Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(18)

“I heard you possessed a splendid library.” She clasped her hands together in front of her, hoping he did not notice how her voice quavered. “I came to see for myself.”

His gaze skimmed the cascade of hair over her shoulders, making her wish she had taken the time to pull it back. “You should be abed.”

Wetting her lips, she swallowed and said, “I’ve slept enough of late—”

“You’re ill.” His hard gaze fixed on her face as if he could see beyond flesh and bone to all that she guarded. “You should have more sense than to be up and about. Especially dressed only in your nightgown.”

Heat scalded her cheeks. Slipping her spectacles from her face, Portia lifted her chin and leveled him a reproving glare. “I wish everyone would cease treating me as though I were a piece of crystal to be handled cautiously.”

“You are gravely ill—”

“A mild ague, no more.”

He scrutinized her for a long moment, his gaze intense. She stared back and held her ground, chin up. Finally, he shrugged as if her welfare were of no account. And why should it be?

Her face burned as she recalled the way he had flirted with her. The memory of his hands on her body ignited a writhing lick of heat in her belly. A nameless female passing through might have been fit for dalliance—but not a lady his grandmother hoped him to wed. He wanted nothing to do with her. Perhaps he had when he thought her an anonymous female. But not now. Not that he now knew her identity.

“What are you doing here?” Sitting up, he flung one arm along the back of the sofa and gestured about the room with the other hand. “You don’t belong here.”

“As I said, I wanted to see your library—”

“No. Here. Moreton Hall.”

Pressing her lips together, she debated how forthright to be. He had certainly ended all need for niceties between them when he had ordered her from Moreton Hall with all the finesse of an ogre.

With that burning humiliation in mind, she mocked, “Come now, Lord Moreton. You know why I’m here.”

“To snare a husband,” he rejoined, his voice hard, cutting. “Me.”



“That would be my family’s wish, yes.” Portia drew a deep breath, ready to explain that he need fear no pressure from her on that score. That she was as much a victim as he, that she had no wish to press him for a proposal. She had no interest in marriage, in handing over what precious freedom she had to a husband.

Only he never gave her the chance to explain.

“Save yourself the trouble,” he growled. “I have no intention of marrying. Ever. My grandmother knows this, you understand, she simply can’t accept it.”

Angling her head, she observed him curiously. She never met a gentleman opposed to matrimony. There were heirs to consider, after all. And family alliances to be made. Intrigued, Portia asked, “You don’t want a son? An heir?”

His face hardened, convincing her that she hit a nerve.

“No.” The single word fell like a stone, hard, final. Not to be questioned.

“Why not?”

He scowled and even in the dim light she could see a muscle jump angrily in his jaw. “You haven’t a clue how to hold your tongue, have you?”

She stared, waiting.

Sighing, he dragged a hand through his hair and confessed, “I can’t have children.”

Her hand flew to her lips. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“No,” he bit out, rolling his eyes. “I will not.” Shaking his head, he demanded, “Did your grandmother not explain the Moreton curse before she sent you here?” He sent her a pitying glance, the kind that seemed to say, poor fool.

Portia shook her head, a slow sense of dread tightening her chest.

He smiled cheerlessly. “Ah, the sacrificial lamb. Shall I explain exactly what your family has plotted for you?”

The dread in her chest grew, leaving no room for air. Unable to speak, she nodded jerkily for him to continue, to confess all.

“Your grandmother sent you into the lion’s den quite unprepared.” His humorless smile slipped and he turned to study the dancing flames in the fireplace. “But then perhaps that was her plan.

To have you blink those pretty eyes so guilelessly at me. Such charming na?veté,” he broke off with a snort.



Deliberately ignoring his backhanded compliment, she snapped, “You make no sense. What curse?”

“Madness, my dear. Porphyria. As ugly as it gets,” he declared, his voice hard as granite. “My father fell victim to it.” His expression grew shuttered. “As did my younger brother.”

Madness? He had not been jesting. Portia eyed his profile closely, as if she could discern the madness he spoke of lurking beneath his hard exterior, see it in the smoky depths of his gaze, in the unyielding line of his jaw, in the wide mouth and full lips.

He turned then and caught her staring at him. A knowing smile twisted his mouth. “Yes, it’s there, runs thick in my blood. Some say it has already surfaced.” He shrugged one broad shoulder as if it mattered little.

An image of the wicked man from the road, the one who had nearly run her over with his horse, who flirted outrageously, who played with knives for sport, flashed through her mind.

“Explains much, doesn’t it?” he asked, lips curving in a strange, humorless smile. As if he were determined to feel nothing, as if being mad cast no shadow over his life.