Too Wicked to Tame (26 page)

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.”

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.

“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.

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.

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?”