Seducing the Heiress (10 page)

 

Her eyes
widened at the explicit drawings of couples engaged in all manner of intimate
relations. A blush suffused her from head to foot, yet she couldn’t stop
staring. Who would have thought there were so many different ways a man and a
woman could join their bodies? And did they really enjoy it? She couldn’t
imagine herself doing such intensely personal acts with Arun. The whole business
seemed more embarrassing than pleasurable.

 

Until she thought of
Ratcliffe.

 

Her gaze went to the four-poster bed where pillows lined the
headboard and hangings of midnight blue velvet formed an intimate bower. Heat
seared her veins, pooling in her nether regions. She could see Ratcliffe
lounging naked between the sheets, and herself clasped in his arms while they
kissed and caressed . . .

 

A strong gust rattled the windowpanes, startling
Portia back to her senses.

 

Mortified, she clapped the book shut. She shoved
it to the bottom of the stack and stepped back, flushed and breathless. What was
wrong with her, that she could think of that rogue in so unseemly a manner? It
must be the effect of viewing those drawings, of catching a glimpse into the
tantalizing secrets of the bedchamber.

 

Overly warm, she unfastened the merino
cloak and tossed it onto the bed. The ticking clock on the mantelpiece showed
the hour as a quarter past midnight. She had wasted enough valuable time.

 

The
candlestick in hand, she looked around to determine the most likely places where
he might have put the miniature. She hastened to a small writing desk and
examined the contents of the cubbyholes and the single drawer. But there was
only a sheaf of paper, quill pens and an inkpot, a glob of red sealing wax. A
nearby cabinet held crystal decanters of liquor and a collection of
glasses.

 

She made her way around the bedchamber,
searching every drawer, every box, every receptacle, to no avail. Frustration
nagged at her as she considered where he might have put her property. The
manservant had mentioned safeguarding the gold. Suppose Ratcliffe had locked the
miniature in a safe?

 

She stood stock-still by the bedside table. But no, that
didn’t make sense. Ratcliffe would not have expected her to be so brazen as to
break into his house. Surely he would have left the miniature somewhere close at
hand.

 

Perhaps in his dressing room?

 

Of course. Upon his return home the
previous night, he might have carelessly tossed it down on a table.

 

Whirling
around, she headed toward the shadowed doorway in a corner of the bedchamber.
The white-painted panel stood open to a yawning, pitch-dark hole. Inexplicably,
the fine hairs at the back of her neck prickled. Scorning her foolish fears, she
forced herself to move forward, only to halt with a gasp.

 

Something moved
within the well of absolute blackness. A tall menacing shape entered the
doorway.

 

Her heart gave a sickening jolt of recognition.

 

Lord Ratcliffe
settled one broad shoulder against the doorframe. The half-smile on his mouth
was at odds with the dangerous intensity of his eyes. “Looking for something,
Miss Crompton?”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 7

 

Portia’s feet felt rooted to the rug. She could scarcely
believe her eyes. Ratcliffe was dressed for the evening in a tailored dark coat
and knee breeches, a white cravat at his throat. At the ball, she had danced
with a score of gentlemen clad just like him.

 

But none of them had looked so
intimidating. None of them had made her pulse race with alarm—and something
darker. None of them had watched her with the hungry acuity of a
predator.

 

Dear God, how had he discovered her deception so
swiftly?

 

“You’re supposed to be in Turnbuckle’s garden,” she said
hoarsely.

 

“Or so you hoped.” His smile deepened with mockery. “You almost
convinced me of your sincerity in that note you sent. But being suspicious by
nature, I doubted you’d wish to be alone with me again. So I asked a favor of
Turnbuckle.”

 

With a sinking sensation, she remembered meeting the jovial earl
who was of an age with Ratcliffe. Numbly, she stated, “You know his lordship,
then.”

 

“We were good friends at Eton. He allowed me to wait in an antechamber
during the ball so I could keep an eye on you, to see if you truly meant to meet
me in
the garden. When I saw you leave early, I
surmised your intention and took a shortcut straight back here.”

 

So she had
been right to sense someone watching her all evening. From the start, her plan
had been doomed. Then another thought appalled her even more. Ratcliffe must
have been in the dressing room the entire time, observing her search, waiting,
biding his time.

 

Had he seen her looking through his copy of the
Kama
Sutra
?

 

She moistened her lips. “You must think yourself exceedingly
clever to have caught me, my lord. I imagine even the ogre was
playacting.”

 

“The ogre?” His fleeting frown cleared, and Ratcliffe chuckled.
“Oh, you mean Orson Tudge. Yes, he did as I instructed. I told him not to let
you in too easily lest you become suspicious.”

 

“Does that mean he’s more
gracious to your other women callers?” Portia clamped her lips shut. She hadn’t
intended to sound so shrewish. She had no interest in his mistresses. He could
have a thousand of them for all she cared.

 

Ratcliffe looked genuinely amused.
“Pray don’t take offense. Tudge is never gracious to anyone. But he’s loyal to a
fault. He and I share a long history.”

 

Which meant that if she screamed, the
ogre wouldn’t come running to her aid. He would turn a deaf ear to whatever
transpired in the master’s bedchamber. And it was doubtful her sister would hear
anything outside with the windows shut tightly.

 

Portia was on her own.

 

She
drew a sharp breath as Ratcliffe moved abruptly. He stepped out of the dressing
room and walked to the door of the bedchamber, blocking her only escape route.
He placed his hands on his hips, his coat pushed back to reveal a leanly muscled
form beneath the gentle-manly
trappings of
charcoal-gray waistcoat and white shirt.

 

“We seem to have a penchant for
meeting in bedchambers,” he said, a hint of flirtatiousness entering his tone.
“Tell me, what shall I do with you now?”

 

A disturbing warmth flared to life
deep inside her. It radiated throughout her body until her knees felt on the
verge of buckling. The involuntary reaction was shocking in its intensity, nay,
even in its existence. How could she feel even the slightest attraction to this
scoundrel?

 

It wasn’t violence she feared from Ratcliffe. It was
seduction.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her cloak lying on his
bed. She edged toward it, anxious for the protection of the hidden pistol.
“You’ll let me go, that’s what. After you’ve given me the miniature, of course.
It belongs to me and I want it back.”

 

“All in good time.” His voice lowered a
notch, becoming velvety smooth. “First, though, you and I should use this
opportunity to get to know each other better.”

 

His gaze flitted to her gauzy
scarlet gown with its indecently low neckline. Her skin tingled and she crossed
her arms, hoping the gloom hid the atrocious effect he had on her. It had been
Lindsey’s idea for her to pose as a fallen woman in case any servants questioned
her presence in the house. Heaven only knew where her sister had procured such a
vulgar garment. But now Portia fervently wished she had refused to wear
it.

 

“Yes, do let’s talk,” she said, desperate to forestall his lecherous
intentions. “You may begin by explaining to me why you keep your mother confined
to your estate.”

 

Her accusation had the desired effect. He took a step toward
her, his face darkening and his charm vanishing. “Who told you that? Let me
guess. Albright.”

 

“Yes. He said you won’t permit Lady Ratcliffe to come
to London. That you purposely keep her from her dearest
friends and her favorite pastimes.”

 

He made a dismissing gesture. “My mother
enjoys many friends and amusements in the country. So you shouldn’t believe
everything people tell you.”

 

“The duke seems to have particular knowledge of
your family. Are he and your mother acquainted?”

 

“Everyone in society is
acquainted to some degree or another. And Albright is a master at twisting the
facts to suit his own purposes.”

 

Ratcliffe hadn’t really answered her
question, Portia noted. It was too dim in the bedchamber to read the nuances of
his expression, yet she had the distinct impression he was hiding something. “Is
that your mother’s portrait I saw on the staircase landing?”

 

Ratcliffe
glanced over his shoulder at the door, as if he could peer through it. “Yes. It
was painted shortly after my parents were married.” He started forward and she
retreated in alarm, the backs of her legs bumping into the bed. But he merely
walked to a stool, propped up one foot, and regarded her gravely. “I must say,
I’m concerned that you consider Albright so trustworthy.”

 

Incredulous, she
laughed. “How ridiculous for you to cast aspersions on him. You’re the one with
the wicked reputation.”

 

“He isn’t all that he seems, Portia. Take it as a
word of caution, that’s all.”

 

He had his own purpose in trying to make her
doubt the duke. Ratcliffe wanted to win her—and her dowry—for himself. Yet she
also remembered Albright’s attitude toward him, a loathing that implied a
personal connection. “If the two of you have quarreled in the past, then tell me
the nature of your disagreement. Perhaps that will convince me.”

 

“There’s nothing to tell.”

 

“Then I see no reason to
credit your vague warnings.” She decided it was time to put a firm end to his
marital aspirations. “For that matter, I’ll tell you exactly why I prefer the
duke to you. He’s extremely wealthy, which means
he
isn’t chasing after
my money. Nor does
he
consort with sordid women behind my back.”

 

His
eyes narrowed. “You’re referring to Hannah Wilton, the woman with me in Hyde
Park today.”

 

Hannah
. So the woman had a name.

 

Portia considered
herself a tolerant person, yet the thought of that flame-haired floozy hanging
on his arm made her livid. “Quite,” she said icily. “Although if you choose to
spend your time with filthy whores, it is of little importance to
me.”

 

Turning away, she grabbed for her cloak. Just like that, he was standing
beside her. He tossed the garment back down on the bed and took hold of her
shoulders, bringing her around to face him. His cold expression revealed no hint
of the charming rogue.

 

“Hannah and I were close at one time,” he said
sharply. “For that reason, I will not tolerate hearing her belittled by a
pampered young miss. She’s a kindhearted woman who was forced into the service
of men by dire circumstance. You should be grateful that your wealth has
insulated you from being reduced to her position.”

 

The blood rushed into
Portia’s face. Pampered young miss? Kindhearted woman? She was furious with him
for comparing her so unfavorably with his ex-mistress, and a little ashamed as
well, for it had never occurred to her to consider the woman’s
background.

 

She focused on the anger, tilting her head back to glare at him.
“If you aren’t seeing her any longer, then why were you out walking with
her?”

 

He hesitated, then dropped his hands to his
sides and stepped back. “Hannah is in a spot of trouble. The details don’t
matter, but she asked for my help.”

 

“What sort of trouble?”

 

“She was
tossed out of the house where she had worked for a number of years. Beyond that,
it isn’t a topic that any decent young lady should know about.”

 

His
secretiveness frustrated Portia. The candlelight played over his face, casting
stark shadows over his chiseled features. There was so much about himself that
he kept hidden from her. Or perhaps it was just her own mulish curiosity that
refused to quit.

 

“Tell me, anyway,” she said. “I don’t care a fig for false
propriety.”

 

“If you must know, she’s with child.” He held up his hand. “And
lest you accuse
me
of abandonment, let me assure you, the baby cannot
possibly be mine. She and I parted ways nearly a year ago.”

 

Her mind
whirling, Portia leaned against the bedpost.
A baby.
She remembered the
malicious whispers in India when the daughter of an English merchant became
pregnant out of wedlock. There had been a hasty marriage and an infant boy born
five months later. Even though the shame had lingered, the close-knit family had
weathered the storm together.

 

Now Portia could see how lucky that girl had
been. “Does Hannah have no relatives?”

 

“None that will acknowledge
her.”

 

“Shouldn’t she seek help from the baby’s father, then?”

 

His mouth
twisted, and he looked away. “Unfortunately, he could be any one of a number of
gentlemen.”

 

Portia was struck by the sordidness of the men of society using a
lower-class female for their own gratification, then abandoning her to her fate.
She had never before considered the consequences to the woman—or
to the children that might result from an illicit union.
In truth, she had hardly been aware that such women even existed because the
topic wasn’t considered fit for the ears of ladies.

 

A distasteful notion
occurred to her. What if the father of Hannah’s child was one of the gentlemen
who had flocked around Portia, seeking to win her hand? She wouldn’t be able to
look at any of them again without wondering. They were a high-and-mighty lot who
had never been required to take responsibility for their actions.