Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(32)

Portia glared at them both, beyond words. Indignation burned a hot, bilious trail up her throat, coating her tongue. She chose nobody, yet nothing she said would convince either one of them of that.

“Very well, then.” Whitfield scanned her thoughtfully as he straightened his cuffs, clearly taking her silence as some sort of answer. Turning to Heath, he announced, “She’s no beauty, to be sure, but still too good for the likes of you, Moreton.”

Heath lunged forward, but Portia reacted quickly, jumping between the two men. She placed a hand on his chest, his muscles bunching beneath her palm.

“That’s enough,” she scolded. The lines bracketing Heath’s mouth remained tight and unforgiving. He made another lunge for Whitfield and she pressed both hands against his chest.

“I said enough!”

His gaze dropped to hers, glinting angrily.

Afraid to ease her hands off Heath’s chest for even a moment, she spoke over her shoulder, “I think it’s time you left.”

Giving them wide berth, Whitfield stepped around them.

Heath said nothing, simply held her gaze as the baron’s footsteps faded down the path.

His chest, tense with barely checked violence, rose and fell beneath her fingers.

The logical voice in her head commanded she remove her hands. Yet she couldn’t withdraw, couldn’t part from the tempting feel of his firm chest, warm and male beneath her fingers.

His voice rumbled from deep within that chest, vibrating against her palms. “You should have let me knock his teeth in.”

Smiling shakily, she attempted to slide her hands from his chest but he caught them, holding fast.

“He deserves no less.” His gaze devoured her, swallowing her whole. “It’s not true, you know?



You are a beauty, Portia.” His intense expression drew into a grimace and he looked away, as though he resented the fact.

She moistened her lips and tried to pretend that his words did not thrill her, did not melt her bones so that she could barely stand.

“That would have been brilliant,” she laughed weakly, giving her hands another tug. Still he clung, warm fingers pressed over hers, the thud of his heart steady and strong beneath her quivering palms.

Striving for a calm she did not feel, she continued, “Striking a guest in your own home…everyone would expect no less of Mad Moreton.”

“He was not my guest.” His eyes stared accusingly—as if she were somehow responsible for Baron Whitfield’s presence in his home. “The gathering in my drawing room wouldn’t be because of you, would it?”

Her face flushed and she dropped her gaze.

“I thought as much,” he growled, his thumb pressing harder upon the pulse point at her wrist.

Refusing to feel guilty because she helped arrange a simple tea—perhaps even put the notion in Lady Moreton’s head—she snapped her gaze back to his. “Your sister and grandmother deserve a taste of society, my lord. However small.”

“Don’t speak to me on the needs of my family.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. You know best.”

“I do,” he said from lips so tight they barely moved. “If you won’t return home, then at least cease your interference when it comes to my family.”

“As you wish,” she mocked, “I’m merely a guest here, after all. I wouldn’t want to presume too much. Am I even allowed to converse with your sister?”

“A guest,” he growled, shaking his head in evident disgust. “You’re much more than that.” He scorched her with a blistering glare, leaving no doubt that he did not mean to compliment her.

His gaze shifted from her eyes, scanning her hair, her face, stopping at her mouth. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. His smoke eyes darkened, as fathomless as the sea at night, ready to drag her under, suck her down into the depths.

Her breath caught in her chest, fluttering there helplessly like a butterfly trapped beneath glass. It took every ounce of will to stop herself from leaning into him, toward the heat of his gaze, the beckoning wall of his chest.



The burn in her blood bewildered her. How could she hunger for a man who so clearly disliked her? How could she hunger for a man at all? Such a mind-set would get her trapped in marriage if she weren’t careful. Her plans for living a glorious life abroad would be lost. Places like the Parthenon would remain something read about, never visited, never seen with her own eyes.

Inhaling, she extricated her hands, tucking them behind her back. Lifting her chin, she stared at him and told herself that he was no mesmerist to enchant her. He was nothing more than a flesh and-blood man. A boorish brute. And one rumored to be unbalanced.

He considered her for several moments, his head angled to the side as if he studied a strange creature, a rare specimen that he had inadvertently stumbled upon. Then, with a small shake of his head, his voice broke the silence, almost startling her in its swiftness, “What were you doing out here with Whitfield?”

She gave her own head a shake, as if needing a moment to make sense of his words. “We didn’t set out alone. Your sister accompanied us.”

“She left you alone with Whitfield? Why?”

Portia swallowed uneasily. “I fear her feelings were hurt when the baron paid her little heed.”

“The bastard wouldn’t,” he ground out, his fingers diving through his longish hair, dark as a raven’s wing. “She has stared calf-eyed after him for years. Why will she not listen? Does she think I’m a monster to forbid her to fraternize with lack-wits like Whitfield? I know what they see when they look at her. The same thing they see when they look at me. Another Mad Moreton. Today is a small taste of what she would face if I allowed her to enter Society. I don’t want her hurt. Only the most desperate of fortune hunters would pay her court. All else would spurn her.”