Seducing the Heiress (4 page)

 

Arun.

 

Arun was the man she loved. They had become
fast friends as children. While her father conducted business with Arun’s
father, the maharajah of Mumbai, she and Arun had played together. She vividly
remembered the first time she had met him, a grave little boy in a long white
robe, flying a kite in the gardens of the palace. He had given her the string to
hold; it was attached to a brilliant butterfly made of colored paper and fine
bamboo. The kite had felt alive in her hands, and the delight of seeing it ride
the currents of wind still glowed in her memory.

 

If all went according to her
plan, she would return to India at the end of the Season to be with Arun again.
This time forever.

 

She paced to the bedside table and opened the top drawer.
From beneath the jumble of handkerchiefs and notecards and books, she drew out a
small gold box, the lid encrusted with emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds in the
form of a peacock. Using the tiny gold key on her bracelet, she opened the
box.

 

A single item lay nestled inside on a bed of blue velvet. It was an oval
miniature of Arun. Cradling the painting in the palm of her hand, she held it
beneath the light of a candle and studied his familiar features: the smooth
dusky skin, the warm brown eyes, the noble bearing. Well educated by a series of
English tutors, he had grown up in a magnificent white palace near the Crompton
family home in Bombay.

 

She had always been aware theirs was a forbidden love,
although by tacit agreement they had seldom spoken of it. Rather, they had spent
their days in the innocent pleasures of reading to each other in the shade of
the banyan trees
or sitting on the banks of Mahim Bay
to watch the boats pass by and the women doing their laundry.

 

She remembered
the gentleness of their first kiss and then the shock of her mother’s discovery
of them in the shadows of the verandah. Livid, Mrs. Crompton had banished Arun
from their property and lectured Portia on the impropriety of her
actions.

 

“It’s disgraceful enough that you would allow such liberties,”
she had ranted. “But with a native boy—!”

 

“I love Arun,” Portia
countered. “He loves me, too.”

 

“Love! Have you no thought for your
father’s good name? And what about your sisters? You’ll ruin all of us with your
rash behavior.”

 

“No, it won’t be that way. Arun is a prince. When we
marry, people will have to accept us.”

 

Her mother’s face turned white
with fury. “I knew it was a mistake for your father to allow you such freedom.
But enough is enough. You will not be permitted to dishonor this
family.”

 

No amount of impassioned arguments could sway her mother’s
judgment. The incident had caused an explosive quarrel between her parents.
Portia had cringed to hear them shouting at each other behind closed doors. The
following day, Mrs. Crompton had directed an army of natives to pack the
family’s belongings. To Portia’s horror, they were moving to England to take
their rightful place in society.

 

She had begged Arun to run away with her.
But
his
father had been appalled by the notion of the high-caste prince
marrying a foreigner. He, too, had prohibited the alliance, and Arun could not
renounce his own principles by disobeying. He had assured her that, in time, he
could persuade the maharajah to accept the match. The British community would be
scandalized, of course, but Portia didn’t care if she was shunned. She only
wanted
to be with the man who made her feel safe and
loved, the man who had been her friend forever.

 

She clasped the miniature to
the bodice of her nightgown. Arun always had written to her without fail; this
was the first time since her departure for England a year ago that his regular
letter had not arrived.

 

Struck by an awful fear, she groped for the bedpost
and clung tightly to the cool mahogany. What if something dreadful had happened
to Arun? What if he had fallen ill—or died?

 

So many dangers abounded in
India. Poisonous vipers. Vicious tigers. Rampaging elephants. And then there
were the fatal diseases. It was not uncommon for a person to be healthy one day
and dead of a fever the next.

 

Shuddering, she placed the miniature on her
pillow, unwilling to lock it away just yet. It would serve no purpose to worry.
The missing correspondence was likely due to the vagaries of the mail system—a
ship run aground, a voyage delayed. Surely there would be a letter next time,
probably two at once.

 

The trouble was, she would have to wait for an entire
month until Kasi’s next half-day off. It was impossible for Portia to escape her
mother’s watchful eye long enough to travel clear across London to the shipping
office at the docks. And she dared not have the letters delivered to this house
lest her parents discover her scheme to return to India.

 

She went to the
window and looked out into the night. It was damp and cold and gloomy. Here,
there were no jackals skulking through the shadows, no buzz of crickets in the
hot darkness. Had the moon been shining, she might have stepped out onto the
balcony to gaze up at the stars. She and Arun had done so many times in India,
finding the constellations and making up new ones to amuse themselves.

 

On a whim, she went into her dressing room and stripped
off her pale nightdress, leaving it in a puddle on the floor. The spacious
chamber had built-in cabinetry that held an impressive collection of morning
gowns and walking dresses, ball gowns and riding clothes. Undoubtedly her mother
thought the sky would fall down if the premier heiress of the Season were to be
seen in the same attire more than once.

 

From the depths of a drawer, behind
an assortment of corsets and petticoats, Portia pulled out a sari. A deep
marigold hue spangled with tiny gold beads, the garment had been a going-away
gift from Arun. When she held it to her nose, the faint scent of sandalwood
clung to the fabric. She had seldom—never—worn a sari, but often enough had
watched Kasi put one on.

 

Relying on memory, she looped and draped the length
of silk around herself, finally tucking the end into her waist. The dressing
table had a wide variety of cosmetics, and she used a pot of rouge to apply a
tiny ruby dot to her forehead. Going to her jewelry box, she added an array of
gold bangles to her arms. Then she stood before the long pier glass and blinked
in amazement. Had her skin been darker, she might have been mistaken for a
native woman.

 

How strange she looked, yet how familiar. A curious tug-of-war
waged inside her, as if she had one foot planted in England and the other in
India. Closing her eyes, she let herself wallow in memories of her childhood
home. She remembered days so hot it took her breath away, a sky so bright blue
it hurt the eyes, the raucous whistle of mynah birds in the trees. How she
longed to feel the sun-baked earth beneath her bare feet again . . .

 

A draft
of cold air snapped her back to reality. It had come from her bedchamber; the
fire must need tending. Shivering, she rubbed her bare arms. The sari was ill
suited to the climate of England, and her mother would
have an apoplectic fit if she caught Portia wearing it.

 

But Mama and Papa
were out for the night, and her sisters lay abed in their chambers at the end of
the passageway. There was no one to stop Portia from indulging in a bit of
fantasy. So she imagined herself a bride on her wedding night. Arun would be
waiting in the next room, ensconced in her bed. She knew a little about intimate
relations, having eavesdropped on the frank talk between native servants,
although when she tried to envision herself doing
that
with her childhood
friend, the image failed to materialize.

 

No matter. She would sit by the fire
and dream about Arun holding her close again, gently kissing her . .
.

 

Smiling, she floated into her bedchamber. Shock brought her to an abrupt
halt. A strangled gasp choked her throat.

 

In the chair by the fire, his boots
propped on a footstool, sat Viscount Ratcliffe.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 3

 

Watching her intently, he held up his hand. “Don’t
scream—please. I mean you no harm.”

 

Portia didn’t scream, not because he had
said so but because she was horrifyingly aware that no one would hear her. Her
parents would be out until the wee hours, her sisters were asleep in their rooms
far down the corridor, and the servants were either in their attic bedchambers
or in the basement workrooms.

 

But a footman remained on duty downstairs in
the entrance hall.

 

Heart pounding, she made a dash for the door, prepared to
cry out for help. The knob refused to turn. She frantically rattled it, shoving
at the white-painted panel.

 

“It’s locked,” Ratcliffe said, holding up the
skeleton key that usually rested in the keyhole. “A mere
precaution.”

 

Frightened and furious, she spun to face him. “How dare
you!”

 

“I’d dare quite a lot to see you, Miss Crompton. When you didn’t attend
Lady Mortimer’s soiree tonight, I had to resort to drastic measures.”

 

What
was he doing here? Had he gone mad?

 

Portia considered lunging at him,
wresting the key out of his hand. Then she bitterly acknowledged his superior
strength. If she gave him half a chance, he could easily
grab her.

 

Her only hope was to summon a maid by tugging on the bellpull. But
the gold cord hung near the fireplace. It was impossible to reach it without
risking capture. Nor were there any handy weapons in the bedchamber—except for
the fireplace poker which was propped beside him against the mantel.

 

“How did
you get past the footman?” she demanded.

 

“I climbed up the trellis.”

 

He
waved to the balcony doors. Portia flicked a glance there to see the doors
slightly ajar. No wonder she’d felt a draft of cold air . . . although she
hadn’t heard a sound. How had he even known which bedchamber belonged to her? He
must have spied her as she’d stood at the window a short while ago. Under
different circumstances, she might have marveled at his resourcefulness.

 

But
not tonight, not when she was alone, not when he had her at a deadly
disadvantage.

 

In her iciest tone, she stated, “Get out.”

 

“I mean you no
harm,” he repeated in a soothing tone, dropping the key into an inner pocket of
his dark green coat. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll remain right here in
this chair.”

 

“I don’t want you here at all. Now go.”

 

He made no move to
obey. “I only wish to talk. You have my word.”

 

“
Your word.
You, a man
who would sneak into my house in the middle of the night. But I don’t suppose
that
is anything unusual to someone of your wicked character.”

 

“I vow
I’ve never before entered a lady’s bedchamber without her permission.”

 

The
gleam in his green eyes unnerved her. He lounged in the chair as if he were a
friend come to share a cozy
chat. He was smiling, his
manner disarming, his black hair tousled and damp with mist. His skin was
swarthy against the stark white of his cravat, and a trace of whiskers shadowed
his lean cheeks. Under the force of his scrutiny, she grew aware of her
nakedness beneath the silk sari.

 

Deep within her, something dark and
disturbing stirred to life.

 

She smothered it viciously. Colin Byrd was a
rogue who seduced women. Worse, he was a killer who had shot his own father
under mysterious circumstances.

 

Willing her teeth not to chatter, she said,
“Why are you here? State your business and be gone.”

 

“First things first.” He
reached to the piecrust table beside him. “I brought you a gift.”

 

He tossed
something underhand, and she caught it by reflex. Startled, she found herself
holding a stalk of lush purple flowers, each one the size of her fist.
“Orchids?”

 

“I thought you might like them. That variety is native to
India.”

 

Portia had seen such blooms growing in the jungle, the plants
clinging to the branches of trees. He couldn’t possibly have known of her love
for them. Yet none of her other suitors had bothered to consider her likes and
dislikes. They brought her English roses and French bonbons and expected her to
launch into rhapsodies of gratitude.

 

It wouldn’t happen now, either.

 

She
dropped the stalk on a nearby table. In a tone heavy with sarcasm, she said,
“You cannot really think to dazzle me with flowers, my lord.”

 

“One can always
hope.” Grinning, he looked down at the orange and black striped fur beneath his
feet. “So this is the famous tigerskin rug.” With languid fingers, he stroked
the feline’s head, its glass eyes staring and
its
sharp-toothed mouth open in a perpetual snarl. “I understand you shot the beast
yourself. Will you tell me about it?”

 

The request startled Portia. Where had
he learned of that? Did he really have acute hearing as he’d claimed at the Duke
of Albright’s ball? No, the account she had told to Mrs. Beardsley and the
others must have reached his ears through gossip.

 

She would not permit him to
turn this invasion of her privacy into a social visit. “I’ve no interest in
chitchat. I’m ill, that’s why I stayed home tonight.”

 

“You appear in the pink
of health to me.” His gaze sweeping over her, he went on, “If I may add, you
look extremely fetching. What is that garment you’re wearing?”

 

“A sari. Now
that’s enough questions. You may call on me at a more appropriate time and
place.”