by Olivia Drake
The ogre continued to block the doorway. He glanced past her, peering into the night. “Where is the master? Why didn’t he come with ye?”
“He wanted to finish up a card game with his friends, so he sent me ahead to prepare myself for him.”
She had only a vague idea of what preparation a night of passion might entail, but she was desperate to make the ogre cease his questions. Although it was hardly the same circumstances, her own father never discussed private female concerns. The slightest reference to such matters would cause him to disappear into his study or to bury himself in his newspaper.
To her vast relief, the ploy worked and the servant stepped back, albeit still radiating grumpy distrust. “Follow me, then. An’ next time the master best warn me ’bout any visitors.”
He clomped down the corridor toward the front of the house, holding the lantern high to light the way. Portia scurried in his wake. Despite her nervous anticipation, she noticed that the place had a shabby air of neglect. There was no fresh scent of beeswax or gleam of polish on the chairs and tables. The marble floor looked scuffed and dull. Even the wallpaper was peeling in places.
Grasping her skirts, she hastened to keep pace with the ogre, who turned at the newel post and marched up a narrow staircase, his shovel-sized feet taking the steps two at a time. Elation filled her. What had seemed so hopeless the previous night now lay within her grasp. She had breached Ratcliffe’s defenses and had the chance to reclaim the evidence of her regard for Arun.
On the landing, they passed the gilt-framed portrait of a beautiful, dark-haired lady with a spaniel resting at her feet. Her aqua gown was in an old-fashioned style of some three decades in the past. Her smiling face radiated a sparkling vitality, as if she had trouble keeping herself seated sedately in the chair.
Was she the viscount’s mother, Lady Ratcliffe? Portia didn’t dare press her luck by asking unnecessary questions.
The ogre shoved open a door in the upstairs corridor and preceded her into the room. Muttering under his breath about the extra work, he set down the lamp on a table and stomped to the hearth, where the banked embers glowed faintly. He hurled coal from the hob onto the ashes, then jabbed around with the poker until the fire bit back with flaming orange teeth.
“Thank you for your kindness,” Portia said, aware of the precious minutes ticking away. “But it really isn’t necessary. I can see to my own comforts.”
“Master’d ’ave me ’ead if I left ye in the cold and dark.” He grabbed a beeswax taper and held the wick to the lamp, before jamming it back into a pewter candlestick, which he ungraciously left on a table. “An’ don’t bother pokin’ through the master’s things. All the gold’s been locked up.”
She swallowed a pithy retort and strove to look guiltless. Little could he guess, she had no interest in the usual valuables.
With one final glower, the manservant departed from the room, closing the door with an unnecessary bang.
Portia hastened to put her ear to the wooden panel. She listened until the tramp of his heavy footsteps disappeared down the stairs. Only then did she turn to survey her surroundings.
The meager light illuminated a chamber adorned with the threadbare elegance of the previous century. The colors were blue and gold, with velvet draperies covering the tall windows and age-darkened landscape paintings hanging on the walls. A faint spicy aroma hung in the cool air.
Ratcliffe’s scent.
Beneath the cloak, a shiver riffled over her skin. Again, she had that unnerving sense of being watched, as if his spirit lingered in the deep shadows.
Nonsense. The bedchamber was deserted because the wicked viscount had been lured away to Turnbuckle’s garden. Right now, he would be waiting for her to slip out of the ballroom and join him. Perhaps he was pacing, planning how best to use his charm to talk her into marriage. Hoping for the prize of her dowry, he would tarry there for a good while before he realized she had reneged on the tryst.
He might not even know he’d been deliberately duped until he returned here. By then, she would be long gone. And he would be faced with the maddening knowledge that she had been right here in his private quarters, that he had missed the perfect opportunity for seduction.
Averting her gaze from the four-poster bed that dominated the room, she spied a wingback chair by the marble fireplace. A stack of books sat on a nearby table, a pair of spectacles resting on the topmost one.
She had to laugh at the incongruous image of him wearing the eyeglasses. Ratcliffe was certainly no scholar. In truth, she couldn’t begin to guess what a man of his indecent character might be reading.
She held up the candle and scanned the titles. The Gentleman Farmer by Henry Home. The Gardener’s and Botanist’s Dictionary by Philip Miller. Horse-Hoeing Husbandry by Jethro Tull.
Portia blinked. Ratcliffe—studying techniques of agriculture? Perhaps he had made a muddle of his estate and was looking for ways to squeeze out every last bit of revenue. She could think of no other explanation for his interest.
Then the book on the bottom caught her attention. Her pulse sped up a notch. Now here was something more suited to him: the Kama Sutra.
Years ago in India, she had overheard a group of ladies whispering about the scandalous book, which one of them had confiscated from a servant and then burned. Portia had asked Arun about the work, and in dismay he’d warned her it was improper reading for an unmarried girl.
She had been curious about it ever since.
On a whim, Portia pulled out the tome. The text was in Hindi; she could read it tolerably well but surely Ratcliffe could not. Then her puzzlement vanished as she leafed through the pages and spied the illustrations. Now there was the likely source of his attention.
Her eyes widened at the explicit drawings of couples engaged in all manner of intimate relations. A blush suffused her from head to foot, yet she couldn’t stop staring. Who would have thought there were so many different ways a man and a woman could join their bodies? And did they really enjoy it? She couldn’t imagine herself doing such intensely personal acts with Arun. The whole business seemed more embarrassing than pleasurable.
Until she thought of Ratcliffe.
Her gaze went to the four-poster bed where pillows lined the headboard and hangings of midnight blue velvet formed an intimate bower. Heat seared her veins, pooling in her nether regions. She could see Ratcliffe lounging naked between the sheets, and herself clasped in his arms while they kissed and caressed …
A strong gust rattled the windowpanes, startling Portia back to her senses.
Mortified, she clapped the book shut. She shoved it to the bottom of the stack and stepped back, flushed and breathless. What was wrong with her, that she could think of that rogue in so unseemly a manner? It must be the effect of viewing those drawings, of catching a glimpse into the tantalizing secrets of the bedchamber.
Overly warm, she unfastened the merino cloak and tossed it onto the bed. The ticking clock on the mantelpiece showed the hour as a quarter past midnight. She had wasted enough valuable time.
The candlestick in hand, she looked around to determine the most likely places where he might have put the miniature. She hastened to a small writing desk and examined the contents of the cubbyholes and the single drawer. But there was only a sheaf of paper, quill pens and an inkpot, a glob of red sealing wax. A nearby cabinet held crystal decanters of liquor and a collection of glasses.
She made her way around the bedchamber, searching every drawer, every box, every receptacle, to no avail. Frustration nagged at her as she considered where he might have put her property. The manservant had mentioned safeguarding the gold. Suppose Ratcliffe had locked the miniature in a safe?
She stood stock-still by the bedside table. But no, that didn’t make sense. Ratcliffe would not have expected her to be so brazen as to break into his house. Surely he would have left the miniature somewhere close at hand.
Perhaps in his dressing room?
Of course. Upon his
return home the previous night, he might have carelessly tossed it down on a table.
Whirling around, she headed toward the shadowed doorway in a corner of the bedchamber. The white-painted panel stood open to a yawning, pitch-dark hole. Inexplicably, the fine hairs at the back of her neck prickled. Scorning her foolish fears, she forced herself to move forward, only to halt with a gasp.
Something moved within the well of absolute blackness. A tall menacing shape entered the doorway.
Her heart gave a sickening jolt of recognition.
Lord Ratcliffe settled one broad shoulder against the doorframe. The half-smile on his mouth was at odds with the dangerous intensity of his eyes. “Looking for something, Miss Crompton?”
CHAPTER 7
PORTIA’S FEET FELT rooted to the rug. She could scarcely believe her eyes. Ratcliffe was dressed for the evening in a tailored dark coat and knee breeches, a white cravat at his throat. At the ball, she had danced with a score of gentlemen clad just like him.
But none of them had looked so intimidating. None of them had made her pulse race with alarm—and something darker. None of them had watched her with the hungry acuity of a predator.
Dear God, how had he discovered her deception so swiftly?
“You’re supposed to be in Turnbuckle’s garden,” she said hoarsely.
“Or so you hoped.” His smile deepened with mockery. “You almost convinced me of your sincerity in that note you sent. But being suspicious by nature, I doubted you’d wish to be alone with me again. So I asked a favor of Turnbuckle.”
With a sinking sensation, she remembered meeting the jovial earl who was of an age with Ratcliffe. Numbly, she stated, “You know his lordship, then.”
“We were good friends at Eton. He allowed me to wait in an antechamber during the ball so I could keep an eye on you, to see if you truly meant to meet me in the garden. When I saw you leave early, I surmised your intention and took a shortcut straight back here.”
So she had been right to sense someone watching her all evening. From the start, her plan had been doomed. Then another thought appalled her even more. Ratcliffe must have been in the dressing room the entire time, observing her search, waiting, biding his time.
Had he seen her looking through his copy of the Kama Sutra?
She moistened her lips. “You must think yourself exceedingly clever to have caught me, my lord. I imagine even the ogre was playacting.”
“The ogre?” His fleeting frown cleared, and Ratcliffe chuckled. “Oh, you mean Orson Tudge. Yes, he did as I instructed. I told him not to let you in too easily lest you become suspicious.”
“Does that mean he’s more gracious to your other women callers?” Portia clamped her lips shut. She hadn’t intended to sound so shrewish. She had no interest in his mistresses. He could have a thousand of them for all she cared.
Ratcliffe looked genuinely amused. “Pray don’t take offense. Tudge is never gracious to anyone. But he’s loyal to a fault. He and I share a long history.”
Which meant that if she screamed, the ogre wouldn’t come running to her aid. He would turn a deaf ear to whatever transpired in the master’s bedchamber. And it was doubtful her sister would hear anything outside with the windows shut tightly.
Portia was on her own.
She drew a sharp breath as Ratcliffe moved abruptly. He stepped out of the dressing room and walked to the door of the bedchamber, blocking her only escape route. He placed his hands on his hips, his coat pushed back to reveal a leanly muscled form beneath the gentlemanly trappings of charcoal gray waistcoat and white shirt.
“We seem to have a penchant for meeting in bedchambers,” he said, a hint of flirtatiousness entering his tone. “Tell me, what shall I do with you now?”
A disturbing warmth flared to life deep inside her. It radiated throughout her body until her knees felt on the verge of buckling. The involuntary reaction was shocking in its intensity, nay, even in its existence. How could she feel even the slightest attraction to this scoundrel?
It wasn’t violence she feared from Ratcliffe. It was seduction.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her cloak lying on his bed. She edged toward it, anxious for the protection of the hidden pistol. “You’ll let me go, that’s what. After you’ve given me the miniature, of course. It belongs to me and I want it back.”
“All in good time.” His voice lowered a notch, becoming velvety smooth. “First, though, you and I should use this opportunity to get to know each other better.”
His gaze flitted to her gauzy scarlet gown with its indecently low neckline. Her skin tingled and she crossed her arms, hoping the gloom hid the atrocious effect he had on her. It had been Lindsey’s idea for her to pose as a fallen woman in case any servants questioned her presence in the house. Heaven only knew where her sister had procured such a vulgar garment. But now Portia fervently wished she had refused to wear it.
“Yes, do let’s talk,” she said, desperate to forestall his lecherous intentions. “You may begin by explaining to me why you keep your mother confined to your estate.”
Her accusation had the desired effect. He took a step toward her, his face darkening and his charm vanishing. “Who told you that? Let me guess. Albright.”
“Yes. He said you won’t permit Lady Ratcliffe to come to London. That you purposely keep her from her dearest friends and her favorite pastimes.”
He made a dismissing gesture. “My mother enjoys many friends and amusements in the country. So you shouldn’t believe everything people tell you.”
“The duke seems to have particular knowledge of your family. Are he and your mother acquainted?”
“Everyone in society is acquainted to some degree or another. And Albright is a master at twisting the facts to suit his own purposes.”
Ratcliffe hadn’t really answered her question, Portia noted. It was too dim in the bedchamber to read the nuances of his expression, yet she had the distinct impression he was hiding something. “Is that your mother’s portrait I saw on the staircase landing?”
Ratcliffe glanced over his shoulder at the door, as if he could peer through it. “Yes. It was painted shortly after my parents were married.” He started forward and she retreated in alarm, the backs of her legs bumping into the bed. But he merely walked to a stool, propped up one foot, and regarded her gravely. “I must say, I’m concerned that you consider Albright so trustworthy.”
Incredulous, she laughed. “How ridiculous for you to cast aspersions on him. You’re the one with the wicked reputation.”
“He isn’t all that he seems, Portia. Take it as a word of caution, that’s all.”
He had his own purpose in trying to make her doubt the duke. Ratcliffe wanted to win her—and her dowry—for himself. Yet she also remembered Albright’s attitude toward him, a loathing that implied a personal connection. “If the two of you have quarreled in the past, then tell me the nature of your disagreement. Perhaps that will convince me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Then I see no reason to credit your vague warnings.” She decided it was time to put a firm end to his marital aspirations. “For that matter, I’ll tell you exactly why I prefer the duke to you. He’s extremely wealthy, which means he isn’t chasing after my money. Nor does he consort with sordid women behind my back.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re referring to Hannah Wilton, the woman with me in Hyde Park today.”
Hannah. So the woman had a name.
Portia considered herself a tolerant person, yet the thought of that flame-haired floozy hanging on his arm made her livid. “Quite,” she said icily. “Although if you choose to spend your time with filthy whores, it is of little importance to me.”
Turning away, she grabbed for her cloak. Just like that, he was standing beside her. He tossed the garment back down on the bed and took hold of her shoulders, bringing her around to face him. His cold expression revealed no hint of the charming rogue.
“Hannah an
d I were close at one time,” he said sharply. “For that reason, I will not tolerate hearing her belittled by a pampered young miss. She’s a kindhearted woman who was forced into the service of men by dire circumstance. You should be grateful that your wealth has insulated you from being reduced to her position.”
The blood rushed into Portia’s face. Pampered young miss? Kindhearted woman? She was furious with him for comparing her so unfavorably with his ex-mistress, and a little ashamed as well, for it had never occurred to her to consider the woman’s background.
She focused on the anger, tilting her head back to glare at him. “If you aren’t seeing her any longer, then why were you out walking with her?”
He hesitated, then dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back. “Hannah is in a spot of trouble. The details don’t matter, but she asked for my help.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“She was tossed out of the house where she had worked for a number of years. Beyond that, it isn’t a topic that any decent young lady should know about.”
His secretiveness frustrated Portia. The candlelight played over his face, casting stark shadows over his chiseled features. There was so much about himself that he kept hidden from her. Or perhaps it was just her own mulish curiosity that refused to quit.
“Tell me, anyway,” she said. “I don’t care a fig for false propriety.”
“If you must know, she’s with child.” He held up his hand. “And lest you accuse me of abandonment, let me assure you, the baby cannot possibly be mine. She and I parted ways nearly a year ago.”
Her mind whirling, Portia leaned against the bedpost. A baby. She remembered the malicious whispers in India when the daughter of an English merchant became pregnant out of wedlock. There had been a hasty marriage and an infant boy born five months later. Even though the shame had lingered, the close-knit family had weathered the storm together.
Now Portia could see how lucky that girl had been. “Does Hannah have no relatives?”
“None that will acknowledge her.”
