Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(37)

“I see,” Portia murmured, wondering why Mrs. Crosby couldn’t be trusted with such a task. It fell within her duties.

“Indeed not.”

Portia fidgeted beneath the weight of Lady Moreton’s pointed stare. A stare that clearly conveyed that Portia should somehow rectify the matter.

After a long moment of silence, Lady Moreton added, her stare no less intense, “I simply cannot abide fish without the proper claret.”

Setting her napkin aside, Portia asked uncertainly, “Would you like me to fetch it from the cellar?”

“Would you?” Lady Moreton asked as if she had not been angling for such an offer. “That would be splendid.”

Mina made a choking sound that she quickly muffled, pressing her napkin to her lips.

Portia rose to her feet. “Which way to the cellar?”

“Through the kitchens,” Lady Moreton directed, “and do be careful with the bottle. I believe we only have one left.”

Exiting the dining room, Portia hurried into the kitchen, her nose following the warm, yeasty fragrance of rising bread. All activity and chatter ceased the moment she entered the stifling room. Several pairs of eyes fastened on her.

“Er, the cellar, please?” she asked in the sudden silence.

“Through that door, my lady,” a harried-looking woman volunteered, no doubt the cook from her stained and spattered apron.

“Thank you.” Everyone parted a path for her as she approached the narrow oak door. Her hand closed around the latch. The iron hinges creaked as she pulled it open.

Cool, stale air assailed her. Trailing one hand against the stone wall to her left, she descended into the gloom, feeling as though she were perhaps tumbling into a dungeon of old. A soft, flickering glow of light dwelled far below, reassuring her that she was not sinking into a chasm of total blackness.

A loud slam sounded from above, reverberating through the stale air, startling her into nearly losing her step. She swung her gaze back to the top of the stairs.



“Who’s there?” a voice called from below. A deep, familiar voice that had invaded her dreams only last night.

For a moment, she hovered there, biting her lip as she considered fleeing back up the steps, away from that voice, away from the man that stirred impossible longings deep inside her. But that would be cowardly.

She would simply locate the claret she had come to fetch and be gone. She would prove to him that they could be alone together, that they could behave sensibly, above such base emotion as lust. This time she was prepared, resistance sheathing her heart like a suit of armor.

Squaring her shoulders, she took the final steps that brought her to the cellar floor. Chin high, she faced him, expecting his immediate rebuke. No doubt he would think her presence here another attempt to stalk him.

Surprise flickered in his eyes. He stood beside a tall rack of wine, one of several lining the cavernous cellar. He held a dust-covered bottle in one hand.

“What are you doing down here?” he demanded.

“Your grandmother sent me to fetch—”

“Claret,” he finished for her, returning the bottle to its home among the others with a violent shove.

“How…” she began, then stopped, the cold hand of realization stealing over her.

“That’s why I’m here. Fetching the Haute-Brion for her.” His lips thinned into a grim line.

She closed her eyes in one long, mortified blink. “She did it again,” she whispered.

And this time Mina had been involved. Portia’s supposed friend. She must have known Heath had left to fetch wine but held her tongue anyway.

“Damn fool,” he muttered.

“Me?” she demanded, heat washing over her face as he swept past her and stormed up the stairs, each pounding step making her flinch.

“Bloody hell,” fell from above a moment later, followed by the hard pound of boots back down the steps.

He halted in front of her, legs braced apart, his broad chest heaving with barely checked fury.

She watched him warily, resisting the urge to shrink back.



“Locked,” he growled, his storm eyes burning with accusation as they raked her.

“Don’t look at me as though I had some part in this.” She pressed a hand to her stomach in an effort to stave off the sudden queasiness. “You can’t think I wanted to be stuck down here with—”

“Damned convenient for you to decide to visit the cellar when I happened to be here.”

“Your grandmother asked me to fetch wine for dinner.”

“And it’s commonplace to send a guest on a servant’s errand?” he sneered.

“She sent you, didn’t she?”

“Because she wouldn’t cease on the subject until I offered.” “Precisely.” She shook her head, frustration bubbling deep inside her. “I confess I thought it odd, but what was I to do? Refuse the dear lady when—”

“Dear lady,” he snorted. “That dear lady just locked us down here.”

Portia glanced back up the shadowed steps uneasily. She squinted, trying to make out the door at the top of the stairs. “Surely one of the servants will come along and—”

“Risk losing their employment?”

“Your grandmother would not be so callous. Furthermore, are you not their employer?”