Seducing the Heiress (24 page)

 

He meant every word, Portia realized in dismay. His
implacable features showed no willingness to negotiate. The moment she went
inside, he intended to follow her to Mr. Brindley’s office. Ratcliffe was bound
to find out the truth, so she might as well tell him now rather than risk a
quarrel in front of the shipping agent.

 

“You leave me little choice, then,”
she said stiffly. “But first I’ll have your promise that you won’t interfere in
any way.”

 

Those green eyes studied her consideringly. “With one exception. If
you’re planning to purchase a ticket back to India, I will not let you do
it.”

 

Was
that
what he thought? And what gave him the right to dictate
how she lived her life, anyway? “You mistake my purpose. I’m merely checking to
see if any letters have arrived from India.”

 

She
reached for the door handle, but Ratcliffe put out his arm to block her.
“Letters. You mean from your beloved Arun. I’d wondered how you were managing to
correspond with him.”

 

Portia resented the disapproval in his tone. She raised
her chin and coolly met his gaze. His nearness stirred erotic memories that she
fought to control. “Yes. He
is
my beloved. He’s good and honorable in
ways you could never understand.”

 

“Tell me this: If he’s so gallant, why
hasn’t he come to England? Why has he made no attempt to reunite the two of
you?”

 

The question startled her. “Because . . . he can’t. The maharajah—his
father—has forbidden Arun to marry me. Just as my parents have done to
me.”

 

Ratcliffe moved so swiftly, she had no time to react. He trapped her
against the hard brick of the building, his arms like prison bars on either side
of her. The intoxicating scent of him threatened to make her swoon.

 

He bent
his head close so that his warm breath fanned her face. “Let me tell you very
plainly, Portia—if you and I were separated by an ocean, I’d move heaven and
earth to be with you again. I wouldn’t let the devil himself stop me from
claiming you as mine. And I’d kill any man who dared to touch you.”

 

On that
thrilling declaration, he kissed her. The pressure of his mouth was hard and
forceful, a feast to her starved senses, and she craved every morsel of it. All
the reasons he was wrong for her faded to nothing, for Ratcliffe tasted too
delicious to resist. The feel of his hard body consumed her with passion. With a
moan, she succumbed to the temptation to wind her arms around him and return his
kiss. It seemed impossible that something so wonderful could be a sin,
impossible for their closeness to be anything short of perfection.

 

All too soon, he drew back. She opened her eyes to see
him breathing hard, his gaze intent on her. He tenderly ran his thumb over her
lips. “Stubborn little minx. I’m the right man for you, not Arun. Give me half a
chance and I’ll prove it to you.”

 

A tempest of emotions swirled inside her.
Ratcliffe had done it again. He had used his charm to bedazzle her, and she had
fallen for his ploy. Worse, the gossamer chains of his spell still held her
captive. She loved the pressure of his body against hers, the way his touch
caused a melting warmth in her depths.

 

She struggled to understand the
powerful desire he could stir in her with one caress, one look, one kiss. It
mattered little to her that they were standing outside where passersby might see
them. Her inexplicable infatuation with him could have no basis in trust and
friendship, yet its influence over her seemed boundless.

 

Baffled and
frustrated, she gave Ratcliffe a shove. “I despise you,” she said fiercely.
“Please, just stay away from me.”

 

He backed off, letting her grasp the handle
and swing open the door. Fueled by the need to escape from him, she went
marching down the dimly lit corridor. On either side lay rooms where clerks
labored over small wooden desks, recording the inventories of ships’
cargoes.

 

Ratcliffe’s heavy footsteps sounded right behind her, but Portia
decided to pretend he wasn’t there. She would regard him as nothing more than a
pesky fly. In a few moments, she’d return to the hackney cab and hopefully never
see the scoundrel again.

 

She rapped on a closed door at the rear of the
building. A moment later, a short man swung open the wooden panel. With his
luxurious moustache, abundant brown hair, and dark beady eyes, he brought to
mind a bushy squirrel.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Brindley.
I hope you can spare a moment of your time.”

 

He peered over the gold-rimmed
spectacles that rested on the tip of his nose. “Miss Crompton? Oh, fiddle, this
is a surprise, indeed.” Snatching his nut-brown coat from a hook on the wall, he
threw it on, all the while staring curiously over her shoulder at her
companion.

 

“This is Ratcliffe,” she ground out, purposely leaving off his
title to keep the introductions as short as possible. “Ratcliffe, Mr.
Brindley.”

 

“I’m her fiancé,” Ratcliffe added.

 

Portia’s jaw dropped at the
blatant lie. Then she clamped her teeth shut to hold back a furious denial. If
she protested the statement, it would only raise questions in Mr. Brindley’s
mind as to why she was out unchaperoned with a man who was unrelated to her. Mr.
Brindley might then refuse to collect her mail on the grounds that she was an
unchaste woman.

 

The shipping agent gave Ratcliffe’s proffered hand a hearty
shake. “A pleasure, sir, truly a pleasure. I’m afraid my office is in a bit of a
whirl today, what with all the ships that have arrived this week. Will you sit
down?” He indicated two straight-backed chairs in front of his paper-strewn
desk.

 

“Gladly,” Ratcliffe said.

 

He put his hand on Portia’s elbow as if to
guide her to a chair, but she impatiently stepped away while keeping her gaze on
the agent. “I’m sorry, we can’t stay more than a moment. I wondered if you might
have collected any mail for me.”

 

“Mail. Hmm.” Mr. Brindley went to a wall of
cubbyholes. Adjusting his spectacles, he bent down to read the names inscribed
on each compartment. Many of the boxes were stuffed with letters. He stopped
before an
empty one, stuck his hand inside it and felt
around, then straightened up to face her. “I’m afraid there’s
nothing.”

 

“Nothing at all?” Distressed, Portia glanced at the blizzard of
papers on his desk. “Are you quite certain? Perhaps my letters haven’t yet been
filed.”

 

Mr. Brindley shook his head emphatically. “Oh, no, miss, I have
strict methods when dealing with the post, indeed I do. The very moment it
arrives, I file it away in its proper place.” An arrested look crossed his
squirrelly features. “Er, wasn’t it India that you receive your letters from?
Bombay to be precise?”

 

“Yes. Are you expecting a ship anytime soon?”

 

Mr.
Brindley frowned in reply, then turned to Ratcliffe. “If I may have a word with
you in private, sir?”

 

“Certainly. We can talk in the corridor.”

 

Portia
watched in disbelief as the two men walked past her. As if she didn’t
exist.

 

She rushed into the doorway to block their exit. Incensed that Mr.
Brindley would defer to Ratcliffe over her, she snapped, “Excuse me. If there is
anything to be said, you will say it directly to me.”

 

Mr. Brindley shifted
uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He slid a glance at Ratcliffe, who
gave him a crisp nod. “Go ahead,” Ratcliffe said. “Else my darling betrothed
will pester you into giving up all your secrets.”

 

“Er, hmm. Yes, well, it is
just that . . . I’ve heard reports from several ship captains about certain
troubles in Bombay.”

 

“Troubles?” Pricked by foreboding, Portia took a step
closer to him. “What do you mean?”

 

The agent gave her a grim, apologetic
look. “Pray forgive me for being the bearer of bad tidings, miss. But I’m afraid
there’s been a cholera epidemic. It’s wiped out more than half the population of
the city.”

 

 

 

Water drenched Colin as he kept Bane confined in the tin
bathtub by the hearth in the kitchen. The little fiend howled and thrashed and
squirmed. Hannah was as wet as Colin. Kneeling on the other side of the tub, she
attempted to scrub away the accumulated grime, lathering her hands with soap and
rubbing his skinny limbs.

 

“Ow! ’Elp, somebody! Oi’m dyin’!”

 

“Stop the
melodrama,” Colin growled, turning his head to the side to avoid another splash
of dirty bathwater. “If you’re to live in my house, you’ll follow my rules of
cleanliness.”

 

It had taken considerable persuasion to convince Bane to
accompany Colin home. The boy had seen little reason in his sorry life to trust
adults. But in the end, the promise of a hot meat pie every day and a warm
corner in which to sleep had won him over. Now, however, he appeared to have
changed his mind.

 

Colin held on to Bane in grim determination. As irksome as
the task was, he welcomed the distraction. It kept him from brooding about that
scene with Portia.

 

For as long as he lived, he would never forget the
paleness of her face, the disbelief, then her horror over Arun’s likely fate.
She had been frozen, unable to move until Colin had slipped an arm around her
and escorted her outside. Only then had tears spilled unchecked down her cheeks.
He’d held her close, dabbed her face with his handkerchief, while murmuring any
nonsense that might make her feel better.

 

“You can’t know for certain that
he’s gone,” he’d said. “Perhaps he survived.”

 

“He must be dead,” she’d
whispered. “That explains why I haven’t received a letter from him in nearly two
months. It all makes sense now.”

 

“Maybe he
was only taken ill. He might need time to recover.”

 

His words of
succor failed to penetrate the vastness of her grief. She seemed almost unaware
of his presence until he helped her into the hackney cab. Then she turned those
shimmery blue eyes on him and asked, “Now will you give me back his
miniature?”

 

Her mournful request made him feel lower than a worm.
Under the circumstances, his deceit seemed more cruel than clever. “You have it
in your possession already,” he’d admitted gruffly. “It’s right beneath the
painting of me. I never removed it from the frame.”

 

Soap suds splashed
his face, yanking Colin back to the present. He blinked away the stinging
bubbles to see Hannah doing her valiant best to wash the boy’s hair. “Ungrateful
pipsqueak,” she chided. “I should take a brush to your backside.”

 

She dunked
his head under the water to rinse off the soap. Upon surfacing, Bane spluttered
and coughed. “Argh. ’Tis nasty!”

 

In spite of his dark mood, Colin grinned.
Bane looked like a drowned rat. A very scrawny rat. “Keep your mouth shut next
time, and you won’t swallow water.”

 

“Won’t be no next time. Ow!” He tried to
shy away as Hannah set to work scouring his grimy face. “Ow, me eyes!”

 

“Close
them,” Hannah said tartly. “Or do I need to wash out your brain, as
well?”

 

“What on earth is going on in here?”

 

The sound of his mother’s
voice caught Colin’s attention. He looked up to see her standing in the doorway.
Wearing a copper gown with a matching pelisse, a stylish bonnet framing her
face, she radiated an elegance at odds with the disorder in the kitchen.

 

Orson Tudge hovered behind her. He lifted his massive
shoulders as if to say he’d tried his best to show her to the drawing
room.

 

Colin firmed his jaw. He knew full well how difficult it could be to
make his mother behave. She also had a knack for visiting at the most
inconvenient times.

 

He rose to his feet, grabbing a linen towel to blot his
damp clothing. His shirt was plastered to him and his breeches looked as if he’d
had an accident on the way to the privy. “Hello, Mother. If you’d warned me you
were coming, I’d have been dressed properly.”

 

She scarcely glanced at him.
Her sharp eyes raked the scene in front of the hearth, Bane in the tub and
Hannah kneeling beside him, gripping his thin shoulders to keep him from
bolting.

 

Lady Ratcliffe raised a haughty eyebrow. “Who is that boy?”

 

“My
new tiger.” He could tell she wanted to lecture him on his poor choice of
servants, so he signaled his valet into the room and then bent down to address
Bane. “This is Mr. Tudge. I’d advise you to obey him because he used to be a
pirate.”

 

Bane ceased thrashing at once. Water dripping from his tangled hair,
he gazed up wide-eyed at Tudge. “A—a pirate?”

 

“Aye, matey,” Tudge said,
settling down to take Colin’s place alongside the tub. “If’n ye don’t settle
down, I’ll skewer ye wid me cutlass.”