Too Wicked to Tame (12 page)

Portia twisted free, eager to be rid of his skincrawling touch. She turned, but he recaptured her arm, dragging her around to face him.

“Unhand me,” she commanded, her cheeks flaming with temper. She glanced at the hand manacling her arm, her flesh whitening where his fingers dug into her flesh.

“I simply seek to protect you from making a grave error.”

“So magnanimous of you,” she bit out, knowing his game. Protecting her had nothing to do with it. “Yet I fail to see how I am any concern of yours.”

His fingers tightened on her arm, hurting her. “I should very much like to change that, my lady,”

he murmured, his gaze sliding over her face with a thoroughness that made the back of her neck prickle. “You’re clearly on the hunt for a husband. Allow me to offer myself as a candidate. I’m of modest means, but far more suitable than Moreton.”

Portia gaped at him. Was it the country air? Or something in the water? First Moreton, and now this wretched man. They both behaved as if she had nothing better to do than find a husband. As if she could desire nothing else out of life. None of the gentlemen in London had come close to their impudence.

Portia flexed her ankle, preparing to stomp down on his foot if he did not release her. Only a quick glance about the silent garden, and she wasn’t certain she even knew her way back to the house. This was no London garden. She did not stand a stone’s throw from a balcony’s door, from people, from safety.

He must have taken her mulling silence for consideration, for he continued, listing his assets as if he were a thoroughbred at Tattersalls. “My bloodlines are impeccable, my mother the daughter of a viscount, my father a hero fallen at Waterloo.” He puffed his chest out as if he himself were the one to fall on some distant field in Belgium. “Most would say I’ve done well in filling his shoes.”

“I’m sure,” she muttered.

“Most importantly, I can promise never to leap off the banister in a mad fit. The present Lord Moreton could not promise you the same.” He rocked back on his heels with a satisfied air.

She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Ah, you haven’t heard the story. The old earl dove head first off the banister at the dower house, landed smack in the middle of the foyer. A God awful mess, they say.”

Portia closed her eyes, trying to stop the gory image from filling her head.

Whitfield’s voice droned on. “And then there was Lady Moreton—shot herself with her husband’s pistol. And the youngest son—no one’s quite sure what happened to him. He was naught but a babe.” Leaning closer, his whisper ruffled the tendrils near her ear. “Rumor has it his death may have been from unnatural causes.”

From unnatural causes?

She expelled a deep breath, shaking her head. “Certainly you’re not suggesting Lord Heath’s parents had a hand in the child’s death?”

Whitfield shook his head, his handsome face twisting in derision. “Who said anything about them harming the boy?”

“Then who?”

Angling his head, he replied with deliberate vagueness, “They found Lord Heath with the body.”

Heath? Heath had something to do with his brother’s death? Impossible. She had observed him with his sisters. He would never harm a hair on their heads. And she refused to believe he could harm a brother. To what end? No matter how wicked he behaved, he was incapable of evil that foul.

She tossed back her head and released a brittle laugh.

Whitfield pulled back, a grimace marring his pretty features. “Talk of madness and murder amuses you?”

“You amuse me,” she said with a lightness that she didn’t feel. She would not grant him that satisfaction of knowing his words gave her pause and put doubts in her head. Foul as poison, his words swam through her blood. They found Lord Heath with the body.

Inhaling a shaky breath, she continued, “That you would attempt to raise yourself in my estimation by discrediting the earl—”

“I assure you, my lady, the Moreton name has long been discredited. It was quite blackened by the time I was in leading strings. The father was a knave. The mother little better. And all that before the madness.”

Portia leveled him her iciest glare and set out to end this conversation once and for all.

“Although it’s none of your affair, allow me to assure you that I harbor no tendre for the earl of Moreton.”

His lips slanted into a confidant grin. As if she had issued an invitation, he stepped nearer, eyes glowing with a feverish gleam.

She hastily slid back a step. “Nor have I any wish to consider your suit. Even if I were so inclined, my family would oppose our match. A man of mere suitable means is not a possibility.”

His face flushed and he readjusted his grip on her arm, forcing her closer. “That’s the way of it, eh? Money over breeding. You want to populate the countryside with future Mad Moretons?”

“You go too far, sir.” Hot indignation crept up her neck and swarmed her face.

He shook his head, tossing those golden curls about his face. “I feel I must intercede on your behalf. With your family not present and no doubt unaware—”

She snorted. “I would describe my family as many things, but never unaware.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression incredulous. She waited patiently for her meaning to sink in.

At last, he exclaimed, “They cannot have sent you here knowing—” He stopped cold at her pointed look and shook his head in denial. “No. No one in these parts would even consider binding themselves to a Mad Moreton—no matter his wealth.”

“No?” Portia mused. “How very shortsighted. He’s rich as Croesus. Owns half the coal mines in Yorkshire and half a dozen factories in Scarborough. I would think he’d have his pick of ladies.”

Whitfield’s eyes glittered with spite, as if the mention of Heath’s wealth made him loathe the man more. Shaking his head, he growled, “Even so, why would the Duke of Derring permit his sister—”

“That is none of your business,” Portia snapped, her last thread of control breaking. She had had quite enough of this arrogant jackass and his meddling…and his relentless grip on her arm.

“I couldn’t agree more,” a voice interjected from somewhere behind, the familiar velvet sound sliding over her like warm sherry, heating her insides in a way totally different from the anger that Whitfield stirred within her.

Portia looked over her shoulder and swallowed. Heath stood with his arms crossed over his broad chest, legs braced wide, his stone-carved face forbidding as he surveyed her with Whitfield. The mere sight of him unbalanced her. She hadn’t seen him since the night on the balcony. Yet she had never once stopped thinking about him. A deep ache throbbed beneath her breastbone each time she imagined him with his mistress. She shook her head. Absurd.

His storm-cloud eyes missed nothing, taking in Whitfield’s possessive hold on her arm with one sweep before returning to her face.

“Moreton,” Whitfield greeted stiffly, finally releasing her arm.

Portia stepped back, involuntarily rubbing her tender flesh, stopping when she caught Heath watching, his eyes drifting to where she rubbed her arm. His gaze glittered with a dangerous light that made her breath catch, keenly reminding her of the wild, wicked man she had first met.

“Didn’t expect you to put in an appearance today,” Whitfield drawled, his voice calm, polite, yet she detected a thread of apprehension.

“No?” Heath angled his head, the single word loaded with menace. The dangerous light in his eyes intensified. “I live here.” His gaze flicked to her. “And I always see to my interests.”

A frission of alarm—and something else—skittered along her nerves at his words. Surely he did not consider her one of his interests? That would seem contrary to everything he had said since the moment of her arrival, from the moment he sneered at her and called her a gold-digging husband hunter.

Whitfield’s gaze shot to her. “It would appear we have similar interests.”

The corners of Heath’s mouth lifted. A wolf’s smile that made her take a hasty step back.

“I’ll grant you have nerve showing your face here,” Heath murmured with deceptive calm, a muscle ticking furiously in his jaw. “More than I ever gave you credit for.”

“Merely looking out for the lady.”

“The lady doesn’t need you looking after her.”

She looked back and forth between the two men. Animosity radiated off them, palpable and thick. The type of animosity that was long-standing, born years ago—before she ever stepped foot in Yorkshire. She felt like a tasty bone in the midst of two dogs long accustomed to fighting.

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Whitfield rejoined. “Someone needs to see to her welfare. It appears her family didn’t give a thought to sending her into this viper’s nest.”

“Enough,” Portia exclaimed, her cheeks stinging with anger.

“Perhaps,” Heath drawled, heedless of her outburst. His gaze drilled into Whitfield with unspoken challenge. “But that someone won’t be you.”

Whitfield smirked. Shaking his head, he puffed out his chest and faced Portia. “That’s the way of it, then? You choose him?”

Portia glared at them both, beyond words. Indignation burned a hot, bilious trail up her throat, coating her tongue. She chose nobody, yet nothing she said would convince either one of them of that.

“Very well, then.” Whitfield scanned her thoughtfully as he straightened his cuffs, clearly taking her silence as some sort of answer. Turning to Heath, he announced, “She’s no beauty, to be sure, but still too good for the likes of you, Moreton.”

Heath lunged forward, but Portia reacted quickly, jumping between the two men. She placed a hand on his chest, his muscles bunching beneath her palm.

“That’s enough,” she scolded. The lines bracketing Heath’s mouth remained tight and unforgiving. He made another lunge for Whitfield and she pressed both hands against his chest.

“I said enough!”

His gaze dropped to hers, glinting angrily.

Afraid to ease her hands off Heath’s chest for even a moment, she spoke over her shoulder, “I think it’s time you left.”

Giving them wide berth, Whitfield stepped around them.

Heath said nothing, simply held her gaze as the baron’s footsteps faded down the path.

His chest, tense with barely checked violence, rose and fell beneath her fingers.

The logical voice in her head commanded she remove her hands. Yet she couldn’t withdraw, couldn’t part from the tempting feel of his firm chest, warm and male beneath her fingers.

His voice rumbled from deep within that chest, vibrating against her palms. “You should have let me knock his teeth in.”

Smiling shakily, she attempted to slide her hands from his chest but he caught them, holding fast.

“He deserves no less.” His gaze devoured her, swallowing her whole. “It’s not true, you know?

You are a beauty, Portia.” His intense expression drew into a grimace and he looked away, as though he resented the fact.

She moistened her lips and tried to pretend that his words did not thrill her, did not melt her bones so that she could barely stand.

“That would have been brilliant,” she laughed weakly, giving her hands another tug. Still he clung, warm fingers pressed over hers, the thud of his heart steady and strong beneath her quivering palms.

Striving for a calm she did not feel, she continued, “Striking a guest in your own home…everyone would expect no less of Mad Moreton.”

“He was not my guest.” His eyes stared accusingly—as if she were somehow responsible for Baron Whitfield’s presence in his home. “The gathering in my drawing room wouldn’t be because of you, would it?”

Her face flushed and she dropped her gaze.

“I thought as much,” he growled, his thumb pressing harder upon the pulse point at her wrist.

Refusing to feel guilty because she helped arrange a simple tea—perhaps even put the notion in Lady Moreton’s head—she snapped her gaze back to his. “Your sister and grandmother deserve a taste of society, my lord. However small.”

“Don’t speak to me on the needs of my family.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. You know best.”

“I do,” he said from lips so tight they barely moved. “If you won’t return home, then at least cease your interference when it comes to my family.”

“As you wish,” she mocked, “I’m merely a guest here, after all. I wouldn’t want to presume too much. Am I even allowed to converse with your sister?”

“A guest,” he growled, shaking his head in evident disgust. “You’re much more than that.” He scorched her with a blistering glare, leaving no doubt that he did not mean to compliment her.

His gaze shifted from her eyes, scanning her hair, her face, stopping at her mouth. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. His smoke eyes darkened, as fathomless as the sea at night, ready to drag her under, suck her down into the depths.

Her breath caught in her chest, fluttering there helplessly like a butterfly trapped beneath glass. It took every ounce of will to stop herself from leaning into him, toward the heat of his gaze, the beckoning wall of his chest.

The burn in her blood bewildered her. How could she hunger for a man who so clearly disliked her? How could she hunger for a man at all? Such a mind-set would get her trapped in marriage if she weren’t careful. Her plans for living a glorious life abroad would be lost. Places like the Parthenon would remain something read about, never visited, never seen with her own eyes.

Inhaling, she extricated her hands, tucking them behind her back. Lifting her chin, she stared at him and told herself that he was no mesmerist to enchant her. He was nothing more than a flesh and-blood man. A boorish brute. And one rumored to be unbalanced.

He considered her for several moments, his head angled to the side as if he studied a strange creature, a rare specimen that he had inadvertently stumbled upon. Then, with a small shake of his head, his voice broke the silence, almost startling her in its swiftness, “What were you doing out here with Whitfield?”

She gave her own head a shake, as if needing a moment to make sense of his words. “We didn’t set out alone. Your sister accompanied us.”