Seducing the Heiress (14 page)

that
be turning the tables?

 

She started purposefully down the corridor. There
would be no twiddling her thumbs while Miss Underhill waited for a reply from
her mother’s aging cousin. Rather, Portia had another plan that she intended to
implement at the first opportunity.

 

Her sister didn’t know it, but all future
sleuthing would be done by Portia herself.

 

 

A commotion out in the hall
caught Colin’s attention in his study. The upraised voices broke his
concentration. He had spent the morning poring over the monthly report from his
steward, immersed in a detailed description of the spring planting, and it was
disconcerting to be yanked back to reality. At least for a time, he had managed
to forget the dull soreness in his upper arm—and the woman who had caused
it.

 

Grimacing, he removed his spectacles, tossing them down on the desk as he
surged to his feet. He stalked out into the foyer to find Tudge face-to-face
with a midget in the front doorway.

 

Well, perhaps it was more like
face-to-chest, for Tudge towered over his adversary. The stranger’s oily black
hair had shed a snowstorm of dandruff onto the shoulders of his ill-fitting
green coat. He clutched a sheaf of papers in his hand.

 

“I’ll give these to
his lordship and nobody else,” the
man insisted,
shaking the papers in Tudge’s face. “I brung them all the way from Kent, I
did.”

 

“An’ ye can take them all the way back, too,” Tudge countered. “Now get
out, ye little pipsqueak, afore I toss ye in the gutter like the rubbish ye
is.”

 

A dun collector. Colin should have surmised as much and remained in his
study. But he couldn’t dodge the unpaid bills forever.

 

He strode forward to
address the visitor. “I am Lord Ratcliffe. You may hand the invoices to
me.”

 

The man did so, his small black eyes and twitchy nose reminding Colin of
a rat sniffing for cheese. “An’ what about me payment? I ain’t leavin’ without
gold coins in me pocket.”

 

“Ye’ll leave quick enough,” Tudge retorted,
brandishing a ham-sized fist, “wid the help of an undercut to the jaw.”

 

“That
won’t be necessary,” Colin said. He addressed the bill collector. “Follow me
into my study while I review these charges.”

 

Five minutes later, he sent the
odious little man on his way with a partial payment that caused a considerable
lightening of his strongbox. It was money that had been meant to pay the
crushing monthly cost of upkeep on his properties.

 

The bills lay scattered
across the mahogany desk. In a fit of anger, he wadded them into a ball, which
he hurled into the fire. Then he stood by the hearth, watching as the edges
blackened and curled before being consumed by the hungry flames.

 

Once again,
his mother had gone on a spending spree. He had hoped that by relegating her to
the estate in Kent, he could better control her expenditures. Instead, it seemed
she had imported a mantua-maker from London and ordered an entire new wardrobe.
She had not asked
his permission because she knew full
well he would have forbidden the extravagance.

 

Going to the sideboard, he
splashed brandy into a glass. He tossed back the drink, wincing as the motion
caused a jab of pain in his arm. It reminded him of Portia ministering to the
gunshot wound, inadvertently teasing him with a view of her breasts. Much to his
chagrin, he found himself consumed as much by the fire of lust as by his
cold-blooded objective of making a rich marriage.

 

He closed his eyes,
recalling the exotic fragrance of her skin, a blend of cinnamon and something
else, something as mysterious as the look in her beautiful blue eyes. And that
kiss. She had been wild for him, rising on tiptoe as if she couldn’t get enough
of his mouth, abandoning her acerbic words for the sweetness of passion. He had
intended only to coax her, to give her a taste of pleasure. But her swift,
uninhibited response had made him lose his head. It was the only explanation he
could fathom for pushing her down onto his bed.

 

Damn it, he knew better than
to seduce a virgin. Even if she felt so perfect beneath him. Even if he couldn’t
resist the taste of her skin and the enticing curves of her body.

 

“Excuse me,
your lordship.”

 

Startled, he opened his eyes to see Hannah hovering in the
doorway. She looked very different in the gray serge gown of a servant, a white
cap hiding her red hair and a ruffled apron concealing all but a hint that she
was breeding.

 

“Yes?” he barked.

 

“I have your luncheon ready in the dining
room. Or would you care for a tray in here instead?”

 

“The dining room will
do. In the future, ring the gong.”

 

“I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know.”

 

Hannah went away, but not before he spied a flash of hurt
in her eyes. Bloody hell. He shouldn’t have snapped at her. Now she would think
he was still angry about that long-ago betrayal, when her past misbehavior
simply didn’t matter to him anymore.

 

Hannah had been trying very hard to
adjust to the new role of housekeeper. It wasn’t her fault she had interrupted
his fevered fantasy.

 

He was hungry all right, but not for food.

 

And not
for any other woman but Miss Portia Crompton.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 10

 

In the
garret where the servants slept, Portia cautiously opened one of the doors off
the passageway. The dim little room with its narrow cot smelled strongly of
sandalwood. A curl of smoke rose from the saucer of incense in front of a shrine
to Shiva. There, a small stone statue depicted the Hindu god sitting in a
meditative pose, his hands resting in the cradle of his crossed legs. Pansies
scattered the bare plank floor in front of the shrine.

 

Kasi swayed in front
of the figurine, singing softly in her native tongue. Her thin gray hair was
drawn up in a knob, while a green sari covered her squat form.

 

Portia stepped
inside and closed the door, anxiously turning the sealed letter in her hands
until the
ayah
finished her song. “Kasi, did you not hear my
knock?”

 

“I hear,” the old woman said serenely. Picking up a porcelain
pitcher, she poured a thin stream of milk over the flowers, an offering to the
gods that Portia had seen her perform often back in India.

 

The familiar
ritual made her momentarily forget her urgent errand. None of their other Indian
servants had made the voyage to England. Her parents had consented to bring Kasi
only because all three girls had begged and pleaded. Kasi had been a mother to
them for more
years than Portia could remember. The
ayah
had crooned to them when they were ill and coddled them after Papa’s
scoldings when they were naughty. Her loyalty to the family was fierce and
unwavering.

 

“Should you be doing that here?” Portia asked dubiously. “The
milk will curdle and smell.”

 

“English do not understand,” Kasi replied as she
set down the pitcher. “Gods need food, too. And gifts to grant favors.”

 

“Why
are you praying in the middle of the day, anyway? I thought you did so only at
dawn.”

 

“I pray for you, missy. More prayers, more help.”

 

Portia blinked in
surprise. It seemed uncanny because she had come here to beg a favor of Kasi.
“Help? Why would you think I needed help?”

 

“To find your karma, your
destiny.” Kasi shuffled forward to pat Portia’s cheek with her leathery hand.
The warm touch was as familiar and comforting as her singsong voice. “Shiva help
you if I pray to him.”

 

“You mean . . . my destiny with Arun?”

 

Without
answering, the
ayah
took hold of Portia’s hand, running her fingers over
the palm, exploring it with her stubby forefinger and tracing the various lines.
It was something she had done a number of times over the years, to Portia as
well as to her sisters. When they were children, having their palms read had
been pure entertainment, for Kasi would spin tales about all the wonderful
things that lay in store for them in the future. At least she had until the day
Mrs. Crompton had walked in on one of their sessions. Mama had denounced
palmistry as heathen superstition and had forbidden Kasi to practice it.

 

Now,
the
ayah
muttered to herself while bobbing her head. She kept rubbing the
topmost line on Portia’s palm, following it all the way to Portia’s little
finger.

 

“What is it? What do you see?”

 

“Fate
give you one love, missy. He live here in England.”

 

Ratcliffe’s sinfully
handsome face popped into her mind. Although two days had passed, the memory of
his kiss was so vivid she felt a pulse of raw desire. It was the same response
that plagued her thoughts by day and haunted her dreams at night.

 

Appalled,
she grabbed hold of Kasi’s arm. “That can’t possibly be true. Arun is the man I
love.”

 

Kasi shrugged. “I tell what I see.”

 

Portia stiffened. “Well, I
won’t listen to such rubbish. It’s too dim in here to see my hand,
anyway.”

 

Those dark button eyes seemed to peer into Portia’s soul. Then Kasi
pressed her palms together and bowed deeply in a
salaam
. “Do not be
angry, missy. I not speak of it again.”

 

Portia compressed her lips. She was
well aware that Kasi hadn’t changed her convictions, only promised not to voice
them. It irked her that the
ayah
would declare that Arun was not a part
of her future.

 

A revelation struck Portia, one that had never occurred to her
before but now seemed very possible. “You don’t like that I’ve promised myself
to a native prince, do you? Because I’m a foreigner and not of his
caste.”

 

“It not for me to say.”

 

Kasi kept her eyes lowered, hiding her
thoughts. That evasiveness confirmed Portia’s deduction. Who would have guessed
that all this time while Kasi had been going faithfully to the docks once a
month to pick up Arun’s letters, she disapproved of the association? Portia felt
foolish for not realizing the truth before now. It made perfect sense because
the Indians had a class system that was every bit as rigid as the English
one.

 

And that would explain the palm reading, too. It
wasn’t that Kasi was deliberately lying to her. Rather,
the
ayah
had seen only what she had wanted to see.

 

Perversely
reassured, Portia decided to let the subject pass. Kasi was faithful and
trustworthy, and at the moment nothing else mattered.

 

“I need you to do
something for me.” She pressed the letter into Kasi’s hand. “Please post this
for me. It’s already been franked. And take great care that no one sees you, for
I wouldn’t want anyone to connect the letter to me—especially not my
parents.”

 

“Yes, missy.”

 

“Thank you so very much.” Touched by the
ayah
’s loyalty, Portia enveloped her stout form in a hug. Kasi smelled of
incense, a nostalgic reminder of Portia’s childhood. Those happy memories
lingered, making her smile as she left the attic room and closed the
door.

 

“Portia? Is that you?”

 

She froze, her eyes widening at the sight of
her mother gliding down the cramped passageway. Clad in a morning dress of white
and green striped muslin, Edith Crompton wore a stylish bonnet over her dark
russet hair. Her elegant appearance in the servants’ quarters was as incongruous
as seeing snow fall from the hot Indian sky. “Mama! Why have you come up
here?”

 

“I could ask you the very same question.”

 

“I—I was visiting Kasi,
that’s all.”

 

Edith Crompton shook her head in disapproval. “Henceforth, you
are not to do so. Proper young ladies do not mingle with the staff. You haven’t
the same leniency here as you had in India.”

 

Under different circumstances,
Portia might have argued that Kasi was almost a member of the family. But now
she merely said, “Yes, Mama.”

 

“We are due to call on Lord and Lady Madison
shortly.”
That critical hazel gaze examined Portia
from head to toe. “It would behoove you to tidy your hair. And wear the straw
bonnet with the blue ribbons. It will match the sprigged flowers in your gown
quite nicely.”

 

Portia refrained from heaving a sigh at the prospect of
another afternoon spent making visits. She started toward the stairway, only to
pause when her mother didn’t follow. “Aren’t you coming downstairs with
me?”

 

“I wish to speak to Kasi myself. I will see you in the entrance hall in
precisely ten minutes.”

 

That dismissing tone brooked no more questions.
Uneasy, Portia headed for the stairs, looking over her shoulder. She had the
distinct impression that her mother had not ventured up here in search of her
missing daughter, but for the sole purpose of seeing Kasi. But if Mama wanted
some little task done, why had she not rung for the servant? Or sent a footman
to summon Kasi downstairs? It didn’t make sense, especially since Mama had
become such a stickler for rules.

 

As she made her way down a narrow staircase
to the opulent family quarters, a far greater concern swamped Portia. Heaven
help her if Mama caught sight of that letter. She would confiscate it at
once.

 

And then she would demand to know why Portia was writing to one Hannah
Wilton, in care of the notorious Viscount Ratcliffe.

 

 

“Miss Crompton, you
are looking exceptionally lovely tonight.” Lord Wrayford bent over her gloved
hand that evening, giving her a view of the bald spot at the back of his sandy
hair.

 

“Thank you, my lord,” Portia said with a polite smile.