Seducing the Heiress (21 page)

 

Little did her mother realize, Portia
welcomed the vigilance. The events of the previous evening only proved that she
couldn’t trust herself around Ratcliffe. There was a sensual weakness inside her
that he knew exactly how to exploit. She loathed him for using such dishonorable
means to entice her into marriage, and yet at the same time, she couldn’t stop
thinking about that wonderful, euphoric moment. She had slept fitfully, dreaming
of his hands on her body and awakening with the longing to experience it all
again. The wickedness of her desire was a constant torment.

 

How could she
have responded to him with such utter abandon when she loved Arun?

 

“Ratcliffe
is a gambler and a rake,” the Duchess of Milbourne said with a sniff of her long
nose. “Why, he’s had to sell all of his unentailed land in order to pay off his
debts.”

 

“I have it on excellent authority that he began gambling when he was
still at Eton,” Mrs. Beardsley added. “My son Geoffrey was a form below him, and
he said Ratcliffe was the leader of the libertines.”

 

Lady Grantham
harrumphed, setting her teacup down with a clatter. “Let us not forget his worst
sin. Ratcliffe
murdered his own father. Shot him in
cold blood when he refused to pay the boy’s gaming markers.”

 

Frances
Beardsley uttered a squeak of horror. Dressed in pale pink ruffles, she
resembled a china doll as she looked straight at Portia. “How monstrous!
I
would never be seen with such a man.”

 

Everyone turned to look at
Portia.

 

Her mother quickly said, “Nor would any of us had we all known the
extent of his crimes.”

 

Portia felt compelled to speak out. Although she
despised Ratcliffe—for very different reasons than these biddies—she also
disliked injustice. “I thought the courts had exonerated him.”

 

The Duchess of
Milbourne pursed her lips. “Of course he was declared innocent. One can hardly
expect a peer of the realm to go to the gallows, lest it give the common people
ideas. Why, the next thing we’d know, the masses would be setting up a
guillotine and making us all surrender our necks.”

 

A collective shudder
coursed through all the noble ladies. The biggest nightmare of the aristocrats
was that they would suffer the same fate as their counterparts in France some
twenty-five years earlier.

 

Lady Grantham shook her head. “Poor Lady
Ratcliffe. How I do pity her, losing her husband under such terrible
circumstances, and at the hand of her own son.”

 

“It is beyond my
understanding how she could ever forgive him,” Mrs. Beardsley added. “One can
only imagine how difficult it must have been for her. Why, she’s been unable to
face the ton these past three years.”

 

“That’s dreadful,” Edith Crompton
commiserated. “I’m afraid I didn’t have the pleasure of an introduction, but she
appeared to be a most lovely woman.”

 

“Lillian is
quite beautiful, always has been.” The Duchess of Milbourne leaned forward, her
gnarled hands clutching her cane. “If I dare say so, she was once a bit racy
herself. Over the years there have been rumors of her illicit
affairs.”

 

Affairs? The news troubled Portia, although she took it with a
grain of salt. Gossip was hardly a reliable source of the truth.

 

“Then
perhaps it is little wonder that her son turned out as despicable as he did,”
Mrs. Beardsley pronounced, while her daughter nodded vigorously in agreement,
setting her blond curls to bouncing.

 

Lady Grantham tut-tutted. “Dear me, do
you remember that scandal involving Lillian and Albright? It quite set London on
its ear.”

 

Portia froze with her teacup halfway to her lips. This must be what
Miss Underhill recalled her mother discussing a long time ago. Portia could not
remain silent, no matter how much her own mother might scold her later.
“Scandal?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

 

The Duchess of Milbourne bared her
teeth in a caricature of a smile. “Never fear, my girl, Albright did no wrong.
Rather, it was Lady Ratcliffe who was at fault. You see, long before you were
born, he—”

 

She stopped in mid-sentence as a white-wigged footman entered the
drawing room. The servant bowed to Mrs. Crompton and presented a silver tray to
her. When Portia’s mother picked up the pasteboard card that lay upon it, her
eyes widened.

 

“Well! This is most remarkable. Lady Ratcliffe herself has come
to call.” She looked to the duchess as the senior woman present. “Shall I be
home, Your Grace?”

 

“Most certainly.”

 

“Then do send her ladyship up at
once, Higgens.”

 

Portia felt an agonizing stab of disappointment. She
had been about to learn the truth at last, but now cruel
fate had intervened. Proper etiquette prevented even these ladies from spreading
malicious talk in the presence of their subject.

 

Curse their good
manners!

 

Then she wondered why Lady Ratcliffe had come here at all. Had
Ratcliffe put her up to it? Did he think that his mother could smooth troubled
waters? Dear heavens, had he confessed to her exactly what he had done last
night?

 

Portia battled the rise of a hot blush. She must remain cool and
aloof—and make certain that the viscountess did not corner her for a private
chat.

 

A moment later, Lady Ratcliffe glided into the drawing room. Slender as
a girl in deep green silk, she wore a feathered bonnet on her elegantly upswept
black hair. She greeted each lady cordially, exchanging pleasantries and gracing
Portia with an especially warm smile before sitting in a chair right beside
hers.

 

Portia found it difficult to meet those astute green eyes. It was too
embarrassing to wonder how much Lady Ratcliffe knew. Besides, she sensed a
shrewd intelligence in the older woman that somehow made her uneasy.

 

Lady
Ratcliffe accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Crompton. Very soon it became clear
exactly where her son had inherited his charm.

 

“Your home is exceptionally
lovely,” she told Portia’s mother. “You simply must give me the name of your
linen draper, so that I might choose some of these pretty fabrics for
myself.”

 

Edith Crompton preened. “Why, thank you, my lady, I’d be honored to
do so.”

 

Lady Ratcliffe turned her attention to the duchess. “My dear
Henrietta, I do regret that we had so little chance to speak yesterday evening,
what with the crush
of people. After so much time
rusticating in the country, I’m looking forward to hearing all the latest
on-dits
. From all of you ladies.”

 

She extended her smile to include
Lady Grantham, Mrs. Beardsley, and Frances Beardsley. “Now, what is this I hear
about Turnbuckle mending his wicked ways by marrying Oglethorpe’s daughter?
Colin never breathed a word of it to me, but how like a man to overlook the
significance of such an event.”

 

The ladies launched into a spirited
discussion of the marital matches that had been made in the past few years.
Quietly observing, Portia couldn’t help but notice how deftly Lady Ratcliffe
controlled the conversation, asking questions at the right moment, offering
witty commentary to draw laughter, and introducing a new name whenever there was
a lull. The older woman made no attempt to speak directly to Portia, much to her
relief. She was almost beginning to relax, thinking she’d been mistaken about
the purpose of the visit, when Lady Ratcliffe rose to her feet and addressed
Mrs. Crompton.

 

“Pray forgive me, but I have an appointment I simply must
keep. Perhaps your daughter wouldn’t mind seeing me to the door?”

 

Portia
froze, her fingers stiff around the saucer. She could think of no gracious way
to refuse such a simple request.

 

Nor, apparently, could her mother. “As you
wish, my lady. May I say, we’ve enjoyed your visit very much.”

 

Portia set
down her empty cup on a table. As she accompanied Lady Ratcliffe out of the
drawing room, she glimpsed the other women eyeing them with avid speculation. No
doubt they, too, would take their leave soon, anxious to be the first to pass
along news of the visit. By nightfall, the rumor mill would be abuzz with
reports that Ratcliffe’s mother was making a blatant effort to negotiate
a match between her son and the premier heiress of the
Season.

 

They headed down a high-ceilinged corridor decorated with gilt chairs
and landscape paintings. Portia wanted to walk fast, but forced herself to match
steps with Lady Ratcliffe’s measured pace.

 

“Perhaps it is no surprise, Miss
Crompton, to learn that I came here hoping to speak to you alone.”

 

“I’m
afraid I haven’t much time. I must return to my other visitors.”

 

“Surely you
can spare a few moments.” The viscountess took Portia’s hand and patted the back
of it. “I understand from my son that the two of you quarreled yesterday
evening. On the way home, Ratcliffe seemed quite distraught about
it.”

 

Distraught? Portia nearly choked on a lump of suppressed anger. What a
cartful of nonsense. If he was upset at all, it was because his dastardly plot
had failed.

 

Then she noted how closely Lady Ratcliffe was watching her, and
realized the woman was fishing for information. In that moment she saw her
mistake. Ratcliffe hadn’t confessed everything, after all. His mother was merely
making guesses as to why he’d been in a sulk.

 

“I can’t imagine why he would
be troubled,” Portia said coolly. “It was nothing of significance—at least not
to me.”

 

“I see. Well, I do want you to feel that you can come to me with any
concerns you might have about Colin. After all, I know him better than
anyone.”

 

Once again, Portia felt Lady Ratcliffe was being rather fast in
presuming a closeness with her. Yet couldn’t two play that game? “Then perhaps
you won’t mind telling me why he and the Duke of Albright dislike one another so
much. I’ve gathered it has something to do with you.”

 

For the barest moment, Lady Ratcliffe looked startled.
She blinked those long-lashed green eyes, so similar to her son’s eyes it was
uncanny. Giving Portia an assessing look, she laughed with genuine amusement.
“Forgive me for being surprised. The incident happened thirty years ago.
However, I’m sure the old trolls back there would be more than happy to dig it
out of the cave of ancient history.”

 

“I’d prefer to hear about it from you,
my lady.”

 

“Then so you shall. Take me somewhere private, and I’ll tell you
the whole dismal story.”

 

Her heart thumping, Portia led the way down the
curving sweep of the grand staircase and into a small antechamber off the
entrance hall. She took care to hide her excitement because she didn’t want Lady
Ratcliffe to wonder why Portia was so interested in finding out the
truth.

 

Portia acknowledged her own growing need to understand Ratcliffe. She
had speculated on the subject so much, it had become something of an
obsession.

 

Lady Ratcliffe seemed disinclined to sit. She strolled through the
antechamber, touching knickknacks with her elegantly gloved hand. “It all
started when I was about your age,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at
Portia, who had also remained standing in deference to her guest. “It was my
first Season, and I was having a wonderful time dancing at balls and flirting
with all the eligible gentlemen. If it doesn’t seem vainglorious, may I say I
was the foremost debutante of the year.”

 

Portia could believe it. Lady
Ratcliffe exuded a vivacity of spirit, which, along with her beauty, would have
attracted men in droves. And an unsettling suspicion told her where this was
heading. “Was the Duke of Albright one of your suitors?”

 

“Yes, he was new to
society himself, having just gained
the title at the
same time as he finished his schoolwork. Within days, he fell madly in love with
me . . .” She paused, then added contritely, “Oh, my dear, I am sorry. I
understand he’s now courting you, and I mean no offense.”

 

The situation did
make Portia feel awkward, but not because she cared a fig about Albright’s past
loves. It was simply odd to think that the duke had paid his addresses to both
of them. “I could never be offended by your honesty, my lady.”

 

“Well, then,
let me say that a number of gentlemen vied for my hand in marriage, including
Albright and Roger—Colin’s father. Eventually I bowed to the wishes of my
parents and chose Albright as my betrothed.”

 

Portia was so taken aback, she
sank down onto the nearest chair. “You were to
marry
him?”

 

“Yes, I
agreed to the match even though I couldn’t bring myself to return his
professions of love.”

 

Lady Ratcliffe gazed out the window, the filtered light
illuminating an expression of tragic sorrow on her fine features. Portia found
herself wondering if the woman had deliberately assumed a pose designed to
elicit sympathy. Then she instantly felt guilty for being uncharitable when she
hadn’t yet heard the entire tale.

 

“But . . . you didn’t wed him. What
happened?”

 

“Though my heart was aching, I went through with all the
preparations. It wasn’t until the very day of the wedding, as I was being garbed
in my bridal raiment, that I realized the terrible mistake I was making. It was
Roger I loved, not Albright. Yet even then I convinced myself that it was too
late, that I must go through with the ceremony, or cause terrible dishonor to my
family.”

 

“And to the duke,” Portia added.

 

“Oh, please be assured his
happiness weighed heavily on my mind, as well. And truly, I was firm in my
resolve
as I reached St. George’s Church. I was
prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice. I even walked down the aisle on the arm
of my father. But then”—she smiled wistfully into the distance—“then as I stood
waiting for the nuptials to begin, Roger appeared at the back of the church. Oh,
he was such a fine-looking buck and so very bold. He came marching down the
aisle, swept me off my feet, and carried me away to Gretna Green.”