Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(50)

“Oh, you’re good,” he sneered, dropping her arm as if burned. “I almost believed you. Believed that you were as much a victim as I to all of Grandmother’s machinations. But this has been your game from the start, hasn’t it?”

Portia shook her head fiercely. “No. You’re a fool if you believe that.” She lurched back, uncaring that her back grew uncomfortably warm. She would step into the flames of hell itself if it put distance between them. She waved an arm toward the door. “You think I had some part in arranging the storm that stranded me here?”

He ignored her and glanced about the cottage, his gaze stopping at the chair where her clothes draped. “Get dressed.”

She looked at her clothes. “They’re still wet.”

He thumbed behind him to the door. “Since we’re going to ride back out into the rain, wet clothes won’t matter much.”

Portia shivered. “Can we not wait until the weather clears?”

His lips curled back from his teeth. “Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you? More time alone with me.” He advanced, stalking her like a jungle cat, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “And just how far would you go to trap me?” His eyes dropped and she felt them burn a trail over the tops of her bare shoulders. “Who’s to say I won’t take what you’re offering and still not wed you?” His hand rose, brushing the slope of one shoulder, sliding down until the backs of his fingers grazed the swell of one breast.

Her breath caught, and not entirely from fear. She should loathe him and the suggestive gleam in his eyes, the wicked bent of his thoughts. How could she feel anything but contempt for a man who thought so ill of her? Who thought her dishonest and conniving?

She watched his mouth as he continued to talk, hypnotized by the slow, seductive movement of his lips, the way they moved to form each and every word—regardless that his words were poison. “Are you prepared to wager all, Lady Portia, on the chance that I will come to scratch and wed you?” He angled his head. “It’s a wager you’ll lose, but I’ll accommodate you. I wouldn’t mind a taste of what you’re flaunting.”

With a snort of disgust, she twisted away from his roving fingers, suddenly feeling as though foul insects crawled across her flesh. “Get your hands off me. I’m offering you nothing.”

She blinked rapidly, wondering at the sting in her eyes, the awful thickness in her throat. He would not reduce her to tears. Swallowing, she lifted her chin. “I’m not about to be dragged across the countryside simply because of your deranged notion that I’ve designs on you. When will you get it through that thick skull of yours that I am not in pursuit of you?” She raked him with a withering glare.

His chest lifted on a great inhalation as if gathering strength and patience from some deep well within him. As if he were the one being tested and pushed beyond aggravation. “We are not about to stay here together. This rain could very well continue on through the night.”

“Then leave.” She flung a hand in the direction of the door. “Feel no obligation to remain.

Heaven knows you’re not safe with me. Why, I might ravish you.” Rolling her eyes, she stomped toward the table and pulled out a chair. Securing her blanket more tightly about her, she planted herself in the seat. Lifting an eyebrow, she dared him to force her to move from her spot.

He could leave. She was staying put.

He took his time replying, looking from her to the door as if he debated hefting her bodily from the chair. She held her breath, willing him to leave—willing him to quit this absurdity and believe her. At last, he sighed and muttered, “I can’t leave you here by yourself.”

“Pesky gentlemanly honor,” she mocked. “Picks the most inopportune times to surface.”

He cocked his head and studied her through narrowed eyes. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Portia.”

“No, my lord, you don’t suit me,” she countered.

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Ah, but we know that to be untrue.”



Memories intruded. The taste of his kiss, the velvet slide of his tongue in her mouth. She pushed aside the unwanted memories and reminded herself of his total misjudgment of her. How could she crave a man who thought so little of her? Where was her pride?

She stifled the urge to howl in frustration. “What you know couldn’t fill the inside of my boot.”

“God’s teeth, you’ve a viper’s tongue. No wonder you can’t find a gentleman to wed in Town.”

The barb stung and she stiffened, fighting for composure.

He looked away, too—to the single window, where wind and rain rattled noisily against the shutters. He sighed, and the sound resounded through her.

Swallowing, she strove to appear poised, unaffected—the precise way she didn’t feel at the prospect of a night alone with him.

“I’ll sleep on the rug,” he finally said. “But don’t think my staying changes anything. You’re not so tempting I can’t resist you for a single night.”

Heat scalded her cheeks. She surged to her feet, every inch of her quivering with fury. He had delivered his final insult. Her hands clenched about her blanket, her fingers stiff and bloodless.

“I’ll sleep on the rug. I found it quite comfortable before you woke me.”