Seducing the Heiress (8 page)

 

“Enjoying the balmy weather?” the Duke of Albright asked from beside
her.

 

She turned to see him smiling at her, his white-gloved hands wrapped
around the silver knob of his walking stick. The duke was the epitome of
elegance in a charcoal-gray coat and black trousers, with a dazzling white
cravat at his throat. A top hat covered his silvering dark hair.

 

It shook her
anew to think of him as her suitor. Especially since being with him like this
reminded her of the leisurely drives she’d taken with her father in India.
Perhaps her parents were reading too much into Albright’s attentiveness.
Perhaps, like her, he was interested only in passing the time with a pleasant
companion. Because if he had no need of her rich dowry, why would he court a
commoner when there were so many blue-blooded girls who would leap at the chance
to wed a duke?

 

The answer didn’t signify. It was too
beautiful a day to fret about the future. If ever he made her an offer of
marriage, she would simply find a gracious way to refuse him.

 

She returned
the duke’s fond smile. “It’s a lovely afternoon, indeed. Is it often so warm
here in the spring?”

 

“I’m afraid today is something of an anomaly for April,”
he said wryly. “That is why nearly all of London seems to be out on Rotten Row
enjoying the fine weather.”

 

A coachman in blue livery sat on the high perch
ahead of them, directing the landau toward a broad sandy avenue where carriages
and horsemen abounded. The aristocrats were out in full force, dressed in their
finery, to see and be seen. No one had better equipage than the duke, she
decided, from the silver crest on the polished black door to the two footmen
like statues standing at the rear. A set of perfectly matched grays pranced in
front, hooves clopping and harness jingling.

 

“Rotten Row,” she repeated.
“That’s such an odd name for so pretty a place.”

 

“Many years ago, this road
was used by the king to travel from St. James’s Palace to Kensington Palace. It
was known as
La Route du Roi
. Since the good people of England are famous
for their mispronunciation of French, it became known as Rotten
Row.”

 

Laughing at the story, she caught a glimpse of the waters of the
Serpentine. Children sailed toy boats along the edge, while their nannies
gossiped on benches. “Oh, look at the ducks, Your Grace. There, among the reeds.
Do you suppose we could stop?”

 

“If it pleases you, certainly.”

 

He gave a
brisk order to the coachman, who guided the landau onto the grassy verge. One of
the footmen hastened to open the half-door and let down the step. The duke went
out ahead of her, turning to offer his gloved hand to her in polite
assistance.

 

As he did so, she spied two familiar
faces in the stream of carriages. It was Mrs. Beardsley and her daughter
Frances, the breeze blowing their magnificently feathered bonnets. Both women
glared at Portia, only to smile obsequiously as the duke tipped his hat to them.
Aware that he was the most eligible bachelor in the ton, Portia couldn’t deny a
sense of petty satisfaction as she took hold of his arm.

 

If only they knew
how little she wanted him as a husband.

 

She rested the handle of her parasol
on her shoulder, resisting the urge to twirl it. The frilly white umbrella was a
bothersome accessory, but Mama had been firm. Portia was not to let her skin
become brown from the sun as she had done in India.

 

Chatting amiably, they
set off down the path that led to the river. When they arrived at the edge of
the Serpentine, she laughed in delight. A large russet duck glided through the
water while five bits of yellow fuzz paddled after it.

 

Enchanted, she
crouched down on the bank, wishing she could cuddle them in her hands. “It’s a
mother and her babies.”

 

“So it is,” the duke said indulgently, leaning on his
walking stick and smiling at her. “Mind you don’t dirty your gown,
though.”

 

Portia longed to kick off her shoes and wade into the murky water,
the better to see the ducks. Only the duke’s fastidious nature forestalled her.
He would be aghast at such uninhibited behavior. He comported himself with
perfect manners—unlike another nobleman she knew.

 

Viscount Ratcliffe would
have applauded her. And then he would have splashed into the water
himself.

 

The thought irritated her. They were not at
all
alike. He was
a scoundrel who would invade a lady’s bedchamber
and
steal whatever he pleased. She scoured the man from her mind, unwilling to let
even the thought of him spoil her day.

 

But fate intervened.

 

By ghastly
coincidence, Lord Ratcliffe appeared on the path alongside the river. He was a
fair distance away, strolling toward her, a woman clinging to his arm.

 

They
appeared to be deep in conversation.

 

Portia forgot all about the ducks. She
scrambled to her feet, only marginally aware of Albright rescuing her parasol as
it slipped from her shoulder. Her attention was glued to Ratcliffe and his
companion.

 

The woman wore a gown of vivid gold gauze that clung to her lush
curves. She was half turned so that her overflowing bosom pressed against
Ratcliffe’s arm. Loosely styled hair in a brassy shade of red draped one bare
shoulder. She looked like a lady—yet not.

 

Who was she?

 

Portia knew the
exact moment Ratcliffe spied her. He paused almost imperceptibly. Even from a
distance, she could feel the force of his scrutiny. His gaze moved over her
azure-blue gown with its demure bodice, lingering there a moment. Her skin
suddenly felt flushed, as if she’d been lying under the hot Indian sun rather
than standing in the cool shade of an English oak.

 

The duke’s hand tightened
on her arm. His face had gone hard and cold. “Ratcliffe. What a blight upon a
beautiful day.”

 

She asked the question that gnawed at her. “Do you know the
woman with him?”

 

“His cyprian, no doubt.”

 

“Cyprian?”

 

“His paramour.
Suffice it to say, she is the sort of tawdry female he prefers.” Albright patted
her hand. “But
never mind, my dear. You are much too
innocent to know of such sordid matters.”

 

Portia’s insides churned with dark
emotions. Shock, because she had never imagined that Ratcliffe would be so bold
as to walk in public with his mistress. Anger, because he had courted
her
the previous evening while the very next day sought the company of a fallen
woman. And curiosity, because she couldn’t help wondering what exactly they did
together behind closed doors.

 

The duke made no move to escort Portia back to
the landau. His hand firm around her upper arm in a proprietary manner, he
watched the approaching couple with narrowed eyes, almost as if he relished a
confrontation. He was always the consummate gentleman. How could he not be
mindful of the gossip if Portia were to be seen with the scandalous pair?

 

She
herself was anxious to leave, though not because of any potential disgrace.
Rather, she feared Ratcliffe might mention the note she had sent him that
morning, asking him to meet her at midnight in the garden at Lord Turnbuckle’s
ball. She couldn’t risk exposure of her plot to retrieve the miniature of
Arun.

 

“We must go at once,” she murmured. “I cannot associate with those
two.”

 

The duke gave a start as if he had been so intent, he had forgotten her
presence. “You’re quite right, of course,” he said, handing her the parasol. “We
should return to the landau lest his presence taint you.”

 

His
presence—not the woman’s?

 

As they started back up the path, Portia sensed a
revulsion in the duke that went beyond mere dislike. It was evident in his
tightened lips and wrathful steps. She hastened to keep pace with his strides.
“Why do you hate Lord Ratcliffe?”

 

“His behavior
offends me. There is much you don’t know about the rogue.”

 

“I know you
believe he murdered his father.”

 

“There can be no question of his
guilt.”

 

“But he was never convicted in a court of law. Were you particular
friends with his father—or with someone else in his family? Did you hear
something that wasn’t told to the judge about circumstances of the
death?”

 

The duke scowled, clearly displeased that she would question his
verdict. “The subject is not for your tender ears. However, if you wish further
proof of Ratcliffe’s wicked nature, then know this—he also keeps his mother
confined at his country estate.”

 

“Confined?” Portia asked in astonished
confusion. “Do you mean . . . locked up?”

 

“Perhaps not in so literal a sense.
But he refuses Lady Ratcliffe permission to come to London, to enjoy the simple
pleasures of visiting her dearest friends and going to the shops. So you can see
how he ill-treats the women in his life. You would be well advised to avoid
him.”

 

The news about his mother deeply disturbed Portia. Was he truly so
cruel? Although she disapproved of his low morals, he didn’t strike her as
having a cold, heartless nature. Was the duke mistaken in his information? Or
had she herself been too dazzled by Ratcliffe’s charm to recognize the depths of
his depravity?

 

She glanced back, but a stand of boxwoods hid him from her
view. She certainly
would
avoid him, but not because the duke commanded
it. Rather, it would be extremely foolish to associate with a rakehell like
Ratcliffe. He could entrap her in a compromising situation. Especially now that
he had the miniature in his possession.

 

But all that would soon
change.

 

Tonight.

 

 

 

“The place looks deserted,” Lindsey whispered. “The
viscount must have taken the bait.”

 

Portia huddled with her sister in the
shadows of a plane tree. A gust of wind stirred the leaves, making her grateful
for the warm cloak that covered her revealing gown. The night had turned cold
and blustery, the mild weather of the afternoon now only a distant
memory.

 

Across the street, Lord Ratcliffe’s residence loomed at the end of a
row of narrow town houses. The darkened windows revealed no sign of life.
Ratcliffe must have gone to the appointed rendezvous.

 

So why did she feel a
prickly sense of foreboding? All evening, she’d had the jittery sense of being
watched. It didn’t make sense because her plan thus far had gone off without a
hitch.

 

She had attended Lord Turnbuckle’s ball, dutifully dancing with a
number of eligible gentlemen, including the duke. At a quarter past eleven, she
had gone to her parents and pleaded a headache, convincing them to remain behind
to enjoy the festivities while the coachman took her home. Little did they know,
she had slipped out a side door and escaped around the corner, where Lindsey was
waiting inside a hired cab along with the necessary change of clothing. Portia
had slithered hastily out of her fancy ball gown while the cab drove them to
this shabby section on the outskirts of Mayfair.

 

“I certainly do hope he’s
gone,” she murmured. “I’d feel more confident if I’d actually seen him at Lord
Turn-buckle’s house.”

 

“He wouldn’t have been invited,” Lindsey said with a
sniff. “But if the rat could sneak into your bedchamber, you can be certain
he’ll also find a way to slip into the garden to meet you.”

 

Lindsey was
right. Ratcliffe needed Portia’s dowry, and he would seize any chance to catch
her alone and
charm her into marriage. While he waited
there in vain, however, she intended to invade his home and search for the
stolen miniature.

 

Lindsey was consulting her pocket watch, angling the face
to the dim light of the moon. “He’s supposed to be there at midnight. That’s
precisely nine minutes from now, so there’s no time to waste. Come, let’s find a
way inside.”

 

“What?” Alarmed, Portia grabbed her sister’s arm to drag her
back into the shadows. “You’re not going in with me. We agreed you’re to wait in
the cab.” The hired hack was parked out of sight at the far end of the
block.

 

“
You
agreed, not me.
I
would never commit myself to any
such craven act.”

 

“This isn’t a game, Linds. I’m handling the matter myself.
And that’s that.”

 

Lindsey’s pouting expression was visible through the
darkness. “I shan’t hide myself away while you brave all manner of danger. Do
you think me a coward, to flee at the merest hint of peril?”

 

Portia’s
agitation faded beneath a rush of fond humor. It was no wonder her sister
relished this act of skullduggery—she read far too many adventure stories. It
was partly Portia’s fault for always fetching her the latest books from the
lending library.