Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(23)

Clearly, she did not understand. Hell, neither did he. They had a good arrangement. One based on mutual need—sex. After three husbands, Della may have sworn off marriage but not the carnal needs of her body.

He expelled a deep breath as he stood. Reaching for his shirt, he knew he owed her an explanation. He had been the one, after all, to wake her in the middle of the night for a little bed play.

Her gaze searched his. “What’s amiss?”

Donning his shirt, he assured her, “Nothing.”

“Heath,” she said, drawing out his name.

Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. “My bloody grandmother has taken it upon herself to invite the Dowager Duchess of Derring’s granddaughter for an extended visit.”

Della watched him closely as he slid on his boots. “I don’t understand—”



“She wants me to marry the girl,” he bit out with a grunt as his foot slid home.

She gave a slight shrug. “So? You’ve avoided the parson’s trap this long. Why is this time any different?”

Heath straightened slowly, gaze fixing unseeingly ahead. Portia, his mind immediately answered.

Portia was different.

His grandmother had paraded a slew of girls before him over the years. He couldn’t recall a single face or name. Yet they had all been the same—well-bred girls whose families didn’t care about the curse, about sentencing themselves or their progeny to violent insanity. His dark scowls eventually conveyed his disinterest and sent them scurrying home.

But not Portia. No, the stubborn chit had planted herself at Moreton Hall. And she affected him, tormented him with her eyes, her hair, her scent—bergamot and lemons. The bloody female was dangerous to his senses. Since that first night on the road she had stirred him, roused his desires for a woman beyond his reach. Beyond safe.

“Nothing,” he lied, searching for a stronger denial. “Nothing is different except that the girl intends to sit out the Season here.”

The smooth skin of Della’s brow wrinkled. “No one can make you marry her. Sooner or later she will sense your disinterest and return home. Like all the others.”

He laughed dryly. Portia was nothing like all the others. “I’ve already made known my disinterest and she’s not budging.”

Della stood and moved to her dressing table. “Interesting.” Sitting down, she began brushing her hair in long, quick strokes. “I’ve never seen you so bothered. Perhaps she’s the one.”

“The one?” Heath asked, unease skating his spine, warning him that he wasn’t going to care for her meaning. “What one?”

“The one to make you rethink this whole curse business. A woman you can marry, someone capable of giving you children.” Her eyes lifted to meet his in the mirror’s reflection. She set the brush down and added in a subdued voice, “Someone you can love.”

Heath stared at her for a long moment before he found his voice. “Come, Della. Love is for the self-absorbed. Fools like my parents.”

His lips twisted as old, familiar bitterness swelled in his chest. The memory of his parents, so in love one moment and at each other’s throats the next, reared its ugly head. Yes, he’d seen what love could do. Seen the actions of those under its spell, seen it destroy and consume all in its path—his parents included.



Shaking his head, he motioned at Della and himself. “What we have is better than love.” He nodded resolutely. An arrangement of the head, not the heart.

Even if the curse didn’t hang over him, a black pall over his life, he wouldn’t marry. At least not for love—never for such a destructive emotion as that. His parents’ “love” brought nothing but grief and misery to everyone in their sphere: each other, their children, the house hold staff. No one had been spared the shouting matches, his father’s cruel words, his mother’s hysterical tears.

Love—he would have nothing to do with it.

Della laughed mirthlessly. “Spoken by a man never in love.”

Heath studied her through the mirror, surprised to hear such a sentimental remark from Della. He had thought her like him.

“I’ve been married before,” she reminded, her light shrug belying the sad light shading her eyes.

Setting the brush aside, her manner turned brusque as she asked in clipped tones, “Is she pretty?”

Snatching his coat off the chair, he shrugged into it, muttering, “Her looks are of no consequence to me.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home.” He had no intention of discussing Portia with his mistress. That would require digging into feelings best left alone.

“To her.”

“Don’t be absurd. Lady Portia means nothing to me. Someone to be avoided. Sooner or later she’ll become bored.” He nodded, as though convinced. “She’ll tire of what ever game she’s at and head for home.”

“Sooner or later,” Della echoed in a small voice. “Meanwhile you’ll torment yourself, wanting her and denying yourself because—”

Heath sliced the air with his hand. “Enough. Speak no more of it.” He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Me, too,” she replied, watching him with an odd look in her eyes.