Seducing the Heiress (7 page)

Portia ignored
the jab. “I assure you, Mama, I feel perfectly fine.”

 

“I’m pleased to hear
it,” Mrs. Crompton said, taking another slice of toast from the platter offered
by a white-wigged footman. “I shouldn’t like for you to cancel your drive with
Albright this afternoon.”

 

“My drive? Oh . . . I’d nearly forgotten.”
Dismayed, Portia recalled that several days ago—a lifetime ago—she had agreed to
a carriage ride with the Duke of Albright. So much for her hope to spend the
afternoon finalizing every aspect of the plan with her sister.

 

Mrs. Crompton
slathered butter on her toast. “How could you possibly forget? The duke is more
attentive than any of your other suitors. And certainly the richest and most
important as well.”

 

Portia blinked. “The duke isn’t my suitor. He’s merely a
friend, a protector.”

 

“Is that what you think?” Mrs. Crompton laughed
indulgently. “Why, a man of his stature would never bother himself with a young
lady unless he had an eye on matrimony. Isn’t that so, Mr. Crompton?”

 

George
Crompton tore his gaze from the newspaper long enough to give Portia a fond
smile. “Quite. I understand the fellow is nearly as wealthy as the Regent. It
would please me greatly to see you betrothed to the duke, rather than one of
those other greedy pups.”

 

Portia couldn’t speak. Her gaze flew from him to
her mother, who was beaming proudly. Was it true? Had she misread the duke’s
kindness toward her? Dear God, she must have.

 

She wanted to protest that the
duke was more than
twice her age, that she viewed him
as a paternal figure, not a potential husband. But her parents looked so
delighted that the words lodged in her throat.

 

Everyone was gazing at her
expectantly. “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” she hedged.

 

“You need only
smile and look pretty,” her mother advised. “If you’ll make every effort to be
agreeable, darling, you’ll be a duchess by autumn.”

 

Portia regretted the
coddled eggs that lay sourly in her stomach. She glanced to her sister for
support, but Lindsey merely gave her a wry look of concern. Clearly, she, too,
considered the duke a more suitable husband than the son of a maharajah. Portia
couldn’t be angry at her sister. After all, Lindsey only wanted her to remain in
England with the family.

 

But Portia had never felt more alone, and she
suddenly longed for reassurance that she was doing the right thing. If only she
had received a letter from Arun . . .

 

A footman entered the breakfast room
and approached Portia’s father. “A visitor to see you, sir.”

 

George Crompton
rattled the newspaper impatiently. “I don’t take callers during
breakfast.”

 

“I’m sorry, but he asked specifically for you to be notified of
his presence at once.”

 

Ratcliffe. It has to be Ratcliffe.

 

Alarm
spurred Portia to sit up straight. Gripping the arms of her chair, she watched
as her father picked up a small pasteboard card from the silver salver held by
the footman. Frantic thoughts tumbled through her mind. Ratcliffe had lost no
time in approaching her father to ask for her hand in marriage. Papa would
refuse on her behalf, of course; he and Mama wanted her to wed the Duke of
Albright. Then, out of spite, Ratcliffe would reveal her secret plan to elope
with Arun.

 

Oh, why hadn’t the viscount come to her first? She
had expected him to threaten exposure in exchange for her
hand in marriage. She had anticipated having the chance to outwit him . .
.

 

Her father rose. “I’ll see him in my study.”

 

“No.”

 

Without
conscious decision, she was pushing back her chair, shooting to her feet,
hurrying to her father’s side. The footman jumped back to give her space. Seeing
everyone looking strangely at her, she gathered her composure. “You really
should finish your coffee, Papa. Whoever it is can wait.”

 

And then Portia
could go and eject Ratcliffe from the house.

 

Her father frowned distractedly.
He was looking at her mother, as if trying to convey a covert message—perhaps
that their daughter had suddenly gone mad. “It’s quite all right,” he told
Portia, patting her on the arm. “I’m through here.”

 

“But you can’t go yet,”
she blurted out. “Because . . .” Her mind went blank of excuses.

 

“Good
morning, everyone.” Blythe’s cheerful voice came from the doorway. “I hope you
don’t mind that I invited someone for breakfast. He was waiting in the foyer for
you, Papa.”

 

Portia spun around to see her sister glide into the room. Blythe
was dressed in pale green, her hair a mass of perfect auburn ringlets. Her hazel
eyes sparkled with mischief, causing Portia’s heart to jump into her throat. Oh,
she was going to
murder
her sister. It would be just like her to bring
the viscount here . . .

 

But the elderly man who shuffled into the doorway was
no one familiar.

 

Thin and stooped, he wore an ill-fitting brown coat and
old-fashioned knee breeches with buckled shoes. His bushy brows matched the
untidy mass of white hair
on his head. He turned a
battered top hat in his gnarled hands. With his deferential manner, he brought
to mind a tutor or perhaps a scholar.

 

The breath left Portia in a long
whoosh. How foolish of her. Of course Ratcliffe wouldn’t have played his hand so
swiftly. He was far more likely to toy with her as a cat teases a mouse.

 

Then
she noticed her mother staring at the visitor with an oddly intense look. The
impression vanished in an instant as Mrs. Crompton addressed her youngest
daughter, who stood at the buffet table, loading a plate with eggs and sausages.
“Blythe, dear,” she said in a firm tone.

 

“Yes, Mama?”

 

“I’ll see you in my
boudoir at once.”

 

“But I’m hungry—”

 

“Immediately.”

 

Pouting, Blythe
defiantly took her plate and sashayed out of the breakfast room. Portia hadn’t
the least sympathy that Blythe would face a scolding for her impetuous
invitation. Not after the scare she had given to Portia.

 

Rising, Edith
Crompton rounded the table and glided toward the stranger. “Sir, you must be
eager to conduct your business with my husband. You may talk in the
study.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

He slid a longing glance at the array of delicacies
on the buffet, then followed George Crompton out of the breakfast room. Mrs.
Crompton departed right after them, followed by Lindsey.

 

Left alone at the
table, Portia mulled over her mother’s rudeness. She couldn’t imagine what
business he had with Papa, but that was no reason to refuse the man sustenance.
Before they had moved to London, all English guests, no matter how humble, had
been invited to
dine with the family. That had been the
informal way of life she had known growing up near Bombay.

 

But here, the
aristocracy had strict rules about mingling with the lower classes. They kept
themselves sequestered as if they were more godlike than human. It made her all
the more determined to return to the freedom of India.

 

 

Edith stood at the
window of her boudoir, peering through the lace undercurtain that kept the room
dim and private. The streets around the square teemed with carriages and
horsemen, while ladies and gentlemen strolled the tidy green jewel of the park.
It was a sight she had craved to see during all those wretched years in India.
She had dreamed of residing in a stately home like this one, of acquiring the
vast wealth that would enable her to shed her common roots at last and take a
place in the elite society that ruled England.

 

But today, ambition foundered
beneath a stormy sea of anxiety.

 

She had ordered Blythe here for a scolding.
That task had been completed swiftly; then she had sent her youngest daughter
away, for once without a care for her saucy behavior. The poor girl didn’t know
the reprimand had been only a pretext. Edith’s true reason for coming up here
was to keep watch at the window.

 

She was just beginning to fidget when a
movement far below caught her attention. Their visitor was trudging down the
front steps. He hadn’t stayed more than fifteen minutes.

 

She gripped the
curtain, heedless of the fragile lace shredding under the pressure of her
fingernails. How had Percy Thornton learned of their arrival in England?

 

She
had recognized him at once. His hair had gone
completely white and his face now had a webwork of
wrinkles, but he was the same man who had once made her feel stupid and slow. He
had been the estate manager then, responsible for keeping the books and paying
the wages. She had resented his patronizing manner, the way he looked down on
those he considered less intelligent than himself.

 

She
was the clever
one now. As much as she would have liked to flaunt that fact in his face, she
hoped and prayed he hadn’t recognized her.

 

Feverishly, she studied Thornton’s
progress down the foot pavement. He didn’t look like a successful blackmailer;
there was no spring in his step or gloating grin on his face. Nevertheless, she
watched until he vanished around a corner. Then she hurried to the door,
intending to confront her husband.

 

George was already marching down the
corridor toward her. The grimness on his weathered face could have been worry or
just his usual grumpiness, she couldn’t tell.

 

“I knew you’d want a full
report,” he said gruffly. “So I came straight up here.”

 

Edith glanced up and
down the passageway to make sure no maids were lurking nearby, listening as
servants often did. Taking him by the sleeve, she yanked him into the boudoir.
She closed the door and leaned her back against it, grasping the handle to keep
her hands from shaking. “Hush, someone will hear you.”

 

“There’s no one
nearby.”

 

“Nevertheless, we must be extremely careful. So tell me, why on
earth did Percy Thornton come here?”

 

George shrugged. “To catch up on old
times, what else?”

 

Fraught with frustration, Edith itched to take hold of
his shoulders and shake him. “And? What did he say? What
did
you
say? Does he know—”

 

“He knows nothing. He inquired after my
health, that’s all. And he asked about my experiences in India. It was naught
more than a courtesy visit.”

 

“I find that hard to believe. He must have
wanted
something
.”

 

George hesitated, then said, “I believe he was
hoping for a pension. So I wrote him a bank draft for fifty guineas.”

 

“You
did
what
?” Edith lunged at her husband, seizing hold of his lapels. “How
idiotic can you be? You’ll rouse his suspicions. Don’t you realize that if you
give him money, he’ll keep coming round for more?”

 

Her attack made his face
darken. Jerking himself free, George slammed his fist onto the dressing table.
The glass bottles rattled and clashed, but he took no notice. “This is precisely
why I never wanted to return to England. We should have stayed in India where no
one would ever ask questions.”

 

Edith realized she had pushed him too far. In
a conciliatory tone, she said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shouted. And you
know full well why we had to come to London. It was for the sake of the
girls.”

 

“Was it?” he asked sharply. “Or did we really come here for you? So
that you could finally play the lady?”

 

Edith was too canny to deny it; he
knew her too well. “Be that as it may, Portia should be our main concern. She
nearly disgraced herself once already. You wouldn’t want anything to ruin her
chance at making an excellent marriage, now would you?”

 

As she’d hoped,
George’s anger crumbled at the mention of their eldest daughter. Portia had
always been his favorite, the apple of his eye. She was the one he had
taken for rides in the
palka-ghari
every Sunday,
the one who had accompanied him on his business trips to the maharajah’s palace.
If not for George, she would never have met that dark-skinned boy, the one who
had enticed her into an indiscretion. Edith shuddered to remember the shock of
finding them together, kissing and whispering in the darkness of the verandah.
It had taken swift action to avert a ruinous scandal, all because George had
indulged Portia with far too much freedom.

 

Thank God it was all over
now.

 

Edith’s only consolation was that her husband still suffered guilt for
his mistake. It had given her the ammunition to force him to move back to
England.

 

Heaving a sigh, he ran his fingers through the sparse brown hairs on
the top of his balding head. “You’re right, we must concentrate on what’s best
for her. But are you quite sure she favors Albright?”

 

George might be a
shrewd businessman, but he had no notion of how to arrange marriages. “Of
course—what girl wouldn’t wish to become a duchess? She’ll have a perfect life,
and our first grandson will be the heir to a dukedom. So long as
you
make
certain Thornton won’t cause any trouble for us.”

 

“He’s nothing,” George
assured her. “No one would take the word of that old pensioner over mine. I’ll
make certain of it.”

 

Edith smiled. Oh, how she loved wealth and the power it
brought. And with Portia a duchess, no one would ever again dare to close their
door to her. She would let nothing—and no one—stand in the way of her daughter’s
marriage to the Duke of Albright.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 5

 

As the
open landau entered the gates to Hyde Park, Portia tilted her head back to bask
in the sunlight. The warm rays felt wonderful after several weeks of rain and
gloomy skies. She breathed in the aromas of damp earth and new green foliage, so
fresh and different from the smells of her youth. If it wasn’t so improper, she
would have shed her bonnet and let the breeze flutter through her
hair.