Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(68)

Without thinking, her hand shot out, the loud crack of her palm against his cheek both satisfying and frightening.

He fingered the flesh there, and she tensed, waiting for him to retaliate.

“Striking me won’t make it untrue,” he uttered with maddening calm.

“Stay away from me,” she warned, shaking from fury, from a whole nest of snarling emotions he stirred within her. “I don’t know why you’re here, but we said everything we had to say at Moreton Hall. We’re finished.”

“We’ve only begun.”

She shook her head at him, hopeless fury filling her heart. “Go home, Heath.” Without another word, she spun on her heel, half expecting him to pull her back into his arms. And absurdly deflated when he did not.

Traitorous body.

Defiant heart.

Both wanted what her head knew to be wrong.

She entered the ballroom, her gaze scanning the throng. Spotting Simon’s face, she made her way to his side, determined, now more than ever, to gain a proposal from him. That—her head told her—was right.

Who cared what her heart said?

Heath stopped at the threshold of the dance floor, his cheek still stinging from Portia’s slap. He hadn’t precisely planned on what to say when he faced her, but he had certainly imagined things going better than a slap to the face.

Hell, he hadn’t counted on seeing her in another man’s arms. Nor in a crimson dress that clung to her like a second skin. He watched as she returned to the side of that behemoth. The man clasped her by the arm and fixed her close to his side with a familiarity that made Heath’s blood burn and his hands clench at his sides.



Despite his avowals, he had followed Della’s advice and traipsed after Portia. That he loved the chit, as Della claimed, had nothing to do with it. He simply knew his duty. He had compromised a gently bred lady. And with the curse no longer shadowing him, nothing stopped him from marrying, from carrying on the Moreton line, from filling Portia’s belly with his child. The very possibility, one he had never permitted himself to consider, made his heart thud faster. But not, he told himself, because he loved her.

His gaze fixed on Portia. She tossed back her head and laughed at something the hulk next to her said. Chandelier light glinted off her dark hair. His chest tightened, his fingers itching to unpin the heavy mass and run his fingers through the silken tresses of gleaming jet.

Nothing stopped him from marrying.

Nothing except her.

He relaxed his hands, a calming assurance sweeping through him. Lady Portia Derring would be his wife.

With that overriding thought, he strode across the room.

Her face blanched when she saw him approaching.

He smiled grimly. “Portia,” he greeted, making deliberate use of her Christian name, staking his claim for the benefit of the man looming at her side.

“Lord Moreton,” Portia returned, her voice breathless. “You’re still here? I thought you left.”

She glanced uneasily at the man beside her, a smile wobbling on her mouth.

“I’ve come a long way for you,” he announced, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes flared wide, smile vanishing.

“Portia,” the man beside her demanded, his lip curling in a sneer as he looked Heath over.

“Introduce me.”

Heath fixed a cold smile to his face, not caring for the way in which he ordered Portia about—

not caring for the fellow at all. He dropped his gaze to the hand that clutched her arm, to the fat sausage fingers that dug into her red silk sleeve. Something tight and deadly coiled itself in the pit of his stomach. He wanted nothing more than to plant his fist into the bastard’s face.

“Mr. Oliver,” Portia began, her eyes darting about in a clear attempt to assess the attention directed their way, “May I introduce you to Lord Moreton.”

Heath returned Oliver’s stare with a cold one of his own, and the battle commenced. One fought without words or acts. A line had been drawn. The question remained who would cross it first.

Heath’s fists knotted at his sides, his joints aching from the pressure. He stepped forward.



“Heath,” Portia whispered, dragging his gaze back to her.

Please, she mouthed, those blue eyes of hers glittering brightly, the plea there unmistakable.

Something loosened and unfurled itself inside him, and he found he couldn’t deny her. Not when she looked at him that way.

With a curt nod, he turned and strode from the ballroom, the house, his mind busy planning their next meeting.

Portia exhaled quietly, watching Heath stride away and disappear through the crowd. An inexplicable tightness filled her chest, making it impossible to draw breath without discomfort.

Irrational as it seemed, a part of her felt annoyed that he had left. Had he come all this way to give up so easily? She gave her head a hard shake. He had hurt her enough. He would not do so again. Best that he give up. She would accomplish what she set out to do, what she had promised Astrid and Grandmother. Marry and marry well. Provide for her family. Perform her duty.

And she would protect her heart in the process.

“Come, Portia. Let’s take a stroll.” With his hand at her elbow, Simon guided her out the balcony doors and deep into the gardens.

“Would you care to ride tomorrow?” he asked after several moments of silence.