Seducing the Heiress (19 page)

 

“Yes. It’s
just arrived.”

 

He snatched it from her. Perhaps
this was it. Perhaps Portia finally had written to him. He grabbed his
gold-rimmed spectacles from the bedside table and shoved them on. His heart
thumping, he tore the letter open.

 

As abruptly as his hopes had arisen, they
crashed to pieces. He was staring down at another bill. This one for a diamond
tiara ordered by his mother.

 

“Damn!” Crumpling the paper, he hurled it onto
the bed. For good measure, he slapped the mahogany bedpost. “Damn, damn,
damn
.”

 

His palm stinging, he turned to see Tudge and Hannah standing
side by side, their heads together. They made an incongruous couple, Tudge with
his scarred face and missing ear, and Hannah with her sensual beauty beneath a
prim white mobcap.

 

“Master’s a bit tetchy tonight,” the manservant was
telling her. “ ’E’s goin’ to see ’is little miss.”

 

“Oh? I’d been wondering if
he’d lost interest in Miss Crompton. Considering his present mood, I’m thinking
perhaps it might be best for her if he did.”

 

Colin wanted to retort that he
was standing right there and they could cease their infernal gossiping. But
expedience made him swallow his ill humor.

 

“I need a woman’s opinion,” he
told Hannah. “What do you think of this waistcoat? Would I look better in a gold
pinstripe?”

 

 

Portia had just finished dancing a reel with the Honorable
Henry Hockenhull when she spied Lord Ratcliffe.

 

She came to an abrupt halt.
Much to her frustration, the brief glimpse of him was blocked by the clusters of
guests leaving the dance floor. Surely he was a figment of her imagination. He
wouldn’t have been invited, not to a ball given by Lady Jersey, one of the
grandes dames
of society. Not when so many of the ton
still believed he had murdered his own father.

 

“Are you feeling faint?” Mr.
Hockenhull asked, his gloved hand cupping her elbow as if she were a delicate
butterfly. “Did the dance overtax you, Miss Crompton?”

 

She dragged her
attention back to her partner. His freckled features were taut with worry
beneath a boyish thatch of auburn hair. “Certainly not,” she murmured, while
covertly trying to look over his shoulder at the area where Ratcliffe—or his
twin—had been walking through the crowd. “I enjoyed it very much.”

 

“May I
fetch you a glass of punch? Or champagne perhaps?”

 

“Thank you, but no. I’m
perfectly fine, truly I am. And you needn’t escort me back to my mother. I can
see my next partner right over there.”

 

Portia nodded vaguely toward the
entryway, and while he turned his head to peer in that direction, she slipped
away into the throng of guests. She garnered a few curious looks, no doubt due
to her solitary status. It was a cardinal rule that young ladies were to be
taken back to their guardians at the end of each dance. Portia had only a few
minutes until the next set, which she had promised to the Duke of
Albright.

 

But she could not ignore the curiosity burning inside of her.

 

To
discourage conversation, she kept her gaze modestly lowered so as not to meet
anyone’s eye. She didn’t quite understand her sense of urgency. She ought to be
avoiding Ratcliffe. After receiving the miniature in the mail, she had vowed not
to give that scoundrel the satisfaction of a response. Why bother when it was
highly doubtful that he would tell her what he had done with the painting of
Arun. Besides, if she ignored him, he might lose interest and leave her
be.

 

Yet he was here tonight. That one brief
sighting had raised the specter of his presence—if indeed she wasn’t mistaken.
She would rather ascertain the truth right now than wait on pins and needles for
him to approach her.

 

Several guests moved, and her heart fluttered like
hummingbird wings. By heaven, it
was
Ratcliffe.

 

He was strolling
through the throngs of aristocrats, a petite lady clinging to his arm. His dark
hair gleamed in the glow of the candles. He looked breathtakingly handsome in a
mahogany brown coat, a gold pinstriped waistcoat, and buff breeches.

 

He bent
down to say something to the lady with him. She smiled up at him, her manner
coquettish. Slim and beautiful in a gown of midnight blue, she had a swanlike
neck and upswept black hair crowned by a diamond tiara.

 

A nasty jolt of
recognition struck Portia. It was the woman from the theater. The one who had
made him leave Portia and go rushing off to her side.

 

Her lips tightened. So
his current paramour was a member of society, was she? Had the rascal come to
this ball tonight not to court Portia, but to flirt with that . . . that
female?

 

As they drew nearer, the lady turned her head and, with uncanny
accuracy, gazed straight at Portia. She murmured something to Ratcliffe, then
left his company to glide in Portia’s direction.

 

Portia stood glued to the
floor. Guests swirled around her, but if any of them spoke, the roaring in her
ears blocked it out. Why would one of his mistresses seek her out? Did the woman
intend to warn her off Ratcliffe? Would she cause a scene right in the middle of
the ballroom while all the ton watched?

 

Portia ordered herself to walk away.
But the ability to move had deserted her. There was something vaguely familiar
about that exquisitely lovely face, something she
couldn’t quite place.

 

The lady stopped in front of her, her gaze politely
assessing, as if she were memorizing every detail of Portia, from her
Grecian-styled hair down to the embroidered hem of her pale pink gown. From
close up, the woman was older than she had looked from a distance, with fine
lines around her green eyes and mouth, and an unmistakable maturity to her
patrician face.

 

“Do pardon my boldness,” she said in a throaty voice,
offering a slender, gloved hand. “You are Miss Crompton, I believe.”

 

Portia
hesitated, then reluctantly touched the woman’s hand. Why hadn’t she provided
her own name? And why did Portia feel so tongue-tied in her presence? “Yes . . .
I . . .”

 

A faint amusement curved those ruby lips. “You must be wondering who
I am, why a perfect stranger would waylay you like this. I cannot say that I
blame you for looking apprehensive.”

 

At that moment, Ratcliffe appeared at
her side. He gave the woman a hard stare that was part irritation and part
fondness.

 

He snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and
handed one to each lady. “Stop teasing the poor girl, and allow me to make a
proper introduction. Mother, this is Miss Portia Crompton. Portia, pray meet my
meddlesome mother, Lady Ratcliffe.”

 

His mother
. He had abandoned
Portia at the theater in order to visit with
his mother
.

 

Sipping the
champagne, Portia felt such a lifting of relief, she almost laughed out loud. No
wonder Lady Ratcliffe looked familiar; she was the young, vivacious woman in the
painting on Ratcliffe’s staircase. The resemblance to her son was subtle but
apparent in the high
cheekbones, the sensual shape of
the mouth, the deep green of the eyes.

 

A sobering memory entered Portia’s
mind. The Duke of Albright had claimed that Ratcliffe kept his mother confined
to his estate, that he’d refused her permission to come to London. Ratcliffe, on
the other hand, had insisted that his mother preferred the country life. It was
unsettling to discover that the duke either had been mistaken or had lied to
Portia.

 

“I am hardly meddlesome,” Lady Ratcliffe said, affording her son a
mock glare. “Rather, it seems only right for me to meet the girl who has so
captivated your attention. And he does speak highly of you, Miss
Crompton.”

 

Ratcliffe quirked an eyebrow as if to make light of her comment.
“You’ve only just arrived in town, Mother.

 

We’ve barely had a chance to speak
at all.” He turned his gaze on Portia, and his warm scrutiny stirred shivers
that congregated in her inner depths. His eyes seemed to convey the message that
he’d thought of little else but her since their last meeting.

 

In a determined
effort to ignore him, she focused her attention on his mother. “Forgive me for
looking so puzzled earlier, my lady. I must confess I never anticipated meeting
you. Lord Ratcliffe has mentioned that you spend most of your time in
Kent.”

 

“I’ve leased a home in Berkeley Square for the Season, so that I might
visit my friends here. Perhaps you would do me the kindness of joining me for
tea soon. It would be quite pleasant for the two of us to have a cozy
chat.”

 

The invitation made Portia acutely uncomfortable. It seemed rather
fast of Lady Ratcliffe to expect a tête-à-tête with Portia when there was no
betrothal on the horizon. Was she merely anxious to see her profligate son
settle down and marry? Or had Ratcliffe told his mother a Banbury tale about the
closeness of their relationship?

 

As she took a
fizzy swallow from her glass, another thought occurred to her. As unsuitable as
it might seem on the surface, the visit might be a brilliant opportunity to
uncover the truth about the feud between Ratcliffe and Albright. Portia would
have to be very circumspect in her questioning so as not to offend Lady
Ratcliffe, yet so much could be learned. “Thank you, my lady, I’d consider it an
honor—”

 

“No,” Ratcliffe stated, scowling from her to his mother. “It wouldn’t
be appropriate in the least.”

 

Lady Ratcliffe gave a tinkling laugh. “Since
when have you cared about the proprieties, my dear boy?” Reaching up, she patted
his cheek as if she were proud of his rakish reputation. “Now, I hear the
orchestra tuning their instruments. Do ask Miss Crompton to stand up with you
for the next dance.”

 

He flashed his mother a sardonic look before he
dutifully bowed to Portia. “May I have the honor?”

 

Portia’s breath caught at
the image of them waltzing over the dance floor, their bodies so close she could
feel his heat . . .

 

She took a step backward on the pretext of setting her
empty glass on a table. “I’m sorry,” she said with a firm shake of her head.
“It’s the supper dance, and I’ve promised it to the Duke of Albright.”

 

Lady
Ratcliffe’s mouth twisted in a secretive smirk. “Never mind Albright. I’ll be
happy to have a word with him on your behalf.”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 14

 

Portia
found herself being whisked through the crowd of guests against her will. Or
was
it against her will?

 

Ratcliffe’s hand rested at the small of her
back, propelling her forward with subtle power. His touch seemed shockingly
intimate against the gauze of her gown, as if his fingers rested right on her
bare skin. As if he were branding her as his before all the nobility.

 

A trio
of older ladies stood watching, muttering among themselves. Another gray-haired
matron lifted her jeweled lorgnette in a cold scrutiny, her thin lips curled in
disdain. The stooped-shouldered gentleman with her frowned, then turned his back
in a cut direct.

 

Ratcliffe seemed oblivious to it all. He nodded to a few
acquaintances, his expression unperturbed even when there was no reciprocal
greeting.

 

Portia felt a peculiar immunity to the stares, as well. Perhaps it
was the champagne she’d drunk, but a giddy excitement seemed to cushion her from
all censure. It was as if she and Ratcliffe were enclosed in a golden bubble
where nothing from the outside world could affect them.

 

As they passed
through an arched doorway, she noticed they were heading away from the dance
floor. “The lines are forming,” she murmured. “We need to take our
places.”

 

“I’d rather be alone with you.”

 

His
husky words gave her a pleasurable shiver. A part of her brain scolded her for
being so reckless. The voice in her head sounded so much like Miss Underhill
that Portia ignored its dire warning. What could happen in a house full of
people?

 

Except perhaps a stolen kiss in a quiet corner.

 

Anticipation
sizzled through her, but she immediately squelched it. No, she mustn’t allow
Ratcliffe even that much liberty. Yet she rather enjoyed matching wits with him.
Especially now when she was fairly bursting with recriminations to throw in his
face.

 

He guided her past several groups of guests in the entrance hall and
down a passageway where she caught a glimpse of gentlemen and ladies playing
cards in a drawing room, then a second chamber from which the smell of cigar
smoke wafted.

 

In another moment, they were walking down a deserted corridor.
He sent her ahead of him through a doorway and into a sitting room decorated
with an Egyptian motif. An oil lamp on a table cast flickering shadows over the
alabaster statues, a large painting of the pyramids, and numerous chairs with
carved scarabs on the backs.

 

She stopped beside a closed stone sarcophagus
and ran her fingers over the cold granite. “I do hope there isn’t a mummy in
here.”

 

Ratcliffe didn’t answer. The click of the door closing brought Portia
whirling around. The sight of him striding purposefully toward her stirred a
measure of alarm in her. She didn’t want to be
this
alone with
him.

 

“Shouldn’t you leave the door open?”

 

“No one saw us come in, so it
hardly matters.”

 

“It
does
matter,” she objected. “If we’re discovered
here without a chaperone, my reputation will be ruined. Or perhaps that’s your
intention.”

 

As she attempted to step past him on
her way to the door, Ratcliffe took hold of her shoulders and brought her to a
stop. “I simply don’t want anyone to overhear us,” he said, his gaze intent on
her. “I wanted to ask you—did you receive my gift?”