Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(54)

“Portia.”

She turned at the sound of her name, a hush on the air. He handed her a damp cloth. She stared at it for a moment, puzzled, and then she winced, understanding.



“Thank you,” she murmured, accepting the cloth. She looked from him to the linen, an awkward flush creeping up her neck. Absurd considering what had transpired between them.

“Do you mind?” she asked in a small voice, careful to keep her eyes on his face and not his nudity. She motioned for him to turn around. He shot her an annoyed look.

Snatching the cloth from her hand, he commanded, “Lay down.”

“W-What?”

“Lay. Down.” He must have read her bewilderment, for he softened his voice. “Let me do this for you, Portia.”

She slowly fell back on the rug. Throwing an arm over her eyes as if she could hide from the intimacy, she spread her legs for him, forcing her muscles to relax as he cleaned her, eliminating the evidence of her rendered maidenhead. She only wished the memory of what she had done could be wiped out as easily.

The linen felt cool and abrasive against her tender flesh, each swipe unhurried—sweet agony to her oversensitized skin. She bit her lip to stop a whimper from escaping.

She heard the linen hit the floor and sighed with relief—glad for an end to the torment—only to gasp when he curled his big body next to hers.

“What are you doing?”

“Going to sleep,” his voice sounded beside her ear, fluttering strands of her hair against her cheek.

He did not intend to return to the bed now that he had taken his plea sure? Her thoughts whirled.

Why had he made love to her? The very woman he suspected intent on trapping him? And why was he still here? Beside her? Pulling her to him as if he had every right, as if she belonged at his side?

“Sleep,” she echoed, her every nerve stretched tight, achingly alive. Sleep. Elusive as smoke circling overhead.

His hand splayed over her hip possessively, as if anchoring her to him.

She wet her lips, searching for her voice, pretending that the slight touch did not affect her.

“Tomorrow,” she began, pausing, relieved that her voice did not quake as her insides did. “Your grandmother will prove difficult.”

“Isn’t she always?” he said against her neck, the moist fan of his breath making her belly flutter.



“We will have been alone together”—her voice tore, twisting into a sharp gasp as his teeth bit down on her earlobe. Desire, hot and savage, spiked through her, melting her bones and burning her blood as she fought to finish her sentence—”all night.”

“Yes,” he breathed in a voice warm as sherry, thick with promise. He raised his head to look at her. “All night.” His hair fell forward, a dark curtain on either side of his face. Light and shadow flickered over his features—sunlight on wind-rippled water, casting his face into sharp lines and hollows.

Her hand wobbled hesitantly on the air before pushing the heavy skein of hair back from his face. His eyes gleamed down at her, those dark fathomless pools, pulling her in, swallowing her whole. “What will we do?” She moistened her lips. “What will we say?”

He tensed and took his time responding. For a moment, she thought he would not answer at all—

or if he did, it would be to heap the familiar abuse on her head.

Then he spoke, and in a voice that bore little resemblance to the intimate huskiness of moments ago. This voice rang with decisiveness, gravity. “Nothing. Nothing has changed. I know why you came here, Portia. What you expect.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he placed a finger against her lips, silencing her with the single feather-soft touch. “And I know what it is we’ve done,” he continued, “but I cannot marry.

You or anyone. Ever.”

Nothing has changed. His proclamation echoed in her heart, her soul. And she had to confess that a secret part of her wished things had changed—wished he had. Yet he would never wed, not as long as he believed his destiny rested in madness…and he closed his heart to love.

“Can you accept that?” His gaze burned into her, demanding she understand. And she did. He need not worry she would turn into a hysterical female, insisting he do the honorable thing and marry her. She would prove to him that she had not set out to trap him. No matter how her heart bled to let him go.

“Of course,” she replied with forced lightness even as her heart tightened into a painful knot beneath her breastbone. “I have no wish to marry.”

His expression turned guarded, uncertain.

I have no wish to marry. True. She hadn’t. Ever. So why did the words stick in her throat?

Spending a night in his arms had not changed her ultimate goal. She wanted independence, craved a life abroad, to stand before the Parthenon and see with her own eyes if it was as magnificent as everything she had read. She longed for the freedom her mother enjoyed. Not nights of passion with a man that reduced her will to ashes.

“No regrets, then?”



“No regrets,” she vowed.

Turning, he pressed a moist kiss to her palm. “This is all we’ll have,” he whispered against the tender flesh. His eyes met hers over her palm. “I’m in no position to offer more than to night.”

For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder, what if. What if he wanted to marry her? Not because his grandmother wanted him to, but because he wanted to. Would she accept? Would she cast aside her dreams, sacrifice her hopes? The delightful weight of his body atop hers was answer enough. For night after night of this? Night after night of him? Her mind shied from answering the question. Instead, she released a chest-shuddering sigh, relieved that she wouldn’t be given a choice—relieved and saddened.