Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(16)

Nettie tossed her hands up in the air. “Fine. Kill yourself—”

“I’m not on death’s door.” Portia winced when the shrillness of her voice pierced her head.

Sighing, she rubbed her throbbing temples. “Truly, I feel much improved. Certainly fit for travel.” Her feet dropped down from the tester bed, sinking into the thick carpet.

She made it halfway to the armoire before a brief rap sounded on the door. Halting, she turned and watched Lady Moreton breeze into the room.

The countess froze midstride. “What are you doing?”

Portia twisted a toe in the plush carpet guiltily, feeling absurdly like a child caught at mischief.

“Getting dressed.”

“You most certainly are not,” Lady Moreton declared.

Before Portia could lodge a protest, both women ushered her back into bed, tucking the covers to her throat as if she were an invalid.

“I am really well enough to travel—”

“Travel?” Lady Moreton’s eyes rounded. “You’re quite ill, my dear. And even if you weren’t, you’ve only just arrived. Why in heavens would you wish to depart so soon?”

Why? Portia blinked at the countess, wondering if she mocked. Did she not hear her grandson demand her departure? “I think it best if I leave.”

“Leave?” Lady Moreton glanced at Nettie as if needing confirmation that Portia truly intended to leave. “Why would you want to do that?” Hurt flickered across features surprisingly smooth for a woman of her years.

Portia wet her lips. “Lady Moreton, your grandson made his wishes exceedingly clear—”

“Posh!” Lady Moreton sliced the air with one slender, blue-veined hand. “I invited you. You are my guest. Heath cannot uninvite you.”

Clearing her throat, Portia tried again. “At any rate, I would be more comfortable taking my leave.”



Lady Moreton frowned, pursing her lips until they all but disappeared in her face. A determined glint entered her eyes and a hush fell over the room as Portia suffered her scrutiny. Swallowing, she stubbornly held that considering stare, resisting the inclination to fidget. As with her own grandmother, Portia knew better than to show even a hint of weakness.

“Very well, if you wish to leave I cannot stop you.” The silkiness of Lady Moreton’s voice made the tiny hairs on her neck stand. “You may leave, my dear. I wouldn’t dream of keeping you here against your will.” The countess blinked wide, innocent eyes, a hand fluttering to her throat.

Portia waited, breath suspended, knowing more was to come. Lady Moreton stroked the emerald pendant resting in the hollow of her throat.

“Thank you,” Portia murmured, sliding the counterpane to her waist. She was on the verge of swinging her legs down when the countess’s voice stopped her.

“Of course, I can’t permit you to leave until I deem you fit for travel.” Lady Moreton drew the counterpane back up to her throat and gave Portia’s shoulder a patronizing pat.

“Truly, I am well now,” she insisted.

Lady Moreton held up a hand, cutting off her protests. “Not another word on the matter. When I deem you fit for travel, you may depart and not a moment sooner.”

Nettie laughed behind her hand.

Portia sagged into the bed as if a suffocating weight had been placed over her. The counterpane suddenly felt hot, heavy—a death shroud.

Lady Moreton smiled sweetly, as if she had not just sentenced Portia to prison for an undefined amount of time. “Rest. Recuperate. I’ll send up some broth.”

Broth. Her stomach growled at the mention of food. She could stand a bit more than broth. Roast pheasant with creamed potatoes sounded about right, but Lady Moreton appeared determined to treat her like an invalid.

“Very well,” she relented, already thinking how she might get Nettie to fetch her some real food—and how soon she might arrange to depart without offending Lady Moreton.

The earl’s face emerged in her mind and her chest tightened. It would take a good deal more than this bit of baggage to tempt me. Humiliation burned a fire through her at the memory of his words.

Three days. Three days and not a minute longer, she vowed. Then she would leave. With or without Lady Moreton’s approval, she would leave. And she would put the earl’s hot gaze firmly and forever behind her.



A sudden knock at the door had Portia thrusting her plate of cheese and bread into Nettie’s fumbling hands. She anxiously arranged the counterpane around her as she struggled to swallow her mouthful of cheese. Nettie dropped the plate to the carpet and kicked it under the bed. At Portia’s nod, she opened the door.

A woman walked in pushing a cart laden with books. “Afternoon, my lady. I’m the house keeper, Mrs. Crosby.” Stopping beside the bed, she bobbed a brief curtsey.

Portia rose up on her elbows, her heart accelerating at the haphazard stack of books. The sight of so many, some whose leather spines never looked to have been cracked, filled her stomach with butterflies.

“What have you there?” Nettie asked.

“Lady Moreton selected these books for Lady Portia.”

Portia glanced from the twenty-plus books to Mrs. Crosby, a brow arched suspiciously. “Lady Moreton selected these?” No doubt her grandmother’s letters had related Portia’s fondness for books.