Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(44)

The image of herself with Heath in the library—in the cellar—flashed through her mind and her own hypocrisy made her cheeks catch fire. Who was she to lecture on propriety?

With a curse under her breath no lady should know, she whirled around and headed back down the narrow alley lining the stalls. Her feet beat the ground in hard, agitated steps. It was none of her business with whom Mina cavorted. Goodness, it was none of her business whether Mina cavorted. Still…

Portia jerked to a halt and looked back toward the stall. Mina could very well be losing her virtue. In a stable. Did not her own recent carnal activities grant her some authority on this matter? Grant her the firsthand knowledge that decisions should never be made under the influence of passion?

Portia bit her lip until she tasted the coppery tang of her own blood. Indecision warred inside her.

She had never stood by the notion that young ladies should be coddled and prohibited from enjoying all the freedoms and pursuits that young gentlemen were allowed. But did Mina truly want this? Or was this an act of defiance, a rebellion against the strictures imposed upon her.

Would she one day regret tossing up her skirts and losing her virtue in a pile of hay?

With a deep sigh, Portia lifted her skirts and marched back toward the stall with fierce steps. As embarrassing as it would be, she had to save Mina from herself.

The sound of hooves pounding on earth reached her ears, growing steadily louder, freezing her in her tracks. Turning, dread filled her heart as she watched Heath, riding at his usual breakneck speed into the yard, pull his mount to a stop before the stable. He dismounted in one fluid movement. The moment he spotted her, his lips compressed in a hard line.

“Portia,” he greeted, standing several feet from her, legs braced wide. He made no effort to close the distance. His mouth was drawn firmly, resolutely. He clenched his reins in one fist as he stared at her, his eyes unreadable. Sunlight glinted off his dark head and her eyes squinted against its glossy brilliance.

“Lord Moreton,” she returned, clinging to the formality of his title, a much needed barrier.

One corner of his mouth lifted, her formality clearly amusing him. “What are you doing here?”

“I…” her voice faded, dying on her lips. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder to where Mina conducted her tryst, wondering what to tell him.

With a gulp of air, she strode forward and looped her arm through his. Laying her hand on that hard, muscled arm, she said, “I thought I saw Mina step outside. Apparently, I was mistaken.”



He looked down at her arm looped through his, at her pale fingers resting on the dark fabric of his jacket, and arched a brow.

She flushed, realizing how forward he must perceive her. No doubt he thought she welcomed his attentions. Perhaps even craved more of the type he had lavished on her in the cellar. Swallowing her pride—and her own instinct to flee him and the fascination he stirred within her—she batted her eyelashes in the manner she had observed from countless coquettes. “Won’t you join me inside?”

His brows drew together and he looked at her strangely, as if she had sprouted a second head. “I don’t think so.”

“You must be parched from your ride,” she needled, suppressing the pride that demanded she cease such shameful cajoling. “I can send for a tray of tea. Or perhaps you would care for something a little more fortifying?” She wet her lips, slowly, deliberately.

His eyes darkened as he stared at her mouth and she felt a stab of satisfaction.

Giving his head a hard shake, he muttered, “I need to tend to Iago.” He tried to shrug free of her arm and advance into the stable, but her fingers clung harder, panic seizing her.

“Oh, pooh.” She thrust out her bottom lip and lightly slapped his chest, fluttering her lashes.

He scowled down at her with narrowed eyes. “What the hell’s gotten into you?” he demanded, clearly past patience. “And what’s wrong with your eyes?”

Portia ceased batting her lashes and fought back a scowl of her own. Deciding another tactic in order, she leaned heavily against him, complaining, “I’m not feeling quite well.” Her fingers dug into his muscled arm, clinging for support. “I must not be fully recovered. Would you escort me to the house, my lord?”

His piercing gaze drilled into her and she held her breath, waiting for him to either accept or reject her little charade.

At last, he nodded slowly and she remembered to breathe.

“Certainly. Perhaps you’ve overtaxed yourself these last few—”

A sudden giggle tinkled over the air, twisting into a sharp, feminine gasp of plea sure.

“What was that?” he asked, craning his head to peer into the stable.

“I didn’t hear anything,” she replied, her hands fastening tighter on his arm as she attempted to pull him along with her. He plucked her hand from his arm and started down the wide aisle.



She rushed to keep up, still bent on distracting him. Pressing her hand to her forehead, she tried again. “You know, I’m suddenly feeling very feverish, my lord.”

He didn’t so much as look her way. A quiet rumble of voices drifted from the end stall. Why were they talking? Couldn’t two people caught in the throes of passion put their mouths to better use? Heat flooded her face and she suddenly did feel feverish. She briefly considered dropping in a swoon at his feet. Yet with her luck, he would fail to catch her.