Seducing the Heiress

by Olivia Drake

  He took a quick step to block her departure. “Viscount Ratcliffe, at your service. Otherwise known to my friends as Colin Byrd. There, I am no stranger to you now.”

  It was hardly a proper introduction. But he was a peer, so surely her mother wouldn’t object to her bending the rules. And Portia did so want to loiter in his company. There was a compelling aura about Viscount Ratcliffe that drew her interest like a lodestone. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord.”

  She offered him her hand, intending for him to shake it. Instead, he bent down and the brush of his lips on her bare skin stirred a flurry of goose bumps. Once again, she found herself breathless.

  “It’s my pleasure,” he said. “And you are … ?”

  She hesitated, reluctant to surrender anonymity. “Miss Portia Crompton.”

  “Ah, the new arrival from India. I’m happy to discover the rumors of your beauty are no exaggeration.” He playfully fingered the dainty gold bracelet on her wrist. “Is this the key to your heart?”

  Startled, she jerked her hand free. If only he knew.

  His silky tone and warm smile betrayed no surprise that he was conversing with the wealthiest heiress on the marriage mart. Had he known her identity all along? Had he lobbed that strawberry in order to draw her attention from his rivals?

  The thought stirred a sharp disappointment in her. Lord Ratcliffe must be just another gentleman who lavished compliments in the hopes of claiming her rich dowry. She ought to take her leave, yet perversely she lingered. “Why did you call Mrs. Beardsley a hypocrite?”

  “Because she was looking down her nose at you. It’s rather ironic considering the dark secret in her past.”

  “Secret?”

  “Not gossip, but an irrefutable fact.” Lord Ratcliffe aimed a roguish wink at her. “Come closer and I’ll tell you.”

  Without thinking, Portia found herself taking a step toward him, rising slightly on tiptoes, inhaling the spicy scent of his cologne. Eagerness tingled in her. It was absurd to react as if he were a snake charmer playing his pungi. But he made her so … so curious. “What is it?”

  He bent down to whisper in her ear, his breath warm on her skin. “Mrs. Beardsley isn’t the blue blood she would have you believe. Her grandfather was a fishmonger at Billingsgate Market.”

  The amusement Portia had been repressing all evening bubbled forth. “Truly? Oh, I shouldn’t laugh. My father is a merchant, too.”

  “So he is. And I can only think highly of a man who has raised so lively a daughter.” Taking hold of her arm, Lord Ratcliffe said, “It’s far too noisy in here, don’t you agree? Come, let’s find a quiet corner and you can tell me all about yourself.”

  Just like that, he steered her toward the arched doorway. His nearness invigorated her, and she felt a burning desire to talk about him. What were his favorite pursuits? Where was his home? Who were his family? How swiftly a sense of camaraderie had formed between them, yet Portia knew next to nothing about him.

  Certainly she liked his sense of humor. He was clever and charming and handsome. If she had to endure a Season in London society, she might as well pass the time with amusing companions. The prospect filled her with giddy anticipation.

  From the ballroom came the inharmonious sounds of the orchestra tuning their instruments. The high drama of Mrs. Beardsley’s mishap had passed, and streams of guests were leaving the supper room to join the next set.

  As the viscount guided her to the edge of the throng, Portia noticed people staring at them, gentlemen frowning and women whispering behind their fans. Lord Ratcliffe nodded at a few without stopping to talk. Somehow, she had the distinct impression it was he who had drawn their interest, not she.

  Or was it just her imagination?

  His hand firmed around her upper arm. Pulling her to an abrupt halt, he muttered under his breath, “Blast.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Then Portia spied her mother sailing toward them against the tidal flow of the crowd. A petite woman with a girlish figure untouched by time, Mrs. Edith Crompton wore a fashionable gown in a rich royal blue with a low-cut neck and short sleeves. A peacock feather bobbed and swayed in her upswept russet hair. She ruled the house with relentless vigor. Portia’s father fondly referred to her as his little tigress, and at the moment, Portia could tell by the set expression on her face that she was perturbed. Very perturbed.

  “It’s my mother,” she said, bracing herself for battle. “She’ll want to meet you.”

  “Not if Albright has any say in the matter.”

  Only then did Portia notice the man at her mother’s side. The sea of guests parted to allow him passage. A middle-aged man with silver at his temples, the duke was the epitome of sophistication in a gray silk coat, black waistcoat and breeches, and a diamond stickpin glinting in his white cravat. He strode forward with the authority of one who has known since birth of his exalted stature.

  His alliance with her mother confused Portia. Upon her arrival in the vast entrance hall, she had made the obligatory curtsy to the duke in the long receiving line, a chore for her and a triumph for her parents. He had uttered a perfunctory greeting, hardly seeming even to notice the obeisance of yet another debutante.

  Why did he look so intent on her now?

  Lord Ratcliffe bent to whisper in her ear. The warmth of his breath sent a delicious shiver over her skin. “Meet me in Hyde Park at ten tomorrow morning,” he said. “I’ll be waiting in the small temple near the Serpentine. Do you know the place?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Please, I must see you again. At least promise you’ll try.”

  His urgent manner mystified her. “All right.”

  Then the duke and her mother stopped before them. The other guests gave them wide berth, while casting inquisitive glances their way.

  Lord Ratcliffe seemed oblivious to any watchers. He radiated cool charisma as he inclined his head. “Albright. And Mrs. Crompton, I understand. May I say you have a most charming daughter.”

  “That’s enough, Ratcliffe,” Albright snapped. “I don’t recall seeing your name on the list of invitations.”

  “An oversight, I’m sure.”

  “Hardly. You aren’t wanted here. I won’t have my guests consorting with murderers.”

  The breath seared Portia’s throat. Try as she might, she couldn’t draw air into her lungs. Several gasps and excited murmurs came from the onlookers. But her gaze remained fixed on Lord Ratcliffe. He was still smiling, though his lips now formed a tight line.

  He arched an eyebrow. “You always knew how to spoil a party, Albright. I’ll see myself to the door.”

  After bowing to the ladies, the viscount walked away, as casually as if he were going for a stroll in the park. Portia stood frozen, stunned that he had made no attempt to deny the duke’s outrageous statement.

  A murderer?

  It couldn’t possibly be true.

  Edith Crompton looped her arm through Portia’s, her manner sweetly conciliatory. “Pray forgive my daughter, Your Grace. She had no notion of the man’s scandalous reputation.”

  Albright gave a crisp nod. “She wouldn’t be the first to be taken in by that scoundrel. He’s a notorious philanderer.” He addressed Portia directly. “As your host, I must apologize for Ratcliffe’s intrusion here. I would advise that in the future you stay far away from him.”

  “I’ll make certain she does,” Mrs. Crompton said swiftly. “May I add, we are most grateful for your intervention. Aren’t we, my dear?”

  Her mother applied subtle pressure to her arm, but Portia needed no prompting to speak. She craved answers to her burning questions. “If Lord Ratcliffe is guilty of murder, why is he not in prison?”

  “The coward convinced the courts it was an accident—even though he had a powerful motive.”

  “Who did he kill?”

  “Shush, darling, we mustn’t upset His Grace any further—”

  The duke silenced Mrs. Crompton with a
wave of his beringed fingers. “It’s quite all right. It would benefit her to know.” He regarded Portia, his elegant features grave and unforgiving. “Ratcliffe had ruinous gaming debts. And to gain his inheritance, he shot his own father.”

  CHAPTER 2

  COLIN STOOD NEAR the rear of the lending library. From his position behind a bookshelf, he had a clear view of the door. The place reeked of ink and leather bindings and perfume. Ladies strolled here and there, browsing the shelves, murmuring to one another, or signing out their choices at the front desk. He plucked out a volume at random and opened it while furtively monitoring the arrival and departure of the patrons.

  Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a lending library. It was the domain of ladies—and the few gentlemen prissy enough to accompany them. But Miss Portia Crompton had a habit of coming here every other afternoon. And he had been reduced to spying on her from a distance as she went about her daily activities.

  In the fortnight since they had met, he had been frustrated in his every effort to court her again. He had gone to her house several times, only to be turned away by a stone-faced butler. He had finagled his way into several more social gatherings, but always her mastiff of a mother was lurking nearby, along with the usual horde of suitors. On the few occasions when he had managed to approach Portia, she had frozen him with a glance and walked away.

  Obviously, she believed all the nasty tales about him that the ton delighted in circulating. By his own design, she and everyone else had no way of distinguishing truth from falsehood. Damn it, he needed the chance to charm her—and her money—into marriage.

  “Rat? I say, is that you?”

  Colin bit back a curse. Beside him stood a man in a putrid yellow waistcoat, olive-green coat, and dirt-brown knee breeches. His sandy hair showed signs of receding and his body was stouter than when they had attended Eton more than a decade ago. They had been fast friends back then, comrades in tomfoolery. But damned if he hadn’t chosen an inconvenient time to pop up again.

  “Turnbuckle. Always the epitome of bad fashion, I see.”

  “And you, Ratcliffe, are looking as ratty as ever.” Clapping Colin on the shoulder, the Earl of Turnbuckle laughed at his own lame jest. “Odd place to find you, old fellow. No dice or cards or”—he lowered his voice—“beautiful hussies.”

  Colin kept half his attention on the door. “I enjoy a good book every now and then.”

  “What’s that you’re reading?” Turnbuckle stooped to examine the title, then chortled. “The Mysteries of Udolpho? Since when have you taken an interest in gothic romances?”

  “I was curious to see what all the ladies were reading. As I suspected, it’s worthless drivel.” Colin clapped the book shut and shoved it back onto the shelf. “How about yourself. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m escorting my wife, Marianne. There, in the straw bonnet.” He nodded to the elfin brunette who leaned against a column a short distance away. Obviously increasing beneath her maroon gown, she had her nose stuck in a book. “Ever since I succumbed to the leg shackle last autumn, she’s delighted in dragging me hither and yon. At least the lending library is better than the dress-makers and milliners.”

  Despite the complaint, Turnbuckle wore an idiotic grin when he gazed at his wife. The change in him confounded Colin. Was that what marriage did to a man, turned him from a freewheeling bachelor into a panting dog? He himself had no intention of ever being led around on a leash by any female.

  But he did intend to wed. He must do so soon out of necessity to pay his crushing debts. For that reason, he had chosen Portia Crompton as his bride. She had proven to be a delightful surprise with her sparkling manner and luscious beauty. And although he intended to coax her into falling in love with him, he had no interest in romantic delusions himself—except when it served his purpose.

  Given half a chance, he was confident he could keep her very happy without surrendering his own autonomy. She had fire beneath all that ice. He needed only the opportunity to fan the flames, and then she would be his.

  He entertained a vivid fantasy of them naked in bed, of suckling her breasts while she rode him with unbridled lust. Yes, it would be quite enjoyable to teach such an innocent all the wicked ways a woman could please a man.

  “I say, is that the famous Miss Crompton?”

  For one disconcerting moment, Colin thought Turnbuckle had read his private thoughts. Then a movement near the front door caught his attention. A new arrival had just entered the library.

  Portia Crompton.

  The coffee-colored pelisse over a rich amber gown accentuated her feminine curves. She was tall and slender, and he feverishly speculated on the long legs beneath the layers of petticoats. A stylish hat adorned with a spray of quail feathers drew attention to her fine features and upswept brown hair. How he would love to unpin that prim bun, to undress her bit by bit, kissing all the soft places he uncovered—

  A man stepped in behind her. An older man in a dark tailored coat. Albright. He was handing a black umbrella to a hovering attendant.

  Disbelieving anger struck Colin. He had seen the duke dance with Portia at several parties. But fulfilling a polite obligation was a far cry from escorting the woman about her daily routine.

  What the devil was his purpose?

  The answer hit Colin in a white-hot flash. Albright was courting Portia on purpose. Because he had witnessed Colin’s interest in her. And he had guessed how desperately Colin needed her dowry.

  His fingers locked into fists. By God, he would throttle that bastard with his bare hands.

  He started to surge out from behind the bookcase, but Turnbuckle stepped squarely to block his passage. “Don’t do it.”

  Colin glared in fury. “Get out of my way.”

  “Keep your voice down, man.” Turnbuckle’s expression took on a shrewd look. “I heard about the altercation at Albright’s ball. That he stopped you from luring Miss Crompton away and ravishing her.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

  “Right. Well, believe this: if you start a brawl in a library, you’ll never win her hand.”

  A glimmer of sanity forced its way into Colin’s brain. He raked his fingers through his hair. He didn’t want to admit it, but Turnbuckle had a point. “Damn him. He’s more than twice her age.”

  The earl chuckled. “Since when has that mattered in noble alliances? Albright needs an heir. Her parents wish to buy her a title and they could scarcely do better.”

  The lady in question was gazing straight at the bookcase behind which Colin stood. He stared back through the narrow opening, almost certain that the shelves concealed his identity from her view.

  He didn’t understand what Turnbuckle found so amusing. Maybe that was another way marriage spoiled a man; it made him gloat to see his single friends forced into the thorny brambles of courtship.

  Albright was opening a thick tome and showing it to Portia. She listened to him attentively, nodding her head now and then. The duke had the air of a courteous, obliging suitor who had her best interests at heart.

  Like hell. She had no notion of his conniving nature. Only Colin—and his mother—knew the truth about Albright.

  Turnbuckle planted a commiserating hand on Colin’s shoulder. “Never fear, all is not lost. There’s another factor that influences the marriage game.”

  “Lust.”

  The earl laughed. “There is that. But I was referring to the lady’s wishes. It seems you’ll just have to find a clever way to steal her heart.”

  “So sorry, no letter,” Kasi said, spreading her hands wide to show her withered brown palms.

  Portia frowned at her old ayah, who stood in the doorway of the bedchamber. The short, leathery-skinned woman wore a brilliant orange sari beneath a drab cloak, from which wafted the damp scent of rain. A peacock blue scarf covered the knob of gray hair on her head. Behind her, candlelight flickered in wall sconces along the opulent passageway. It was p
ast ten in the evening, and Kasi had just returned from her half-day off.

  Portia should have been dancing tonight at Lady Mortimer’s soiree. It had taken considerable persuasion to convince Mama to let her remain at home. She’d had to pretend a scratchy throat and a fit of coughing that was certain to repel all of her suitors. In reality, Portia had wanted to be here when Kasi returned. The letter she was expecting from India was much too important to miss.

  But her scheming had been for naught.

  “Nothing?” she asked in dismay. “Did you check directly with Mr. Brindley, not one of his underlings?”

  Kasi nodded. “I ride in cab, go to docks like always. But no letter.” Her brown eyes somber, she shook a finger as she’d done countless times during Portia’s childhood. “I know what happen, missy.”

  “What?”

  “You not do as I say, you not pray to Rama and Sita. That is why Maharaj Arun forsake you.”

  “Arun hasn’t forsaken me.” Lips compressed, Portia fished in her pocket for a coin, which she handed to the servant. “And you know full well I can’t pray to your gods. Mama would have a fit. Now, thank you and good night.”

  As the door closed behind the muttering servant, Portia paced the length of her bedchamber, taking little notice of the plush carpet beneath her bare feet or the luxurious blue and gilt furnishings. She fretted over what Kasi had said. Had she really faded from Arun’s mind? Had he forgotten the vow they had made to each other on the night before she had set sail for England a year ago?

  Impossible. Or was it?

  After all, she herself had been guilty of forgetting him, if only momentarily. It had happened a fortnight ago at the Duke of Albright’s ball when she had fallen under the spell of Viscount Ratcliffe.

  The memory made Portia blush with shame. She had been on the brink of going off with him, of letting him lure her away from the other guests. Heaven only knew what might have happened if fate had not intervened in the form of the Duke of Albright and her mother. Beneath his polished exterior, Ratcliffe was a ruthless, unprincipled scoundrel. Whether by accident or deliberate malice, he had caused the death of his own father.