Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(42)

“You can drop your skirts now.”

Gasping, she released her skirts, letting them flutter back to her ankles. She stood frozen, rooted to the ground. Her eyes scanned his face, devouring the sight of him, wondering how he could shut off his emotions like that.

No man ever made her feel this way. No man had tried. Fool that she was, she had thought herself immune, thought herself different, better than all those other debs tittering and batting their eyelashes for every gentleman that cut a fine figure in his evening attire.

Her gaze traveled the length of him, stopping at the hands knotted at his sides.

Her heart loosened. Apparently, he wasn’t unaffected. “Your hands are shaking,” she whispered before she could think better and hold her tongue.

Abruptly, he turned, removing his hands from her view. His voice floated on the air, the command so soft she barely heard it. “Go.”

She eyed the broad expanse of his back.

“Go,” he barked, making her jump.

Without another word she fled up the steps as fast as her legs could move. Wicked man. Making her feel this way—making her want him. Her fingers brushed her tingling lips. Lady Moreton could never know.

“Heath! Where are you going?”

Heath stopped in the foyer at the sound of that shrill voice. He stood frozen as stone, reining in his temper before slowly turning to face the woman responsible for turning his world upside down.



His grandmother approached at a sedate pace, eyeing him with keen, narrowed eyes. He fixed a neutral expression on his face.

She stopped before him and folded her fine, blue-veined hands primly in front of her. A smile played about her lips as she took note of his clenched fists.

He immediately relaxed his fists, letting his hands hang limply at his sides. She would mark that as a sign, an indication that his captivity with Portia affected him. If she had even an inkling of how much he desired the damned chit…

He shook his head, both amazed and horrified. For once, remarkably, his grandmother had gotten it right and managed to thrust an eligible female beneath his nose that he found hard to resist. He could never let her find out.

“Where are you off to?” she asked in clipped tones.

Knowing the one response that would vex her the most—and perhaps convince her of his disinterest in Portia—he replied, “The dower house.”

A colossal lie that. He had not visited Della since the night he turned from her bed, contrary to what his family thought. He couldn’t bring himself to see her again, to face the questions that were sure to rise when he couldn’t bring himself to touch her. Lately, he had stayed at the old lodge. He didn’t have to face anyone there.

His grandmother’s nostrils flared as though she smelled something foul. “With your strumpet?”

He smiled coldly. “I have no idea to whom you refer.”

“That Fletcher woman.”

“Della manages the dower house,” he said with mock innocence. “And a better house keeper I’ve never run across. I’ve actually considered bringing her here and retiring Mrs. Crosby to the dower house. She’s getting on in years—”

“That woman will never step foot in this house.” His grandmother’s voice shook.

Heath shook his head. Grandmother had always blamed Della for his bachelor status. As if Della were the reason he never married.

“Fortunately, this house belongs to me,” he replied. “Perhaps you would like to take up residence at the dower house? Mrs. Crosby could accompany you.”

“I’ll move to the dower house when you take a wife. As is proper.” She inhaled deeply through quivering nostrils. “And on that matter.” A pregnant pause filled the air before she accused,

“You were in the cellar with Lady Portia for an unseemly amount of time.”



“And you know why,” he ground out, having a good idea where she was heading and still astounded at her unbelievable gall.

“I only know that you have placed yourself and Lady Portia in an untenable situation.”

“Cease your games. We both know how Portia and I came to be in that cellar, and I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there is no need to post the banns.”

Her controlled features cracked for the barest moment, revealing the frustration that simmered just beneath the surface. “Just the same, a gentleman would do right by her and make an offer.”

Heath laughed, the bitter sound echoing in the cavernous foyer. “Never mistake that I’m a gentleman, Grandmother.”

Angry splotches of color broke out over her face and her voice dropped to an enraged whisper.

“You’re a disgrace to this family.”

Heath laughed more, the hard sound welling up from deep in his chest. “I’m such a blight, am I?” he demanded, thumping his fist to his chest.

His grandmother snorted in disgust. “You’re a reprobate with no consideration for duty, just like your father—”

Hiding the sting her words inflicted, he shook his head fiercely, his words biting as he spit out,

“Dear lady, I’m doing my duty, whether you see it that way or not. I’ll make certain that I am the last Mad Moreton to ever live.”

“Mina,” Portia bit out, her voice swift and sharp as she entered the dining room.

Her face still burned from the liberties she had allowed Heath. She doubted she would ever forget. Doubted she could ever close her eyes and not recall the teasing brush of his fingers at the backs of her knees, the burn of his hands on her thighs.