Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(17)

She reached for one, examining the spine. “Voltaire,” she read aloud. Her hand went for another and another. “Austen, Cervantes, Burney, Defoe.” Trying to still her racing heart, she slid her gaze to the house keeper. “Where did all these come from?”

“The library. Perhaps when you feel better you could explore it yourself, my lady. It’s quite a large collection.” Mrs. Crosby made a tsking sound with her tongue. “Oh, but you’ll be leaving, won’t you? Unfortunate.” In that moment Portia knew Lady Moreton had sent the books deliberately.

Portia reassessed the books, trying to suppress her tremor of delight now that she understood them for what they were—a bribe. She pressed her lips into a grim line and crossed her arms over her chest. No amount of books would tempt her to stay. She had her pride. Nothing could keep her here with that brute skulking about the place.

Then she spotted it. Her breath caught in her throat. With a shaking hand, she pulled a thin volume off the top stack. Freshly bound, her fingers skimmed over the smooth leather surface with its shiny embossed lettering. Mr. Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque.

She had heard of Mr. Poe’s unconventional stories.

“Oh, that one came in a few days ago. Lady Constance always sees that the library is kept current.”

“Incredible,” Portia murmured, her estimation of the stern Constance lifting a notch. She would have had to send away to America for this book. And at no small expense. Who knew what other books awaited below stairs? Likely a veritable treasure trove. Her chest constricted. Unfortunate she had to leave.

A deep yearning to investigate the Moreton library hummed through her veins. Such temptation was hard to resist. Unbearable. Her family’s library hadn’t been updated in years.

Her fingers caressed the sleek leather, her mind working furiously, searching for justification in staying. The image of herself immersed in books, exploring tome after tome, filled her head until she grew giddy. What better way to spend the Season than far away from Town and a new crop of Grandmother’s handpicked suitors? She nodded decidedly. Sound justification. What more did she need? Moreton Hall was precisely where her Grandmother wanted her to be. So what if the earl wished her gone? No threat of him liking her. No threat of him proposing. A slow smile spread across her face.

“I think,” she began slowly, “I should like to stay.”

Mrs. Crosby beamed. “Splendid, my lady. I shall inform the countess at once. She will be so thrilled.”

Portia nodded, ignoring the peculiar look Nettie shot her as she slowly opened the book. The spine gave a small creak and goose bumps broke out over her skin as the smell of ink and freshly cut paper assailed her. “Yes, do that, Mrs. Crosby.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

For the first time in an age, Portia felt giddy from anticipation. A good book. Time away from her family. From another disappointing Season.

Even the memory of the earl’s hard visage couldn’t dampen her spirits.





Chapter 7


Portia rotated in a small circle in the center of the library, the Persian carpet plush and yielding beneath her bare feet. She had waited until nightfall before sneaking from her bedroom, until a hushed silence fell over the household.

A visit to the library would have been impossible during the day. Not with everyone still treating her like an invalid, and not with Mrs. Crosby standing guard.

Yet standing at the center of the vast, cathedral-like room, she was glad she had waited. It was a reverent moment, almost spiritual. Standing alone with so many books, she didn’t want to share the experience.

Never in her life had she seen such a collection. The wind howled outside, rattling against a large mullioned window that looked out onto the moon-washed moor. Portia trembled in her thin cotton gown, half from cold, half from anticipation. The fire burned low in the hearth, and the smell of burning wood mingled with the perfume of leather and parchment. She inhaled deeply through her nostrils. Heaven.

She hugged herself and rocked on the balls of her feet. Mrs. Crosby had not exaggerated. The library was huge. Beyond impressive. Her head fell back, taking in the vaulted, forty-foot ceilings. The books extended to Heaven itself.

Excitement brimming in her heart, she started in one direction, then stopped and turned in another, unsure where to begin. Yet begin she would. All libraries were arranged with some kind of system in mind. Portia vowed to learn the design of this one as quickly as possible.

She had come armed with her reading spectacles. A true indicator of her seriousness considering she abhorred the need for them. Ever since the day she had first donned them and her grandmother recoiled as if confronted with Medusa herself. Pushing them up her nose, she started just left of the door, reverently trailing her fingertips over the leather spines.

“What are you doing here?” A deep voice sounded from behind.

Portia whirled around, stifling a scream. Heath watched her from where he lounged on a sofa—a great jungle cat, all long lines and loosely coiled muscle. Strength and danger lurked beneath his seemingly idle air. How had she not seen him when she first entered the library? How had she failed to notice him?

He stared at her from beneath heavy lids, his wicked gaze liquid dark in the fire glow.

Apparently he had watched her from the moment she entered the room—while she gawked and twirled in a circle like a silly child. Her blood burned with mortification.