Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(55)

His hand traced the line of her collarbone, the brush of his fingertips chasing away her troubled thoughts. That hand lowered, trailing a fiery path between her breasts and she trembled.

“Don’t worry. I’ll handle Grandmother,” his low voice reassured her, most likely mistaking her shudder for anxiety over what his grandmother would say when they returned home. “We have to night.” His husky voice rumbled over her, a caress in itself. A slow lick of heat curled in her belly at his promise.

A single night.

She arched beneath his hand, thrusting her breast into his ready palm. Her hand circled his neck, dragging his mouth down to hers.

This would be all they ever had. It had to be enough. She would make it so.





Chapter 21


Portia and Heath had just cleared the threshold of Moreton Hall when Lady Moreton swept down on them like a carrion bird in pursuit of fresh kill. Her darting eyes—quick and hungry—

assessed them, searching, looking for a point of invasion. No doubt she had been watching for their return from one of the upstairs windows.

The feral light gleaming in her eyes spiked unease deep in the well of Portia’s heart. She shrank back, but Heath’s hand on the small of her back stopped her from total retreat. He gave her a reassuring wink, and she melted at the small gesture before gathering herself tightly under control. Tender feelings for him had no place in her heart this morning. Or ever again. Their intimacy ended the moment they crossed the threshold. A one time affair, a brief foray into passion that must be put behind her.

“Where have you been?” Lady Moreton demanded, then waved a hand, granting neither one the chance to answer. “It’s of no account now. You’ve been out all night together. Without a chaperone. The damage is done. You must wed posthaste.”

Portia sighed, suddenly very tired. Tired of Lady Moreton’s scheming and plotting and badgering. So much like her own grandmother with her insufferable expectations.

“Good morning to you, too, Grandmother,” Heath greeted. “And yes, we’re well—we found shelter from the storm, thank you for inquiring.”

“Well, I can see you’re both well,” she snapped, that elegant, blue-veined hand fluttering in the air. “Now, I recommend you leave at once to procure a special license. I shall make the arrangements here while—”

“That won’t be necessary,” he interrupted in a controlled voice, smooth as polished marble.

“What?” Lady Moreton blinked rapidly, as if trying to rid some particle from her eye.

“We won’t be getting married,” Heath announced in a voice that brooked no argument.

Lady Moreton turned her twitchy stare on Portia. “You cannot mean to accept this, my dear.”

From the corner of her eye, Portia saw Heath turn to study her, felt his unwavering gaze, his dark judgment as he waited for her answer. After everything, he still thought her a grasping, unscrupulous marriage-minded female. Her heart twisted. Yet if she were honest with herself, perhaps a small part of her did want to marry him.

Yet not like this. Not against his will.



Moistening her lips, she said as firmly as she could, “My lady, it’s really for the best that I leave.”

“For the best?” Lady Moreton’s voice splintered the air of the great foyer. “Where’s your dignity? You’re ruined, you stupid girl!”

Portia flinched and closed her eyes slowly in one long fortifying blink, retreating into that dark cave she resided when her family lashed her with the barbed whips of their tongues.

“That will be enough,” Heath’s voice rumbled beside her, the pressure of his hand at her back warm and comforting, a lifeline drawing her from the shelter of the cave.

“I was afraid of this,” Lady Moreton muttered, her head bobbing up and down like a buoy in tossing waters. “That is why I sent for the vicar.”

“You what?” Heath dropped his hand from her back and stoically faced his grandmother. “So he can wag his tongue to all in the district about affairs that are none of his concern?”

A cold draft swept over Portia. “Why would you send for the vicar?” she heard herself asking.

Heath answered without looking her way. “She means for him to persuade us, isn’t that so, Grandmother.”

“Persuade?” Portia echoed.

“Portia. Dear.” Lady Moreton seized both her hands with her chilled ones. “Mr. Hatley is a man of God. Surely he will help you and Heath see reason, convince you both to wed. For the safety of your souls if nothing else.”

“Oh, let’s be honest,” Heath sneered. “You’ve sent for Hatley to force my hand.”

“Did someone say my name?” a voice pealed through the vast foyer with the clarity of a bell.

Portia turned to watch the vicar descend the stairs. Dressed all in black, with a wide cleric’s collar, she retreated a step as if the devil himself approached and not a man of God.

“Mr. Hatley,” Heath greeted, his voice flat, void of warmth.

“I understand congratulations are in order,” the vicar boomed in a voice bred for the pulpit.

“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed,” Heath replied. “My apologies. You made the trip out here for nothing.”

“I told you he would be resistant,” Lady Moreton chimed, moving to stand beside the vicar.