Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(56)

Together they presented an imposing, united front.



Mr. Hatley smiled. A patronizing curve of moist, over-fleshed lips. “Come now, my lord, be obliging. I can’t say I endorse Lady Portia’s methods”—e paused to waggle his brows at Portia in a look that could only be described as a jeer—”but you’ve been well and truly caught, lad.

Time to own up to your responsibilities and marry the lady.” Mr. Hatley winked at her and added in less than discreet tones, “You said you would bring him to heel and right you did, my lady.

Right you did.”

Horrified, Portia shook her head, opening her mouth to deny she had ever purported to do such a thing. Those were his words. Not hers. Yet she knew with a deep pang in her heart that Heath would take this as the final, irrefutable proof that she was a liar, a heartless manipulator.

Even as he turned on her, eyes full of disgust, she knew nothing she said would ever convince him otherwise. Still, she had to try. “Heath—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, the single word a knife to her heart. As if in reflex, she pressed a hand against her chest, looking away from his scornful gaze, unable to bear it. “I’m weary of your lies.”

“I told you we should have sent her back,” a cheerless voice rang out.

Portia followed the sound, her eyes landing on Constance, grim and unsmiling at the top of the stairs.

Chest tight as a drum, she looked back to Heath, braced to hear him second his sister’s opinion.

He said nothing. His eyes remained locked with hers, chips of ice that nothing could thaw. His stare imprisoned her; she wished she could look away, escape the intensity of cold gray eyes that chilled her very heart and froze her blood.

“Leave us, Constance,” Heath said. “We’ve audience enough.”

“But Heath—”

“Leave us!”

From the corner of her eye, she noted Constance’s departure, relieved for that at least. Yet she had eyes only for Heath. She stared at him, praying that he would see the truth in her gaze, that he would see her.

“I’m aware of your reservations, my lord,” Mr. Hatley inserted, heedless of the damage his thoughtless words had wrought. “I’ve counseled your grandmother on the matter for quite some time. Your concerns for spreading your family’s disease are commendable.”

Portia tore her gaze from Heath to watch the vicar’s fat lips smile in a denigrating manner. He continued, “But such things are in God’s hands, my lord. Not yours.”

She glanced back at Heath to see how he took this pronouncement.



“God’s hands?” Heath ground out, the muscles along his jaw knotting dangerously. “I’ll not leave it to God’s hands, sir.” Each word fell hard and swift from his mouth, cracking on the air like a volley of gunfire. “As I recall, God did not intervene when my brother screamed from his crib. For nigh on two years, he suffered—his screams filling this house.”

Her hands twitched at her sides, the urge to reach out, lay a hand on his tense shoulder and offer comfort, burning her palm. Yet she knew he would reject the gesture. Reject her.

In a voice still hard and unrelenting, he demanded, “Do you know what it’s like for the screams of a child to fill your head night after night? To watch blood and puss ooze from sores that you could not stop his little hands from clawing?”

Portia’s throat constricted, blocking the sob that welled up from her chest. Were such the side effects of porphyria? Is that what Heath had to look forward to? The thought made her heart clench in pain and bile rose up in her throat.

“I’ve seen God’s work, Mr. Hatley,” Heath went on in a low voice, subdued, a quiet thread of anguish on the air. “And I’ll not leave my fate or that of my family’s to His hands again. Not if I can help it.”

The vicar’s face swelled and reddened. “Very well. Might I suggest you consider of the young lady, then?”

Heath looked her way. She suffered his scrutiny, certain that he had no wish to consider of her just then. His cool gaze flicked over her as if she were a stranger and not the woman he had loved so thoroughly the night before.

“Heath,” she murmured, desperate to reach him, to gain a glimpse of the man she had seen last night. The man she had taken into her body and held against her heart. She didn’t want to part from him like this, with bitterness and misunderstanding between them. Didn’t want last night to become a blight in her memory.

“Heath,” she said again, her voice low with appeal. “Look at me. You can’t believe I would—”

She stopped and swallowed past the lump rising to choke her.

Something that looked damnably close to guilt flashed in his eyes, and she knew, like her, he was thinking of last night, remembering their less than innocent time together. He remembered and regretted. Damn him. No regrets, he had said. Liar, her heart cried as her hands knotted at her sides. He would not taint last night, would not sully the memory with regret. As if it were something he wished to take back and erase.

She shook her head swiftly, her heart beating like an angry drum against her chest.

Heath turned from her and addressed the vicar. “I am thinking of her. And I strongly suspect I’m the only one.”



“Oh, Heath, that’s absurd,” Lady Moreton cut in. “You’ve ruined her. Only one thing can protect her now.”