Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(31)

“I assure you, my lady, the Moreton name has long been discredited. It was quite blackened by the time I was in leading strings. The father was a knave. The mother little better. And all that before the madness.”

Portia leveled him her iciest glare and set out to end this conversation once and for all.

“Although it’s none of your affair, allow me to assure you that I harbor no tendre for the earl of Moreton.”

His lips slanted into a confidant grin. As if she had issued an invitation, he stepped nearer, eyes glowing with a feverish gleam.

She hastily slid back a step. “Nor have I any wish to consider your suit. Even if I were so inclined, my family would oppose our match. A man of mere suitable means is not a possibility.”

His face flushed and he readjusted his grip on her arm, forcing her closer. “That’s the way of it, eh? Money over breeding. You want to populate the countryside with future Mad Moretons?”

“You go too far, sir.” Hot indignation crept up her neck and swarmed her face.

He shook his head, tossing those golden curls about his face. “I feel I must intercede on your behalf. With your family not present and no doubt unaware—”

She snorted. “I would describe my family as many things, but never unaware.”



He stared at her for a long moment, his expression incredulous. She waited patiently for her meaning to sink in.

At last, he exclaimed, “They cannot have sent you here knowing—” He stopped cold at her pointed look and shook his head in denial. “No. No one in these parts would even consider binding themselves to a Mad Moreton—no matter his wealth.”

“No?” Portia mused. “How very shortsighted. He’s rich as Croesus. Owns half the coal mines in Yorkshire and half a dozen factories in Scarborough. I would think he’d have his pick of ladies.”

Whitfield’s eyes glittered with spite, as if the mention of Heath’s wealth made him loathe the man more. Shaking his head, he growled, “Even so, why would the Duke of Derring permit his sister—”

“That is none of your business,” Portia snapped, her last thread of control breaking. She had had quite enough of this arrogant jackass and his meddling…and his relentless grip on her arm.

“I couldn’t agree more,” a voice interjected from somewhere behind, the familiar velvet sound sliding over her like warm sherry, heating her insides in a way totally different from the anger that Whitfield stirred within her.





Chapter 12


Portia looked over her shoulder and swallowed. Heath stood with his arms crossed over his broad chest, legs braced wide, his stone-carved face forbidding as he surveyed her with Whitfield. The mere sight of him unbalanced her. She hadn’t seen him since the night on the balcony. Yet she had never once stopped thinking about him. A deep ache throbbed beneath her breastbone each time she imagined him with his mistress. She shook her head. Absurd.

His storm-cloud eyes missed nothing, taking in Whitfield’s possessive hold on her arm with one sweep before returning to her face.

“Moreton,” Whitfield greeted stiffly, finally releasing her arm.

Portia stepped back, involuntarily rubbing her tender flesh, stopping when she caught Heath watching, his eyes drifting to where she rubbed her arm. His gaze glittered with a dangerous light that made her breath catch, keenly reminding her of the wild, wicked man she had first met.

“Didn’t expect you to put in an appearance today,” Whitfield drawled, his voice calm, polite, yet she detected a thread of apprehension.

“No?” Heath angled his head, the single word loaded with menace. The dangerous light in his eyes intensified. “I live here.” His gaze flicked to her. “And I always see to my interests.”

A frission of alarm—and something else—skittered along her nerves at his words. Surely he did not consider her one of his interests? That would seem contrary to everything he had said since the moment of her arrival, from the moment he sneered at her and called her a gold-digging husband hunter.

Whitfield’s gaze shot to her. “It would appear we have similar interests.”

The corners of Heath’s mouth lifted. A wolf’s smile that made her take a hasty step back.

“I’ll grant you have nerve showing your face here,” Heath murmured with deceptive calm, a muscle ticking furiously in his jaw. “More than I ever gave you credit for.”

“Merely looking out for the lady.”

“The lady doesn’t need you looking after her.”

She looked back and forth between the two men. Animosity radiated off them, palpable and thick. The type of animosity that was long-standing, born years ago—before she ever stepped foot in Yorkshire. She felt like a tasty bone in the midst of two dogs long accustomed to fighting.



“Oh, I beg to differ,” Whitfield rejoined. “Someone needs to see to her welfare. It appears her family didn’t give a thought to sending her into this viper’s nest.”

“Enough,” Portia exclaimed, her cheeks stinging with anger.

“Perhaps,” Heath drawled, heedless of her outburst. His gaze drilled into Whitfield with unspoken challenge. “But that someone won’t be you.”

Whitfield smirked. Shaking his head, he puffed out his chest and faced Portia. “That’s the way of it, then? You choose him?”