Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(64)

Astrid shamed her, made her realize she had no desire to follow Bertram’s example and—if she were honest with herself—her mother’s example, too. Like them, she had fled duty, responsibility, never once giving thought to the effect it had on others. Astrid. Her grandmother.

The tenants in Nottinghamshire.

“Duty,” she whispered, blinking rapidly against the sting in her eyes. Lifting her gaze, she turned and met Astrid’s wide-eyed stare head on. “Tell me what I need to do.”

A thick gloom permeated her grandmother’s chamber. The drapes were drawn tight, only the barest thread of afternoon light creeping from beneath the worn damask. Portia hovered in the threshold, eyeing the figure beneath the counterpane, still as stone—death—atop the bed.

Her grandmother’s cane was propped nearby, within arm’s reach, as if she might wake at any moment and reach for it, rise to her feet and heap the familiar, long-standing rebukes upon Portia’s head: Feckless female. Over-the-hill spinster. Incorrigible bluestocking.

Sadly, Portia wished she would. She would savor the sound of those denouncements if it meant her grandmother was whole again.

Portia approached cautiously, her feet shuffling slowly over the worn, threadbare carpet. A tight wheezing sound carried from the bed, rhythmic and repetitive as a metronome. Her grandmother’s chest rose and fell deeply, as if each breath were pulled—heaved—from some place deep within her chest, from a chasm where life clung by a fragile fist.

Portia stopped at the side of her bed, a sharp gasp tearing from her lips, harsh and ugly in the still of the room. She had not steeled herself for the sight. Her grandmother did not rest there. No.

That imposing lady had disappeared. Only a shell of her former self remained. Loose skin hung off the bones of her face, sagging lifelessly.

Portia sucked in a lungful of the room’s stale air and rubbed her arms briskly, turning away, unable to look at the inert form on the bed and reconcile her to the vital woman who had bullied her…and loved her—at least as much as the crusty old Dowager Duchess of Derring could.

Portia glanced about the silent room. She could not remember the last occasion she had entered these rooms. As a child, she had not been allowed. And later, as an adult, she had taken pains to avoid the old termagant, feeling nothing save keen disappointment in her presence.

“Grandmother?” she whispered, reaching for the hand limp at her side, the skin thin as parchment. Portia handled it carefully, treating it like fine crystal.

“Grandmother,” she repeated, her throat suddenly thick. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle everything.

You’ll see.”

For a moment, those lids flickered, as though struggling to open. Portia’s heart leapt and she squeezed the lifeless fingers. “Grandmother? Can you hear me?”



For the barest second those lids cracked to reveal a pair of pale blue eyes. They stared at Portia with familiar intensity. Yet unfamiliar was the satisfaction, the approval, glimmering there.

Grandmother had heard her vow. Heard and understood.

Any lingering doubts vanished. Her course was charted. She would join the Season and do what her family had desired of her five years ago. Her own desires no longer signified.





Chapter 24


Heath yanked off his jacket. His vest and shirt quickly followed.

“What are you doing?” Della asked, rising from her desk, a curious smile playing about her lips.

“What does it look like?” he asked.

Ridding a certain female from my system.

Proving, once and for all, that Portia has no hold on me.

So what if she left, returned to Town and her life, to the plethora of suitors waiting for her. He would not suffer, would not expire like a tree lacking water or sunlight. Her removal from his life brought nothing save a keen sense of relief.

A mirthless grin curved Della’s lips and he had the oddest sense that she read his thoughts.

“Looks like you’re undressing.”

“Precisely,” he said, his fingers pausing at his trousers as he raked her a glance. “And why are you not?”

“Because of the look on your face.” She flicked a hand in his direction. “You should see your expression.”

“What are you talking about?” he snapped, touching his jaw.

“You look as if you’re girding yourself for battle rather than making love.”

Heath stared, unable to refute the accusation. He didn’t want to make love to Della. He hadn’t wanted to do that since Portia entered his life.

Groaning, he dropped onto the sofa and rubbed his face with both hands. He had come here in an attempt to exorcise Portia from his mind and body. Damn fool. Nothing could ever do that. The girl was in his blood.

“Heath, talk to me.”

He muttered into his hands, “I’m in trouble, Della.”

“The duke’s daughter?” she asked flatly.



He nodded, glad she didn’t say Portia’s name aloud. Bad enough that it whirled around his head, a steady, ceaseless mantra to which his heart kept beat.

“You love her.”

He opened his mouth to deny it, but found that he could not. You love her.

Did he? Had he fallen victim to the one emotion he had vowed to deny himself? God knew he wanted her. Could it be a simple case of desire? He had wanted other women and withheld himself. All but Portia. She had been the one he couldn’t resist. When it came to her, something greater than lust drove him. But love? Had he learned nothing from his parents?