Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(34)

“Life isn’t fair,” he snapped a mere moment before he captured her by the back of the neck.

She released a small squeak as he hauled her closer, thinking he meant to kiss her. His mouth descended, then stopped a disappointing hairsbreadth above her lips.

“We rarely get what we want,” he whispered, drawing his words out in agonizing slowness, his breath a warm puff against her trembling lips. “Or haven’t you learned that yet?”

Without another word, he released her and disappeared around the hedge. She fell back against the hedge, a boneless, sagging mass. Her fingers pressed to her lips as she willed the flutterings in her belly to cease.

We rarely get what we want. Portia wondered if she wasn’t a little bit determined to prove him wrong.





Chapter 13


Heath ascended the top of the stairs and advanced down the hallway, stopping short at the sight of his grandmother leaning weakly against the corridor’s wall.

“Grandmother?” he asked, hurrying to her side. “Are you unwell?”

She glanced up, smiling wanly. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I might fetch a book from the library to take my mind off the pain.”

“Pain?” Heath demanded, grasping her by the arm and leading her back to her bedroom. “What hurts? Shall I send for the physician?”

“No, no.” She fluttered a hand through the air. “Merely spent too much time on my knees in the garden today. Afraid these bones aren’t as spry as they used to be.”

Heath studied his grandmother closely, noting the tiny lines around her mouth and eyes. She looked tired—old—he realized with a start. The thought caused him some concern. As much as she aggravated him, he could not imagine not having her around. He’d experienced his fair share of death. William. His mother. His father. And none of it simple. No peaceful departures, any of them. Grandmother had been his one constant.

Gently grasping her elbow, he guided her to her bed. “Off your feet,” he ordered.

With a mumble of agreement, she slipped beneath the counterpane. “I so had my heart set on a little reading. It usually puts me to sleep. Would you mind fetching a book for me?”

“Of course not,” he replied, the feeble tremor in her voice striking worry to his heart. “Anything in particular?”

“Hmmm.” She rubbed her forehead wearily, her eyes half closed. “A novel would be lovely.”

She dropped her fingers. “I would not mind rereading Ms. Austen’s Persuasion.”

“Certainly. I’ll be right back.”

Giving her hand a pat, he made his way back down the stairs to the library. The double doors stood parted and he pushed one open with the flat of his palm.

Like a moth drawn to flame, his gaze flew to Portia, reclining on a chaise, one calf propped on a bent knee. Her bare foot bounced idly, her pink toes as slight as the rest of her. His chest tightened at the sight.



He stared at her a long moment, eyeing the exposed length of calf, the subtle arch of her foot, his gut twisting. Logic urged him to turn and leave, to simply tell his grandmother he could not locate the book. He released a silent sigh. She would likely send him back for another one.

Resigned, he cleared his throat.

She shot into a sitting position, wide eyes falling on him as she anxiously tucked her legs beneath her nightgown.

“Availing yourself of the library again, I see.”

She nodded jerkily, her gaze wary as she hugged the book to her chest.

“I’m fetching a book for my grandmother,” he offered, as if he needed to explain his presence.

He walked to the side of the library where Constance kept the novels. After several moments of staring at book spines, he heard her approach. How could he not? He was attuned to every movement she made, her every whisper of sound. He even imagined he heard the soft fall of her bare feet on the carpet, the pounding of her heart behind him.

“What are you looking for?” she asked, her voice soft, uncertain. And why wouldn’t she be?

Their last encounter in this room had been less than cordial.

Of course, he had been convinced that her motive for remaining at Moreton Hall was in trapping him. Now he was not so certain. He didn’t know what went on in that head of hers. If she wasn’t a husband-hunting gold digger, then what kept her here?

He glanced at the library doors, barely parted, and felt a stab of alarm. Getting caught in a compromising situation with her would be foolish. Nothing good could come of that. Comprising situation or not, he would not wed her. Too many reasons prohibited that. The curse only one of them.

He looked over his shoulder, eyeing her slim, elegant form, far too tempting in her prim nightgown. Her unbound hair gleamed black as a seal’s pelt in the lamplight and his palms tingled, itching to take their fill, to experience for himself the strands he knew to be soft as lambskin.

Disgusted and angry at harboring such thoughts, he shook his head and directed his anger on the nearest and most appropriate source—her.

“You shouldn’t be here. Not with me.” He gestured to her person. “And not dressed so.”

Her chin lifted and her eyes shot blue fire. “I was here first.”

“This is my house,” he snapped. “I’ve been here long before you.”