Free Too Wicked to Tame by Sophie Jordan Page A

if it came down to her marrying, nothing would motivate her to choose him, a man who could reduce her to a quivering mass of nerves.
    She swallowed and strove for a show of courage. “You needn’t be afraid.” She flicked her eyes over him, conveying her disdain. “You’re safe from me.”
    “I’m not afraid,” he gritted, his chest expanding.

    With an audacity that even surprised her, she retorted, “Good. Because I’ve been invited here, and I have no intention of leaving Moreton Hall until I’m well and ready.”
    His nostrils flared in challenge.
    Unable to stop herself, she leaned back in her chair. Tapping her fingers on the cushioned arms, she baited him further, “Best grow accustomed to the sight of me.”
    “Careful, Miss Mud Pie,” he growled. “You may come to regret your decision.”
    Bristling at the reference to their less than dignified first meeting, she flung out, “Only people who don’t know themselves have regrets. I know myself exceptionally well.” Pushing to her feet, she thought to depart with that final, ringing announcement.
    Yet her breath quickened at finding herself chest to chest with him. Their gazes locked. His gray eyes deepened, blue-black, reminding her of the first time she saw him cursing and spitting mad in the midst of a storm, his eyes identical to the coal gray skies.
    He leaned in, crowding her further with the wall of his chest, his primal presence. Her senses filled with him. His musky smell. His towering height. The incredible breadth of chest that seemed to stretch on forever. His intense gaze burned deep into her, searing her soul. Panicked, she jerked back a step. The chair bumped her thighs, preventing her retreat.
    “Be warned,” he breathed against her ear. “If you stay, expect no quarter from me. You’re not wanted here.”
    She shook her head, bewildered at why he simply couldn’t believe her—why he refused to see her as anything but a scheming gold digger. Did she really pose such a threat?
    She lifted her hands to shove at his chest, then thought better of it. She all too well recalled how the mere feel of him undid her.
    Curling her fingers into her palms, she dropped her hands at her sides. Seeing no other choice, she stepped closer in order to squeeze past. Her breasts grazed the rock wall of his chest. Her nipples sprang to attention, hardened peaks that chafed against the thin cotton of her nightgown.
    Her stomach plummeted and her gaze flew to his face, to eyes no longer gray but a dark, blistering blue.
    Heat suffused her and she crossed her arms tightly over her breasts. With all the grace of a bolting hare, she fled, eyes fixed straight ahead, afraid to look back, afraid that she wouldn’t see the earl at all—merely the wicked temptation of one stormy night when she had lost herself in a pair of shifting gray eyes.

Chapter 8
    Portia’s heart skipped at the swift knock. Pressing the open book to her chest, she stared unblinkingly at the thick oak-paneled door.
    For one fleeting moment, she wondered whether the earl had decided to follow her up to her room. Her heart did a full somersault at the possibility.
    Then reason asserted itself. A gentleman dead set against matrimony would not risk visiting a lady’s room in the middle of the night. Not with his grandmother lurking about, determined to see them wed.
    “Come in,” she called, closing the book and setting it beside her.
    Lady Mina entered the room. “I saw the light beneath your door. Are you feeling well?”
    “I’m fine. Merely reading.”
    Without waiting for an invitation, Mina bounded forward, her single dark plait bouncing over her shoulder as she hopped onto the bed. More bouncing and jiggling followed until she settled across from Portia.
    “Then you won’t mind me staying for a bit. We haven’t had much time to talk. Perhaps you could tell me about life in Town. Especially the Season.”
    Portia stifled a sigh. The abysmal go-rounds of the Season were not