Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(27)

“I won’t.”

Constance studied him carefully. “Heath, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I see the way you look at her—”

“Constance,” he cut in, growing weary of the subject. “You needn’t worry. No woman is tempting enough to make me forget the poison that flows through our blood.” Not a day passed that he did not remember. The memory of his father in a mad fit was not to be forgotten. “Nor would I want to marry if I could.”



His sister nodded slowly. “Of course. You of all people understand that. I merely wish Mina could.”

“She’s too young to remember any of it.” Heath sighed, wondering if that was somehow a blessing. A blessing to live life with no memories of the bitter fights, of ugly words shouted throughout the house. No memory of his father’s slap ringing through the air and his mother’s quick cry. What sweet bliss. “Perhaps if she’d been older it would matter to her as it does to us.”

“I almost envy that she doesn’t remember any of it,” Constance murmured, echoing his thoughts.

Ignorance. Blissful ignorance. Yes, Heath envied his younger sister that. Envied the dreams she had that weren’t colored by the past and the horrifying knowledge of what waited, lurking to seize them. If only he could have the same peace of mind. Then perhaps he could taste the lips of the woman that kept him awake at nights.





Chapter 11


Della sighed and closed the ledger with a thud. She usually worked longer. Usually enjoyed the perfect, uniform rows of numbers and found peace in the chore. Hours could pass without her notice. Except today her attention wandered.

Closing her eyes, she rested her elbows on the desk and rubbed her forehead. In truth, her attention had been elsewhere for several days. Ever since Heath had walked away from her—and her bed.

In her experience, that meant simply one thing. Her first husband had been a chronic womanizer.

Disinterest had always signified one thing—a new woman. Men were slaves to the flesh. While Heath may not have taken this Lady Portia to bed yet, it was only a matter of time. No matter that his head demanded he resist, his body demanded he succumb. Perhaps even his heart demanded it.

She dropped her arms on the desk and stared around her at the elegantly appointed office. The dower house was the home of her heart, finer than anything a fisherman’s daughter from Scarborough ever hoped for. She had thought to spend the rest of her days here. She wasn’t interested in re-marrying and putting another husband in the ground. Not when she had this lovely home. And Heath in her bed.

She shuddered. Unwilling to consider losing Heath, Della pushed away from the desk. Her abrupt movement slid one of the account books forward, bumping it against the collection of books at the far edge of the great mahogany desk. Three leather bound volumes toppled to the floor, followed by the heavy thud of brass bookends.

Della circled the desk to retrieve them, hoping she hadn’t damaged the books. They had belonged to Heath’s father and had occupied that corner of the desk ever since her arrival at the dower house.

Bending, she gathered the heavy bookends and set them back on the desk. Then she collected the first two volumes. The final volume lay several feet away. It appeared some of the paper had stripped from its binding.

“Blast,” she muttered, crawling nearer.

Upon closer inspection, she could see that the pages had not come loose at all, but rather a note had been tucked within. She pulled the piece of folded parchment free. It crinkled crisply in her fingers, the page yellow from age. She unfolded the sheet and eyed the elegant, feminine scrawl.

Her gaze flicked to the bottom of the missive. The signature leapt off the paper. Her heart jumped in her chest and her gaze jerked to the top of the letter, to the beginning. A heaviness settled in her chest, expanding as she devoured each and every word, their significance penetrating her reeling thoughts.

She rose on legs as unsteady as her trembling hand that clutched the letter. The parchment wrinkled hopelessly, brittle as a fall leaf in her white-knuckled grip.

She paced the length of the library and back, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. At last she stopped before the fireplace, staring at the dancing flames for a long moment, considering the twenty-year-old missive gripped tightly in her hand—and all it would signify for Heath. All it would signify for her.

Shaking her head fiercely, she tossed the letter into the fire with a turn of her wrist.

“Forgive me, Heath,” she murmured, watching as the paper ignited, curled and vanished into a writhing nest of flames.

“You’re brilliant, simply brilliant,” Mina gushed, practically dragging Portia down the corridor.

Portia quickened her pace, trying to keep up.

“However did you manage it?” Mina demanded. “I usually only see eligible gentlemen at church, and Constance whisks me away before I can speak with them.”

Portia shrugged. “It wasn’t so difficult to persuade your grandmother. She hardly strikes me as someone to be denied her social amusements. Not in her own home and not by her grandson. No matter how he tosses his weight about. Lady Moreton is intimidating in her own right.”

“True, but Heath’s wrath is something to be avoided,” Mina explained. “Last time proved that,”

she added with a shudder.

“Last time?”