Too Wicked to Tame by Sophie Jordan Page B

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.
    She reached for one, examining the spine. “Voltaire,” she read aloud. Her hand went for another and another. “Austen, Cervantes, Burney, Defoe.” Trying to still her racing heart, she slid her gaze to the house keeper. “Where did all these come from?”
    “The library. Perhaps when you feel better you could explore it yourself, my lady. It’s quite a large collection.” Mrs. Crosby made a tsking sound with her tongue. “Oh, but you’ll be leaving, won’t you? Unfortunate.” In that moment Portia knew Lady Moreton had sent the books deliberately.
    Portia reassessed the books, trying to suppress her tremor of delight now that she understood them for what they were—a bribe. She pressed her lips into a grim line and crossed her arms over her chest. No