Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(58)

“You won’t convince me this was not your purpose. I heard what the vicar said. You told him—”

“A twisting of my words! He is the one to suggest that ‘I bring you to heel.’ What else was I to tell him? That I wished to remain here to escape Town and enjoy your library? He would have thought me daft.”

Heath moved forward so quickly she hadn’t time to react. He grabbed her by the arms and gave her a small shake. “Enough. I’ve heard enough of your lies.” His features twisted into a tight grimace. “You’re a brilliant actress, I’ll give you that. I almost believe you. Very affecting really.

Yet you said it, didn’t you?” His eyes raked her. “Nor can you deny what you did—lifting your skirts for me most willingly, no different than any other prostitute selling herself for the right price.”

“Bastard,” she cried, certain she would strike him if he wasn’t restraining her.

He made a slight tsking sound. “Come now, you’ve won. We’ll wed. But know this. You’ll regret the day you ever trapped me.”

Portia froze, didn’t move, didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid. She simply stared at the man in front of her, realization rushing over her with a suddenness that robbed her of breath. She didn’t know him at all. Not in the least. She had thought she understood him, understood what drove him in life, but she hadn’t a clue.

His hands on her arms stirred up all sorts of feelings. Feelings she had no business experiencing.

Feelings she had reveled in a short time ago. Strange the changes a few hours could bring. Her body felt as confused as her mind. The tenderness he had shown her last night was nowhere in evidence, and she couldn’t help wondering what was real—the lover from the night before or the brutal, unfeeling man before her now. She could not reconcile the two.

“I won’t marry you,” she whispered, her voice a croak caught somewhere in her throat. Never would she bind herself to this stranger—a man who stomped on her heart as if it were nothing more than a rug beneath his boot.

“It’s done. We’ve no choice. Even I underestimated my grandmother. I did not think she would send for the vicar. Even now, word of your ruin flies on the wind.” He released her arms and resumed his pacing, moving with the fury of a storm sweeping across the moors.



She watched him in silence. Too numb. Too shocked to speak. Dully, she registered that he had continued with his tirade.

“It won’t be a real marriage.” He sliced her with a glance. “Last night was a mistake we won’t repeat. The risk is too great.”

Mistake. The word gouged her low in the belly like the swipe of a claw. So much for no regrets.

Hot tears burned the backs of her eyes. She quickly spun around and walked to the window, staring out at wind-rippled heather as she fought to gain control of her emotions.

“I won’t marry you,” she repeated, more for herself than him.

And still he talked, as if she hadn’t spoken, as if she were of no account at all. “I can’t disregard that we spent the night alone together. I deluded myself to think I could. I know my duty.” He snorted at this last bit.

“Duty?” She whirled around, too angry to hide the tears spilling hot, silent trails down her cheeks. “Don’t tell me you actually believe that overboiled sausage? So what if he wags his tongue? No one will hear of last night. Gossip in the wilds of Yorkshire is of no consequence in Town.”

“I’ll not risk it—as you undoubtedly suspected when you situated yourself so appealingly at the lodge.”

She swiped the air with her hand. “You’re the most vexing man I’ve ever met. Do you think yourself such a prize that I would stoop to such lengths to trap you in marriage?”

“No, I merely think you desperate and unscrupulous.” He gave her a puzzled look. “Why must you continue this pretense? This is what you’ve wanted. Now you’re getting it. Your family will get their money.”

Her clenched hands shook in front of her. “I am tired unto death of defending myself.”

“Very well.” He gave a stiff nod. “Then cease your playacting.”

Portia stomped her foot, the sound muffled on the thick carpet.

Heath turned for the door.

“Where are you going?” she demanded, uncaring if he wished to hear her or not. This was her life, her fate hung in the balance, and he would listen.

“I have arrangements to make,” he replied in an annoyingly tired voice.

Arrangements. Portia didn’t need him to clarify his meaning. He thought he alone decided whether they would wed. That she had been brought here to garner his approval and she need not be asked or consulted. As if he could simply announce his intention and she would follow along meekly. It made her ill. It made her furious. It made her feel suddenly very…drained.

“I’ve not agreed to anything,” she said in a weak voice.

He tossed a disgusted look over his shoulder. “No? What was last night, then?”

Cheeks afire, she tossed one last question at his retreating back, the one question she wagered could halt him in his tracks. “What of the curse?” Perhaps he need only be reminded of the reason he had no wish to wed. “You can’t have forgotten that.” Not when it has guided his life.

Every action, every decision.