Too Wicked to Tame (28 page)

“You once told me that I didn’t belong at Moreton Hall,” she said dully. “Well, you don’t belong here. Go home, Lord Moreton. I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding a bride more suited—”

“Oh, we suit,” he inserted, his voice as dangerous as a whip cutting air. His gaze trailed over her, insulting in it thoroughness, as if he stripped off her gown and stared upon her nakedness. “In the most fundamental way. Except you’re too pigheaded to see it.”

Shaking her head, she turned and slipped from the room. Hands clenching and unclenching at her sides, she told herself that he was wrong.

Heath didn’t return to his box. He stormed from the theater and hailed a hack, calling out the name of his hotel as he bounded within the musty confines.

Perhaps he should listen to Portia and leave—let her marry her smelly dockworker. Although the image of her beneath the brawny fellow, taking him inside her body, invaded his head and soured his stomach.

How many times did she have to say no before he finally quit? He thumped his fist on the seat.

He had affairs to tend to—his sisters sitting at top of the list. Now that he knew there to be no threat of madness, he needed to see about getting them married. Mina would be delighted.

Constance…he was not so sure. Still, he had better things to do than traipsing after some female who spurned him at every chance.

But her body opened like a flower at his slightest touch. Closing his eyes, he dropped his head on the back of the seat. He could still feel her heat, the tightness of her snug around him. He had released himself inside her, gloried in it. It had been the greatest sense of liberation—a claiming of himself right along with her. The thought of a child growing in her womb even now filled him with inexpressible joy.

She wanted him as much as he wanted her. They both knew it. He would do what ever necessary to prove it.

Alone in her room, Portia undressed herself, her hands lingering over the places Heath had touched, kissed. Her mouth, her neck, her breasts. Her skin still tingled, still ached for him.

Before donning her nightgown, she sponged herself clean. Washing away the evidence of their lovemaking from between her legs, she tried not to notice how her sensitized skin reacted to her ministrations. Still, she wished it were Heath’s hands there.

Mortified at the wanton she had become, she flung the sponge back in the bowl and quickly covered her traitorous body with a nightgown. He’d be gone soon enough. Once she and Simon announced their engagement, Heath would see that they were well and truly finished.

She moved to extinguish the lamp but paused when she spotted the letter. Her mother’s letter.

A sigh welled up deep within her chest. Might as well read it. Releasing her sigh, she picked up the missive, bracing herself to hear all about her mother’s exploits abroad—places seen, people met, things done. Then the letter would end with the “wish” that Portia could be there to share in it all.

Unfolding the parchment, she skimmed her mother’s elegant, scrawling handwriting with a numb heart, feeling none of her former excitement and anticipation when reading such letters, so grateful for a glimpse into her mother’s life.

Her heart stopped beating altogether when she came to the end, to the words that suddenly took life and leapt off the page, instantly breaking from resembling all the previous letters she had received over the years.

Her fingers went limp and the letter fluttered to the floor, gentle as falling snow. She looked down, staring at the letter that lay there as innocuously as a forgotten handkerchief, a white smudge on the dark blue and green swirls in the threadbare carpet.

The words her mother had written struck her like a blow to the face, robbing her of breath, ripping at her heart.

I’ve married, my darling girl. He’s a wonderful man and we want you to join us in Athens.

“Have you decided when we can announce our betrothal?”

Portia opened her mouth but no sound emerged.

Simon repeated himself.

Faced with the reality of becoming his wife, of allowing him the intimacies she had only shared with Heath—one word fell from her lips, “No.”

Portia frowned. How had that slipped from her lips? It had certainly not been her intention to reject his suit. She had hardly given Simon a thought until he had showed up for tea today. Her thoughts had been too wrapped up in Heath and the mother who had married—who finally remembered she had a daughter.

For years, Portia had lived in wait for such a letter, longing for the day her mother would want her, would turn her promise into a reality. Her mother had sent for her. At last. Just when Portia had ceased to hope. Except it didn’t matter. Portia no longer cared. She had been avoiding life, avoiding her duties and responsibilities for the sake of a dream. And now that the dream hovered within reach, she no longer wanted it. It was the dream of a girl, a little girl who had needed her mother. That girl no longer existed.

Portia needed something else now. Heath’s face emerged in her mind. Aggravating, considering the way he had humiliated her in Yorkshire, but nonetheless there. Always there. And she was beginning to suspect he always would be.

Simon shook his head, looking as confused as she felt. “I thought you were eager to wed.”

“I was—am.” Portia paused and pressed her fingers between her brows where her head was beginning to throb. Suddenly, a sense of knowing filled her. Dropping her hand, she looked him directly in the eyes. “I cannot marry you, Mr. Oliver. I apologize for giving the impression that I could.”

He stared at her a long moment, an odd little smile fixed to his face. Clearly, he had not heard her.

“I cannot marry you,” she repeated as gently as possible. “I thought I could, but I cannot.”

“No?” he queried, rising swiftly to his feet.

“You must see we don’t suit.”

He looked down at her, his face flushed an unbecoming shade of red. “Your sister-in-law assured me you were agreeable to this match.”

Nodding, she dropped her gaze to her hands. “You mustn’t blame her. I thought—”

“You thought you could,” he finished in a snarl. With surprising swiftness, he leaned down and circled her neck with his hand, exerting the slightest pressure as he said, “I’ll not be made a fool, my lady. No one makes a fool of Oliver Simon.”

That said, he released her neck and stormed from the room, flinging the door wide open. It crashed against the wall, the sound reverberating on the air for several moments. She sat there for a long moment, her hand at her throat, willing herself to cease shaking.

“Portia?” Astrid said, hurrying into room, her face pinched tight with concern. “What happened?”

“I—I--” Portia glanced back at the door, wondering if she might somehow call him back, yet knew she could not. Not when to do so pinched at her heart and made her feel as though she were betraying not only Heath but herself.

“Portia?” Astrid pressed.

“I refused to marry him,” she blurted.

Astrid gave her head a small shake as if she had misunderstood. Pressing her hand against her temple, she cocked her head to the side.

“Astrid?” Portia asked, trying to catch a glimpse of her sister-in-law’s eyes. Only she continued to look away, as if the sight of Portia disgusted her.

Portia leaned forward, her voice urgent. “Astrid, I will marry. I promised you and Grandmother that I would. Only not Oliver Simon.” The image of Oliver’s face, mottled red with anger, his beefy hand on her throat like a steel collar seized her and she suppressed a shudder. Right or wrong, she could not marry him. “Give me a little more time. I’ll find someone else.”

At this, Astrid laughed. A grating sound that sent a chill down Portia’s spine. “Who else would marry you? You’ve nothing to recommend you save a family name that, thanks to your brother, is now in question.”

“Astrid—”

“Have you not heard the whispers?” Astrid demanded, swinging her dark gaze back on Portia, the venom reflected there lethal as hemlock.

Portia shook her head, then stopped. She had noticed a few stares. Yet she had chalked that up to her new wardrobe, and the fact that Oliver Simon, not the most cultured gentleman, escorted her about Town. It had not crossed her mind that everyone whispered behind their gloves about the pathetic Derring women, abandoned, rejected, scrabbling for a way to survive penniless among the echelons of Society.

“Everyone knows Bertram fled in order to escape trial. We’re the talk of Town. The destitute Derrings.” Astrid’s dark eyes shimmered suspiciously.

“I will find someone else,” Portia insisted, already thinking of Heath and weighing how degrading it would be to seek him out, to ask him if he still wished to marry her—despite all her protests. Would she look the complete fool?

“All I need is a little time,” Portia vowed.

Time to find Heath. To swallow what little pride she had left and tell him she would marry him.

For duty’s sake and not love.

Portia stared blindly into the dark, straight and rigid as a slat of wood, fingers laced tightly over her stomach. Two days and no sight of Heath. No sight of him since the theater when he had obliterated her will and reduced her to a shallow creature that lived and breathed for him and passion alone.

She had set Nettie to the task of finding him, of checking all the hotels and inquiring among servants. Nothing. Had he done what she had asked and gone back to Yorkshire?

She lowered her hand and brushed the swell of her stomach, the linen of her nightgown soft against her palm. She thought of them in that moon-washed room again, the wicked way they had made love and something told her it would always be that way with Heath. Mad or sane, there would always be a part of him too wicked to tame. And she didn’t want him any other way.

Her balcony doors stood open and the curtains shifted, fluttering with a whisper in the wind.

Astrid hadn’t spoken a word to her, and although Grandmother could now sit up in bed and take down some food, she still needed a physician’s care. Portia didn’t have time to play at courtship.

Where was Heath? He couldn’t have changed his mind. Couldn’t have given up. Could he?

Sighing, she rolled onto her side, thinking of Heath, of her desperate need to find him, to marry him.

Marry Heath. A warmth suffused her at the very idea, at the nights they would have, the leisurely attention they could devote to each other’s bodies. Frowning, she quickly tried to suppress the warmth with a cold douse of reality. He was still the man who had hurt her, who had crushed her in Yorkshire. Nothing would change that. There would be no love between them. She would not grant him such power over her, would not permit herself to fall in love with him.

But you loved him in Yorkshire. And you haven’t stopped.

“No,” she vowed aloud, her fist thumping the mattress beside her. “I don’t—I won’t!”

“Won’t you now?”

She lurched up in bed with a gasp, her eyes searching the gloom for the source of that velvet voice. Her heart hammered in wild relief. He had come. That he had been so bold as to climb the trellis outside her window shocked her not in the least. This was Heath, after all.

“Heath?” she addressed the room, her voice a hush on the air as her eyes strained for a glimpse of him.

Silence. She shoved back the covers and swung her feet over the side. Her bare feet dropped down silently. She moved toward the robe draped over the footboard.

A hard hand shot out and gripped her wrist. “Leave it off. One less item I’ll have to remove.”

A secret thrill skated over her skin. He meant to have her here? With her sister-in-law two doors down? And her Grandmother directly across the hall? Portia opened her mouth to deliver a ringing set down, but the words never made it past her lips. His mouth crushed hers and her protest died in her throat.

She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling his head closer, deepening their kiss and parrying her tongue with his. He backed her up until she bumped the bed.

He broke their kiss and her eyes fluttered open. Her chest rose and fell with each savage breath that shuddered free of her lungs. His eyes glittered at her in the dark, twin spots of gleaming onyx.

“What are you doing here?” Senseless question, she knew. He gathered her nightgown against her hips even as she asked.

“I think it would be clear what I’m doing.” In a single, swift move, he pulled the nightgown over her head. Night air rushed over and she shivered. “Did you miss me?” He breathed against her temple, stirring the fine hairs there.

She managed a strangled sound, a gurgled affirmation. Miss him? With every fiber of her being.

His large hand cupped her bottom and lifted her high against him, snuggling her against his prodding erection. That hand rounded the curve of her bottom, sliding lower, fingers teasing, probing her entrance and ripping a gasp from her throat.

Then she was falling. His body came down over hers, surrounding her, pinning her to the bed.

Instinctively her legs parted wider, allowing him to settle deeper against her. Their mouths fused together, a hot, wet melding of lips and tongues, of nips and long, deep drinks from the fountain of their mouths.

The dam broke at last and she let herself go, reveled in his mouth, his hands on her body. She had decided to marry him, decided to bind herself to him—had spent two days agonizing that she had lost her chance. Even without love, she could have him, have this.

An incredible sense of freedom, of power, seized her and her hands flew to his trousers. In a heartbeat, she freed him. Her hand closed around his hard length. His groan emboldened her. A shudder ran through him and vibrated within her as she stroked him—slowly, carefully at first, then in long, firm strokes that made him breathe harder. She rubbed her thumb over his tip, delighted at his low groan, at the bead of moisture that rose up to kiss her thumb and coat the head of him.

Releasing him, she shoved hard at his chest. He fell back on the bed. She hovered over him for a moment, wishing she could see the magnificence of his body. Memory would have to serve.