Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(26)

He was not a man to listen to heartfelt confessions or explanations as to why teas and soirees might be something she wished to escape. He saw nothing beyond himself and his troubles. And at the moment, she was one such trouble.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She slid her gaze back to him. Helpless against it, her eyes fastened on his mouth, on those sensual lips that made her insides melt.

Try me.

If he only knew how desperately she wanted to do that. And wouldn’t it tickle her grandmother to know she entertained such thoughts. Thankfully, there was no risk of him sharing her impulses. He might still be wicked incarnate, but she was no longer an anonymous lady ripe for seduction.

He stepped closer, crowding her, overwhelming her senses. She leaned back as far as she could, the stone railing stopping her from total retreat. Heart hammering wildly in her chest, she risked a glance up only to find his gaze fixed on her face, his eyes searching, scanning every nuance, missing nothing. He looked at her strangely, his eyes feverish, intense, consuming. As though he had never seen anything quite like her before.

Reaching out, he caught a strand of her hair. Studying the strands, he rubbed them experimentally between his fingers. Dropping the lock, he ran the back of his fingers down her cheek, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.



Her breath caught in her throat, trapped, frozen within her like a bird in the face of its predator.

And like prey, she looked away, dropped her gaze, wishing he would step away from her with the same desperate fervor that she prayed he would not.

He inhaled deeply next to her cheek. “You smell so sweet. Bergamot and lemons.”

Her gaze lifted, brushed his chin, mouth, nose, up to lock with his eyes. He watched her with fierce relentlessness. She felt as if his gaze alone could strip away everything, all her shields, reveal all her secrets, all that she hid from the world. Perhaps she wasn’t such a hard read. Of course, no one had bothered looking before.

“What are you?” he murmured, his voice a wisp of heat on the air, so close he singed her lips.

Closing her eyes tightly, she shook her head, panicked that he should see anything at all when he looked at her.

“N-Nothing,” she choked.

“Oh, no,” he returned, his voice quiet and smug and much too close as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb caressing her lobe in a deft, sensual stroke. “You’re definitely…something.”

“Heath?” a voice called from behind. “Is that you? When did you return?”

Portia’s eyes flew open.

Constance walked out onto the balcony, scowling when she spotted Portia standing beyond her brother. “Lady Portia.” She folded her hands in front of her and inclined her head in the barest acknowledgment.

Heath dropped his hand and stepped back, staring at her in that unnerving way of his.

“I’ll retire now,” she murmured, careful not to touch him as she stepped around him. “Good night.”

With an awkward nod for Constance, she hurried from the balcony and headed for the safety of her room, telling herself Constance had not interrupted anything.

She and Heath had not experienced some connection that went beyond what was seemly for two persons avowed against matrimony. She most definitely did not want to experience more…did not wonder what could have happened had Constance not interrupted.

Heath stared at the balcony doors, wondering at the ache in his chest—almost as pronounced as the ache in his breeches.



“Heath,” Constance said, her voice heavy with warning. “What is it precisely you think you are about?”

“Nothing,” he replied, still staring after Portia.

His sister stepped closer. “Then what are you doing out here? With her? It’s not wise. Not wise at all. The last thing you want is to be caught in a compromising situation with the Dowager Duchess of Derring’s granddaughter. Grandmother would pounce on that. You’ll have no way out of marrying her then.”

“I know.” God, did he know. Yet he couldn’t seem to keep his distance. Not for any length of time at any rate. For two days he had stayed away, but his thoughts had been filled with her. “It’s only…” his voice faded, and he rubbed the back of his neck.

“What?”

Dropping his hand, he went ahead and voiced his thoughts. “Incredible as it seems, she claims she doesn’t want to marry me. And I think I believe her.”

Constance laughed mirthlessly. “Of course, she wants to marry you. Why do you think she’s here? The Derrings are desperate for funds. Why else would they consider marriage to a Moreton?”

Heath nodded. Yet he wasn’t so certain. Portia didn’t behave like a marriage-minded lady. For one thing, she appeared too uncomfortable in his presence. She shrank from him. Not the behavior of a woman intent on catching him. Of course that could be her game.

Could she be such an accomplished tease? Could she actually be playing hard to get, hoping to whet his appetite? If that was her game, then, damn her, it worked. She had his undivided interest. All the more reason to avoid her. Yet here he was, gazing after her like some kind of lovesick puppy.

“Her family is desperate,” Constance reminded. “She’s here for one reason and that’s to make a match. Don’t fall for her trap.”