Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(28)

Mina’s eyes widened. “Oh, it was a fright. Grandmother arranged a luncheon with Mr.

Humphrey, the goal being to foist his daughter on Heath.”

“What happened?”

“Heath was his usual boorish self, drove off Mr. Humphrey—he was our vicar, you know.”

Portia didn’t know, but she nodded, prompting Mina to continue.

“The vicar and his daughter stormed out before dessert was even served. The following day they left Yorkshire altogether.”



Portia shook her head, shocked. Though she shouldn’t be. Heath had proven himself nothing but a blackguard. “I find it surprising that there are even families willing to wed their daughters to him.” She cringed, instantly regretting the comment. Of course, there were such families.

Families like hers.

As if reading her thoughts, Mina replied, “Of course. Isn’t yours?”

Portia nodded morosely.

Mina slid her a sideways glance.

Portia swallowed past the lump in her throat, careful to keep her expression neutral. Unwilling to discuss her family’s desperate need to be rid of her, she forced a cheeriness she did not feel and returned to Mina’s earlier question. “Convincing your grandmother to arrange today’s little gathering was not so remarkable. I merely expressed an interest in meeting some of your neighbors.”

Mina grinned. “Well, it was no coincidence that Grandmother chose Tuesday afternoon. Clever bird. Constance always calls on the orphanage in Locksley. She won’t be back until early evening.”

Clever bird, indeed. Lady Moreton had shrewdly organized the tea, keeping both her grandson and Constance in the dark. Portia didn’t know whether to admire the lady or hold her in greater fear than she already did.

Not that this tea was so grand an event. The only nearby neighbors of suitable rank to attend numbered a paltry three. Upon entering the drawing room, the auspicious trio rose to their feet: Vicar Hatley, round and jovial; Squire Milton, a middle-aged widower who blinked about him owlishly, almost as if he were unsure of his presence in the Moreton drawing room; and Baron Whitfield. Portia looked him over appraisingly, thinking Mina’s best hope rested here. Flaxen hair framed his youthful face, curling against sideburns a deeper shade of blond. His expression reflected polite interest. Interest, she soon realized, that was reserved for her alone.

“Would you like another cake, Lady Portia?” he asked, proffering a plate of assorted teacakes.

Portia glanced down at the three filling her plate. “No, thank you.”

Mina reached for one, a ready smile on her face. “I’d love—” Her voice faded as Whitfield placed the plate back on the tea ser vice, not sparing her a glance. Her hand wavered in the air, an embarrassed flush flooding her face.

Portia glared. Courtesy to a Moreton clearly eluded him. And Milton’s manners were little better.

When he ceased his incessant blinking, it was merely to engage her or the countess in conversation. Mina he ignored altogether.



Portia strove to discourage their attentions, drawing on her reserve of vapid discussion topics.

Nothing, however, deterred the baron. He actually appeared interested in early Celtic horticulture—a topic that had always sent prospective suitors diving for the shrubbery.

“I can’t say how delighted I am that you chose our little backwater to visit, my lady,” Baron Whitfield interjected when she paused amid her diatribe, the only sign that he might prefer a change of topic. “You must be bored senseless here.”

“On the contrary. The Moretons are brilliant hosts.” Portia smiled at Mina, who returned a wan smile of her own. “Lady Mina is especially delightful, such animated company I’ve yet to come across in Town.”

Whitfield speared Mina a doubtful glance, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I’m sure,” he murmured, lips twitching as if she had uttered some joke. Portia’s indignation burned even brighter.

Mina averted her face, stirring the contents of her teacup swiftly with a spoon. Despite her brave front, Portia did not miss the rapid blinking of her eyes, as if she fought back tears.

“So you’ve come to capture our elusive earl,” Mr. Hatley boomed in ringing tones, seizing Portia’s attention. She nearly dropped her teacup. It clattered noisily on its saucer as she cleared her throat, trying to arrive at a suitable reply to the vicar’s tactless remark.

“She’s the one, Mr. Hatley,” Lady Moreton proclaimed, nodding sagely, a smile of approval gracing her lips. “The one we’ve been waiting for.” She leaned forward and whispered in loud tones, “I can feel it.”

“That so?” The vicar replied, looking Portia over with renewed interest. “So, you think you’ll bring him to heel, eh, my lady?”

“Er…” Portia smiled uneasily, knowing to deny him would sound foolish, crazed even. Why else was she here if not to snare the Earl of Moreton? Mr. Hatley watched her, waiting. Moistening her lips, she managed not to choke as she murmured, “I shall do my best in bringing him to heel, Mr. Hatley.”

“Good, good,” he chortled, holding a sausage-like finger aloft as he quoted, ” ‘But because of immoralities, let each man have his own wife and let each woman have her own husband.’”

Immoralities? Portia smiled weakly, unsure how to respond. Did the vicar see through her, deep to the core where sinful thoughts of the earl lurked, a liquid swirl of heat fomenting in her belly at the mere thought of him?