Too Wicked to Tame

  Swallowing, she flexed her fingers against the soft lawn of his shirt, her hands overflowing with the hard sensation of him. His chest muscles danced beneath her palms and her belly fluttered.

  She gasped when his hands came down on her thighs, sliding her skirts to her hips. With a rough yank, he untied her garters and pushed her stockings below her knees. Cool air rushed over her knees.

  She fought to control her breathing. Impossible when his large hands covered her bare thighs, squeezing, fondling, his calluses rasping her tender flesh. His thumbs descended, inching closer and closer to the center of her that ached.

  His hard chest pushed against her breasts and the peaks tightened, pebbled. Mortified, she prayed he did not notice, did not feel the evidence of her desire.

  He dragged his coat from her shoulders; it dropped behind her in a whisper of sound. His breath fanned her ear a moment before his lips closed on the lobe, biting gently, sending her pulse into a fury.

  Releasing her lobe, he shifted his head so that the warmth of his cheek scratched hers. Meanwhile, his big hands roamed. Over her shoulders. Down her back. His fingers skimmed her spine, and she squirmed, detesting the thin barrier of muslin.

  The suffocating darkness magnified his touch. The anticipation of where he would touch next tightening every nerve into singing alertness. She felt the hot fan of his breath against her lips and leaned forward, hungry for his lips. Ravenous for another taste of last night’s kiss.

  His tongue flicked over her bottom lip. Once. Twice. She moaned and parted her mouth even more. He seized her lips, thrusting his tongue inside. His hands gripped her thighs. The dig of his fingers in her soft flesh filled her with a deep, primal thrill and she pressed closer, desperate for more, desperate for him.

  As his hands clung to her thighs, his tongue parried with hers. The bulge of his manhood pressed against the burning center of her, prodding her through bunched skirts. She pushed against his hardness, frantic to assuage the ache.

  “Heath?” a voice suddenly called, its peevish quality a cold douse of water.

  He wrenched free and Portia moaned, bereft from the sudden loss of his lips, his nearness—his hard body rocking against hers.

  “Heath?” the voice called again.

  A soft glow of light invaded their sanctuary. Reality had arrived, nosing its way into her passion-clouded head. Heath rose, hauling her with him. Portia blinked and looked about, her head fuzzy as wool.

  Feet pounded down the steps and she turned to watch Constance halt at the bottom step. Portia’s stockings slipped past her knees and she squeezed her legs together to keep them from sliding to her ankles.

  Constance held her candle aloft and surveyed them suspiciously. “Sorry to interrupt your little tête-à-tête.”

  “Constance,” Heath replied, his voice surprisingly steady, all things considered. “Good of you to unlock the door for us.”

  His sister snorted. “Grandmother is furious with me.”

  “I’ll deal with her,” Heath vowed with quiet assurance.

  Portia slid him an uneasy glance. The hard set of his mouth almost had her feeling sorry for Lady Moreton.

  “Come along, then,” Constance said, turning on the step.

  “We need a moment,” he stated, holding out his hand. “The candle, if you will.”

  Constance frowned. “Heath—”

  “Thank you. That will be all, Constance.” His voice rang flat, final. Not to be contested.

  Still frowning, Constance stepped down and handed him the candle. With a quick glare for Portia, she turned on her heels. Her lavender skirts swished noisily as she took the steps forcefully, each jarring step reverberating on the air.

  Portia faced Heath. “She doesn’t much care for me.”

  Without a response, he dropped, squatting at her feet.

  “What—aaaah,” she squealed as he shoved up her skirts. She staggered, grabbing his broad shoulders for support.

  “Hold your skirts,” he commanded, his muscles bunching beneath his fingers.

  Finding her balance, she released him to grab fistfuls of skirt. She dipped her head to watch him. One warm hand closed around her left knee, circling it until his fingers teased the sensitive back. Her gaze snapped up, staring straight ahead even though the sight of that hand on her knee burned its image on her mind.

  Her throat tightened. She swallowed fiercely, trying to open her airway. That hand slid up, taking her stocking with it. He lifted his head and locked gazes with her burning stare, searching into her very soul. His fingers trailed a flaming path along the inside of her thigh. Up, up, up…

  Moisture gathered between legs and her face flamed, scandalized, certain that he knew his touch made her throb, ache.

  With her heart hammering wildly in her chest, he deftly retied the garter before moving on to her other leg and repeating the same bone-melting process. He took his time, toying with her, torturing her with his tantalizing touch. His dark head dipped, pressing a moist, open-mouthed kiss on the inside of her thigh. A small squeak of plea sure escaped her at the teasing swipe of his tongue.

  Then his mouth vanished. Back on his feet, he looked at her with eyes more black than gray. The intimacy of his action, the familiarity, left her shaken, speechless, achingly aroused.

  “You can drop your skirts now.”

  Gasping, she released her skirts, letting them flutter back to her ankles. She stood frozen, rooted to the ground. Her eyes scanned his face, devouring the sight of him, wondering how he could shut off his emotions like that.

  No man ever made her feel this way. No man had tried. Fool that she was, she had thought herself immune, thought herself different, better than all those other debs tittering and batting their eyelashes for every gentleman that cut a fine figure in his evening attire.

  Her gaze traveled the length of him, stopping at the hands knotted at his sides.

  Her heart loosened. Apparently, he wasn’t unaffected. “Your hands are shaking,” she whispered before she could think better and hold her tongue.

  Abruptly, he turned, removing his hands from her view. His voice floated on the air, the command so soft she barely heard it. “Go.”

  She eyed the broad expanse of his back.

  “Go,” he barked, making her jump.

  Without another word she fled up the steps as fast as her legs could move. Wicked man. Making her feel this way—making her want him. Her fingers brushed her tingling lips. Lady Moreton could never know.

  “Heath! Where are you going?”

  Heath stopped in the foyer at the sound of that shrill voice. He stood frozen as stone, reining in his temper before slowly turning to face the woman responsible for turning his world upside down.

  His grandmother approached at a sedate pace, eyeing him with keen, narrowed eyes. He fixed a neutral expression on his face.

  She stopped before him and folded her fine, blue-veined hands primly in front of her. A smile played about her lips as she took note of his clenched fists.

  He immediately relaxed his fists, letting his hands hang limply at his sides. She would mark that as a sign, an indication that his captivity with Portia affected him. If she had even an inkling of how much he desired the damned chit…

  He shook his head, both amazed and horrified. For once, remarkably, his grandmother had gotten it right and managed to thrust an eligible female beneath his nose that he found hard to resist. He could never let her find out.

  “Where are you off to?” she asked in clipped tones.

  Knowing the one response that would vex her the most—and perhaps convince her of his disinterest in Portia—he replied, “The dower house.”

  A colossal lie that. He had not visited Della since the night he turned from her bed, contrary to what his family thought. He couldn’t bring himself to see her again, to face the questions that were sure to rise when he couldn’t bring himself to touch her. Lately, he had stayed at the old lodge. He didn’t have to face anyone there.

>   His grandmother’s nostrils flared as though she smelled something foul. “With your strumpet?”

  He smiled coldly. “I have no idea to whom you refer.”

  “That Fletcher woman.”

  “Della manages the dower house,” he said with mock innocence. “And a better house keeper I’ve never run across. I’ve actually considered bringing her here and retiring Mrs. Crosby to the dower house. She’s getting on in years—”

  “That woman will never step foot in this house.” His grandmother’s voice shook.

  Heath shook his head. Grandmother had always blamed Della for his bachelor status. As if Della were the reason he never married.

  “Fortunately, this house belongs to me,” he replied. “Perhaps you would like to take up residence at the dower house? Mrs. Crosby could accompany you.”

  “I’ll move to the dower house when you take a wife. As is proper.” She inhaled deeply through quivering nostrils. “And on that matter.” A pregnant pause filled the air before she accused, “You were in the cellar with Lady Portia for an unseemly amount of time.”

  “And you know why,” he ground out, having a good idea where she was heading and still astounded at her unbelievable gall.

  “I only know that you have placed yourself and Lady Portia in an untenable situation.”

  “Cease your games. We both know how Portia and I came to be in that cellar, and I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there is no need to post the banns.”

  Her controlled features cracked for the barest moment, revealing the frustration that simmered just beneath the surface. “Just the same, a gentleman would do right by her and make an offer.”

  Heath laughed, the bitter sound echoing in the cavernous foyer. “Never mistake that I’m a gentleman, Grandmother.”

  Angry splotches of color broke out over her face and her voice dropped to an enraged whisper. “You’re a disgrace to this family.”

  Heath laughed more, the hard sound welling up from deep in his chest. “I’m such a blight, am I?” he demanded, thumping his fist to his chest.

  His grandmother snorted in disgust. “You’re a reprobate with no consideration for duty, just like your father—”

  Hiding the sting her words inflicted, he shook his head fiercely, his words biting as he spit out, “Dear lady, I’m doing my duty, whether you see it that way or not. I’ll make certain that I am the last Mad Moreton to ever live.”

  “Mina,” Portia bit out, her voice swift and sharp as she entered the dining room.

  Her face still burned from the liberties she had allowed Heath. She doubted she would ever forget. Doubted she could ever close her eyes and not recall the teasing brush of his fingers at the backs of her knees, the burn of his hands on her thighs.

  A quick survey of the dining room revealed that Lady Moreton had departed. Wise woman. No doubt she would reappear once the smoke cleared…ready to mount another campaign in the war to see her grandson wed. Yet this time Portia would not be so unsuspecting. The old lady would not get the upper hand again.

  Only Mina remained, face flushed with guilt as she fiddled with the handle of her teacup. “Portia,” she greeted. “Where have you been?”

  Inhaling deeply, Portia asked as calmly as she could, “Why did you not tell me your brother had already gone to the cellar?”

  “Grandmother wouldn’t permit me to speak.” Mina shrugged, smiling weakly.

  Portia pursed her lips, refraining from pointing out that Mina was not the most obedient of souls. “You are aware that she locked me down there with your brother?”

  Mina gave a guilty nod.

  Betrayal stung Portia’s heart. Absurd, she knew. Mina owed her no loyalty. Still, she thought they had forged a friendship, thought them kindred souls, two spirits searching for their own sense of freedom and happiness.

  Portia shook her head, struggling over Mina’s role in the scheme to rob her of that freedom. “Why would you—”

  “Would it be such a terrible thing for you to marry my brother?” Mina blurted, her eyes bright and alive as she set her teacup down.

  Portia blinked, a resounding yes reverberating through her head. Terrible to marry a man who made her feel totally powerless, who turned her blood to molten lava, who reduced her to an incoherent, quivering mass?

  He would run over her with frightening ease, trample her will until nothing but ashes of her old self remained. Her dream of standing free and independent before the Parthenon would be forever lost. She would exist as a ghost, like her mother when Portia’s father had lived, drifting through life more dead than alive.

  But his hands on your body night after night would make you feel alive. Portia shook her head, driving out the insidious voice that would have her seeking out the wicked earl and casting aside her inhibitions…and her dreams for freedom.

  “Do you not find him attractive?” Mina asked, her gaze searching Portia’s face.

  Portia opened her mouth to reply, but Mina rushed ahead, her voice insistent, “Do not deny it. I have seen the way you look at him, and he does his share of watching you, too. Perhaps Grandmother is right and Heath simply needs his hand forced.”

  Portia snapped her mouth shut, recognizing the fervent gleam in the young woman’s eyes. Portia knew that look. Had seen it countless times on the faces of those who presumed to know what was best for her.

  Mina had clearly joined ranks with Lady Moreton to see that Portia and Heath wed. Contrary to their wishes. Like everyone else, Mina had become someone to guard against. Weariness settled in, a weight on her heart.

  “A terrible thing?” she asked in a paper-thin voice. “No, to you I suppose it wouldn’t be.”

  Turning, she walked from the room.

  “Portia! Portia, wait!”

  Ignoring Mina, she continued walking, wondering if the day would come when someone took her wishes into account.

  Chapter 16

  Portia stepped into the stables, grateful to leave the biting wind behind. Her gaze swept the rows of gleaming wood stalls as she loosened her shawl around her shoulders. Not a soul in sight. Yet she had seen Mina enter the stables from her upstairs window.

  After two days of avoiding her, Portia decided it was time to face her. Surely Mina now realized how misguided her efforts? Besides, Portia couldn’t very well ignore every Moreton family member. Not while she resided under their roof. If that were the case, she might as well go home.

  And despite everything, Portia wanted to remain. She loved looking out her window each morning to the windswept moors. She loved losing herself for hours in the Moreton’s inexhaustible library. She felt more alive here than anywhere else. And not, she told herself, because her blood burned in the presence of a certain man.

  “Hello?” she called out, her voice tinny and small in the cavernous heart of the stables. No groom rushed forth, so she walked deeper into the shadowed interior, thinking perhaps they couldn’t hear her if they worked somewhere toward the back of the enormous building. Perhaps Mina was fetching her mount in one of the stalls. Heath’s sister didn’t strike her as the sort to wait for her horse to be fetched for her.

  A horse stuck his head over a nearby stall door, whinnying for her attention.

  “Hello, lovely,” she greeted, stroking her gloved hand over his velvety nose.

  The beast snorted his warm breath into her palm.

  “Looking for a treat, are you?” she crooned. “Perhaps next time, hmm?”

  A whimper—or rather, a moan—diverted her attention. Angling her head, she listened. And heard it again. Definitely a moan. Dropping her hand, she walked ahead, peering over each stall door.

  Finally, she arrived at the last stall. Rising on her tiptoes, she peered over the door.

  Her gaze fell on Mina. Atop a pile of hay and buried beneath a young, virile-looking groom. The strapping fellow had wedged his body between her legs and was fondling her breasts through her bodice with the industriousness of a cook kneading dough.

  Portia?
??s mouth dropped. The impulse to flee and pretend she never saw anything—never saw Heath’s sister rolling in the hay like a common crofter’s daughter—battled her urge to march into the stall, yank the groom off Mina, and give both a stern lecture. She shifted her weight back and forth between her feet, indecision twisting her stomach into knots.

  The image of herself with Heath in the library—in the cellar—flashed through her mind and her own hypocrisy made her cheeks catch fire. Who was she to lecture on propriety?

  With a curse under her breath no lady should know, she whirled around and headed back down the narrow alley lining the stalls. Her feet beat the ground in hard, agitated steps. It was none of her business with whom Mina cavorted. Goodness, it was none of her business whether Mina cavorted. Still…

  Portia jerked to a halt and looked back toward the stall. Mina could very well be losing her virtue. In a stable. Did not her own recent carnal activities grant her some authority on this matter? Grant her the firsthand knowledge that decisions should never be made under the influence of passion?

  Portia bit her lip until she tasted the coppery tang of her own blood. Indecision warred inside her. She had never stood by the notion that young ladies should be coddled and prohibited from enjoying all the freedoms and pursuits that young gentlemen were allowed. But did Mina truly want this? Or was this an act of defiance, a rebellion against the strictures imposed upon her. Would she one day regret tossing up her skirts and losing her virtue in a pile of hay?

  With a deep sigh, Portia lifted her skirts and marched back toward the stall with fierce steps. As embarrassing as it would be, she had to save Mina from herself.

  The sound of hooves pounding on earth reached her ears, growing steadily louder, freezing her in her tracks. Turning, dread filled her heart as she watched Heath, riding at his usual breakneck speed into the yard, pull his mount to a stop before the stable. He dismounted in one fluid movement. The moment he spotted her, his lips compressed in a hard line.