Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(67)

In moments, she was free from the press of bodies, stumbling onto the balcony, down the stone steps and deep into the gardens. She strolled until she located an iron bench situated beneath a large oak. Settling herself there, she lifted her face for the evening breeze to cool her overheated cheeks.

The slow drag of footsteps over the graveled path seized her attention. She watched as a shadow grew out of the dark, broad-shouldered and loosed limbed, drawing ever nearer with the firm fall of each step. Finally, an image materialized.

The dark fall of hair. The angular, hawklike features. The storm-cloud eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, her heart expanding inside her chest.

“I’m here for you.”

Shivering at his words, she demanded hotly, “How did you know I was here?”

He shrugged. “An easy matter. The right coin will earn you any information you want.”

Indignation smoldered inside her. “You bribed my servants?”

“Only one.”

“Were you even invited here?”

“No.” His lips curved in a maddening grin. “But what’s one more guest?”

She huffed and crossed her arms. He had sauce, she’d give him that.

He merely looked her over, his eyes staring overly long at her low-cut bodice. She fought the urge to lift her hand and cover herself. Never before would she have worn anything so daring, or in such a bold color. Astrid swore the deep red complemented her, made her dark hair all the more lustrous, her eyes brighter, her skin glow like cream. Given the stares she’d elicited to night, the gown had served its purpose.

“Have you come to change my mind?” She gestured about her with a loose flick of her wrist, her seeming apathy surprising even herself. “Unnecessary, as you can see. What happened in Yorkshire didn’t ruin me. I’m still able to hold up my head. You may return with a clear conscience.”

He took his time in answering, his unrelenting scrutiny making her breath come fast and hard. As always. That much hadn’t changed. Her reaction to him assailed her instantly, visceral and inescapable. Time and distance and a renewed purpose in life hadn’t changed that.

Disappointing. No, frustrating. She had decided to give up her dreams and foolish girlhood desires, to cease all shallowness and follow duty’s path. No longer a weak creature of passion.

Wisdom, responsibility and maturity ruled her now. She should be beyond wanting Heath.



With a shrug that seemed to mock the searing intensity of his gaze, he drawled, “It doesn’t change what happened between us.” His husky voice rolled over her, tormenting her, the slide of silk against her skin.

Her throat constricted. “I’ve put that behind me. Forgotten all about it, in fact.”

“Liar,” he whispered so softly she barely heard him. His eyes glinted with an angry light, as if her words alone, untruthful though he claimed them, sparked some kind of primitive urge in him to deny, to disprove.

“I have,” she insisted, rising to her feet. Then, thinking to convince him that she had well and truly moved on, she lifted her chin and said, “Mr. Oliver has proved excellent company, quite wiping you from my mind.”

His hands clamped down on her arms and he gave her a small shake. “Enough, Portia,” he rasped. “I know you’re angry with me. You’ve every right to be, but don’t pretend you feel nothing.”

“Oh, I feel something.” Her anger arrived at last, flowing hot and swiftly through her blood. She struggled in his hands like a wild bird, her chest rising and falling with the tumult of her own emotions. “Something akin to hatred.” She shook from the inside out, infuriated at the mere sight of him, at the treacherous fire in her blood that his presence stoked into an obliterating blaze.

He smiled, a dangerous curve of sensuous lips that made her still in his arms. “Hate. Love. The two are nearly indistinguishable.” His hands slid from her arms. She started to step back but he caught her again. One arm wrapped around her waist, hauling her against him, mashing her breasts into his chest. “A fine line, I think.”

“No,” she moaned, arching away.

“My sweet little liar,” he rasped in her ear. “You mean for me to believe you forgot me? Forgot how good we were?”

She nodded dumbly, pushing at the rock wall of his chest.

“I haven’t forgotten. Not for a moment. You might have left Yorkshire but your memory did not.

You have haunted me, Portia.”

She fought against the hot thrill his declaration gave her, and shoved harder.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he repeated. “Not your taste.” His tongue circled the whorls of her ear. She whimpered, biting down hard on her lip to stop the betraying sound. She ceased pushing, her hands clenching the fabric of his jacket as if she clung to her salvation.

He continued talking, his voice mesmerizing, a fiery caress against her skin. “Not your nails on my back. Not your lips on mine. Not your sweet little body milking me.”



Gasping, she lurched free, stumbling as if drunk. And perhaps she was. His words swirled in her head, making her dizzy, making her skin tingle…intoxicating her as no wine ever could.

“You remember,” he pronounced, voice thick with triumph, his eyes gleaming with desire. “And you want more of the same.”