Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(38)

“Yes, but Grandmother could make their life very unpleasant if they thwarted her will.” A shadow of a smile shaded his lips. “She’s quite good at that. And in case you haven’t noticed, her current agenda is for us to wed, so I suggest you tread carefully about her and read more into her seemingly innocent suggestions.” His eyes narrowed and he mocked, “Especially since you have no wish to marry.”

A maddening sense of déjà vu swept over her. “How many times must I say it? I truly have no designs on you.” She groaned in exasperation. “You act as though you fear I’ll ravish you.”

“On the contrary.” His eyes slid over her in a way that made her belly tighten and twist. “Just know that if word leaks out of this—or any other rendezvous Grandmother orchestrates—I won’t marry you. No matter how many tongues wag. Perhaps you should forget your little fantasy of escape. It could end badly for you.”

Little fantasy. As if a chance to escape, a chance to experience a small taste of freedom, amounted to nothing.

Her fists curled at her sides. Could he not understand? He knew what it felt like to be badgered at every turn, to live in the shadow of another’s expectations. To never mea sure up.



The glow from the solitary candle lent shadows to the hollows of his face, making him look menacing, sinister—far too handsome.

Portia swallowed and looked around the cellar, trying to overlook the canopy of cobwebs hanging from the beams above. How long would they be stuck down here? To one side of them racks of wine, all perfectly aligned, stretched into forever, disappearing into the hushed shadows.

On the other side, enormous vats undulated like dark waves into the depths of the cellar.

She shivered and briskly rubbed her arms, trying not to imagine what kind of vermin lurked beyond the candle’s glowing sphere. “How long will she keep us down here?”

“If she had her way?” He paused and gave her a wry look. “Until you’re with child.”

Shocked at his outrageous words, and horrified at the lurid images that popped unbidden into her head, she dropped her gaze to her hands, turning them over and examining her cuticles. After a moment she looked up to find his gaze, steady and relentless as ever, fixed on her.

His lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “We haven’t any food,” he reminded and glanced at the rack of wine nearest to him. “But I suppose we won’t perish of thirst.” He tapped one bottle.

“Perhaps we should drink the Haute-Brion?”

A laugh bubbled in her throat. “A fine claret, I’m told.”

“Would serve the old harridan right.”

Portia smiled, imagining Lady Moreton’s reaction when she discovered her precious claret consumed.

Silence fell between them, awkward and tense following their moment of levity. Still smiling, Portia studied her hands again.

“God, you’re lovely when you smile.”

Portia whipped her gaze back to his, her heart lurching to her throat. “I—I beg your pardon?”

Was that her voice? Small and tremulous as a feather drifting on a breeze?

“You’re lovely when you smile,” he repeated.

He reached out. One blunt-tipped finger stroked her cheek, close to her quivering lips. “You have a dimple here.” His finger moved, drifting a hairsbreadth over her mouth. So close but not touching. His finger came down on the other side of her face, soft as a butterfly landing on a petal. “And here.” His gaze locked with hers. “They only come out when you smile.”

She moistened her lips, her stomach churning at his seductive words, his gentle touch. The man was dangerous, indeed. He captivated her with disturbing ease. She trembled. Partly from how he made her feel. Partly from how much more he could make her feel if she let him. If he let himself. She would be nothing more than clay beneath his expert hands.

His finger lingered on her face, brushing one dimple, liquefying her bones with the heat of his touch. She stepped back, pulling her face from his hand, from his tempting heat. Straightening her spine, she asked again, “How long do you think she’ll keep us down here?”

His hand fell to his side and he stared at her in brooding silence before answering. “I’m sure she has no wish to starve us. She’ll release us for dinner.”

Dinner? Panic seized her heart, its cold fingers squeezing. How could she abide being locked away with him for a full day?

“Of course,” she replied, doing her best to appear composed. “Dinner.” Interlacing her fingers before her, she paced a short path, making certain to remain within the circle of light. “I have to commend your grandmother for her initiative.” She tried for a laugh but failed miserably.

Twisting her fingers, she went on to say, “She could certainly teach my grandmother a trick or two.”

Heath lowered himself, his boots scraping the ground as he stretched out his long legs in front of him. “Perhaps she’s not yet desperate enough.”

Not desperate enough? Portia paused and let the possibility sink in. The nagging, the pressure, the criticisms that wounded like the slice of a blade. And of course there was her ultimatum.

“Hard to fathom Grandmother as anything less than desperate. She has threatened to choose a husband for me this Season if I do not.”

Bending one knee, he propped his arm over it and studied her beneath hooded eyes. “And yet you’re here.”