Seducing the Heiress (3 page)

 

He arched an eyebrow.
“You always knew how to spoil a party, Albright. I’ll see myself to the
door.”

 

After bowing to the ladies, the viscount walked away, as casually as
if he were going for a stroll in the park. Portia stood frozen, stunned that he
had made no attempt to deny the duke’s outrageous statement.

 

A
murderer?

 

It couldn’t possibly be true.

 

Edith Crompton looped her arm
through Portia’s, her manner sweetly conciliatory. “Pray forgive my daughter,
Your Grace. She had no notion of the man’s scandalous reputation.”

 

Albright
gave a crisp nod. “She wouldn’t be the first to be taken in by that scoundrel.
He’s a notorious philanderer.” He addressed Portia directly. “As your host, I
must apologize for Ratcliffe’s intrusion here. I would advise that in the future
you stay far away from him.”

 

“I’ll make certain she does,” Mrs. Crompton said
swiftly. “May I add, we are most grateful for your intervention. Aren’t we, my
dear?”

 

Her mother applied subtle pressure to her arm, but Portia needed no
prompting to speak. She craved answers to her burning questions. “If Lord
Ratcliffe is guilty of murder, why is he not in prison?”

 

“The coward convinced the courts it was an accident—even
though he had a powerful motive.”

 

“Who did he kill?”

 

“Shush, darling, we
mustn’t upset His Grace any further—”

 

The duke silenced Mrs. Crompton with a
wave of his beringed fingers. “It’s quite all right. It would benefit her to
know.” He regarded Portia, his elegant features grave and unforgiving.
“Ratcliffe had ruinous gaming debts. And to gain his inheritance, he shot his
own father.”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

Colin
stood near the rear of the lending library. From his position behind a
bookshelf, he had a clear view of the door. The place reeked of ink and leather
bindings and perfume. Ladies strolled here and there, browsing the shelves,
murmuring to one another or signing out their choices at the front desk. He
plucked out a volume at random and opened it while furtively monitoring the
arrival and departure of the patrons.

 

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t
be caught dead in a lending library. It was the domain of ladies—and the few
gentlemen prissy enough to accompany them. But Miss Portia Crompton had a habit
of coming here every other afternoon. And he had been reduced to spying on her
from a distance as she went about her daily activities.

 

In the fortnight
since they had met, he had been frustrated in his every effort to court her
again. He had gone to her house several times, only to be turned away by a
stone-faced butler. He had finagled his way into several more social gatherings,
but always her mastiff of a mother was lurking nearby, along with the usual
horde of suitors. On the few occasions when he had managed to approach Portia,
she had frozen him with a glance and walked away.

 

Obviously, she believed all the nasty tales about him that
the ton delighted in circulating. By his own design, she and everyone else had
no way of distinguishing truth from falsehood. Damn it, he needed the chance to
charm her—and her money—into marriage.

 

“Rat? I say, is that you?”

 

Colin
bit back a curse. Beside him stood a man in a putrid yellow waistcoat,
olive-green coat, and dirt-brown knee breeches. His sandy hair showed signs of
receding and his body was stouter than when they had attended Eton more than a
decade ago. They had been fast friends back then, comrades in tomfoolery. But
damned if he hadn’t chosen an inconvenient time to pop up again.

 

“Turnbuckle.
Always the epitome of bad fashion, I see.”

 

“And you, Ratcliffe, are looking
as ratty as ever.” Clapping Colin on the shoulder, the Earl of Turnbuckle
laughed at his own lame jest. “Odd place to find you, old fellow. No dice or
cards or”—he lowered his voice—“beautiful hussies.”

 

Colin kept half his
attention on the door. “I enjoy a good book every now and then.”

 

“What’s that
you’re reading?” Turnbuckle stooped to examine the title, then chortled. “
The
Mysteries of Udolpho
? Since when have you taken an interest in gothic
romances?”

 

“I was curious to see what all the ladies were reading. As I
suspected, it’s worthless drivel.” Colin clapped the book shut and shoved it
back onto the shelf. “How about yourself? What are you doing here?”

 

“I’m
escorting my wife, Marianne. There, in the straw bonnet.” He nodded to the elfin
brunette who leaned against a column a short distance away. Obviously increasing
beneath her maroon gown, she had her nose stuck in a book. “Ever since I
succumbed to the leg shackle
last autumn, she’s
delighted in dragging me hither and yon. At least the lending library is better
than the dressmakers and milliners.”

 

Despite the complaint, Turnbuckle wore
an idiotic grin when he gazed at his wife. The change in him confounded Colin.
Was that what marriage did to a man, turned him from a freewheeling bachelor
into a panting dog? He himself had no intention of ever being led around on a
leash by any female.

 

But he did intend to wed. He must do so soon out of
necessity to pay his crushing debts. For that reason, he had chosen Portia
Crompton as his bride. She had proven to be a delightful surprise with her
sparkling manner and luscious beauty. And although he intended to coax her into
falling in love with him, he had no interest in romantic delusions
himself—except when it served his purpose.

 

Given half a chance, he was
confident he could keep her very happy without surrendering his own autonomy.
She had fire beneath all that ice. He needed only the opportunity to fan the
flames, and then she
would
be his.

 

He entertained a vivid fantasy of
them naked in bed, of suckling her breasts while she rode him with unbridled
lust. Yes, it would be quite enjoyable to teach such an innocent all the wicked
ways a woman could please a man.

 

“I say, is that the famous Miss
Crompton?”

 

For one disconcerting moment, Colin thought Turn-buckle had read
his private thoughts. Then a movement near the front door caught his attention.
A new arrival had just entered the library.

 

Portia Crompton.

 

The
coffee-colored pelisse over a rich amber gown accentuated her feminine curves.
She was tall and slender, and he feverishly speculated on the long legs beneath
the
layers of petticoats. A stylish hat adorned with a
spray of quail feathers drew attention to her fine features and upswept brown
hair. How he would love to unpin that prim bun, to undress her bit by bit,
kissing all the soft places he uncovered—

 

A man stepped in behind her. An
older man in a dark tailored coat.
Albright.
He was handing a black
umbrella to a hovering attendant.

 

Disbelieving anger struck Colin. He had
seen the duke dance with Portia at several parties. But fulfilling a polite
obligation was a far cry from escorting the woman about her daily
routine.

 

What the devil was his purpose?

 

The answer hit Colin in a
white-hot flash. Albright was courting Portia on purpose. Because he had
witnessed Colin’s interest in her. And he had guessed how desperately Colin
needed her dowry.

 

His fingers locked into fists. By God, he would throttle
that bastard with his bare hands.

 

He started to surge out from behind the
bookcase, but Turnbuckle stepped squarely to block his passage. “Don’t do
it.”

 

Colin glared in fury. “Get out of my way.”

 

“Keep your voice down,
man.” Turnbuckle’s expression took on a shrewd look. “I heard about the
altercation at Albright’s ball. That he stopped you from luring Miss Crompton
away and ravishing her.”

 

“You shouldn’t believe everything you
hear.”

 

“Right. Well, believe this: If you start a brawl in a library, you’ll
never win her hand.”

 

A glimmer of sanity forced its way into Colin’s brain.
He raked his fingers through his hair. He didn’t want to admit it, but
Turnbuckle had a point. “Damn him. He’s more than twice her age.”

 

The earl
chuckled. “Since when has that mattered in
noble
alliances? Albright needs an heir. Her parents wish to buy her a title and they
could scarcely do better.”

 

The lady in question was gazing straight at the
bookcase behind which Colin stood. He stared back through the narrow opening,
almost certain that the shelves concealed his identity from her view.

 

He
didn’t understand what Turnbuckle found so amusing. Maybe that was another way
marriage spoiled a man; it made him gloat to see his single friends forced into
the thorny brambles of courtship.

 

Albright was opening a thick tome and
showing it to Portia. She listened to him attentively, nodding her head now and
then. The duke had the air of a courteous, obliging suitor who had her best
interests at heart.

 

Like hell. She had no notion of his conniving nature.
Only Colin—and his mother—knew the truth about Albright.

 

Turnbuckle planted a
commiserating hand on Colin’s shoulder. “Never fear, all is not lost. There’s
another factor that influences the marriage game.”

 

“Lust.”

 

The earl
laughed. “There is that. But I was referring to the lady’s wishes. It seems
you’ll just have to find a clever way to steal her heart.”

 

 

“So sorry, no
letter,” Kasi said, spreading her hands wide to show her withered brown
palms.

 

Portia frowned at her old
ayah,
who stood in the doorway of the
bedchamber. The short, leathery-skinned woman wore a brilliant orange sari
beneath a drab cloak, from which wafted the damp scent of rain. A peacock blue
scarf covered the knob of gray hair on her head. Behind her, candlelight
flickered in wall sconces along the opulent passageway. It was past ten in the
evening, and Kasi had just returned from her half-day off.

 

Portia should have been dancing tonight at Lady Mortimer’s
soiree. It had taken considerable persuasion to convince Mama to let her remain
at home. She’d had to pretend a scratchy throat and a fit of coughing that was
certain to repel all of her suitors. In reality, Portia had wanted to be here
when Kasi returned. The letter she was expecting from India was much too
important to miss.

 

But her scheming had been for naught.

 

“Nothing?” she
asked in dismay. “Did you check directly with Mr. Brindley, not one of his
underlings?”

 

Kasi nodded. “I ride in cab, go to docks like always. But no
letter.” Her brown eyes somber, she shook a finger as she’d done countless times
during Portia’s childhood. “I know what happen, missy.”

 

“What?”

 

“You not
do as I say, you not pray to Rama and Sita. That is why Maharaj Arun forsake
you.”

 

“Arun hasn’t forsaken me.” Lips compressed, Portia fished in her pocket
for a coin, which she handed to the servant. “And you know full well I can’t
pray to your gods. Mama would have a fit. Now, thank you and good night.”

 

As
the door closed behind the muttering servant, Portia paced the length of her
bedchamber, taking little notice of the plush carpet beneath her bare feet or
the luxurious blue and gilt furnishings. She fretted over what Kasi had said.
Had she really faded from Arun’s mind? Had he forgotten the vow they had made to
each other on the night before she had set sail for England a year
ago?

 

Impossible. Or was it?

 

After all, she herself had been guilty of
forgetting him, if only momentarily. It had happened a fortnight ago at the Duke
of Albright’s ball when she had fallen under the spell of Viscount
Ratcliffe.

 

The memory made Portia blush with shame.
She had been on the brink of going off with him, of letting him lure her away
from the other guests. Heaven only knew what might have happened if fate had not
intervened in the form of the Duke of Albright and her mother. Beneath his
polished exterior, Ratcliffe was a ruthless, un-principled scoundrel. Whether by
accident or deliberate malice, he had caused the death of his own father.

 

The
knowledge filled her with revulsion.

 

She had not gone to their rendezvous in
Hyde Park. Rather, she had spent the following morning at the shops with her
mother and two sisters, purchasing hats and gloves and other trivialities. She
had chatted and smiled, all the while wondering how long Ratcliffe would wait
for her, or if he was angered by her absence.

 

Not that his reaction mattered.
He had deceived her into believing him to be an honorable man. But he was just
another greedy fortune hunter, a man who would stop at nothing to take what he
wanted.

 

In the past week, she had glimpsed him several times from a distance,
once on the street as she was exiting her carriage. Ratcliffe had attempted to
approach her, but she had turned a cold shoulder and hurried into the house.
Then this afternoon, she was almost certain she had seen him watching her from
behind a bookshelf at the lending library. If the Duke of Albright had not been
present, she would have marched straight to Ratcliffe and ordered him to mind
his own business.

 

Lately, the duke had become her self-appointed protector,
much to her mother’s delight. It rather suited Portia, too, for he was an easy
companion, well versed in polite conversation and a formidable deterrent to Lord
Ratcliffe’s advances.

 

Nevertheless, the viscount unnerved her. He was too
bold, too corrupt, too seductive. He was like a cobra,
beautiful but deadly. And in character he was the precise
opposite of Arun.