Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(70)

Heath surged from his seat and strode from his box, the carpet deadening his swift steps. No more. He would not let another moment pass without seeing her. Without explaining why he had followed her to Town. As he should have done at Lady Hamilton’s ball. And if he could sort that out for himself in the next thirty seconds, it would be most convenient.

The lilting aria dwindled to an end and the ton, in all their glittering finery, poured from their boxes for the interlude. He darted among bodies, desperate for a glimpse of her, for a word, another shared look to give him encouragement.

Then he spotted her. For once her Goliath did not shadow her. Her dark hair gleamed blue-black under the lights, a raven’s wing captured in sunlight. The jade green of her gown lovingly cupped breasts that his palms ached to feel again. She spoke to a lady beside her, her hands fluttering with speech. Guided by impulse, he stalked toward her and grabbed hold of one of those hands.

“Heath,” she gasped.

Without a word or greeting, he gave a nod to her gaping companion and dragged her behind him.

“What are you doing?” she demanded as he pulled her along the winding hallway, away from the din and press of heavily perfumed bodies. “Where are you dragging me?”

He marched forth, leaving the mad crush behind until only a distant thrum of voices floated down the corridor after them. Spying a door amid the wood-paneled wall to his right, he glanced up and down the hall’s length. Satisfied no one observed them, he yanked it open.

“Heath,” she scolded as he thrust her within, “I insist you—”

He silenced the rest of her words with the hot seal of his mouth, suddenly forgetting what it was he meant to tell her.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, tearing her lips from his and backing away several paces. Her temper burned bright—bright as the eyes glittering down at her in the dim room.

She pressed her fingertips to her mouth, still tasting him on her burning lips. Against her fingers, she raged, “How dare you drag me in here. I told you to stay away from me.”



Moonlight glowed through the single window high in the wall, the sole light in which to see his features, harsh and fierce with emotion as he charged, “And you think I would listen? We’ve much unfinished, you and I.”

She dropped her hand. “We have nothing to finish. Nothing at all. I’ve heard everything I ever want to hear from you.”

He stalked her, backing her against the wall. “You cannot mean to seriously consider another man’s suit. Not after what happened between us.”

“What I mean to do is no affair of yours,” she snapped, shaking her head, confused. Why was he here? Why would he imply that what happened between them held any significance when he himself had declared it a mistake.

He laughed, a dangerous, mirthless sound that made her skin tingle. Trapped in this closet, she was totally at his mercy.

She latched on to the single weapon available—her anger. Recalling his shabby treatment of her, his words: you’re no different than any other prostitute selling herself for the right price—her anger sprang to life. “You’ve said everything you had to say.”

“Matters have changed—”

“I don’t see how,” she replied, trying to step around him once again. “Let me pass.”

“Not until you hear me out,” he growled.

She pressed her lips shut and arched a brow, waiting.

He stared down at her for a long moment, as if testing whether she would remain truly silent.

Inhaling, he announced, “I still want to marry you.”

Still. He needn’t sound so blasted aggrieved.

“As I said, much has changed.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “There have been certain…discoveries. The madness cannot be passed. Not like I thought.”

She felt her brows draw together. “But your father, your brother—”

“Were sick,” he finished. “And showing all the symptoms of porphyria…as my grandmother wanted everyone to believe.”

“I don’t understand.” She pressed her fingers to her temples where a dull throb had begun.

“Grandmother wanted everyone to believe my father had porphyria.”



“He didn’t?”

“No,” he sighed, and she felt that sigh vibrate through her, stretch along her nerves. “My father had the pox.” His words fell hard as bricks in the dense still of the room. “He infected my mother while she carried my brother.” He paused as though searching for words less shocking than those he had just uttered. “He killed her. And my brother.”

“Syphilis?” Portia demanded, her head spinning. “Isn’t there treatment—”

“Either he didn’t realize it until it was too late, or he was in denial. The latter, I suspect. In any case, it killed him. And there was little to be done for my brother. A babe born with the pox has no chance.”

“I don’t understand. Why were you led to believe—”

“Grandmother,” he snapped, recalling his grandmother’s tearful excuses when he confronted her.

“She considered a king’s disease more acceptable than a whore’s disease.” He laughed bitterly.

Portia nodded. “Your grandmother chose the more dignified malady,” she mused, rather suspecting her grandmother would have done the same. Despite her anger—her desperate need to put distance between them—her heart ached for him. “I’m sorry, Heath. Sorry for the years you and your sisters suffered.”