Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(66)

Heath finally broke the silence with a harsh laugh. “You’re mistaken.”

“No, Heath. Your father was quite indiscriminating in his liaisons. Your mother was clear on that point in her letter. She cursed him for bringing the disease home—”

“My brother—”

“Was infected through your mother,” she finished for him. “In the womb.”

He lunged forward and grasped Della by the arms, giving her a swift shake. “No,” he ground out, unwilling to believe that his whole world was built upon lies, upon the likelihood of a fate that was not his. If he wasn’t Mad Moreton, then who was he?

“Heath,” she said softly, reaching up to grip one of his hands, her slender fingers surprisingly strong upon his. “You know it makes sense. The symptoms of porphyria and the pox are similar.

The welts, erratic behavior…madness.”



“No,” he argued, a dangerous rage unfurling low in his gut. Rage at his father and mother for the lives lost and years stolen—for the brother born without a hope for life. Rage at his mother’s funeral, conducted in the dead of night with no rites spoken over the body.

Rage smoldered in his veins, so intense that he had none left for Della. He looked upon her numbly, muttering, “Grandmother said it was the king’s madness.” Dragging a hand over his jaw, he released a pent up breath.

Della’s lips twisted. “What would you rather have people believe? That the Earl of Moreton caught the pox and infected his family? Or he suffered a blood curse over which he had no control?”

Heath surged to his feet and donned the rest of his clothes, his movements violent, angry. Like the burning surge of blood to his head. His grandmother had known the truth. Of this he felt certain. She had harbored his father’s dirty secret and replaced it with another. One she deemed less scandalous.

“Where are you going?”

“To see my grandmother. I mean to have the truth from her lips.”

“What kind of satisfaction will confronting her grant you? Not the kind you crave, I warrant.”

“Oh, I’ll be satisfied,” he vowed.

“Go after her, Heath,” Della uttered, her voice matter of fact, no less certain for its quietness.

He stopped. He didn’t need to ask about whom she referred. One hand on the door, he faced her, his jaw loosening, preparing to speak—but he hadn’t a clue what to say. “Della—”

“Don’t. You don’t owe me an explanation, Heath. There were never promises between us. Never love. I’m happy that you’re free.” She tried for a smile, but her lips quavered, elusive as water.

“Even if being free means you’re free to be with someone else.”

He shook his head, a rush of emotion filling his chest. “She left of her own choosing. I gave her what she wanted. I agreed to marry her. I’m not about to chase after her. Nothing has changed—

”

“Quit lying to yourself and go.” A sad smile hugged her lips. “You’re not your parents. You’re stronger. You’ll respect the woman you love too much to hurt her. Go. Before it’s too late.”

Heath turned and escaped into the night, telling himself that free or not, he would not go traipsing to London in pursuit of Portia. Even if he felt the life-long noose about his neck loosen and the breath flow freely from his lungs, his heart was still tightly sealed. Nothing would ever change that.





Chapter 25


“Her Grace was absolutely right.” Simon Oliver’s moist breath fanned against her ear. “You are a marvelous dancer.”

Portia suppressed her shudder at the heavy hand digging into her waist, wondering what else Astrid had told him. Had she informed him his suit would be welcomed? That he need only ask and she would accept his proposal? They had discussed and decided as much. Regardless that he made her skin crawl, Simon Oliver was an ideal candidate. Especially for someone like her. The gentlemen of the ton had never pounded a path to her door, and Portia could afford no delay in acquiring a husband.

“Thank you, Mr. Oliver,” she murmured, the fine hairs at her nape prickling once again. She twisted her head and looked about the dance floor, searching among the dancers. The feeling that someone was watching—had been watching her for quite some time—beset her yet again.

“Please, call me Simon.”

“Simon,” she murmured, dragging her gaze back to his.

Astrid would see such an invitation as progress. Portia’s stomach tightened to know they had reached the point of familiarity.

“I must say you’re a fetching bit of baggage tonight.”

Portia winced at the artless sycophancy and followed his gaze down the front of her low-cut bodice—one of Astrid’s gowns that had been altered to fit her. “Again, my thanks.”

He grinned, his broad, square face the picture of delight. The waltz came to an end. Portia sighed with relief as he led her from the floor.

“Can I get you anything, my dear? A libation perhaps?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

Simon Oliver had shadowed her all evening. The chance for a respite beckoned. As soon as he turned, she fled through the mad crush of guests. Lady Hamilton’s soiree was a rousing success tonight, if the crowd full of flushed faces was any indication. Music, food and rum punch flowed freely. Hardly the kind of event her grandmother would have allowed her to attend—especially in a dress such as the one she wore. Portia had placed herself in Astrid’s hands, and her sister-in-law claimed this to be an excellent affair to launch the new Portia.