Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(29)

“Well put,” Lady Moreton chimed, raising her cup in salute. “Here is to bringing Heathston to heel.”



Portia clenched her saucer in her hand, heedless of the delicate china that threatened to snap from the pressure as everyone dutifully echoed Lady Moreton. She stood abruptly, needing escape just as her body craved air.

“It’s such a lovely day. Mina, won’t you join me for a stroll outside?”

With a relieved expression, Mina rose to her feet.

“Won’t you permit me to join you?” Quick as a fox, Whitfield darted ahead and pushed open the balcony doors.

Seeing no way in which to politely object, Portia looped her arm through Mina’s and stepped out into the mild sunshine. Whitfield fell in step beside Portia and they descended the stone steps.

She shot him a wary glance, vowing he would not slight Mina again. She would not let one overblown gentleman look down his nose at Mina.

“There’s nothing quite like spring in Yorkshire,” he commented as they strolled along the path, deeper into the vast, mazelike spiny shrubs of gorse. He gestured widely. “Soon all of this will be covered in yellow buds.”

“Lovely,” Portia murmured, casting a glance at the silent Mina beside her, wondering how to draw her into the conversation. “I can well understand why one would choose country living.”

“Do you visit the country often, Lady Portia?”

“Unfortunately, no. It has been quite awhile,” she answered.

“Is your family seat not in Nottinghamshire?”

Portia nodded, her gaze narrowing. It appeared he had come prepared. She wondered what else he knew about her.

“It must be lovely. Tell me of it,” he coaxed with a toss of feathery curls.

Portia stifled a humorless laugh, wondering how he would react to the truth—that the Derring family seat had been closed tight as a drum for the last two years. That Bertram had released nearly all the staff. That every unentailed item had been sold off. Her mother’s rare book collection—long since sold—elicited the greatest pang in her chest. The property, like the house, had fallen to such a sorry state of disrepair, it would take a fortune to return it to its former glory.

A fortune they clearly lacked.

“They say Nottinghamshire is beautiful,” Whitfield added, pressing closer to her side. “I confess a strong yearning to see if the rumors are true.”

Portia swallowed back an unladylike snort at his unqualified gall. Did he actually think such obvious angling would earn himself an invitation to her family estate?



Mina pulled up suddenly, freeing her arm from Portia’s. Her gray eyes, so like Heath’s, glowed with unshed tears. “F-Forgive me, but I’ve a vile headache.” Her fingers brushed her temple. “I need to retire.”

Portia opened her mouth to offer her company, but Mina spun around in a flurry of skirts and sped down the path. She gazed after her friend for a long moment, an invisible band squeezing her heart. Mina had not concealed her high expectations for the day. Apparently her siblings weren’t all that prevented her from enjoying Society. Society itself presented its own barriers.

Indifferent to Mina’s departure, Whitfield secured Portia’s hand more firmly in the nook of his arm and led them deeper down the winding path. Over the many hedges of hawthorn, a fountain could be heard in the distance, its merry gurgling a direct contrast to her somber mood.

“Splendid,” he murmured, his low voice conspiratorial as he patted the back of her hand. “Now I have you all to myself.”

She averted her face and rolled her eyes, wondering how she might excuse herself from this idiot and return to the house.

“How fortunate am I?” he queried, his thumb moving in small circles on the inside of her wrist.

She shivered as if an insect skittered across her skin.

Tugging her hand free, she announced, “I should like to check on Mina.”

Whitfield moved quickly, blocking her path. She looked up at the blond Corinthian, her eyebrow cocked in question.

“And abandon me to myself?” With a mock pout, he pressed both hands to his heart as if mortally wounded.

Portia crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently. Surely he did not think such a tactic would work. She had been fending off suitors far more charming than he since the age of seventeen. “It would be ill-mannered of me not to look in on Mina.”

“I’m certain she is fine—”

“I should like to see for myself.” That said, she dropped her arms and stepped around him, not caring if he followed her or not. His heavy tread fell behind her, crunching over the pebbled path.

His beleaguered grumble reached her ears. “And what, pray, does it matter if she is sick?”

Portia stopped and whirled around, convinced she had misheard. “Pardon me?”

He flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his jacket and lifted his chin. In no mincing terms, without the faintest sign of apology in his eyes, he repeated, “What does it matter if she is sick?”



Marveling at his insensitivity, she raked him with a contemptuous glare and responded crisply,

“It matters a great deal to me.”

He laughed. A lilting, almost feminine laugh. “She’s a Moreton.” His look told her that should explain everything.