Seducing the Heiress

by Olivia Drake

  The knowledge filled her with revulsion.

  She had not gone to their rendezvous in Hyde Park. Rather, she had spent the following morning at the shops with her mother and two sisters, purchasing hats and gloves and other trivialities. She had chatted and smiled, all the while wondering how long Ratcliffe would wait for her, or if he was angered by her absence.

  Not that his reaction mattered. He had deceived her into believing him to be an honorable man. But he was just another greedy fortune hunter, a man who would stop at nothing to take what he wanted.

  In the past week, she had glimpsed him several times from a distance, once on the street as she was exiting her carriage. Ratcliffe had attempted to approach her, but she had turned a cold shoulder and hurried into the house. Then this afternoon, she was almost certain she had seen him watching her from behind a bookshelf at the lending library. If the Duke of Albright had not been present, she would have marched straight to Ratcliffe and ordered him to mind his own business.

  Lately, the duke had become her self-appointed protector, much to her mother’s delight. It rather suited Portia, too, for he was an easy companion, well versed in polite conversation and a formidable deterrent to Lord Ratcliffe’s advances.

  Nevertheless, the viscount unnerved her. He was too bold, too corrupt, too seductive. He was like a cobra, beautiful but deadly. And in character he was the precise opposite of Arun.

  Arun.

  Arun was the man she loved. They had become fast friends as children. While her father conducted business with Arun’s father, the maharajah of Mumbai, she and Arun had played together. She vividly remembered the first time she had met him, a grave little boy in a long white robe, flying a kite in the gardens of the palace. He had given her the string to hold; it was attached to a brilliant butterfly made of colored paper and fine bamboo. The kite had felt alive in her hands, and the delight of seeing it ride the currents of wind still glowed in her memory.

  If all went according to her plan, she would return to India at the end of the Season to be with Arun again. This time forever.

  She paced to the bedside table and opened the top drawer. From beneath the jumble of handkerchiefs and note cards and books, she drew out a small gold box, the lid encrusted with emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds in the form of a peacock. Using the tiny gold key on her bracelet, she opened the box.

  A single item lay nestled inside on a bed of blue velvet. It was an oval miniature of Arun. Cradling the painting in the palm of her hand, she held it beneath the light of a candle and studied his familiar features: the smooth dusky skin, the warm brown eyes, the noble bearing. Well educated by a series of English tutors, he had grown up in a magnificent white palace near the Crompton family home in Bombay.

  She had always been aware theirs was a forbidden love, although by tacit agreement they had seldom spoken of it. Rather, they had spent their days in the innocent pleasures of reading to each other in the shade of the banyan trees or sitting on the banks of Mahim Bay to watch the boats pass by and the women doing their laundry.

  She remembered the gentleness of their first kiss and then the shock of her mother’s discovery of them in the shadows of the verandah. Livid, Mrs. Crompton had banished Arun from their property and lectured Portia on the impropriety of her actions.

  “It’s disgraceful enough that you would allow such liberties,” she had ranted. “But with a native boy—!”

  “I love Arun,” Portia countered. “He loves me, too.”

  “Love! Have you no thought for your father’s good name? And what about your sisters? You’ll ruin all of us with your rash behavior.”

  “No, it won’t be that way. Arun is a prince. When we marry, people will have to accept us.”

  Her mother’s face turned white with fury. “I knew it was a mistake for your father to allow you such freedom. But enough is enough. You will not be permitted to dishonor this family.”

  No amount of impassioned arguments could sway her mother’s judgment. The incident had caused an explosive quarrel between her parents. Portia had cringed to hear them shouting at each other behind closed doors. The following day, Mrs. Crompton had directed an army of natives to pack the family’s belongings. To Portia’s horror, they were moving to England to take their rightful place in society.

  She had begged Arun to run away with her. But his father had been appalled by the notion of the high-caste prince marrying a foreigner. He, too, had prohibited the alliance, and Arun could not renounce his own principles by disobeying. He had assured her that in time, he could persuade the maharajah to accept the match. The British community would be scandalized, of course, but Portia didn’t care if she was shunned. She only wanted to be with the man who made her feel safe and loved, the man who had been her friend forever.

  She clasped the miniature to the bodice of her nightgown. Arun always had written to her without fail; this was the first time since her departure for England a year ago that his regular letter had not arrived.

  Struck by an awful fear, she groped for the bedpost and clung tightly to the cool mahogany. What if something dreadful had happened to Arun? What if he had fallen ill—or died?

  So many dangers abounded in India. Poisonous vipers. Vicious tigers. Rampaging elephants. And then there were the fatal diseases. It was not uncommon for a person to be healthy one day and dead of a fever the next.

  Shuddering, she placed the miniature on her pillow, unwilling to lock it away just yet. It would serve no purpose to worry. The missing correspondence was likely due to the vagaries of the mail system—a ship run aground, a voyage delayed. Surely there would be a letter next time, probably two at once.

  The trouble was, she would have to wait for an entire month until Kasi’s next half-day off. It was impossible for Portia to escape her mother’s watchful eye long enough to travel clear across London to the shipping office at the docks. And she dared not have the letters delivered to this house lest her parents discover her scheme to return to India.

  She went to the window and looked out into the night. It was damp and cold and gloomy. Here, there were no jackals skulking through the shadows, no buzz of crickets in the hot darkness. Had the moon been shining, she might have stepped out onto the balcony to gaze up at the stars. She and Arun had done so many times in India, finding the constellations and making up new ones to amuse themselves.

  On a whim, she went into her dressing room and stripped off her pale nightdress, leaving it in a puddle on the floor. The spacious chamber had built-in cabinetry that held an impressive collection of morning gowns and walking dresses, ball gowns and riding clothes. Undoubtedly her mother thought the sky would fall down if the premier heiress of the Season were to be seen in the same attire more than once.

  From the depths of a drawer, behind an assortment of corsets and petticoats, Portia pulled out a sari. A deep marigold hue spangled with tiny gold beads, the garment had been a going-away gift from Arun. When she held it to her nose, the faint scent of sandalwood clung to the fabric. She had seldom—never—worn a sari, but often enough had watched Kasi put one on.

  Relying on memory, she looped and draped the length of silk around herself, finally tucking the end into her waist. The dressing table had a wide variety of cosmetics, and she used a pot of rouge to apply a tiny ruby dot to her forehead. Going to her jewelry box, she added an array of gold bangles to her arms. Then she stood before the long pier glass and blinked in amazement. Had her skin been darker, she might have been mistaken for a native woman.

  How strange she looked, yet how familiar. A curious tug-of-war waged inside her, as if she had one foot planted in England and the other in India. Closing her eyes, she let herself wallow in memories of her childhood home. She remembered days so hot it took her breath away, a sky so bright blue it hurt the eyes, the raucous whistle of mynah birds in the trees. How she longed to feel the sun-baked earth beneath her bare feet again …

  A draft of cold air snapped her back to reality. It had come from her bedc
hamber; the fire must need tending. Shivering, she rubbed her bare arms. The sari was ill suited to the climate of England, and her mother would have an apoplectic fit if she caught Portia wearing it.

  But Mama and Papa were out for the night, and her sisters lay abed in their chambers at the end of the passageway. There was no one to stop Portia from indulging in a bit of fantasy. So she imagined herself a bride on her wedding night. Arun would be waiting in the next room, ensconced in her bed. She knew a little about intimate relations, having eavesdropped on the frank talk between native servants, although when she tried to envision herself doing that with her childhood friend, the image failed to materialize.

  No matter. She would sit by the fire and dream about Arun holding her close again, gently kissing her …

  Smiling, she floated into her bedchamber. Shock brought her to an abrupt halt. A strangled gasp choked her throat.

  In the chair by the fire, his boots propped on a footstool, sat Viscount Ratcliffe.

  CHAPTER 3

  WATCHING HER INTENTLY, he held up his hand. “Don’t scream—please. I mean you no harm.”

  Portia didn’t scream, not because he had said so but because she was horrifyingly aware that no one would hear her. Her parents would be out until the wee hours, her sisters were asleep in their rooms far down the corridor, and the servants were either in their attic bedchambers or in the basement workrooms.

  But a footman remained on duty downstairs in the entrance hall.

  Heart pounding, she made a dash for the door, prepared to cry out for help. The knob refused to turn. She frantically rattled it, shoving at the white-painted panel.

  “It’s locked,” Ratcliffe said, holding up the skeleton key that usually rested in the keyhole. “A mere precaution.”

  Frightened and furious, she spun to face him. “How dare you!”

  “I’d dare quite a lot to see you, Miss Crompton. When you didn’t attend Lady Mortimer’s soiree tonight, I had to resort to drastic measures.”

  What was he doing here? Had he gone mad?

  Portia considered lunging at him, wresting the key out of his hand. Then she bitterly acknowledged his superior strength. If she gave him half a chance, he could easily grab her.

  Her only hope was to summon a maid by tugging on the bellpull. But the gold cord hung near the fireplace. It was impossible to reach it without risking capture. Nor were there any handy weapons in the bedchamber—except for the fireplace poker which was propped beside him against the mantel.

  “How did you get past the footman?” she demanded.

  “I climbed up the trellis.”

  He waved to the balcony doors. Portia flicked a glance there to see the doors slightly ajar. No wonder she’d felt a draft of cold air … although she hadn’t heard a sound. How had he even known which bedchamber belonged to her? He must have spied her as she’d stood at the window a short while ago. Under different circumstances, she might have marveled at his resourcefulness.

  But not tonight, not when she was alone, not when he had her at a deadly disadvantage.

  In her iciest tone, she stated, “Get out.”

  “I mean you no harm,” he repeated in a soothing tone, dropping the key into an inner pocket of his dark green coat. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll remain right here in this chair.”

  “I don’t want you here at all. Now go.”

  He made no move to obey. “I only wish to talk. You have my word.”

  “Your word. You, a man who would sneak into my house in the middle of the night. But I don’t suppose that is anything unusual to someone of your wicked character.”

  “I vow I’ve never before entered a lady’s bedchamber without her permission.”

  The gleam in his green eyes unnerved her. He lounged in the chair as if he were a friend come to share a cozy chat. He was smiling, his manner disarming, his black hair tousled and damp with mist. His skin was swarthy against the stark white of his cravat, and a trace of whiskers shadowed his lean cheeks. Under the force of his scrutiny, she grew aware of her nakedness beneath the silk sari.

  Deep within her, something dark and disturbing stirred to life.

  She smothered it viciously. Colin Byrd was a rogue who seduced women. Worse, he was a killer who had shot his own father under mysterious circumstances.

  Willing her teeth not to chatter, she said, “Why are you here? State your business and be gone.”

  “First things first.” He reached to the piecrust table beside him. “I brought you a gift.”

  He tossed something underhand, and she caught it by reflex. Startled, she found herself holding a stalk of lush purple flowers, each one the size of her fist. “Orchids?”

  “I thought you might like them. That variety is native to India.”

  Portia had seen such blooms growing in the jungle, the plants clinging to the branches of trees. He couldn’t possibly have known of her love for them. Yet none of her other suitors had bothered to consider her likes and dislikes. They brought her English roses and French bonbons and expected her to launch into rhapsodies of gratitude.

  It wouldn’t happen now, either.

  She dropped the stalk on a nearby table. In a tone heavy with sarcasm, she said, “You cannot really think to dazzle me with flowers, my lord.”

  “One can always hope.” Grinning, he looked down at the orange and black striped fur beneath his feet. “So this is the famous tigerskin rug.” With languid fingers, he stroked the feline’s head, its glass eyes staring and its sharp-toothed mouth open in a perpetual snarl. “I understand you shot the beast yourself. Will you tell me about it?”

  The request startled Portia. Where had he learned of that? Did he really have acute hearing as he’d claimed at the Duke of Albright’s ball? No, the account she had told to Mrs. Beardsley and the others must have reached his ears through gossip.

  She would not permit him to turn this invasion of her privacy into a social visit. “I’ve no interest in chitchat. I’m ill, that’s why I stayed home tonight.”

  “You appear in the pink of health to me.” His gaze sweeping over her, he went on, “If I may add, you look extremely fetching. What is that garment you’re wearing?”

  “A sari. Now that’s enough questions. You may call on me at a more appropriate time and place.”

  “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 c
atch 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.”