Seducing the Heiress (29 page)

 

He bent in a respectful bow, and she
fancied she could hear his bones creak. “May I be of assistance, miss?”

 

“Yes,
thank you.” Turning to shut the window, she decided to seize this excellent
opportunity to ask questions. “I was wondering about Bane, the boy who came with
me. Is he still in the kitchen?”

 

“He ate a hearty meal and then went out to
the stable yard.” A twinkle in his rheumy blue eyes, Thurgood added, “The little
tyke didn’t trust our groom. He insisted upon seeing for himself that the
master’s horses were brushed and well fed.”

 

Portia smiled at the news. “Bane
has taken his duties
to heart, it would seem.
Thurgood, would you mind giving me a tour of the rooms downstairs?”

 

He placed
a white-gloved hand over his lapel. “I am completely at your disposal, Miss
Crompton. His lordship was most specific on the matter.”

 

How odd that the
butler didn’t question her presence here without a chaperone. What exactly had
Ratcliffe told him? Perhaps Thurgood was so dedicated to his master that it had
never occurred to him to doubt Ratcliffe’s judgment in bringing an unmarried
lady to the estate.

 

She pursed her lips. Maybe he brought his mistresses here
all the time. Was that how the servants saw her, as just another
light-skirt?

 

Curse him, that had better not be the case!

 

As they descended
the stairs, she moderated her pace in order to accommodate his slow progress.
“Have you served the family for a long time?”

 

“Going on seventy years. Under
the present viscount’s grandfather, I started out as a spit boy in the
kitchen.”

 

“A what?”

 

“It was my task to turn the haunch of meat over the
hearth. From there, I advanced to footman and thence to my present
position.”

 

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Portia searched for a
tactful way to broach the subject that had nagged at her since first meeting
Ratcliffe. “I understand his lordship’s father died three years ago in a
terrible accident. Did it happen here?”

 

Thurgood nodded mournfully. “Indeed
so.”

 

“I don’t wish to be intrusive, but it would be helpful for me to
understand all the particulars. Were you present at the time?”

 

“Yes, it was
very late in the evening, so I and the rest of the household staff had already
retired. A footman
slept in the kitchen in case one of
the family rang for service during the night. He awakened me, and when I went
upstairs . . . his lordship was lying on the floor of the library in a pool of
blood . . . with Lady Ratcliffe weeping at his side. He had been shot.” Tears
pooled in the old man’s eyes and a decided slump dragged down his shoulders.
“Master Colin . . . or rather, the present Lord Ratcliffe, bade me send for a
doctor at once. Alas, by the time help arrived, it was too late.”

 

Horrified
both at the account and her own stirring up of memories, Portia murmured, “Pray
forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

 

“It’s quite all right.” Thurgood
pulled a large handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “As his
lordship’s betrothed, it is only proper that you would have questions.”

 

His
betrothed?

 

Portia’s spine stiffened. So
that
was the Banbury tale
Ratcliffe had told his servants. It made her situation only marginally more
respectable. And if his entire staff was as faithful as Thurgood, they would not
question her presence here. Yet that wasn’t sufficient reason to excuse
Ratcliffe’s deception.

 

She steeled herself to probe deeper. “The courts
proved that the present Lord Ratcliffe’s pistol went off by accident. However,
rumors in society persist that he murdered his father. They say he did it
because he is a gambler and he wanted to gain his inheritance.”

 

Thurgood
reared back as if slapped. “Vile gossips, all of them. Please, Miss Crompton,
you must not heed those who have no knowledge of what really happened. The poor
lad was in a terrible state of agitation that night. Never in my life have I
seen him so distraught.”

 

The butler’s certainty gave her pause. He was
utterly convinced of Ratcliffe’s innocence in the matter, and not
simply out of blind loyalty, she judged. For herself, she
shuddered at the thought of Ratcliffe’s shock and horror that night. Any man who
went out of his way to help servants as he did would never deliberately shoot
his own father in cold blood. How he must blame himself, though! It was little
wonder he became snappish whenever anyone mentioned the incident.

 

“That is
precisely the way I thought things had happened,” she assured Thurgood. “I
appreciate your eyewitness account. It makes me all the more determined to
correct those who would vilify him.”

 

The affirmation wove a sort of
friendship between them, and as the old butler took her on a tour of the house,
he regaled her with stories of times past. He told her tales of Ratcliffe’s many
escapades as a boy that soon had her laughing. Apparently Ratcliffe had had a
penchant for sliding down the banister and had done so once during a ball,
knocking a portly earl completely off his feet. On another occasion, he had
tossed acorns out of the nursery window during a garden party. The poor guests
had been baffled since the nearest oak trees were some distance away. It had
been Thurgood who’d realized the truth while serving and had gone upstairs to
administer a sound paddling.

 

The tour ended on the ground floor, when
Thurgood escorted her to an enormous conservatory. He indicated a wrought-iron
table by a bench inside a stone grotto. “Perhaps you would like for me to bring
tea to you here.”

 

“Yes, thank you, that would be wonderful.”

 

Transfixed,
she stood in the doorway, scarcely noticing his departure. Sunlight poured
through the glass walls and bathed an array of exotic flora. Palm trees brushed
the glass ceiling that towered two stories high. Lush vegetation gave the air an
earthy aroma, and orchid plants
nestled in the crooks
of tree branches here and there, spilling their colorful flowers.

 

She stroked
the large purple petals of one bloom, leaning closer to inhale its faint scent.
At last the mystery had been solved as to where Ratcliffe had procured that stem
of orchids on the night when he’d invaded her bedchamber. He must have sent a
messenger here to fetch it. How remarkable that he had gone to such trouble to
please her.

 

Following a winding stone pathway, she wandered through the
conservatory. The place was fertile and green, the air deliciously warm,
bringing back memories of the jungles of her youth. She half expected a tiger to
come bursting out of the undergrowth.

 

The click of a door opening snapped her
attention to the glass wall straight ahead. Ratcliffe rounded a stand of thick
shrubbery. His purposeful strides came to a halt as their gazes met. Her heart
thumped wildly against her rib cage. For one long moment, they stared at each
other like a predator encountering prey. Then he prowled toward her.

 

He had
discarded his pirate’s garb in favor of tan breeches and work boots. His white
shirt lay open at the throat, and he wore no coat or cravat. Several strands of
black hair dipped low on his forehead. Portia ached to brush them back, to run
her fingers into their thick softness.

 

Worse, she wanted to kiss him—and
more.

 

The powerful force of his attraction made her quiver. For
self-preservation, she buried the reaction beneath a cool demeanor. “I’ve been
hoping to speak to you, my lord. I’d presumed you were asleep.”

 

“There’s
always too much to be done here.” He made a vague gesture toward the outside,
then braced his hand
on the thick trunk of a palm
tree. The action stretched his shirt over the contours of his muscles. “You
wished to tell me something?”

 

Blinking, she pulled her gaze from his chest
and found him studying her intently. What must he be thinking, now that his plot
to force her into marriage had been thwarted? Did he regret abducting her in the
hopes of securing her dowry? His manner was curiously aloof, as if she were an
uninvited guest. And if he intended to seduce her, he certainly didn’t seem
inclined to haul her into the bushes right here and now.

 

To her shame, Portia
craved for him to do just that. She drew a shuddery breath. “It’s about my
family,” she said. “They must be very distressed. I’d like to notify them that I
haven’t been murdered by brigands.”

 

“I’ve already sent a message to your
father. He should have received it by post this morning.”

 

“I see.” Perversely
irked at the way Ratcliffe had seized control of her life, she took a step
toward him. “You’ve had the decency to name yourself as my abductor, I
hope.”

 

“Of course. There was little point in hiding my identity when your
father would have guessed it, anyway. Because something tells me your sister
Lindsey will confess to our meetings.”

 

“The Duke of Albright will guess, as
well. And if he’s as resolute in his hatred as you say, then he should be
arriving here very soon to rescue me.”

 

Not that she wanted him to do so,
Portia added to herself. In truth, the thought of Albright riding up the drive
made her stomach clench. How horrible of him to abandon Hannah and their child.
And then to threaten to kill the poor woman! If Portia never saw him again, it
would be too soon.

 

“Your parents aren’t likely to have informed Albright of
your disappearance,” Ratcliffe said with a decisive
shake of his head. “Remember, they don’t know how badly
he wants to thwart me. So they will have told him yesterday evening that you
fell ill, for fear he would spurn you for being ruined.”

 

Crossing her arms,
Portia paced the stone pathway. Ratcliffe was right, of course. Mama would have
perjured herself in a court of law in order to preserve the alliance with the
duke. “Then my father will surely come. And he’ll bring a band of armed men to
arrest you.”

 

Ratcliffe didn’t look alarmed in the least. “He’s far more
likely to set forth on the Great North Road. You see, in my letter I led him to
believe we’d eloped to Gretna Green.”

 

He’d certainly thought of everything.
She had heard tales of couples running off to the closest village over the
border because their families had opposed their union. Unlike England, where the
law required banns to be read in church for three weeks ahead of the wedding, in
Scotland there were no restrictions to prevent a man and woman from being wed
immediately. Ratcliffe’s own parents had gone there after Lady Ratcliffe had
left Albright standing at the altar.

 

As much as Portia disliked the notion of
her father being sent on a wild-goose chase, it was a relief not to have to
worry about rescuers bursting in on them at any moment. Her fate was sealed, it
would seem. Unless she returned to London posthaste, she would be a pariah in
the eyes of society. Her absence could be concealed only for a short time. The
servants would whisper to their counterparts in other households, and in turn,
they would relay the news to their employers. Already the reports of her
disappearance might be spreading like wildfire.

 

Portia searched herself for
regrets. Ratcliffe had set her free from society’s constraints, albeit
inadvertently. And yet . . . did she truly wish to leave England and her
family? Could she face the very real possibility of never
seeing them again? Of never again seeing Ratcliffe, either?

 

That last thought
shook her more than it ought. How ludicrous, when he had orchestrated her
ruination!

 

Thurgood arrived with the tea tray, placing it on the iron table
inside the shallow stone grotto. On impulse, she asked Ratcliffe, “Will you join
me?”

 

He hesitated, eyeing her guardedly before nodding. “It would be my
pleasure.”

 

They sat side by side on the stone bench. A fountain burbled
musically in the background, the water flowing from a vase held by a boy carved
in white marble. Portia made a conscious decision to set aside her uncertain
future for the moment. Why not enjoy the day and forget about tomorrow?

 

While
waiting for Thurgood to return with another teacup, she asked, “Where did all
these plants come from? Does Lady Ratcliffe enjoy gardening?”

 

“My mother?”
Ratcliffe threw back his head and laughed. “Her idea of gardening is to arrange
cut roses in a vase. No, my grandfather imported the palm trees from Egypt some
fifty years ago. The rest of this wilderness is my doing, I’m afraid. I
collected most of these specimens on my journeys to Africa and
India.”

 

Nothing could have startled Portia more. “You?”

 

“It was rather an
adventure, one might say.” A self-deprecating smile quirked his lips. “I hired
guides to take me into the jungles and forests. We gathered cuttings and
uprooted plants, then I arranged for their shipment to England. Quite a few
didn’t survive the transport, but the hardiest of the lot are what you see
here.”

 

Armed with that startling information, she looked out over the lush
green foliage, seeing it all with new eyes. She had assumed his stop in India
had been filled with
all manner of illicit activities,
loose women, gambling, drunkenness. “But . . . why? I mean, it’s very beautiful,
but I never imagined—”

 

“That I would have the slightest interest in
cultivation?” Looking noticeably uncomfortable, he leaned forward and clasped
his hands together, resting his forearms on his knees. “You shouldn’t think much
of it, really. It’s nothing more than a hobby. Some travelers purchase cheap
souvenirs that end up in an attic, collecting dust. I thought it might be more
useful to gather plants.”