dimly registered exclamations as her legs buckled, and darkness rolled in.





Chapter 5


Heath stared at the girl crumpled bonelessly in his arms, his gut clenching at the sight of her ashen face. He had not been able to forget her—despite Della’s most ardent efforts the night before.

Closing his eyes, he cursed beneath his breath, not sure what rattled him more. That she laid sick in his arms or that she—the girl he had never thought to see again—laid sick in his arms.

“Satisfied?” Mina exclaimed. “You’ve killed her, Heath.”

“Shut up, Mina,” Heath muttered, maneuvering one arm free to check for the pulse at her neck.

There it was, slow and steady beneath the soft skin. He brushed the back of his hand against her brow, wincing at her fiery flesh. “She’s burning up.”