Seducing the Heiress

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S
EDUCING
THE
H
^EIRESS

 

 

 

 

 

S
EDUCING
THE
H
^EIRESS

 

 

OLIVIA DRAKE

 

 

 

 

St.
Martin’s Paperbacks

 

 

 

 

 

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you
should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold
and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has
received any payment for this “stripped
book.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the
characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

 

 

SEDUCING
THE HEIRESS

 

 

Copyright © 2009 by Barbara Dawson Smith.

 

 

All rights
reserved.

 

 

For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue,
New York, NY 10010.

 

 

ISBN: 978-0-312-94345-5

 

 

Printed in the United
States of America

 

 

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / December
2009

 

 

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175
Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

 

 

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 1

 

 

Colin Byrd, Viscount Ratcliffe, was on the prowl for a
wife. He intended to snare the richest heiress of the London Season.

 

Halting
his mount in the night-darkened alleyway, he glanced at the mansion beyond the
trees. The faint lilt of a waltz drifted from the open windows, the squares of
golden light glowing against the black monolith of the house. How ironic that he
would make his conquest right under the nose of the Duke of Albright.

 

An
unholy zeal gripped Colin. He would like nothing better than to come
face-to-face with the longtime enemy of his family. It would give him great
pleasure to fell the bastard with one blow.

 

But not tonight.

 

Tonight,
Colin was on the hunt. His quarry was female—one girl in particular. She was
young and vulnerable, and her low status as a commoner would make her all the
more susceptible to a nobleman’s calculated charm.

 

His
charm.

 

He
dismounted, his booted feet landing on the narrow lane that led to the stables.
As he fastened the reins to a post, the nag whiffed softly in the darkness,
nudging his hands for a lump of sugar.

 

Colin rubbed
her nose. It was past time to put the ancient mare out to pasture. But he
couldn’t afford to replace her. Yet.

 

“Hang on, old girl,” he murmured. “If
all goes well, you’ll have plenty of oats in your future.”

 

Leaving the horse
tethered in the shadows, he paced to the stone wall and peered into the gloom of
the garden. The mews was quiet, in contrast to the front of the mansion where a
long line of vehicles circled the square and coachmen gathered around makeshift
fires to ward off the April chill. Albright’s ball marked the opening of the
Season. Every member of the ton was here, and that would work to his advantage.
It should be simple to blend in with the hordes of aristocrats. He was one of
them himself—even if his blackened reputation had barred him from their
gatherings.

 

Because of that, he lacked the requisite invitation to enter by
the front door. But he wouldn’t let such a minor complication stop him.

 

At
the rear gate, he lifted the latch and slipped into the formal garden with its
dim paths arranged in geometric shapes. As he started toward the house, a clear
sense of purpose fueled him: find his prey and isolate her. And in the doing,
avoid Albright. Colin knew that if he encountered the duke, he’d be thrown out
into the street. His plans would be ruined. But he could not—would
not—fail.

 

Too much depended upon his success tonight.

 

 

Miss Portia
Crompton knew she’d said the wrong thing the instant the words left her lips.
The shocked stares of the aristocrats sitting at the supper table proved the
rashness of her comment.

 

Lady Whittingham arched a thin gray eyebrow. Mrs.
Beardsley scowled, a forkful of roast partridge clutched
in her plump fingers. Her daughter, Miss Frances Beardsley,
a blond china doll clad in pale pink, uttered a breathy squeak of
horror.

 

Bite your tongue.
In her head, Portia could hear her mother’s
scolding voice. Similar rebukes had been directed at Portia many times over the
past year while she had been preparing for this, her grand entry into London
society at the Duke of Albright’s ball. She was to engage in polite chitchat
about the weather, the splendor of the ballroom, and other dull topics.

 

She
was
not
to mention any of her experiences growing up in
India.

 

“
You’ve
bagged a tiger?” asked the Marquess of Dunn,
straightening his gangly form in his chair. “How extraordinary.”

 

Lord
Wrayford’s pale blue eyes goggled in his florid face. “By gad, Miss Crompton,
you must be a crack shot. You make our fox hunting tales sound tame by
comparison.”

 

“If only I’d been there,” the Honorable Henry Hockenhull said
fervently. The third son of an earl, he had auburn hair and a youthful freckled
face above an elaborate cravat. “I vow I would have protected you with my
life!”

 

For the first time, Portia noticed it was only the ladies who looked
disapproving. The three gentlemen at the small round table cast admiring looks
at her. But she refused to be flattered by their fawning attention. Although the
mirror in her bedchamber this evening had reflected a pleasing transformation,
she knew it was her outrageously large dowry that fascinated them the most. If
not for her father’s riches—earned in trade overseas—she would never have been
admitted to their exalted circle. These aristocrats were willing to overlook
common blood for one reason alone: wealth.

 

Little did
they know, Portia had no intention of marrying an English nobleman. Absently,
she fingered the tiny gold key that dangled from her bracelet. She had a plan
for her future. A risky plan she had kept secret even from her beloved younger
sisters.

 

“Do tell us about this hunt,” commanded Lord Dunn. “You must have
suffered a terrible fright.”

 

Just like that, Portia was transported back to
the humid heat of the jungle, seeing the tiger burst out of the thick
underbrush, hearing its guttural snarl, smelling the pungent reek of musk and
gunpowder. She had fired on instinct, her senses honed by the long hours of
instruction from Arun. Only afterward had she become aware of her pounding heart
and weak knees. She had stood over the magnificent carcass, shaken yet exultant
at having killed the man-eater that had terrorized several villages.

 

“There
was no time to be afraid,” she said. “It all happened rather quickly. It was a
long time ago.” Two years. A lifetime. A world away from this gilded dining
chamber with its high vaulted ceiling and elegantly attired guests. Nostalgia
vanished as she spied her mother at a corner table, glaring in her direction.
“Er, the weather is rather chilly this evening, is it not?”

 

Her attempt to
change the subject failed miserably.

 

“Hunting tigers,” huffed Mrs. Beardsley.
Her rotund form encased in brown silk, she resembled the sausage on her
overloaded plate. “It’s a wonder your parents would allow such behavior.”

 

“It
wasn’t their fault,” Portia felt obliged to say. “They didn’t know where I’d
gone.”

 

“Indeed! Were you permitted to roam at will through the
countryside?”

 

“And in such a heathen land!” old Lady Whittingham said in a
quavering tone.

 

“
I
would never dream of
behaving in so improper a manner,” Frances Beardsley added. “Of course,
I
had a genteel upbringing.” She batted her pale lashes at the men, but their
attention remained fixed on Portia.

 

“India sounds dashed exciting,” Henry
Hockenhull said wistfully. “Were I not destined to enter the clergy, I should
have liked to have gone there myself, as an officer in the cavalry, perhaps. I
believe I would have made a first-rate commander.”

 

The Marquess of Dunn
leaned forward to block the young man from Portia’s view. “The exotic locale
only seems to have nurtured the delicate flower of your beauty, Miss Crompton.
Perhaps after supper you would consent to another dance with me—”

 

“Have you
ever seen a cobra, Miss Crompton?” Lord Wrayford interrupted in a bid to
forestall his rivals. “I’ve heard there are magicians who can coax a snake out
of a basket by playing a flute.”

 

Portia had witnessed much more than that.
She could regale them for hours with stories of mad dogs running wild, of holy
men in turbans and women in colorful saris, of riding through the jungle on the
back of an elephant. With all her heart, she yearned to return there. “Yes, I
often saw snake charmers perform in the bazaar. They would sit cross-legged on
the ground and play a tune on a
pungi
—a flute fashioned from a gourd. As
if by magic, the viper would rise slowly from the basket and perform a dance,
swaying back and forth.”

 

“How very barbaric!” Mrs. Beardsley declared. “Pray
consider our delicate sensibilities.”

 

“Yes,” said Miss Frances Beardsley,
mimicking her mother’s shudder. “If I hear any more, I shall swoon!”

 

Tickled
by the image of the girl pitching facefirst into her plate of lobster salad and
roasted capon, Portia
suppressed a smile. She would
never understand the tendency of these English-bred ladies toward silly
histrionics.

 

Mrs. Beardsley patted her daughter’s hand. “There, there, my
darling. One must make allowances for Miss Crompton, since her parents never saw
fit to send her and her sisters back to England for their schooling.”

 

“We had
the advantage of excellent tutors,” Portia said in defense of her two siblings.
“Ask me any question about geometry or astronomy or literature. If you like, I
can provide the answers in Greek and French, as well as in Hindi.”

 

Mrs.
Beardsley glowered. “Cleverness is most unbecoming in a lady. My Frances learned
the skills of the pianoforte and singing, not mathematics and shooting.”

 

“I
fear we are doomed to differ on the quality of my education,” Portia said,
smiling to take the sting out of her words. “For I shall never regret the
tigerskin rug that lies on the floor of my bedchamber.”