Seducing the Heiress (5 page)

 

“And be refused admittance once more?” He shook his head. “Come,
come, Miss Crompton. We both know that were I to depart now, I’d never have the
slightest chance of seeing you alone again. You’ve made it devilishly difficult
to get within a dozen yards of you.”

 

“So you’ll break into my chamber and
hold me hostage?” she snapped in frustration. “Is
that
supposed to
inspire my trust in you?”

 

For a long moment Ratcliffe stared at her, his
expression dark and unreadable. A sense of foreboding crept like cold fingers
down her spine. She knew so little about him. He might be volatile,
hot-tempered, even unhinged. If she drove him to fury, he could overpower her in
a flash.

 

He abruptly broke his promise to remain seated. Rising to his feet,
he seemed to crowd the dimly lit bedroom with his menacing presence. He slid his
hand inside the front of his coat.

 

Portia took an
involuntary step backward. Her muscles tensed and her heart pounded. God help
her, if he had a pistol . . .

 

But he merely withdrew her key from inside his
coat, went to the door and unlocked it. He returned to his chair and resumed his
relaxed posture. “Go on, then,” he said. “If you’re so terrified of me, you may
as well flee.”

 

Half of her itched to do just that. The other half—the
prideful half—balked at another display of spineless panic.

 

How neatly
Ratcliffe had maneuvered her. By unlocking the door, he had made flight the act
of a coward.

 

“If you’re discovered here,” she said coldly, “my reputation
will be ruined. No doubt that’s your intention, to force me into
marriage.”

 

He shook his head. “I’ve already told you, I merely came to talk.
There didn’t seem to be any other way to catch you alone.”

 

Her lips
compressed. She could hardly throw him out on his ear when he had the advantage
of superior physical power. It might be best to let him have his say. Perhaps
then she could convince him to go.

 

“Answer one question truthfully,” she
said. “If you refuse, there is no chance of me believing anything else you have
to say.”

 

“Did I kill my father?” Though steel touched his tone, Ratcliffe
kept his gaze focused on her. “The answer is yes, though it was a tragic
accident. I won’t discuss the matter any further—not with you or with anyone
else.”

 

The shadows in his eyes intrigued Portia. She sensed secrets there
that she longed to probe. Was he telling the truth? If so, what exactly had
happened? Had he been cleaning a pistol and it had gone off? Was it a hunting
mishap? Or perhaps a stray shot in the dark at a burglar?

 

Sympathy tugged at
her, but she resisted its allure.
She must not allow
any weakening of her defenses. For all she knew, he could be lying through his
teeth. The incident could have occurred just as the Duke of Albright believed,
that Ratcliffe had murdered his father in order to gain his
inheritance.

 

“That wasn’t my question,” she said.

 

He lifted one dark brow
inquiringly, but made no reply. The only sounds were the soft ticking of the
ormolu clock on the mantel and a spattering of raindrops against the
windowpanes.

 

Uneasy with the silence, she asked, “I would like to know, would
you be pursuing me if I were penniless—if I didn’t have the largest dowry of any
of the debutantes?”

 

“An interesting question. I applaud your
directness.”

 

“A simple no or yes will suffice.”

 

“Then no . . .
and
yes. I’ll admit, your marriage portion is what first drew you to my
attention.”

 

“So you came uninvited to Albright’s ball for the sole purpose of
cozening me.”

 

He frowned, clearly annoyed to have his stratagem exposed. “If
you choose to regard it that way. However, matters changed once we met. That’s
the
yes
in answer to your question. I
would
pursue you, Portia, no
matter what your circumstances. Because you fascinate me.”

 

He spoke in the
smooth, deep tone of a man experienced in luring women. She should correct his
forwardness in using her name, yet there were other, more important issues at
stake. “Never mind the flattery. The truth is all that matters to me.”

 

“I’ll
grant you both.” He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “I came
to that ball expecting to meet a giggly girl with air for brains. Instead I
found a spirited woman who is more than able to match wits with me. From that
moment onward, I’ve been determined to make you mine.”

 

Despite her mistrust of him, her pulse leaped. The feeling
was nothing more than an instinctive reaction to an attractive man, she assured
herself. Arun owned her heart. Arun, whose kindness and chivalry put this
scoundrel to shame.

 

Crossing her arms, she glared at Ratcliffe. “To be quite
frank, my lord, I can see no benefit to allowing your courtship. For title and
status, I certainly can do better than a viscount with a wicked
reputation.”

 

His jaw tightened, and she feared for a moment that she’d driven
him over the edge. “Albright,” he snapped.

 

She almost blurted out that the
duke was merely a friend, not a suitor. But if she could use Albright to
convince Ratcliffe he had no chance . . . “You saw us together today at the
lending library,” she said. “I thought that was you, hiding behind the
shelves.”

 

The dangerous look faded, and she wondered if she had imagined it.
Once again, his eyes were unfathomable, making her intensely curious about the
secrets behind those too-handsome features.

 

Much to her surprise, a slow grin
banished his moody expression. He looked exactly like the devil-may-care rogue
she had met at the duke’s ball. “That’s what you’ve reduced me to,” he said. “A
lonely wretch skulking in the shadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of your
beauty.”

 

Unexpected laughter bubbled up inside her. His teasing somehow eased
her inner tension, and she found herself sinking cautiously onto a chair a short
distance from him. “A wretch, yes, you are that. But I very much doubt you’re
lonely.”

 

“I am, indeed, every moment we’re apart.”

 

Heaven help her, he was
charming. He must have women falling at his feet. “Enough of your nonsense. If
you’re so determined to make conversation, then tell me about yourself.”

 

“I find
you
far more interesting—”

 

“No. It’s my
home and I’ll set the rules. I should like to know why you believe yourself
worthy to be my suitor. Tell me about your family, your interests, how you live
your life.”

 

Colin felt his mouth go dry. He seldom discussed private matters
even with his friends. It was easier to keep things light, to guard those
certain events best kept hidden from the world.

 

Unfortunately, Portia
Crompton was far less susceptible to glib talk than any woman of his
acquaintance. God, she was gorgeous, even in her self-righteousness. The gold
sari clung to her curves like a second skin and tendrils of curly chestnut hair
had sprung loose from her topknot. He wanted nothing more than to haul her over
to the bed and kiss her senseless, to touch her and stroke her until she lay
purring in his arms. Unfortunately, such a rapscallion approach was guaranteed
to win her ire.

 

She sat primly on the straight-backed chair, her skeptical
expression trained on him. Clearly, she was waiting for him to reveal his
redeeming qualities—
if
he possessed any, her look seemed to say.

 

He
cleared his throat. “I own an estate in Kent, some five thousand acres of
entailed farmland. My mother lives there, too. I have a younger sister,
Elizabeth, who’s married to a Scotsman and lives in Edinburgh. She has three
children, two boys and a girl.”

 

Portia didn’t need to know that Elizabeth had
deliberately chosen a husband who would take her far away from their childhood
home. Colin hadn’t seen her in more than five years. She hadn’t even returned
for their father’s funeral three years ago, although to be fair, she had been
recovering from childbirth at the time.

 

“You make yourself sound like the
typical country
gentleman,” Portia said. “However, I
understand you’re deeply in debt because of your gambling.”

 

Colin struggled
to keep the vexation from his face. Did she hold no topics sacred? “The subject
of my finances is best left to your father.”

 

“You haven’t my permission to
speak to Papa about anything,” she countered. “And let me make one fact clear:
I’ll never wed a man who would squander my dowry on dice and cards.”

 

It came
as no surprise that she had her mind made up about him. He considered spilling
his guts, but that would mean breaking a vow, and he wasn’t yet so desperate. So
he pacified her with a half-truth. “You have my promise that I’ll never again
set foot in a gaming hell.”

 

She gave him a withering look. “If you think to
bamboozle me, Lord Ratcliffe, we’ve nothing more to discuss.”

 

“Then perhaps
you’ll talk about this.” Determined to shift the heat off himself, Colin reached
down between the cushions and withdrew the miniature he had tucked there. He had
a burning need to know the identity of the man whose image she clearly held
dear.

 

Portia sucked in an audible breath. She gripped the sides of the chair.
Her big blue eyes fastened on the little oval painting, then swung to him.
“Where did you get that?”

 

“When I came in, I saw it lying on your
pillow.”

 

She surged to her feet and marched toward him, the bangles on her
arms jingling musically. “It doesn’t belong to you. Give it back to me at
once.”

 

Colin sprang up, too. “First tell me who he is.”

 

“A friend.”

 

She
made a grab for the miniature, but he held it high out of her reach. “He must
have a name.”

 

“Arun,” she ground out. “Now hand it
over to me. You’ve no right to come in here and touch my things.”

 

The panic
on her face intrigued Colin. What importance could a young, handsome native man
have to her? A man whose picture she would keep in her bedchamber? The most
probable answer made Colin livid. “He must be more than a friend. Was he your
lover while you lived in India?”

 

“No!”

 

She made another futile attempt to
snatch the miniature out of his hand, her bosom brushing against him. The chance
to slide his arm around her proved too delicious to resist. Colin clasped her
close, keenly aware of the curves barely concealed by thin gold silk.

 

“I
don’t believe you,” he said. “While you blistered me for my sins, it would
appear you yourself are no angel.”

 

Pressing her palms to his chest, she
pushed hard. “Release me at once!”

 

“Only when you tell me the truth about
him.”

 

“I
am
telling you the truth.”

 

She struggled against his grip,
but Colin had no intention of letting her go. His loins had an instantaneous
reaction to her sinuous movements. Again, he was sorely tempted to carry her
across the room to the four-poster bed. Bending closer, he murmured, “Stay
still. Unless you wish me to forget what little gentlemanly restraint I
have.”

 

Gasping, she reared back at once, drawing her upper body as far away
from him as possible. Desperation blazed in her eyes. “All right, blast you. I
love
Arun. When I return to India, we’re going to be
married.”

 

Stunned, he stared into her flushed features. He could see every
individual black lash that lined her clear blue
eyes.
She wasn’t lying. She planned to do the unthinkable. It suddenly made sense to
him why she was dressed in the sari, why she had that ridiculous red dot on her
forehead and the armful of bangles.

 

She was pretending to be Arun’s
bride.

 

Tossing the miniature onto the chair, he grasped hold of her
shoulders. “Do your parents know this?” Seeing the flash of guilt on her face,
he answered for her. “Of course they don’t. You’ve let everyone believe you’re
available for marriage. But you’ve never had any intention of choosing an
Englishman for a husband.”

 

She lifted her chin. “No. So you see, you’ll never
win me over. You might as well leave.”

 

Colin was still trying to get his mind
around the rashness of her plan. “You can’t marry a native. You’ll be shunned,
not just here, but in India, too.”

 

“It’s my decision. There’s no one in
society I care about, anyway.”

 

“Your father will cut you off without a penny.
How will you live?” She had no idea what it was like to be poor. But Colin knew
all too well.

 

“Arun is the son of a maharajah. I’ll live in luxury in a
palace.”

 

The news that his rival was a prince irritated him more than it
ought. “You can’t have thought this through. You’re giving up everything, your
life, your country, your family. Once you act on this foolishness, there’ll be
no turning back.”

 

She glanced away for a moment, then raised her chin in
resolute stubbornness. “My mind is made up. I won’t be dissuaded. And . . . and
I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

 

“So now I’m your trusted
confidant? There’s a turnaround.”

 

“You give me no other choice—oh!”

 

A knocking on the door startled both of them. Instantly,
Colin released her, holding his finger to his lips. Portia frantically shooed
him toward the balcony.

 

Damn it, he was not through speaking to her. He had
no intention of giving up his suit. She had to realize the sheer idiocy of her
plan—if only because he needed a rich wife and she was far too wealthy a prize
to relinquish.