Seducing the Heiress (6 page)

 

Perhaps if he waited outside for a bit, the visitor would go
away. He doubted Portia would betray his presence, especially considering the
volatile secret he now knew about her.

 

But he had taken only one step toward
the balcony when the passageway door swung open. Two girls in white nightgowns
burst into the bedchamber.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 4

 

Portia
seldom saw her sisters speechless. But she did now.

 

Blythe had entered first,
of course. As the youngest, she considered it her right to do as she pleased,
even if it meant invading a bedroom without an invitation. Spying the man
standing beside Portia, she stopped short and stared.

 

Lindsey, the middle
sister and the tallest of the three, barreled straight into Blythe. For once
they didn’t squabble over who had caused the collision. They were too busy
ogling Lord Ratcliffe.

 

Portia longed to sink into the floor. She bitterly
regretted inducing him to unlock the door. Had he not done so, she would have
had the chance to hide him from sight. How in the world was she to explain his
presence here?

 

Blythe recovered first. Short and curvaceous, she patted her
coppery hair, which was tied up in rags to create the wavy curls that came
naturally to her sisters. Of the three, she looked the most like their mother.
“I couldn’t sleep. Linds and I were going down to the drawing room to fetch a
deck of cards when we heard voices.”

 

“More specifically, a
man’s
voice,” Lindsey corrected. Always a stickler for rules, she frowned accusingly
at Portia while eyeing her sari. “Why are you dressed like that? And who is
he
?”

 

Portia was keenly aware of how damning
the scene must look. She decided it was best to ignore the question about her
garb. “This is Viscount Ratcliffe. Lord Ratcliffe, my sisters, Blythe and
Lindsey.”

 

As if they were in a ballroom, Lord Ratcliffe bowed deeply from the
waist. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I can see that beauty is a family
trait.”

 

Blythe giggled like a seasoned coquette instead of the barely
fifteen-year-old schoolgirl she was. “How generous of you to say so, my lord,
since we’re hardly dressed for company.”

 

“Ratcliffe?” Lindsey muttered,
pulling the edges of her nightgown close around her neck. “I should like to know
why
he’s
in your bedchamber.”

 

“He came to . . . to give me something.”
Portia cast about for an excuse, then snatched up the stalk of orchids from the
table. “This.”

 

Blythe clasped her hands to the bosom of her nightdress. “Oh,
famous. They’re
beautiful.
Exactly like the ones Patel used to fetch from
the jungle.”

 

Lindsey looked unimpressed. “They should have been delivered at
a more suitable time and place.”

 

“I’ve already told Lord Ratcliffe exactly
that,” Portia said. “He oughtn’t to have come here. He needs to leave at
once.”

 

“As you wish,” he said in a suspiciously meek tone. “Oh, but I seem to
have dropped my pocket watch.”

 

He casually sauntered back to the fireplace to
pick up the gold-framed miniature of Arun, half-hidden by the arm of the chair.
Her sisters fell for the ruse, much to Portia’s relief. Although they knew about
Arun, they—like her parents—believed she had put the youthful indiscretion
behind her. They had no inkling of her plan to return to India and become his
bride.

 

In the next breath, Portia realized that Ratcliffe was
heading toward the balcony door with the miniature hidden
in the palm of his hand.

 

Alarmed, she went flying after him. “I’ll see him
out,” she told her sisters over her shoulder.

 

She caught up to him as he
opened the door. In her haste, she brushed against him. The feel of his
hard-muscled form caused a tingling rush of awareness in her. Portia rubbed her
arms, wishing she could blame the irksome reaction on the chilly
air.

 

Glancing at her sisters to make sure they couldn’t overhear, she
whispered, “The miniature. I want it back.”

 

A calculating smile touched his
lips. “I’m sure you do. However, I don’t stand a chance of winning your heart if
you’re mooning over another man.”

 

“You don’t stand a chance regardless.”
Though he towered over her, she stood her ground, thrusting out her hand. “Now
give it to me at once.”

 

“You look as if you’d like to claw my eyes out. Pray
remember it wouldn’t be wise to create a scene in front of your sisters.”

 

He
was right. She didn’t want Lindsey and Blythe to witness her wrestling him for
the miniature. Besides, if they saw the painting, they would discover that Arun
remained a shining part of her future.

 

Ratcliffe lifted her hand to his
mouth, and the warm brush of his lips tickled her skin. It set off a scandalous
heat in the depths of her body. “Forget about him,” he murmured, his voice deep,
soft, velvety. “Dream of me tonight.”

 

Shaken by his audacity, Portia yanked
her hand free and stepped back in an instinctive effort to put distance between
them. As she did so, he tucked the miniature in an inner pocket of his coat,
then strode out onto the night-darkened balcony. He grasped hold of the stone
railing, vaulted over the side, and vanished from sight.

 

She flew to the balcony. “Wait,” she cried out.

 

But he
was already a dark shadow at the bottom of the rose trellis. He turned, gave her
a jaunty wave, then went loping off into the gloom of the garden, where the
trees soon hid him from sight.

 

Her tongue brimmed with unladylike curses.
Blast him, blast him to
hell.
Dream of him? She would sooner dream of the
devil himself!

 

A panicky thought displaced her fury. He alone knew her
secret; he alone had the proof of her devotion to Arun. If Ratcliffe tried to
blackmail her, threatened to tell her parents . . .

 

She realized that Blythe
stood beside her, peering out into the darkness. “Is
that
how Lord
Ratcliffe reached your bedchamber, by climbing up the trellis?” she asked in
awe. “How very romantic! Why, it’s like something out of a storybook.”

 

“It’s
appalling, that’s what,” Lindsey said, marching over to join them. She pulled
them both back inside, then shut the balcony door with a decisive bang. “Had we
not arrived when we did, he might have murdered our sister in her bed.”

 

“Oh,
bah,” Blythe said with a wave of her hand. “You always think the worst of
people.”

 

“
I
have the good sense to be cautious. And I’ve heard talk
about Lord Ratcliffe from the servants, that he shot his own father in cold
blood.” Lindsey gripped Portia’s arm and gazed searchingly at her. “Do you
suppose he had a pistol just now?”

 

“No! Of course not.” Portia didn’t want to
give her sister any more fodder for suspicion. “He . . . he wishes only to court
me. For my dowry, of course.”

 

“How can you be certain? I shall report the
matter to Papa the instant he arrives home.”

 

“And then Papa will make Lord
Ratcliffe wed you,”
Blythe added. Clasping her hands to
her bosom, she sighed. “He’s so handsome and dashing, only think how the other
ladies will envy you!”

 

Portia rolled her eyes, then turned to Lindsey. “Do
you see what will happen if you tell? I’ll be forced into marriage. And
Ratcliffe is a scoundrel—he would make a deplorable husband. So you must both
promise me you’ll keep silent.”

 

Her sisters glanced at each other, Lindsey
clearly troubled and Blythe just as clearly disappointed. Much to Portia’s
relief, however, they both nodded. At least she knew she could trust
them.

 

Needing time to think, she shooed them out of the bedchamber.
Then she paced to the fireplace and used the poker to brutally stir the coals,
causing the flames to hiss and dance. The action failed to calm her volatile
mood.

 

Now that Ratcliffe had stolen the miniature from right under her nose,
he had her in his power. He could threaten to go to her father with the evidence
of her duplicity. He could claim the picture had fallen out of her reticule,
that he had coaxed her into telling him the truth, that she planned to return to
India at the end of the Season. Her parents would be furious, heartbroken, and,
worst of all, disappointed in her. They would keep her under lock and key until
she married an English lord according to their wishes.

 

The alternative would
be to submit to Ratcliffe’s blackmail and accept
him
as her husband.
Either way, she would lose Arun forever.

 

Despair washed over her. What was
she to do now? In one fell swoop, Ratcliffe had ruined everything. Unless . .
.

 

Her mind working feverishly, Portia set down the poker and straightened her
shoulders. Unless she could figure out a way to steal the miniature back from
him.

 

 

 

 

By
breakfast the next day, Portia had settled on a plan. It was risky, it was
dangerous, but it just might work. The only trouble was, the scheme would be
difficult to manage without help—and she needed more than Kasi’s assistance this
time. So after much agonized reflection, Portia had decided to take Lindsey into
her confidence.

 

Her sister was shocked to learn that Portia intended to leave
England and marry Arun. She had argued vehemently against it. But regardless of
her disapproval, she did agree that Portia needed to retrieve the miniature and
had offered several sound suggestions on how to do so.

 

Now, they sat at the
breakfast table with their parents. Always tardy, Blythe had not yet come
downstairs to join them. At one end of the white-draped table, Edith Crompton
spread orange marmalade on her toast, while at the other end, George Crompton
sat reading the newspaper as a footman discreetly removed the china dish
containing the remains of his kippers and eggs.

 

The scenario was so familiar
that a lump formed in Portia’s throat. For as far back as she could remember,
the family had always eaten breakfast together. Of course in India, they would
have been feasting on mangoes and bananas with
naan,
and the air would
have been scorching hot, with a
punka
turning overhead, the fan operated
by a native boy sitting on the other side of the wall.

 

Yet she couldn’t deny
that the present moment had a certain heartfelt coziness, too, with a fire
blazing in the hearth and the watery English sunlight trickling past the tall
blue draperies.

 

You’re giving up everything, your life, your country, your
family. Once you act on this foolishness, there’ll be no turning
back.

 

Using her fork, Portia stabbed a strawberry on her plate. Ratcliffe
had had no right to express any opinions
on her
actions. She knew her own mind, and if she wished to wed a chimney sweep and
live in a hovel, it was no concern of his. He was a scoundrel who only wanted
her dowry—

 

“Darling, did you hear me?”

 

Portia started, realizing her
mother was staring at her. “I’m sorry, I must have been woolgathering.”

 

“I
was just saying that seventeen gentlemen asked after you yesterday evening.
Seventeen!” A satisfied smile on her face, Mrs. Crompton addressed her husband.
“Mr. Crompton, didn’t I tell you Portia would be an unqualified
success?”

 

Stout and balding, George Crompton looked every inch the prosperous
businessman in his dark coat and white cravat. A pair of reading glasses was
perched on the end of his nose. He groped for his coffee cup without looking up
from his newspaper. “I’m sure you’re right, my dear.”

 

“Of course I’m right.
And Portia, you’ve had nearly twenty bouquets delivered already this morning.
Everyone was terribly concerned when I told them you were indisposed.”

 

“Thank
you, Mama. My cold is ever so much better today.”

 

Portia had made a
miraculous recovery because she needed to attend Lord Turnbuckle’s ball tonight.
At Lindsey’s suggestion, she had already sent Kasi to Ratcliffe’s town house
with a note inviting him to a rendezvous in Turnbuckle’s garden. Ratcliffe would
take the bait, she was sure of it. The knave would believe he had achieved his
purpose, to make her cowed by his treachery and ready to do his
bidding.

 

Little did he know how sorely he’d underestimated her.

 

“Are you
quite certain you’re well?” Her mother peered closely at Portia. “You’re looking
a bit flushed.”

 

“It’s the flush of good health,”
Lindsey said, giving Portia a meaningful glance. “She’s adjusting very nicely to
the climate of England. After all, this is where she belongs.”