“Only one.”

“Were you even invited here?”

“No.” His lips curved in a maddening grin. “But what’s one more guest?”

She huffed and crossed her arms. He had sauce, she’d give him that.

He merely looked her over, his eyes staring overly long at her low-cut bodice. She fought the urge to lift her hand and cover herself. Never before would she have worn anything so daring, or in such a bold color. Astrid swore the deep red complemented her, made her dark hair all the more lustrous, her eyes brighter, her skin glow like cream. Given the stares she’d elicited to night, the gown had served its purpose.

“Have you come to change my mind?” She gestured about her with a loose flick of her wrist, her seeming apathy surprising even herself. “Unnecessary, as you can see. What happened in Yorkshire didn’t ruin me. I’m still able to hold up my head. You may return with a clear conscience.”

He took his time in answering, his unrelenting scrutiny making her breath come fast and hard. As always. That much hadn’t changed. Her reaction to him assailed her instantly, visceral and inescapable. Time and distance and a renewed purpose in life hadn’t changed that.

Disappointing. No, frustrating. She had decided to give up her dreams and foolish girlhood desires, to cease all shallowness and follow duty’s path. No longer a weak creature of passion.

Wisdom, responsibility and maturity ruled her now. She should be beyond wanting Heath.

With a shrug that seemed to mock the searing intensity of his gaze, he drawled, “It doesn’t change what happened between us.” His husky voice rolled over her, tormenting her, the slide of silk against her skin.

Her throat constricted. “I’ve put that behind me. Forgotten all about it, in fact.”

“Liar,” he whispered so softly she barely heard him. His eyes glinted with an angry light, as if her words alone, untruthful though he claimed them, sparked some kind of primitive urge in him to deny, to disprove.

“I have,” she insisted, rising to her feet. Then, thinking to convince him that she had well and truly moved on, she lifted her chin and said, “Mr. Oliver has proved excellent company, quite wiping you from my mind.”

His hands clamped down on her arms and he gave her a small shake. “Enough, Portia,” he rasped. “I know you’re angry with me. You’ve every right to be, but don’t pretend you feel nothing.”

“Oh, I feel something.” Her anger arrived at last, flowing hot and swiftly through her blood. She struggled in his hands like a wild bird, her chest rising and falling with the tumult of her own emotions. “Something akin to hatred.” She shook from the inside out, infuriated at the mere sight of him, at the treacherous fire in her blood that his presence stoked into an obliterating blaze.

He smiled, a dangerous curve of sensuous lips that made her still in his arms. “Hate. Love. The two are nearly indistinguishable.” His hands slid from her arms. She started to step back but he caught her again. One arm wrapped around her waist, hauling her against him, mashing her br**sts into his chest. “A fine line, I think.”

“No,” she moaned, arching away.

“My sweet little liar,” he rasped in her ear. “You mean for me to believe you forgot me? Forgot how good we were?”

She nodded dumbly, pushing at the rock wall of his chest.

“I haven’t forgotten. Not for a moment. You might have left Yorkshire but your memory did not.

You have haunted me, Portia.”

She fought against the hot thrill his declaration gave her, and shoved harder.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he repeated. “Not your taste.” His tongue circled the whorls of her ear. She whimpered, biting down hard on her lip to stop the betraying sound. She ceased pushing, her hands clenching the fabric of his jacket as if she clung to her salvation.

He continued talking, his voice mesmerizing, a fiery caress against her skin. “Not your nails on my back. Not your lips on mine. Not your sweet little body milking me.”

Gasping, she lurched free, stumbling as if drunk. And perhaps she was. His words swirled in her head, making her dizzy, making her skin tingle…intoxicating her as no wine ever could.

“You remember,” he pronounced, voice thick with triumph, his eyes gleaming with desire. “And you want more of the same.”

Without thinking, her hand shot out, the loud crack of her palm against his cheek both satisfying and frightening.

He fingered the flesh there, and she tensed, waiting for him to retaliate.

“Striking me won’t make it untrue,” he uttered with maddening calm.

“Stay away from me,” she warned, shaking from fury, from a whole nest of snarling emotions he stirred within her. “I don’t know why you’re here, but we said everything we had to say at Moreton Hall. We’re finished.”

“We’ve only begun.”

She shook her head at him, hopeless fury filling her heart. “Go home, Heath.” Without another word, she spun on her heel, half expecting him to pull her back into his arms. And absurdly deflated when he did not.

Traitorous body.

Defiant heart.

Both wanted what her head knew to be wrong.

She entered the ballroom, her gaze scanning the throng. Spotting Simon’s face, she made her way to his side, determined, now more than ever, to gain a proposal from him. That—her head told her—was right.

Who cared what her heart said?

Heath stopped at the threshold of the dance floor, his cheek still stinging from Portia’s slap. He hadn’t precisely planned on what to say when he faced her, but he had certainly imagined things going better than a slap to the face.

Hell, he hadn’t counted on seeing her in another man’s arms. Nor in a crimson dress that clung to her like a second skin. He watched as she returned to the side of that behemoth. The man clasped her by the arm and fixed her close to his side with a familiarity that made Heath’s blood burn and his hands clench at his sides.

Despite his avowals, he had followed Della’s advice and traipsed after Portia. That he loved the chit, as Della claimed, had nothing to do with it. He simply knew his duty. He had compromised a gently bred lady. And with the curse no longer shadowing him, nothing stopped him from marrying, from carrying on the Moreton line, from filling Portia’s belly with his child. The very possibility, one he had never permitted himself to consider, made his heart thud faster. But not, he told himself, because he loved her.

His gaze fixed on Portia. She tossed back her head and laughed at something the hulk next to her said. Chandelier light glinted off her dark hair. His chest tightened, his fingers itching to unpin the heavy mass and run his fingers through the silken tresses of gleaming jet.

Nothing stopped him from marrying.

Nothing except her.

He relaxed his hands, a calming assurance sweeping through him. Lady Portia Derring would be his wife.

With that overriding thought, he strode across the room.

Her face blanched when she saw him approaching.

He smiled grimly. “Portia,” he greeted, making deliberate use of her Christian name, staking his claim for the benefit of the man looming at her side.

“Lord Moreton,” Portia returned, her voice breathless. “You’re still here? I thought you left.”

She glanced uneasily at the man beside her, a smile wobbling on her mouth.

“I’ve come a long way for you,” he announced, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes flared wide, smile vanishing.

“Portia,” the man beside her demanded, his lip curling in a sneer as he looked Heath over.

“Introduce me.”

Heath fixed a cold smile to his face, not caring for the way in which he ordered Portia about—

not caring for the fellow at all. He dropped his gaze to the hand that clutched her arm, to the fat sausage fingers that dug into her red silk sleeve. Something tight and deadly coiled itself in the pit of his stomach. He wanted nothing more than to plant his fist into the bastard’s face.

“Mr. Oliver,” Portia began, her eyes darting about in a clear attempt to assess the attention directed their way, “May I introduce you to Lord Moreton.”

Heath returned Oliver’s stare with a cold one of his own, and the battle commenced. One fought without words or acts. A line had been drawn. The question remained who would cross it first.

Heath’s fists knotted at his sides, his joints aching from the pressure. He stepped forward.

“Heath,” Portia whispered, dragging his gaze back to her.

Please, she mouthed, those blue eyes of hers glittering brightly, the plea there unmistakable.

Something loosened and unfurled itself inside him, and he found he couldn’t deny her. Not when she looked at him that way.

With a curt nod, he turned and strode from the ballroom, the house, his mind busy planning their next meeting.

Portia exhaled quietly, watching Heath stride away and disappear through the crowd. An inexplicable tightness filled her chest, making it impossible to draw breath without discomfort.

Irrational as it seemed, a part of her felt annoyed that he had left. Had he come all this way to give up so easily? She gave her head a hard shake. He had hurt her enough. He would not do so again. Best that he give up. She would accomplish what she set out to do, what she had promised Astrid and Grandmother. Marry and marry well. Provide for her family. Perform her duty.

And she would protect her heart in the process.

“Come, Portia. Let’s take a stroll.” With his hand at her elbow, Simon guided her out the balcony doors and deep into the gardens.

“Would you care to ride tomorrow?” he asked after several moments of silence.

“Yes, that would be lovely,” she answered even as her heart constricted over the lie. She could think of countless things she would rather do than ride in the park with him.

He pressed closer to her side. His fingers rubbed her bare arm where he held her, his thumb moving in wide circles.

Unable to bear his touch, she halted on the path and pulled her arm free. “We better return.”

Simon stopped and squared himself in front of her. “Something tells me you wouldn’t mind being out here with that Moreton fellow.” His tone rang out with the petulance of a child’s.

It dangled on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she loved that other fellow—or rather, had loved him. Had. She gave herself a swift mental shake. One did not love someone who brought only grief and pain—who agreed to wed but never bed you.

But there had been joy, a small voice whispered, for however fleeting.

“Lord Moreton is of no consequence to me, Mr. Oliver.” She shivered at the sound of her voice, a thin thread on the air.

“Simon,” he reminded.

Portia cocked her head and tried not to pull away when he drew her hands into his.

“Simon,” she said haltingly.

“It lightens my heart to hear you say that, Lady Portia. I realize there might be some competition for a lady of your rank.” In the gloom of the garden, his barrel chest seemed to grow, puff out like a great balloon. “I shall do what ever necessary to win you.”

Portia resisted the urge to reclaim her hands and endured the tight clasp of his fingers. She must grow accustomed to his touch. If anything, she needed to encourage Simon’s suit—do everything in her power to bring about a proposal. She had promised Astrid as much. And Grandmother.

Her mind drifted to Heath and the look on his face when he’d seen her with Simon. As if she had slapped him a second time. Absurd. She had no reason to feel guilty. She owed him nothing. And he hadn’t offered her anything. Hadn’t even brought up marriage again. And how could she wed him knowing he believed she had trapped him, knowing he thought the worst of her?

Forcing a smile her heart did not feel, she locked eyes with Simon. “You’ve already won me.”