Seducing the Heiress (33 page)

 

She stumbled over a rut in the road and nearly fell.
Catching her balance, she hastened toward the front porch without looking back
again. She was almost there when a fine black coach drew up alongside her.

 

A
liveried coachman sat atop the high seat. Her gaze flashed to the silver
insignia on the door.

 

Her steps faltered to a stop. The world seemed to tilt
on its axis. Her heart thumped so hard it nearly made her swoon. Uttering a cry
of denial, she made a mad dash for the stairs.

 

A commotion came from behind
her, running footsteps. A hand clamped around her upper arm and yanked her to an
enforced halt. Turning, she found herself gazing into a familiar stern face. His
aristocratic features filled her with revulsion.

 

The Duke of Albright.

 

He
leaned on his silver-topped walking stick, his pale blue eyes raking her with
contempt. “So you
are
here, just as I suspected,” he snapped without
greeting. “Where is Ratcliffe?”

 

Not for the world would she betray him. “He’s
gone. He’s out riding. I’m all alone.” She struggled futilely against his iron
grip. “Now unhand me at once.”

 

A stout man hurried up behind him.

 

“Papa!”
she cried.

 

Her father appeared haggard, with deep lines in his face, his
thinning brown hair rumpled as if he’d combed his fingers through it innumerable
times. He embraced her briefly, then stepped back to look her over as if
checking for injury. Tears brimmed in his eyes. “Thank God! Oh, thank God you’re
safe.”

 

“Please tell the duke to release me. He has no right to hold me like .
. . like a criminal.”

 

George Crompton glanced at Albright, then slowly
shook his head. “I’m afraid we daren’t trust you,
darling. You might run back to that scoundrel. We’re here to escort you
home.”

 

Run back? Did they think she had come here willingly with him? Of
course, that letter Ratcliffe had written to her father claimed they were
eloping to Gretna Green. Her mind worked feverishly. She mustn’t reveal the
truth. If they knew Ratcliffe had abducted her, it would only give them further
grievance against him.

 

“Let’s get her into the coach,” Albright instructed
her father. “The sooner we’re away from here, the better.”

 

“You take her,”
her father said, grimly removing his coat and rolling up his sleeves. “I intend
to find Lord Ratcliffe and teach him not to touch my daughter.”

 

“No!” Portia
cried out. Nothing could be worse than the two men she loved battling each
other. For that matter, she feared Ratcliffe would be too honorable to defend
himself. “You mustn’t! I won’t have you fighting.”

 

“Nor will I,” said the
duke. “I intend to take care of Ratcliffe myself later.”

 

Scowling, George
Crompton flexed his fists. “It’s my responsibility and I won’t shirk
it.”

 

Desperate to ward off violence, she said urgently, “Please, Papa, I
won’t get into the coach without you, I swear I won’t. If you truly wish me to
go home, you’ll have to come right now, too.”

 

Agony tore at her heart. The
last thing she wanted was to leave here. But what else was she to do? How was
she to escape the inevitable? By fleeing upstairs, by seeking Ratcliffe’s help,
she would be endangering him, as well.

 

Her father released a furious breath.
“As you wish, then. I’ll leave this rat’s nest for now.”

 

Guided by the duke,
Portia moved on leaden feet. Every step felt as if she were progressing toward
the gallows.
All of her hopes and dreams had been
shattered to bits. Her happiness of only moments ago had turned into a
nightmare. She wanted to cry and rail and fight, yet she dared not.

 

“What the
devil—Portia!”

 

The sound of Ratcliffe’s voice made her heart leap. She
whirled around to see him standing in the open doorway of the house, wearing
only a shirt and breeches.

 

Fury hardened his face. He came charging down the
steps of the porch, and her heart leaped with joy.

 

And in the next moment,
with terror.

 

Releasing her, Albright used both hands to grip his walking
stick like a cudgel. He kept the weapon hidden behind her skirts so Ratcliffe
wouldn’t see it.

 

Realizing his intent, she moved to shove him off
balance.

 

Too late.

 

The duke surged forward and swung the cane. The silver
knob struck the side of Ratcliffe’s head.

 

Ratcliffe staggered backward, then
dropped like a stone.

 

 

She was smuggled into the house through the
mews.

 

The coach had been driven straight into the stables. To thwart any nosy
neighbors, her father wrapped a cloak around Portia, pulling up the hood and
instructing her to keep her face down while they walked through the garden. The
duke followed close behind as they went up a back staircase to the morning room,
where her mother and sisters were waiting.

 

Lindsey and Blythe fell upon
Portia with glad cries, hugging and kissing her. She craved their comfort, but
they were swiftly shooed away by their mother. “Run along, girls. You’ve seen
her now, and you’ll have a chance to visit later.”

 

With much grumbling complaints, they trudged out of the
room. George Crompton shut the door after them, then went to pour two cups of
coffee from the silver pot on the sideboard, respectfully offering one to the
duke.

 

Edith Crompton embraced her eldest daughter, enveloping her in the
scent of lilac. Portia clung to her, wanting to weep, but she had no tears left,
not after the buckets she had shed on the long drive home.

 

How she ached to
pour out her fears to Mama. What had happened to Ratcliffe? How badly had he
been injured?

 

But her mother wouldn’t offer sympathy. Her father hadn’t
understood, either, when Portia had begged him to turn back so she could check
on Ratcliffe. Instead, he and the duke had each guarded a door of the coach. She
had been their prisoner, and for that cruelty she would never forgive her
father.

 

When her mother pulled back, any happiness she might have felt at
Portia’s safe return had vanished. Her lips were pinched and censure narrowed
her hazel eyes. “Well! We have been worried to the point of illness. What have
you to say for yourself?”

 

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

 

Portia spoke by rote without
really meaning the words. She felt drained and empty, unable to fight any
longer. She sank wearily into the nearest chair, propping her elbow on the arm.
All she wanted was to retreat to her chamber.

 

No! All she wanted was
Ratcliffe. She needed him desperately. Dear God, was he dead?

 

Her mind
rejected the horror of that possibility. It couldn’t be true. It had only been a
knock on the head, and surely he would recover. Yet over and over, she found
herself reliving the moment of seeing him fall, trying to discern if he’d been
dealt a mortal blow.

 

“We cannot thank you enough,
Your Grace,” Mrs. Crompton said, curtsying to the duke. “To have offered your
assistance so swiftly, and under such horrendous circumstances . . . we will
remain forever in your debt.”

 

“I must concur,” Mr. Crompton added, placing an
arm around his wife. “I would never have found Portia so swiftly without your
aid. We owe you our undying gratitude.”

 

Mrs. Crompton pressed her palms
together in supplication. “And may I add, we implore you not to think too poorly
of our wayward daughter. She knew not what she was doing, to put herself into
the company of that vile rascal.”

 

Leaning on his silver-topped cane, Albright
regarded them gravely. He looked as dapper as ever in his charcoal-gray coat,
the ubiquitous diamond stickpin in his cravat. His composed appearance betrayed
no hint of remorse that he might have just murdered a man.

 

“It certainly has
been a regrettable turn of events,” he stated. “However, I must take a portion
of the guilt upon myself. I knew the sort of scoundrel Ratcliffe was, and I
should have guarded Portia against his villainy.”

 

How smooth he was, how oily
and snakelike, Portia thought scornfully. She angled her head away, staring at a
blue porcelain vase of yellow roses. The sight of him sickened her. She just
wanted him to go away. Then she would never have to see his loathsome face
again.

 

“You are indeed the soul of kindness,” her mother gushed. “How can we
ever repay you?”

 

“It was no great deed on my part,” the duke replied. “After
all, I’ve a duty to protect her good name since she is to be my wife.”

 

That
last statement penetrated the lethargy that weighed on Portia. Turning back, she
stared at him in utter shock.

 

What was he saying?
That her ruination didn’t matter to him? That he was not ending their
betrothal?

 

“I’m sure you’ll agree to the necessity of my leaving at once to
obtain a special license,” he went on to her parents. “In light of this scandal,
the marriage must be performed as swiftly as possible. Then my stature will
silence all the gossips.”

 

Her mother clasped her hands to her bosom. “Oh,
Your Grace, you are indeed a knight in shining armor. It is so magnanimous of
you to—”

 

“No!” Portia surged to her feet. The others turned to stare at her.
On the long ride home, she had attempted to denounce the duke, but her father
had sternly ordered her to be quiet. So she had spent the time fuming in
silence, and now all of her bottled-up anger broke free of restraint.

 

She
stepped rapidly toward her mother. “I won’t marry him. Not now or ever. Mama, he
hit Ratcliffe on the head with his cane. It was a coward’s blow, too. He hid his
weapon behind my skirts until Ratcliffe came close enough to strike.” Her voice
broke, but she forced herself to go on. “He might have killed Ratcliffe. Then
they pushed me into the coach without even checking to see if he was alive . .
.”

 

“Is this true?” Mrs. Crompton asked, frowning from the duke to her
husband.

 

“Indeed so,” Mr. Crompton said grimly. “However, His Grace had
little choice in the matter. The viscount was running straight toward us. God
knows, the churl might have seized Portia and done harm to her.”

 

“He most
certainly would not have,” Portia flared. “It was the duke he was going after.
The two of them have been enemies for years. His Grace has never forgiven Lady
Ratcliffe for spurning him at the altar.”

 

Albright’s face turned rigid, but
he said nothing.

 

“Well!” Mrs. Crompton declared.
“I’m sure if Lord Ratcliffe is dead, he deserved it for his contemptible
actions. Perhaps he has finally received his just due for killing his own
father.”

 

“He didn’t kill his father. He was exonerated in court. And it’s the
duke who deserves your contempt.” She swung toward Albright. “Tell them, Your
Grace. Tell them how you fathered Hannah Wilton’s baby and then tossed her out
into the street. You also threatened to kill her if she tried to expose you as a
cad.”

 

The duke neither denied or confirmed it. His face might have been
carved from marble. His stony silence confirmed his perfidy.

 

Her father shot
a frown at Albright. “What’s this all about?”

 

“Hannah Wilton?” Mrs. Crompton
asked in bewilderment. “Who in heaven’s name is she?”

 

“His former mistress,”
Portia said. “And he stole her away from Ratcliffe, as well.”

 

With a gasp,
Mrs. Crompton came bustling toward her. “That’s quite enough, young lady. I’m
astonished at you, making such sordid accusations when the duke has been your
savior today. You should not even know of such matters, let alone speak of
them.”

 

“It’s all true. And I won’t have such a cruel, heartless man for a
husband. It’s Ratcliffe I intend to wed.” She held back a sob.
If
he was
alive.
If
he still wanted her after all the trouble she’d brought down on
him.
If
he loved her . . .

 

Her mother caught Portia by the arm.
“Silence! You will not say another word!”

 

“Nor will I speak my vows to the
duke, Mama. And there’s nothing you can do to force me.”

 

“Hush! You
will
show His Grace the proper respect.” An angry red flush crept up her
neck and into her cheeks.
She glanced wildly at
Albright, then at her husband. “George! Will you allow her to be so insolent?
Come here and chastise your daughter at once.”

 

Mr. Crompton looked rather
troubled. He trudged forward to stand in front of Portia. But any hope she might
have had for his support ended when he spoke.

 

“Go to your chamber, child,” he
said heavily. “You’ll stay there until you’ve realized the value of
obedience.”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 24

 

Portia
couldn’t sit still. For the umpteenth time, she went to the window and surveyed
the darkened garden. Lights winked in neighboring residences. By looking down,
she could see a faint glow from the windows of her own house, too.

 

Every few
minutes, she glanced at the ormolu clock on the fireplace mantel. It was past
nine o’clock. The gold hands had been creeping around the dial at an agonizingly
slow pace.

 

Two hours had passed since Kasi had delivered a supper tray, along
with the whispered news that Portia’s parents had remained in the house for the
evening, rather than attend any social events. The old
ayah
had provided
sympathy and a shoulder on which to cry, but little more.

 

James, a young,
freckle-faced footman, had stood waiting in the doorway for the servant. Portia
had pleaded with him to summon her sisters, but he had refused, citing strict
orders from her parents. Once he and Kasi left, he had locked the door again.
When Portia knelt down and peered through the keyhole, she could glimpse him
standing guard out in the corridor.