Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(57)

The vicar patted Lady Moreton’s arm. “Don’t overset yourself, dear lady.”

Seemingly mollified, the lady gave a delicate sniff and pressed her lips together, nodding for the vicar to continue.

“Am I correct in saying that you two stayed the night together?” Hatley inquired evenly.

“Alone?”

“We were caught in the storm. I couldn’t very well have forced Lady Portia out into such inclement weather for the sake of propriety. She has only recently recovered from an ague.”

“Precisely,” Portia agreed, nodding, gladdened for the sound logic.

Mr. Hatley inclined his head. “Yet if you had no intention of marrying the lady, you should have braved the elements, my lord. Better to have risked her life than her soul.”

A small hiss of breath escaped her lips at this heartless comment. Yet should she feel such surprise? Mr. Hatley’s attitude was typical of Society. A lady’s virtue was of more value than the lady herself.

Heath, however, did not seem to value this attitude. His upper lip curled in a sneer as he said,

“I’ll pretend you did not say that, sir, and ask you to take your leave before I say or do something truly regrettable.”

“Heathston,” Lady Moreton cried in shrill, affronted tones, her hands opening and closing in front of her as if she could grab a handhold of control, power. Something. “You dare address Mr.

Hatley in such a fashion.”

“Oh, I dare.” His eyes glittered a glacier gray and Portia felt their chill right to her core. “That and more if he doesn’t take his leave.”

Portia blinked, thinking she had misheard him. Surely he had not taken offense on her account.

He, who thought her the lowest sort of female?

Mr. Hatley made a small bleating sound and his face reddened even further. “Perhaps,” he started, addressing the countess even as his eyes narrowed on Portia, “Lady Portia’s brother should be notified of recent developments. I am certain he would like to weigh in on the discussion.”

Portia’s stomach rebelled at the obvious threat. If Bertram knew she spent the night unchaperoned with the earl, he would insist they wed.

“Get out,” Heath ordered, his voice lethally soft.



Almost as from nowhere, Mrs. Crosby appeared, the vicar’s hat and coat in her hands. Mr.

Hatley collected his things, his fat lips squashed tightly with censure.

Mr. Hatley shrugged into his too small coat with maddening slowness. His fat lips trembled from suppressed speech, and Portia could well imagine the tirade he fought to hold back. At the door he stopped. His voice rang out with high sanctimony, “I will pray for you, my lord.” His small, vapid eyes shifted to Portia. “And you, too, my lady. For what it’s worth.”

The moment he scurried out the door, Lady Moreton swung on Heath, her slender frame shaking like a reed in the wind, radiating a fury so thick, so palpable, it clogged the air. “What have you done? What have you done? You know he’ll tell everyone!”

Lips compressed in a flat, ominous line, Heath turned his back on Lady Moreton. He glared at Portia in a way that made the hairs on her nape tingle. She angled her head warily, eyeing him up and down as she slid back a step.

“Why are you—”

He snatched hold of her hand, cutting short her question.

“Come,” he ordered, pulling her along, her feet slipping along the damnably slick marble floor.

He thrust her into the library, slamming the door behind them.

Twisting free, she crossed her arms over her chest and watched him pace the vast room like a great caged cat. Her muscles tensed, wary that at any moment he would turn and pounce on her as if she were a sparrow to be devoured in one breath.

His feet burned a trail on the Persian carpet and she studied him as one might a spectacle at a traveling show. Finally, he stopped and faced her. The look in those smoke eyes of his sent a bolt of terror directly to her heart.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” she asked, inching back, stopping when she bumped into the large mahogany desk. Her hands grasped the hard edge behind her.

His broad chest rose on an inhalation. “You wanted this to happen. Did everything in your power to see it come about,” he accused, his words dropping like heavy stones in water, swift, resolute, intractable—sinking into far-off depths where they could never be retrieved. “Your reputation is in shreds now. The vicar will see to that. Your family will demand satisfaction.” He gave a stiff nod. “Very well. We shall wed.”

Her heart constricted in her chest. Earlier she had entertained the notion of him proposing, of him wanting to wed her. But this had nothing to do with wanting. Quite the contrary.

“What?” she asked, the word weak and pathetic to her ears—horribly inadequate for her spinning emotions.



He shook his head tiredly, as if beleaguered with a thousand demons instead of simply her. “You wanted this. From the moment you arrived you’ve been my torment.”

She pressed a hand to her breast, feeling the mad thumping of her heart against her palm. “Your torment?” Never had she thought to have that much power over anyone. Least of all him.

“Yes, you,” he growled.

She laughed a brittle, hollow sound. “You give me too much credit.”