Seducing the Heiress (26 page)

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Pray don’t regard me as
one of the profligates who have tagged at your heels. My affection is solely for
you, my dear, and not for any monetary gain. That is why, as a token of my
sincerity, I am prepared to refuse your dowry in its entirety.”

 

His
declaration stunned her. Surely this proved Ratcliffe was wrong about the duke.
Albright wasn’t a cunning schemer, for only a man of high principles would turn
down such a vast sum of money.

 

Ratcliffe himself would never do such a noble
act. He had made it plain from the start that he had courted her only because of
her wealth. He had proven himself a cad time and time again.

 

Burying the
bitter thought, Portia looked at the duke with new eyes. The warmth in his gaze
revealed a true fondness for her, and the realization was a balm to her battered
spirits. Despite the difference in their ages, the duke reminded her of Arun in
many ways. Both men were chivalrous, kind, and steady in character.

 

Perhaps
it was time for her to behave in a mature and responsible manner. To leave her
childish dreams of romance behind. All of her plans for the future had shifted
irrevocably. She had no reason to return to India anymore. And if she were to
remain in England, why not wed Albright? He was a pleasant companion, a man who
made her feel safe and protected. The marriage would thrill her parents, who
wanted her to achieve the pinnacle of society. And there would be no mad
emotional upheaval as she’d experienced with Ratcliffe.

 

Oh, Ratcliffe
. . . but no, she mustn’t think of
him ever again. His interest in her had been based on selfish financial gain. He
was a part of her past, not her future.

 

Taking a deep breath, she spoke the
words that would seal her destiny. “I’m honored, Your Grace. And I’m very happy
to accept you.”

 

 

Three days later, Portia strolled through the family
ballroom on her father’s arm, her mother at his other side. The scene before her
was rather curious, for the occasion was their masquerade ball. Instead of the
usual fashionable garb, the ton had turned out in costumes of all sorts, from
knights and friars to queens and milkmaids. There had been no receiving line,
nor any names announced, since that would have defeated the purpose of trying to
guess who was who.

 

“A most absurd business,” Mr. Crompton muttered, tugging
at the sword that kept getting twisted in the striped pantaloons of his medieval
king’s attire. He had drawn the line at wearing a mask, and his face reflected
exasperation. “How the devil are we to know who’s who?”

 

“Hush,” Mrs. Crompton
hissed. Dressed as Marie Antoinette in a towering white wig and panniered gold
gown, she wore a black-and-white domino that covered the top half of her face.
“And do smile at our guests, George. This should be the happiest of occasions,
the finest hour of our lives.”

 

Agitation stirred in the pit of Portia’s
stomach, but she attributed it to nerves. Tonight, the Duke of Albright would
formally announce their betrothal. At his request, she had dressed as the Roman
goddess Diana, so that he might easily recognize her in the
crowd.

 

Accordingly, the soft white folds of a toga left one of her shoulders
bare, and a filigreed gold diadem glinted in her upswept chestnut curls. She
peered through the
eyeholes of a demimask. Against her
back rested a leather quiver of arrows, though she’d opted against carrying a
longbow, which would have proven awkward while dancing.

 

She was determined to
make the duke proud—and to overcome the lethargy that had plagued her of late.
In six weeks’ time, she would be a duchess, for Albright wanted their wedding to
be a big splash at the end of the Season. The newly exalted position would give
her the power to help her family and to ensure good marriages for her sisters.
Gossips like Mrs. Beardsley would never again dare to question the Crompton
family’s status at the peak of society.

 

And once she embarked upon her new
life, certain memories would be vanquished forever. She wouldn’t think of
Ratcliffe at odd moments, like now, when she caught herself searching for his
tall form among all the gypsies and princes and military officers. Although he
hadn’t been invited, such a trifling obstacle would mean nothing to a rogue like
him.

 

She acknowledged her disappointment when she didn’t spy him anywhere in
the swirling throng of guests. Although they often had struck sparks off one
another, there had also been laughter and witticisms and a peculiar sort of
kinship between them.

 

But he had made no attempt to see her since that day at
the docks. In retrospect, it seemed highly unusual that he hadn’t taken
advantage of her grief in an effort to press his own suit. Instead, he had held
her close while she’d dampened his coat with her tears . . .

 

“Diana the
Huntress?”

 

A Roman senator stood before her, a circlet of laurel leaves
adorning his silvered dark hair. Despite his half-mask, she recognized his proud
demeanor at once.

 

“Your Grace.” Portia dipped a curtsy. She thanked the
heavens for the domino that helped to conceal her blush.
How awful if he were to guess she had been thinking about Ratcliffe.

 

The duke
exchanged courtesies with her parents, and then requested her permission for the
first dance, which she had no choice but to grant. “Come, my dear,” he said,
offering his arm. “Let all those present envy me for dancing with the loveliest
goddess in the room.”

 

The effusive compliment made her smile, renewing her
determination to enjoy the evening. By prior agreement between the duke and her
parents, the announcement would not be made until everyone was seated for the
midnight supper. With resolute gaiety, Portia joined the line of dancers
assembling on the floor. Albright was an excellent dancer, and she soon found
herself taking pleasure in the familiar steps and the lilting music of the
orchestra.

 

Throughout the evening, a number of swains approached to secure
her company for upcoming sets. It wasn’t terribly difficult to discern their
identities. She recognized the Honorable Henry Hockenhull as a court jester, his
auburn hair covered by a drooping harlequin’s hat. Lord Wrayford was an Egyptian
pharaoh complete with gold paper crown that nearly tumbled off every time he
tilted his head down to ogle her bosom. The gangly Marquess of Dunn made an
incongruous Robin Hood, complete with doublet and green tights.

 

Several of
her partners made oblique comments on Albright’s preference for her company.
Apparently, word of their betrothal was an open secret in the ton, though
whether people were merely guessing or whether the duke had dropped a discreet
word in the ears of the right gossips, Portia didn’t know. She deftly deflected
all attempts to fish for the truth, but the process grew increasingly
wearisome.

 

After bandying words with yet another
purse-poor second son—or was he a third?—she escaped upstairs to her bedchamber
for a moment of quiet. She removed her domino and rubbed the bridge of her nose,
where the half-mask had left red marks. Sinking onto the edge of a chair, she
rested her aching feet on the tigerskin rug. It brought a poignant reminder of
the time when Ratcliffe had sat right here, his long lean fingers stroking the
tiger’s head. He had climbed up the trellis to bring her that stem of orchids.
How charming he had been, how very witty and handsome.

 

Portia released a long
sigh. It was useless to think about him anymore. Clearly, he had given up on
her. She must focus her mind on the duke and their upcoming nuptials.

 

The
ormolu clock on the mantelpiece ticked a steady reminder of her impending duty.
It was half an hour before midnight, nearly time for the supper dance and the
big announcement that would set the course for the rest of her life. A part of
her dreaded standing before the crowds of nobility, accepting their good wishes,
pretending to be happy when all she really wanted was to be left alone.

 

With
a sigh, Portia forced herself up from the chair. There was no point in donning
her domino again since everyone would soon know her identity. Abandoning the
quiver of arrows, too, she tidied her hair in front of a mirror and then trudged
out of the bedchamber, only to stop in surprise.

 

In the dimly lit corridor, a
masked man stood waiting for her.

 

Her heart leaped with instant recognition.
Ratcliffe.
No other gentleman of her acquaintance had that tall, cocky
stance. Nor had any other guest garbed himself as a pirate. A billowy white
shirt covered his broad chest
and a red scarf was tied
at his throat. Black knee-high boots and tight buckskin breeches defined his
long, muscular legs.

 

Removing his mask, Ratcliffe tucked it into his
waistband. His face wore the brash smile that never failed to stir heat in her
depths.

 

It was working spectacularly at the moment.

 

“You!” she snapped, in
an effort to deny his effect on her. “What are you doing up on this floor? You
weren’t even invited to the ball.”

 

He ignored her words as his avid gaze made
a slow survey of her from head to toe. “My God, Portia, I’d nearly forgotten how
beautiful you are.”

 

His deep husky voice awakened all of her senses. She
drank in the vivid details of his face, the green of his eyes, and the strong
angles of his jaw and cheekbones. “Why are you here?” she repeated.

 

“I had to
see you.” His face intent, he strolled toward her. “Where can we talk in
private?”

 

“Nowhere. Now please leave here at once, or I’ll have one of the
footmen toss you out on your ear.”

 

“I’m asking for a few minutes of your
time, that’s all.” She braced herself for his attempt to manhandle her back into
her bedchamber. Heaven help her if he tried to kiss her again. Perhaps he would
press her down onto the bed and lift her skirts. The very thought sparked an
onrush of molten desire.

 

But oddly, Ratcliffe didn’t take advantage of her
nearby bedroom. He slipped his arm through hers and tugged her down the corridor
in the opposite direction from the grand staircase. She glanced over her
shoulder at the emptiness of the passageway. With every step, the lilt of music
and the buzz of voices seemed fainter.

 

She tried in vain to shake off his
hold. “This is absurd. I must return to the ball at once.”

 

“So you can be there when Albright announces your
betrothal?” His lips thinned, Ratcliffe shook his head in disgust. “I want to
know why you’ve agreed to marry him despite my warnings. You owe me an
explanation.”

 

“I owe you nothing! What gives you the right to come into my
home uninvited and make such demands on me?”

 

“This does.”

 

He pulled her
close, took her head in his hands, and kissed her. Too transfixed to resist,
Portia could only stand there with her hands on his chest while his mouth
plundered hers. Awareness of him poured like heated honey through her body,
bathing her in the sweet joy of desire. It made her feel vibrantly alive for the
first time in weeks.

 

Succumbing to temptation, she moved her palms over his
thin shirt, reveling in the feel of his hard muscles. He groaned in response and
cupped her bottom, lifting her to his loins. For one radiant moment, the
scantiness of their costumes revealed the distinct shape of his male anatomy,
and she moved her hips in instinctive curiosity. With a muffled curse, he broke
off the embrace and held her at arm’s length.

 

The heaviness of his breathing
disturbed the quiet air. “Tell me,” he muttered, “do you respond so passionately
to Albright?”

 

Crashing back to earth, she wanted to lash out at Ratcliffe for
causing the wild emotional disruption that good sense warned her to avoid. “Cad!
What matters to me in a husband are kindness, chivalry, and respectfulness. You
lack all of those qualities.”

 

Ratcliffe growled in exasperation. Then he took
a deep breath and smoothed back her hair with a gentle hand. “Portia, please
listen to me. You must see the truth. He’s marrying you because he knows how
much
I
want you.”

 

“You?” she scoffed. “I haven’t even seen you for the
past few weeks. So why would he think you were still
pursuing me?”

 

“Believe me, he knows.”

 

She remembered the darkness of
hatred on the duke’s face whenever he encountered Ratcliffe. Yet wasn’t that
understandable given the way Ratcliffe’s mother had abandoned him at the altar?
“I don’t doubt the duke despises you and your family. He certainly has every
reason to do so. But I’ve seen no evidence of him taking action against
you—other than these unfounded suspicions of yours.”

 

Ratcliffe eyed her
measuringly. “Then I’ll tell you the proof. But not here, where someone might
happen upon us.”

 

Taking hold of her upper arm, he accompanied her down a
little-used back staircase. He seemed to know his way around her house with
unerring instinct. Intrigued, she had only a moment to wonder at his familiarity
as they walked down a darkened corridor and through a door that led
outside.

 

There, he grasped her hand and drew her deep into the shadows of the
garden. The sound of a waltz drifted from the open windows of the ballroom.
Decorative lanterns hung from some of the trees, and a few costumed couples
strolled the lighted pathways. Avoiding exposure, Ratcliffe made straight for
the stone wall at the rear of the property.

 

Instinct made Portia wary. She
ought to speak up, to dig in her heels and insist upon returning to the ball.
Yet the feel of their intertwined fingers, the strength of his presence, filled
her with an irresistible excitement. She had a few minutes’ reprieve before the
supper dance would begin. What harm could come from listening to whatever he had
to say?