Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(24)

As he shut the door behind him, he couldn’t help feeling as though he closed more than a door.

The prospect of returning to Della’s bed any time soon left him cold. A real dilemma since he couldn’t turn to the one woman whose mere presence ignited a fire in his blood.





Chapter 10


Heath pulled up short upon entering the dining room the following evening. He hovered in the threshold, shifting on the balls of his feet, debating walking back out of the room as he surveyed the room’s occupants. Grandmother, Constance, and Mina occupied their usual seats. Only she sat there as well. An unusual presence in every way.

The tempting smell of fried sole and melted butter, combined with the enter-if-you-dare arch of her brow, sealed his fate. He met the challenge of her gaze and took his seat.

She had sauce, he’d grant her that. He would warrant a lady like her did not exist in all of England. One who would look down her nose at him and declare her intention to stay beneath his roof—whether he wished her to or not.

“Still here, are you?” he asked baldly, snapping his napkin into his lap. With a brisk nod, he indicated for the footmen to begin serving.

That dark brow of hers arched even higher, making her look arrogant and affronted all at once.

“Yes, my lord,” she replied in clipped tones, “your grandmother deemed me well enough to leave my sickbed.”

He opened his mouth, ready to remind her that she had already left her sickbed, then shut it with a snap. No sense revealing that they had been alone in the library last night. His grandmother would seize on that scandalous encounter and insist he marry the girl on the spot. Heath suppressed a shudder.

Leaning back in his chair, he said with more ruthlessness than even he was accustomed, “You don’t look well. I would have thought you still ill.”

A low blow, but he was a bit desperate. Truth be told, she looked better than fine. The sight of her wrought havoc to his senses. With her glossy dark hair swept up, she looked elegant, fresh as the gales blowing in from the mountains to the north. The graceful column of her throat, as slight as a dove’s breast, beckoned to be stroked.

Color spotted her cheeks and her gaze dropped. “I feel fine,” she insisted, plucking at the edge of the table with her fingers. “The rumblings in my stomach required more than broth.” Her gaze, sparkling chips of blue, flew back to his. “Or perhaps you wish to banish me to my room during my stay?”

Intrepid wench. Heath felt his lips twitch but suppressed the betraying smile. She did not amuse him. Attractive or not, he would not soften toward her, would not recall that she had beguiled him so utterly on that muddy road.



“The posting inn south of here at Ackersbury boasts a stuffed pheasant that our own cook cannot duplicate. I’m sure you would find it well worth an early departure.”

“Enough,” Grandmother snapped. “Lady Portia has just arrived. She is not yet ready to leave.”

Turning her gaze on Portia, she said soothingly, “Don’t let him provoke you. He doesn’t mean to be cross, my dear. You’re more than welcome here.”

“No,” Heath inserted, gritting his teeth and wondering when exactly he had lost control of the happenings in his own house.

Termagant she may be, Grandmother usually deferred to him. True, she had thrust eligible ladies in front of him over the years, but life had been relatively peaceful of late—the supply of eligible young ladies that he had not frightened away exhausted. His gaze fell on Portia. Evidently Grandmother had to send to the far reaches of England for fresh recruits.

“She is not welcome here,” he asserted, fisting his napkin beneath the table.

“Pay him no mind, Portia,” his grandmother flicked a wrist in his direction. “Like most men, he hasn’t any idea what’s in his best interest.”

“And Lady Portia is in Heath’s best interest?” Constance sneered over the rim of her glass. She paused and sipped delicately. “We all know that cannot possibly be the truth.”

“Oh, stay out of it, Constance,” Mina shot from across the table, rolling her eyes.

Constance’s eyes flashed. “I will do no such thing. This concerns all of us—”

“Enough!” Heath bellowed, surging to his feet.

All eyes swung to him.

Tossing his napkin down on the table, he leveled a stern glare on every member of his family before addressing Lady Portia, “You want to stay here? Very well. As long as you understand you’re wasting your time. You’ll be going home minus a proposal.”

Color rode high on her cheeks. Quivering with rage, she sputtered, “Y-you arrogant peacock!

You still believe I’m in pursuit of you? Were you to get down on bended knee and beg me, I would never marry you.”

“Good,” he snapped, lowering back into his chair.

“Good,” she shot back.

Grandmother studied the two of them for a long moment before a slow smile curved her lips.

“See, you’re agreeing already. I think the two of you shall get on splendidly.”



Heath closed his eyes, certain he now knew which side of his family carried the insanity trait.

Portia drew her shawl around her shoulders and gazed at the fountain. The moon’s pearl glow gilded the burbling water silver. Beyond the fountain, moorland lay, silent and wild in the twilight. Frost glinted off the heather and gorse, blinking like cut glass in the night. The air smelled fresher, cleaner, hinting at spring, at things to come. By comparison, London smelled stale, stagnant.