Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(39)

She lifted a shoulder. “Difficult to make a match if no one proposes.”

“True,” he murmured, “but aren’t you worried who your grandmother will choose for you?”

“I’ll deal with that when the time comes. You’d be surprised how easy it is to chase off a would-be-husband.”

“You’re experienced in that endeavor, I gather?”

“Quite.”

He studied her in mulling silence and she wished she knew his thoughts. “Well, don’t expect a peaceful stay here.” He waved a hand about them in demonstration. “Grandmother won’t stop at this.”



Portia shook her head, grumbling, “Why don’t you give her what she wants and marry someone?” It weren’t as if gentlemen lost anything by marrying. He would still keep his freedom, could pursue his dreams with no one interfering.

He narrowed his eyes on her and she hastily assured, “Not me.”

“I’ll never marry.”

“The madness,” she concluded.

He stared, saying nothing.

A certain suspicion filled her, one that she couldn’t shake. Angling her head, she asked, “You still wouldn’t marry, would you?”

She nodded, convinced she had discovered the truth. “You’re afraid of marriage.”

He stiffened where he sat, his expression appalled. “Afraid?”

“There’s no shame admitting it. I’m afraid of marriage,” she announced in a flat voice.

“Indeed?” he asked.

“I’ve no interest in granting a man total power over me. The day a woman says ‘I do,’ she surrenders herself. I have precious little freedom as it is. I’m not about to hand it over.”

“You can’t be serious,” he murmured, his eyes raking her from head to toe as if he had never quite seen her before.

“Indeed I am.” She quickened her pacing. “Husbands dictate where their wives go, how they dress, what they read, eat, topics they may discuss.” Stopping, she gave a shuddering shrug. “No, thank you.”

He laughed, the sound chafing simply because it mocked her greatest fear. “You’ve described a marriage the likes of which I’ve never seen.”

Portia halted and settled her hands on her hips. “No? Well, I’ve seen it.”

“Have you now?” His laugh quieted. “You think a man would dare run roughshod over you?

Surely you know yourself better than that.” His amused eyes flitted over her, measuring. “You’d likely strangle the poor fool.”

She sniffed, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt, unsure whether to feel complimented.

“I simply do not plan on ever putting myself in the position where I must wrangle my freedom from a husband.”



He studied her for a long moment, his gaze probing. “Your parents’ marriage, I take it?”

She shrugged as if it were of little account. “My mother could scarcely breathe without his permission.”

Heath tapped his knee thoughtfully.

Before he could probe further, she forged ahead, saying, “Why don’t you wed? Marriage is no hardship for a gentleman. No one says you must have children.”

“A name only marriage to silence my grandmother? Is that what you’re suggesting?” he demanded, a hard glint entering his eyes.

“Precisely.”

“I don’t know many ladies who would agree to that kind of marriage.”

Portia fluttered a hand. “Oh, I’m sure they exist.”

“Are you volunteering for the position?”

Her hand dropped to her side. Their eyes clashed. Something in the air shifted, thickened.

Tension swelled between them. She crossed her arms over her chest, dropped them and then crossed them again. “Of course not,” she answered in a voice she hardly recognized as her own.

“Good. Because it would never work. Not with you, at any rate.” He slid those smoke-colored eyes over her again—a slow, languorous perusal that made her limbs feel as unsteady as jam.

Lifting her chin, she muttered, “Of course not. You would be the controlling type of husband I precisely wish to avoid.”

Throughout their conversation, the light had grown dimmer, his face more deeply cast in shadow. Portia glanced at the candle and bit her lip, noticing with some alarm that it was close to dying.

His husky voice rolled over her like the drag of silk across her flesh. “Not scared of the dark are you?”

“No,” she replied, the word falling hard and fast from her mouth. No. She wasn’t scared of the dark. Merely of being alone in the dark with him.

He knocked the ground with his knuckles, the sound jarring her from her thoughts. “Hard as a rock and cold as ice. I wouldn’t mind settling myself into something soft.”



Heat washed over her, scorching her face all the way to her hairline, and she wondered if he were aware of his innuendo, if he meant to scandalize her. He looked her over, his blistering gaze stripping her bare.

Of course he knew, the wicked man.

Nervous, her fingers moved to toy with the tiny rosettes fringing the scooped neckline of her dress.

His eyes followed the gesture, the gray deepening to slate, the precise color she had seen last night, moments before he kissed her, ravaging her mouth. Ears burning, she dropped her hand from her bodice, fisting the skirt of her dress as if it were a lifeline capable of saving her from all he stirred inside her.