Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(61)

“Where is the ol’ goat?” Nettie muttered.

Shaking her head, Portia dropped her reticule on the round marble-topped table in the center of the foyer, pausing when she caught sight—and smell—of the rotting flowers situated in the center. At least a week old, the flowers were no longer identifiable. Their fetid odor tainted the air and her nostrils quivered in revolt.

“I don’t know,” she answered, gazing at the brown, shrunken blooms, slow dread filling her heart.

“Suppose I’ll have to lug these to our rooms,” Nettie grumbled with a kick to Portia’s trunk.

“See to your luggage,” Portia replied, tearing her gaze from the decaying flowers. “I’ll have someone fetch my trunks up later.”

Without another word, she hurried up to the second floor, hoping to catch her grandmother at tea.

Her pulse thrummed frantically as her feet flew up the stairs, beating out a rhythm on the steps that matched the tempo of her heart.



That she did not come across at least one servant as she hurried to the drawing room heightened her unease. Where was everyone? The house seemed preternaturally still. Not a single sound save the whisper of her footsteps on the carpet and the anxious rasp of her breath.

“Grandmother?” she called, pushing open the partially closed door and stepping into the drawing room. An empty room stared back, dark and musty. The drapes sealed out all light and made her feel as though she had stepped inside a tomb. Turning, she headed for the salon, Astrid’s room of choice.

Upon entering, Portia did not find Astrid with her usual gaggle of Society matrons, duchesses like her mostly, all as cold and reticent as herself. Instead an altogether different breed of visitor occupied the room’s confines. A stranger. A Goliath of a man wearing an ill-fitting jacket.

They sat side by side in a double chair-back settee that looked dangerously close to collapse.

Portia glanced about the room, thinking to spy a maid tucked away in a corner, serving as chaperone. No such luck. Crossing her arms, she narrowed her gaze on the pair. True, Astrid did not rank among her favorite people, but Portia had never marked her the sort to cuckold Bertram.

She was a stickler for propriety.

The stranger withdrew his great paw from where it fondled one of Astrid’s curls. He moved slowly, the backs of his fingers skimming Astrid’s shoulder as though loathe to relinquish his hold.

Astrid rose hastily to her feet, her muslin skirts rustling softly on the air. Her guest followed, unfolding his monstrous frame from the settee, an expression of mild annoyance on his blunt features. The walnut wood legs creaked in relief to be freed of his considerable burden. At least Astrid had the grace to look discomposed, flushing as she patted her honey blond curl, as though she needed to make certain it still hung there and he had not taken it with him.

“Portia,” she greeted, a tight smile fixed to her face. As if nothing untoward occurred. Yet her voice gave her away. Usually modulated and dulcet in tone, it shook the barest amount. “I did not expect you home so soon. How was your trip?”

“Uneventful,” she murmured, managing not to choke on the colossal lie. Uneventful. The single word said enough, would serve to answer the question burning in Astrid’s eyes. No, she had not nabbed the wealthy groom she had been sent forth to snare.

Astrid’s slight shoulders sagged a bit, but she soon recovered and straightened her spine.

“Forgive my manners, Mr. Oliver. Allow me to introduce my sister-in-law, Lady Portia.”

Mr. Oliver’s gaze shifted to Portia. He assessed her from head to foot, coal dark eyes shining with a feral gleam. She felt instantly wary, like a hare caught in the hound’s sight. He stepped forward and bowed over her hand.

“Delighted,” he murmured, eyes trained on her face.



Her wariness intensified. She was no beauty to produce such an immediate reaction in men. Only one man had ever treated her as though she were anything beyond the par. The same man, she quickly reminded herself, that had so devastated her heart. Reclaiming her hand, she inclined her head in stiff greeting.

“Sister-in-law,” he murmured, swinging his avid gaze to Astrid. “It escaped my attention that your husband possessed a sister. And such a lovely one.”

Portia drew a shuddering breath. Possessed. He said the word as if she were just that—a possession.

Astrid gave a slight shake of her elegantly coiffed head at him. A slight motion, almost imperceptible, but Portia noted the gesture.

“Thank you for calling, Mr. Oliver,” Astrid said, all ice and vinegar again. The duchess Portia knew well. “I shall send word if I hear anything.”

A nasty smile twisted his lips. For a moment, she had a glimpse of a man with whom she had no wish to tangle.

“You’ll be seeing me soon, Your Grace.” He turned to Portia. “A plea sure, my lady.” With another clumsily executed bow, he murmured, “I’ll show myself out.”

Portia waited for the door to shut before rounding on her sister-in-law. With a hand propped on her hip, she asked flatly, “Who, precisely, is he?”

Astrid smiled heartlessly. “Always the blunt one. No wonder you can’t catch a husband.

Gentlemen don’t care for such straightforwardness.”

Portia expelled a heavy sigh. When Astrid had first joined the family, Portia felt the sting of her words daily. She had even retaliated in kind. Yet that was then. Unable to summon forth a scathing retort, she only felt a bone-deep weariness.