Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(69)

“Yes, that would be lovely,” she answered even as her heart constricted over the lie. She could think of countless things she would rather do than ride in the park with him.

He pressed closer to her side. His fingers rubbed her bare arm where he held her, his thumb moving in wide circles.

Unable to bear his touch, she halted on the path and pulled her arm free. “We better return.”

Simon stopped and squared himself in front of her. “Something tells me you wouldn’t mind being out here with that Moreton fellow.” His tone rang out with the petulance of a child’s.

It dangled on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she loved that other fellow—or rather, had loved him. Had. She gave herself a swift mental shake. One did not love someone who brought only grief and pain—who agreed to wed but never bed you.

But there had been joy, a small voice whispered, for however fleeting.

“Lord Moreton is of no consequence to me, Mr. Oliver.” She shivered at the sound of her voice, a thin thread on the air.



“Simon,” he reminded.

Portia cocked her head and tried not to pull away when he drew her hands into his.

“Simon,” she said haltingly.

“It lightens my heart to hear you say that, Lady Portia. I realize there might be some competition for a lady of your rank.” In the gloom of the garden, his barrel chest seemed to grow, puff out like a great balloon. “I shall do what ever necessary to win you.”

Portia resisted the urge to reclaim her hands and endured the tight clasp of his fingers. She must grow accustomed to his touch. If anything, she needed to encourage Simon’s suit—do everything in her power to bring about a proposal. She had promised Astrid as much. And Grandmother.

Her mind drifted to Heath and the look on his face when he’d seen her with Simon. As if she had slapped him a second time. Absurd. She had no reason to feel guilty. She owed him nothing. And he hadn’t offered her anything. Hadn’t even brought up marriage again. And how could she wed him knowing he believed she had trapped him, knowing he thought the worst of her?

Forcing a smile her heart did not feel, she locked eyes with Simon. “You’ve already won me.”

He blinked. “What are you saying?”

Ignoring the dull ache throbbing just behind her breastbone, she drew a ragged breath and released it, saying, “I am receptive to your suit, Simon.”

He gazed at her a long moment before clarifying, “Are you saying you will become my wife?”

My wife. She cringed at his words, watching as all her dreams spun into oblivion. Oddly enough, it wasn’t her mother or the sun-kissed columns of the Parthenon she saw falling to the wayside. It was Heath.

“Yes,” she heard herself saying in a faraway voice, as if spoken by someone else. “I will marry you—” her voice broke and she swallowed, desperate for some relief from the noose tightening about her throat.





Chapter 26


Portia’s gaze landed on the wrinkled letter. And she felt nothing. No leap of her pulse at the sight of it, no surge of hope within her chest. Nothing. After all this time, she had finally ceased waiting, ceased clinging to a foolish child’s dream. Her mother was gone. Would never send for her. Would never return. Why rip open the letter as if it contained news to that affect?

Instead, she looked back at her reflection in the mirror. Light glinted off her inky dark hair swept up in an elegant coiffure that made her feel the utter fraud. She had never been the elegant lady, never felt she looked as Astrid did, natural among the glittering ladies of the ton. Yet to night she looked every bit the lady, every bit the way the daughter of a duke ought to look. Her grandmother would be pleased. Of that at least.

Portia reached for a bottle of perfume and dabbed it behind each ear with fresh determination.

The reminder of her grandmother lying insensible in her bed a few doors down, in need of proper medical care, the kind of care only money could buy, only hardened her resolve to follow through and marry Simon.

She set the bottle down and gazed at herself searchingly. Her hair gleamed but her eyes were dull. No light there. The eyes of a woman whose fate yawned grimly ahead.

Nettie appeared behind her in the mirror. Her eyes roamed approvingly over Portia. “You look lovely.” Her eyes strayed to the discarded letter. “Will you not open it?”

“Perhaps later.”

“Later?” Nettie looked back to Portia. The smooth skin of her forehead knitted in confusion.

“But it’s a letter from your mother.”

“I know.” Portia stood and gathered her shawl, draping it carefully around her exposed shoulders, her concentration already on the evening ahead. Simon waited.

She flicked the letter a last glance. “It can wait. I’m going to be late, and I detest missing the prelude.”

Heath studied Portia from where he sat in his box. She sat cool, regal as a queen, lovelier than he had ever seen and never once glancing his way even though he knew she had spotted him when they first took their seats, before the lights had dimmed and the audience fell hushed. Their eyes had locked, hers flaring wide in frustration. And something else. Something that gave him hope.



That hulk, Oliver, hovered beside her, eyes fixed on her as if she were some exotic bird that might take flight any moment. It wasn’t to be borne a moment longer. She was his wild bird. For him to pursue and catch. Yet how could he if she didn’t allow him within a foot of her? He had called on her yesterday. Twice. And that sour-faced butler of hers had turned him away each time.