Too Wicked to Tame (22 page)

“Heath,” she said again, her voice low with appeal. “Look at me. You can’t believe I would—”

She stopped and swallowed past the lump rising to choke her.

Something that looked damnably close to guilt flashed in his eyes, and she knew, like her, he was thinking of last night, remembering their less than innocent time together. He remembered and regretted. Damn him. No regrets, he had said. Liar, her heart cried as her hands knotted at her sides. He would not taint last night, would not sully the memory with regret. As if it were something he wished to take back and erase.

She shook her head swiftly, her heart beating like an angry drum against her chest.

Heath turned from her and addressed the vicar. “I am thinking of her. And I strongly suspect I’m the only one.”

“Oh, Heath, that’s absurd,” Lady Moreton cut in. “You’ve ruined her. Only one thing can protect her now.”

The vicar patted Lady Moreton’s arm. “Don’t overset yourself, dear lady.”

Seemingly mollified, the lady gave a delicate sniff and pressed her lips together, nodding for the vicar to continue.

“Am I correct in saying that you two stayed the night together?” Hatley inquired evenly.

“Alone?”

“We were caught in the storm. I couldn’t very well have forced Lady Portia out into such inclement weather for the sake of propriety. She has only recently recovered from an ague.”

“Precisely,” Portia agreed, nodding, gladdened for the sound logic.

Mr. Hatley inclined his head. “Yet if you had no intention of marrying the lady, you should have braved the elements, my lord. Better to have risked her life than her soul.”

A small hiss of breath escaped her lips at this heartless comment. Yet should she feel such surprise? Mr. Hatley’s attitude was typical of Society. A lady’s virtue was of more value than the lady herself.

Heath, however, did not seem to value this attitude. His upper lip curled in a sneer as he said,

“I’ll pretend you did not say that, sir, and ask you to take your leave before I say or do something truly regrettable.”

“Heathston,” Lady Moreton cried in shrill, affronted tones, her hands opening and closing in front of her as if she could grab a handhold of control, power. Something. “You dare address Mr.

Hatley in such a fashion.”

“Oh, I dare.” His eyes glittered a glacier gray and Portia felt their chill right to her core. “That and more if he doesn’t take his leave.”

Portia blinked, thinking she had misheard him. Surely he had not taken offense on her account.

He, who thought her the lowest sort of female?

Mr. Hatley made a small bleating sound and his face reddened even further. “Perhaps,” he started, addressing the countess even as his eyes narrowed on Portia, “Lady Portia’s brother should be notified of recent developments. I am certain he would like to weigh in on the discussion.”

Portia’s stomach rebelled at the obvious threat. If Bertram knew she spent the night unchaperoned with the earl, he would insist they wed.

“Get out,” Heath ordered, his voice lethally soft.

Almost as from nowhere, Mrs. Crosby appeared, the vicar’s hat and coat in her hands. Mr.

Hatley collected his things, his fat lips squashed tightly with censure.

Mr. Hatley shrugged into his too small coat with maddening slowness. His fat lips trembled from suppressed speech, and Portia could well imagine the tirade he fought to hold back. At the door he stopped. His voice rang out with high sanctimony, “I will pray for you, my lord.” His small, vapid eyes shifted to Portia. “And you, too, my lady. For what it’s worth.”

The moment he scurried out the door, Lady Moreton swung on Heath, her slender frame shaking like a reed in the wind, radiating a fury so thick, so palpable, it clogged the air. “What have you done? What have you done? You know he’ll tell everyone!”

Lips compressed in a flat, ominous line, Heath turned his back on Lady Moreton. He glared at Portia in a way that made the hairs on her nape tingle. She angled her head warily, eyeing him up and down as she slid back a step.

“Why are you—”

He snatched hold of her hand, cutting short her question.

“Come,” he ordered, pulling her along, her feet slipping along the damnably slick marble floor.

He thrust her into the library, slamming the door behind them.

Twisting free, she crossed her arms over her chest and watched him pace the vast room like a great caged cat. Her muscles tensed, wary that at any moment he would turn and pounce on her as if she were a sparrow to be devoured in one breath.

His feet burned a trail on the Persian carpet and she studied him as one might a spectacle at a traveling show. Finally, he stopped and faced her. The look in those smoke eyes of his sent a bolt of terror directly to her heart.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” she asked, inching back, stopping when she bumped into the large mahogany desk. Her hands grasped the hard edge behind her.

His broad chest rose on an inhalation. “You wanted this to happen. Did everything in your power to see it come about,” he accused, his words dropping like heavy stones in water, swift, resolute, intractable—sinking into far-off depths where they could never be retrieved. “Your reputation is in shreds now. The vicar will see to that. Your family will demand satisfaction.” He gave a stiff nod. “Very well. We shall wed.”

Her heart constricted in her chest. Earlier she had entertained the notion of him proposing, of him wanting to wed her. But this had nothing to do with wanting. Quite the contrary.

“What?” she asked, the word weak and pathetic to her ears—horribly inadequate for her spinning emotions.

He shook his head tiredly, as if beleaguered with a thousand demons instead of simply her. “You wanted this. From the moment you arrived you’ve been my torment.”

She pressed a hand to her breast, feeling the mad thumping of her heart against her palm. “Your torment?” Never had she thought to have that much power over anyone. Least of all him.

“Yes, you,” he growled.

She laughed a brittle, hollow sound. “You give me too much credit.”

“You won’t convince me this was not your purpose. I heard what the vicar said. You told him—”

“A twisting of my words! He is the one to suggest that ‘I bring you to heel.’ What else was I to tell him? That I wished to remain here to escape Town and enjoy your library? He would have thought me daft.”

Heath moved forward so quickly she hadn’t time to react. He grabbed her by the arms and gave her a small shake. “Enough. I’ve heard enough of your lies.” His features twisted into a tight grimace. “You’re a brilliant actress, I’ll give you that. I almost believe you. Very affecting really.

Yet you said it, didn’t you?” His eyes raked her. “Nor can you deny what you did—lifting your skirts for me most willingly, no different than any other prostitute selling herself for the right price.”

“Bastard,” she cried, certain she would strike him if he wasn’t restraining her.

He made a slight tsking sound. “Come now, you’ve won. We’ll wed. But know this. You’ll regret the day you ever trapped me.”

Portia froze, didn’t move, didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid. She simply stared at the man in front of her, realization rushing over her with a suddenness that robbed her of breath. She didn’t know him at all. Not in the least. She had thought she understood him, understood what drove him in life, but she hadn’t a clue.

His hands on her arms stirred up all sorts of feelings. Feelings she had no business experiencing.

Feelings she had reveled in a short time ago. Strange the changes a few hours could bring. Her body felt as confused as her mind. The tenderness he had shown her last night was nowhere in evidence, and she couldn’t help wondering what was real—the lover from the night before or the brutal, unfeeling man before her now. She could not reconcile the two.

“I won’t marry you,” she whispered, her voice a croak caught somewhere in her throat. Never would she bind herself to this stranger—a man who stomped on her heart as if it were nothing more than a rug beneath his boot.

“It’s done. We’ve no choice. Even I underestimated my grandmother. I did not think she would send for the vicar. Even now, word of your ruin flies on the wind.” He released her arms and resumed his pacing, moving with the fury of a storm sweeping across the moors.

She watched him in silence. Too numb. Too shocked to speak. Dully, she registered that he had continued with his tirade.

“It won’t be a real marriage.” He sliced her with a glance. “Last night was a mistake we won’t repeat. The risk is too great.”

Mistake. The word gouged her low in the belly like the swipe of a claw. So much for no regrets.

Hot tears burned the backs of her eyes. She quickly spun around and walked to the window, staring out at wind-rippled heather as she fought to gain control of her emotions.

“I won’t marry you,” she repeated, more for herself than him.

And still he talked, as if she hadn’t spoken, as if she were of no account at all. “I can’t disregard that we spent the night alone together. I deluded myself to think I could. I know my duty.” He snorted at this last bit.

“Duty?” She whirled around, too angry to hide the tears spilling hot, silent trails down her cheeks. “Don’t tell me you actually believe that overboiled sausage? So what if he wags his tongue? No one will hear of last night. Gossip in the wilds of Yorkshire is of no consequence in Town.”

“I’ll not risk it—as you undoubtedly suspected when you situated yourself so appealingly at the lodge.”

She swiped the air with her hand. “You’re the most vexing man I’ve ever met. Do you think yourself such a prize that I would stoop to such lengths to trap you in marriage?”

“No, I merely think you desperate and unscrupulous.” He gave her a puzzled look. “Why must you continue this pretense? This is what you’ve wanted. Now you’re getting it. Your family will get their money.”

Her clenched hands shook in front of her. “I am tired unto death of defending myself.”

“Very well.” He gave a stiff nod. “Then cease your playacting.”

Portia stomped her foot, the sound muffled on the thick carpet.

Heath turned for the door.

“Where are you going?” she demanded, uncaring if he wished to hear her or not. This was her life, her fate hung in the balance, and he would listen.

“I have arrangements to make,” he replied in an annoyingly tired voice.

Arrangements. Portia didn’t need him to clarify his meaning. He thought he alone decided whether they would wed. That she had been brought here to garner his approval and she need not be asked or consulted. As if he could simply announce his intention and she would follow along meekly. It made her ill. It made her furious. It made her feel suddenly very…drained.

“I’ve not agreed to anything,” she said in a weak voice.

He tossed a disgusted look over his shoulder. “No? What was last night, then?”

Cheeks afire, she tossed one last question at his retreating back, the one question she wagered could halt him in his tracks. “What of the curse?” Perhaps he need only be reminded of the reason he had no wish to wed. “You can’t have forgotten that.” Not when it has guided his life.

Every action, every decision.

He stopped and turned. Something flickered in his eyes. The pain that always lurked there, the knowledge of the bleak future waiting for him. “It will be an in-name-only marriage, naturally.

We’ll never repeat last night. The risk of getting you with child is too great.”

An in-name-only marriage. As she had suggested to him days ago. Except then she had not considered herself in the hapless role of wife. She had thought some poor creature that did not want much from life would accept such a marriage—and be glad for it.

“As flattering as your proposal is, I must decline.”

“Wake up, Portia. You haven’t the luxury to refuse. Not after last night.”

“I can, and I do,” she replied, loathing his superior attitude, loathing that he could refer to last night as if it were a horrible incident he wished to undo.

“I’m sure your family will disagree.”

Her family? Portia gave herself a hard mental shake. No. She felt certain Grandmother would never force her. Threaten, bully, cajole, and make life in general miserable, yes. But never force.

Bertram, however, was another matter. He saw her as a means to an end—little more than a prized ewe to be sold to the highest bidder. He would have forced her to marry long ago had Grandmother allowed him. If word reached him of this, Portia would have a battle on her hands.

“My family doesn’t decide my fate. This is between you and me,” she said tightly, looking him steadily in the eyes.

He shook his head, that mirthless smile fixed to his face again. Her fingers itched to wipe it clean. “There is no you and me, Portia. Never will be. We’ll simply wed and spend the rest of our lives learning to abide each other.”

With a heavy heart, she watched him open the door and stride from the room. Not once did he look back.

His words whirled in her head until her stomach grew queasy. No you and me.

Foolish perhaps, but she thought there had been.

Heath poured himself a glass of brandy and downed it in one swallow. Never had he needed a drink more. He hadn’t made it as far as the stairs before he detoured to his office. The special license could wait until later. There were times when a man not only deserved a drink, but he needed one. Or in his case, a few.

“I thought you’d turn up here.”

Heath swung around and eyed his sister sitting primly on the sofa near the fire.

“Been waiting long?” he asked.

She raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Ever since you slammed into the library.” She nodded to the drink in his hand. “The kind of day you’ve had would drive anyone to drink.”

“Not you, Con,” Heath replied. “Nothing ruffles you. You’re the perfect little package of starch.”

Pain, raw and shining, flashed in his sister’s eyes and Heath felt a stab of guilt. It couldn’t be easy for her either. Thirty-one years old and no husband. No children. No life to speak of save visits to the orphanage and afternoons embroidering with their grandmother.