Seducing the Heiress (31 page)

 

Colin watched them
obsessively. A strange pang struck him—the keen wish to see her tuck their own
child into bed.

 

It would never happen.

 

To deny the wrench in his
chest, he sought asylum in lust. He wondered what she would do if he came up
from behind and pulled her flush against him, while his hands cupped her
breasts. The erotic image was so powerful,
he was
startled when she touched his arm and motioned him out of the room. Glancing
back, he saw that Bane was curled up beneath the covers, his eyes already
closed.

 

The house was silent as they made their way back downstairs. Carrying
the candle, he preceded her down the flight of stairs. As they walked down the
corridor lined with bedchambers, the casement clock down in the entrance hall
bonged ten times in a distant, mournful echo.

 

He halted in between her
chamber and his. She was so gorgeously feminine, it took a supreme effort of
willpower to keep his hands to himself. “Thank you for the assistance,” he said
gruffly. “I confess, I didn’t know what to do with Bane.”

 

“I was happy to
help. I was merely in bed reading.”

 

He had an instant vision of her in
his
bed. She wouldn’t have the time—or the inclination—to read if he was
lying there with her.

 

They stared at each other. An enigmatic expression on
her face, she made no move to return to her bedchamber, just stood watching him.
He tried not to stare as she sank her teeth into her lower lip. She looked
uncertain, as if something weighed on her mind.

 

He
certainly had
something on
his
mind—something that placed her virginity in grave
peril.

 

Why the devil didn’t she go? Damn it, could she not sense the danger
of lingering in his presence? They were both barely clad, and modesty alone
should have sent her scuttling for cover.

 

Colin forced himself to bow. “Well,
then. I’ll bid you good night.”

 

He stalked toward his door. Without warning,
she darted after him, blocking his passage. She slid her hands up his chest and
inside the collar of his shirt, her fingers caressing the hot flesh of his neck.
In a throaty
voice, she murmured, “Please, Ratcliffe.
Won’t you . . . invite me in?”

 

He nearly dropped the candle. All the blood
left his brain on a downward race to his groin. She was too naïve to realize
what could happen. “No. That’s hardly prudent.” Curse it, he sounded like a
maiden aunt. But he didn’t dare speak otherwise. “It’ll lead to . . . things you
shouldn’t know about.”

 

She took a deep breath as if for courage. Then she
smiled up at him from beneath the screen of her lashes. “I certainly hope
so.”

 

Her provocative manner nearly did him in. It took an effort to make his
tongue work. “My God, Portia. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

 

“I know
what I want. And what I want is you.”

 

When she ran her fingertip over his
lips, Colin promptly forgot all the reasons why he had no right to seduce an
innocent who had refused his offer of marriage. The torment of the past hours
and days and weeks went up in smoke. By God, she was granting him a dream come
true. In return, he would give her a night to remember.

 

He caught her hand
and brushed a kiss to the back. “Then come inside at once, my
lady.”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 22

 

Portia
felt a bone-deep tremor of excitement. The fervency in his eyes revealed that he
did still desire her, after all. She had been so afraid Ratcliffe would spurn
her, so worried he would reject the decision that she had arrived at only after
much intense reflection.

 

She had lied to him about being in bed reading.
Instead, she had been pacing her chamber, trying to decide how best to approach
him. Then fate had awarded her the perfect opportunity in the form of hearing
Bane and Ratcliffe outside in the corridor.

 

In the eyes of society, she was
about to engage in the most wicked of sins. Yet what difference did that make
now that she was ruined, anyway? In the end, she had come to the conclusion that
by letting this moment slip away, she would spend the rest of her life
regretting it. And because she couldn’t imagine ever sharing such intimacy with
any other man, tonight was her one chance, quite possibly her only chance to
experience life to the fullest.

 

Ratcliffe slid his arm around her. Their hips
brushed as he thrust open the door and drew her inside. As he bent down to place
the candle on the nearest table, she had the swift impression of a spacious
chamber with a
cozy fire in the hearth. Its flickering
light played over the greens and creams of the furnishings.

 

The lock in the
door clicked as he turned the key.

 

Then Ratcliffe turned to her and the world
fell away. She didn’t know if he reached for her first or if she lunged at him,
but all of a sudden they were in each other’s arms, their lips joined in a deep,
drowning kiss. The feel of his mouth, the strength of his body, made her
delirious with need. His ardor was a powerful aphrodisiac, a reassurance that he
desired her as desperately as she did him.

 

The kiss went on forever, and
rather than ease her hunger, it honed it. His hands roved over her back, moving
up and down, from her breasts to her hips, as if he could not get enough of her.
She experienced that same greed herself as she slid her fingers over his chest
and arms, and into the rough silk of his hair.

 

Dimly, she knew that her
feelings for Ratcliffe transcended desire. Until this moment, she had not
realized just how lonely she’d been these past weeks without him. He made her
feel complete, as if a piece of herself had been missing and now she had become
whole. That remarkable revelation only enriched the powerful emotions he evoked
in her.

 

He lifted his head, his breathing harsh. A crooked smile quirking his
mouth, he traced his fingers over the swollen dampness of her lips. “We must
slow down . . . or this will be over inside of a few minutes.”

 

Portia arched
on tiptoes, relishing the slide of her body against his. “I don’t care if it’s
fast. As long as we do it.”

 

Chuckling, he caught her hips and held her still.
“You’ll like it better slower. Trust me.”

 

She
did
trust him. Utterly
and completely. How
amazing was that, when for so long
she had considered him a blight upon her life?

 

“Then be slow if you must,”
she said slyly. “Just be quick about it.”

 

“Minx.” He cradled her face in his
hands, gently brushing his thumbs over her cheeks. His humor gradually died away
and he gazed at her as if she were the answer to his dreams. She ached to be all
that—and more. She wanted to be his wife.

 

The impossible thought caused a
sharp pain in the region of her heart. If only Ratcliffe could be a man of
integrity, a man whose honor was beyond reproach. If only he were not a gambler
and a rogue . . . but she wouldn’t think about all that now. None of those flaws
mattered tonight. All she wanted from him was an introduction to the mysteries
of the flesh. And at the tenderness in his eyes, her last lingering doubts
dissolved.

 

“You are so very beautiful,” he murmured. “I want to see all of
you.”

 

As his fingers unfastened the buttons at her bodice, he bent his head
to kiss every inch of skin he exposed. The whisper of his warm breath caused a
tremor in her legs, requiring her to grip his broad shoulders for support. Under
a slight push of his hands, the gown slithered into a puddle on the floor. She
shivered from the coolness of the air against her bare flesh, and an unexpected
shyness came over her. Unable to bear his scrutiny, she buried her face in his
throat.

 

He tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You must never
be afraid of me, Portia. You have my promise, I’ll never harm you by
design.”

 

He was right; any regrets she would suffer in the weeks and months
to come would be her own doing. “I’m not afraid.”

 

“Then what are you
thinking?”

 

“It’s just . . .” Looking into his
gorgeous green eyes, she drew an unsteady breath. How could she dare to express
the powerful emotions in her heart? “I never want this night to end.”

 

“Nor do
I.”

 

He pulled her close in another deep kiss that erased all of her
inhibitions. There was something incredibly erotic in the feel of his clothing
against her bare skin, as if every part of her had become infinitely sensitive
and receptive to his touch.

 

His hands spanned her waist, and he walked her
backward toward the bed. Once there, he pressed her down until Portia found
herself sitting on the mattress. When she made a move to scoot farther onto the
bed, to give him room to join her, Ratcliffe held her in place, positioning her
arms behind her.

 

“Lean back,” he said huskily. “Let me look at you.”

 

She
did as he instructed, propping herself back on her hands. It felt utterly
decadent to perch on the edge of the bed without the means to cover her breasts.
Under his dark, hooded gaze, she felt like a gift for his pleasure—and her own.
The heat he roused in her had become a molten pool of longing, and she didn’t
know how much more of this torment she could bear.

 

He knelt before her and
ran his hands lightly over her feet and ankles, caressing an upward path over
her calves and knees. The fire burned hotter, and she held her breath in fevered
anticipation. To her frustration, he skimmed past the juncture of her thighs and
continued upward to circle her breasts, lightly plying the tips. Leaning closer,
he suckled her, first one side and then the other. She moaned, loving what he
was doing yet aching for him to shift his attention lower. How many times had
she relived that rapturous moment in her memory, how many times had she longed
to experience it again?

 

“Ratcliffe . . .”

 

She
reached for him, but he backed off, shaking his head. “Not yet,” he said
hoarsely. “I’m far from through with you.”

 

“Please . . . I want . . .” She
bit her lip, bound by ladylike strictures from giving voice to her indecent
desires.

 

“You want this.”

 

His warm palm slid downward over her flat belly,
then at last his forefinger slid into her moist center. A pulse of pleaure
rolled through her, causing her hips to move of their own volition. “Yes . . .
oh, yes . . .”

 

Tilting her head back, she parted her legs to welcome the
indulgence of his caress. He stroked her with a thoroughness that brought all of
her senses to vivid life. Everything in her became fixated on the demands of her
most feminine part. As the sensations grew more torturous, she found herself
panting, begging, melting bonelessly back onto the bed.

 

All at once, he
removed his hand, and when she would have protested, he bent his dark head to
her privates. The shock of his action wrested a gasp from her. But at the first
swirling lick of his tongue, all of her objections fell away in a swift descent
into madness. She felt immersed in a delight so scandalous it took her breath
away, sending her on a headlong plunge into waves of bliss.

 

As the rapture
gradually faded, leaving her limp and happy, she returned to the awareness that
Ratcliffe stood beside the bed, wrestling with the cuff link on one of his
sleeves. From his glowering expression, it occurred to her that his needs had
yet to be satisfied.

 

Blushing at her own selfishness, she said, “May I
help?”

 

“The cursed thing is stuck.”

 

“Let me
see.”

 

He held out his arm, and she quickly worked the silver link loose from
its mooring. She made short work of the one on his other sleeve, then helped him
push off the shirt. As he tossed it to the floor, Portia slid her palms up the
hard planes of his chest, marveling at the strength of his muscles, the breadth
of his shoulders, the tapering perfection of his torso. It wasn’t so uncommon to
see a shirtless man in India, but none of them had ever moved her to awe as
Ratcliffe did. His skin was taut and sprinkled with dark hair that arrowed
downward into the waistband of his breeches.

 

Dear heaven, she couldn’t bring
herself to look lower.

 

With a quivery sigh, Portia glanced up only to find
him staring down at her, his eyes dark and rich with promise. Taking hold of her
hands, he placed them on the placket of his breeches. “I’ll need your assistance
here, as well.”

 

After a moment’s hesitation, she applied herself to the task
of opening each button. The telltale bulge there made her breath catch, and her
fingers became clumsy, brushing against him more than once.

 

He made a
tortured sound in his chest. Pushing her hands aside, he freed himself from the
confinement of cloth, giving Portia her first view of a man in full arousal. The
sight filled her with mingled awe and alarm, for it seemed impossible that they
could ever be joined.

 

“Touch me.”

 

His rasping command sounded torn from
him. He wrapped her fingers around him, and she marveled at the velvety hardness
of his flesh. As she explored him, the muscles in his groin contracted. On a
daring impulse, she leaned closer and kissed him as he had kissed her. Groaning,
he tangled his hands into her hair in wordless
encouragement. His unashamed pleaure gratified her,
stirring the rise of her own passion again as
well.

 

“Enough.”

 

Abruptly, he caught hold of her and pressed her
down onto the bed, covering her with his body. A tremor coursed through his
powerful form and he looked deeply in her eyes. “My God,” he murmured in a
reverent tone. “What you do to me . . .”