Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(60)

“Indeed?” he asked, wondering what game Portia was about now. Did she want a pretty proposal? Words of enduring love? Him on bended knee? Well, she would not have it. He would not be as big a fool as either one of his parents who cared only for each other—of loving and hurting each other.

“Her driver has already brought their coach around to the front.”

Heath poured himself another glass, doing his best to not let that bit of information rattle him.

She couldn’t mean to leave. Not when she had succeeded in getting the proposal she had set out to win.

“No doubt she expects me to stop her.” He waved his glass in a small circle, indifferent to the sloshing fluid that dribbled over his fingers. “Expects that I shall fling my body in front of the coach if need be.”

“No! I do!” Mina slapped a palm against her chest. “She expects nothing from you. From the moment she arrived, she never has, you bloody ass.”



“Mina!” Constance rebuked.

He scowled at his younger sister, unaccustomed to hearing such rough language from her.

Usually she wouldn’t dare. No doubt more evidence of Portia’s influence.

“You cannot really mean to let her go, Heath,” Mina insisted, voice full of entreaty.

“Good riddance,” Constance grumbled. “Let her leave.”

“Shut up!” Mina cried, voice shrill, hands shaking at her sides. She swung her gaze back on Heath. “You can’t let her leave. You can’t.” Her small fists knotted and Heath suspected she might take a swing at him. “She’s the only friend I’ve got.”

Heath turned, suddenly unable to bear the torment in his sister’s face. Another sin to lay at Portia’s door. Not only had she tied him in knots, she had quite thoroughly, completely, captured the heart of his sister. She had managed to leave her mark on all of them in a short time, and it annoyed the hell out of him.

As his sisters erupted into argument, he inched toward the window. The curtains were pulled back, permitting the faint morning light to trickle inside. His eyes landed on the waiting coach, Portia’s ill-kempt driver leaning against its side, a bored expression on his face.

What manner of ploy was this? She would not leave. Not after accomplishing what she set out to win. Him. Or rather his wealth.

Then he spotted her, watched the straight line of her back as she descended the stone steps. She stopped at the bottom, rigid as a tin soldier while she pulled on her gloves in quick, efficient movements. He stared overly long at those pale hands, remembering their elegance, their petal softness.

The driver pulled the door open. Her maid clambered in first. Portia moved to follow, then stopped. Slowly, she turned. Their gazes collided. She lifted her chin as if daring him to stop her.

He held his ground, careful not to reveal his bewilderment, careful to mask the silent question burning through his head.

Why are you leaving? What do you want from me?

He had agreed to wed her. Something he never imagined possible. And why did she wear that bloody wounded expression on her face? He inhaled deeply through his nose, but the air felt too thin, not nearly enough for his suddenly too tight lungs.

If she meant to go, he would not stop her, would not chase after her like some love-struck fool.

He had agreed to marry her, had made his offer. That was enough. All she could expect of him.

All he could give. He would not behave as his father—hotheaded and swept away with love to the exclusion of all sense.



He could not force her to accept his offer. He would feel no guilt, no regret.

Her gaze drilled into him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable, her stance still rigid, soldierlike. Then she was gone. A blur of skirts ascending into the carriage.

He watched, the blood wringing from his heart until it ceased to beat. His gaze followed the coach as it clattered away, longing for another glimpse of her. His eyes scanned the dark curtain at her window, searching for the sight of hair the color of jet, skin like cream.

At last the carriage turned the bend. Out of sight. Out of his life. He scowled, vowing he would have her out of his mind just as easily. In no time at all, he would not even recall her name.





Chapter 23


Portia stood in the dim foyer of her home and wrinkled her nose at the unsavory stench clogging the air.

“Finch!” her voice resounded in the emptiness, bouncing off walls of faded rose wallpaper and floating to mingle among the great canopy of cobwebs clinging to the domed ceiling. She squinted through the gloom at the cobwebs, marveling at how they had increased in her absence.

The shabbiness of her surroundings struck her full force. Especially since her stay at Moreton Hall, where everything gleamed and smelled of fresh lye, where light filled every room, where servants bustled about, busy making Moreton Hall spotless. A home.

Sighing, she tugged her bonnet free and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Several days in the coach, with only the most necessary stops, and her joints felt stiff as an old woman’s. A warm bath, edible food, a familiar bed—she’d feel restored in no time. Physically restored, at any rate.

Emotionally, might take a bit longer. Likely forever.

“Finch!” she called again, projecting her voice so that it reached the servants’ wing. The old butler never lurked far from the door. He was anything if not reliable. Loyalty alone had kept him from departing when the servants’ wages had diminished to naught.