by Olivia Drake
“Shouldn’t she seek help from the father, then?”
His mouth twisted, and he looked away. “Unfortunately, he could be any one of a number of gentlemen.”
Portia was struck by the sordidness of the men of society using a lower-class female for their own gratification, then abandoning her to her fate. She had never before considered the consequences to the woman—or to the children that might result from an illicit union. In truth, she had hardly been aware that such women even existed because the topic wasn’t considered fit for the ears of ladies.
A distasteful notion occurred to her. What if the father of Hannah’s child was one of the gentlemen who had flocked around Portia, seeking to win her hand? She wouldn’t be able to look at any of them again without wondering. They were a high-and-mighty lot who had never been required to take responsibility for their actions.
She took a step toward Ratcliffe. “Well, then? Did you help her?”
“I’ve seen to the matter.”
His answer was too evasive, and she mistrusted his word, anyway. “But where is she? Does she have food? A roof over her head? And who will take care of her when her baby is born?”
“Enough questions. I’ve said too much already.” His authoritative voice softened, taking on a silky quality. “Besides, we’ve strayed far from the topic of you and I.”
He had that look in his eyes again, the one that reminded her they were all alone in his bedchamber. The one that made her blood beat faster. The one that proved that when it came to the gentlemen of society, Lord Ratcliffe himself was the most notorious of the lot.
“There is no ‘you and I.’ There never was and there never will be.” She snatched up her cloak again and swirled it over her shoulders, her fingers fumbling with the clasp. “And since you refuse to hand over the miniature, there is no point to me staying here a moment longer.”
He stepped closer, crowding her against the bedpost. “You can’t expect me to let you walk out of here just like that. We aren’t finished talking.”
His nearness made her breathless. She leaned as far back as possible to avoid touching him. Even so, she could feel the heat of his body, smell the intoxicating scent of him. “Perhaps you aren’t finished, but I certainly am.”
“At least hear me out, if you will. You’ve chastised me several times for wanting your dowry. But you’ve never once asked me what I have to offer you.”
“The miniature returned in exchange for my hand in marriage, is that it? Well, the answer is no. I won’t stoop to your blackmail.”
“Never mind the blasted miniature.” His hands settled on her shoulders, kneading the tense muscles through the fabric of the cloak. “I can give you something far better. It’s something you won’t find with Arun or Albright or any other man.”
“Trouble, that’s what. Trouble is all you’ve ever given me.”
He threw back his head and laughed, and the effect held her transfixed. The enjoyment on his sinfully handsome face gave her a rush of pleasure, reminding her of the fascinating man she had first met more than a fortnight ago before she had learned of his wicked reputation. On that occasion, he had seen Mrs. Beardsley’s nasty treatment of Portia, and he had lobbed a strawberry in retaliation. Though his weapon had been unconventional, she had viewed him as her knight in shining armor, if only for a brief time.
His smile mellowed into an expression of devastating appeal. His palm cupped the underside of her jaw, his thumb playing lightly with the corner of her mouth. “What I can give you, Portia, is this: passion beyond your wildest dreams.”
Her mouth went dry. Her heart was pounding so rapidly he surely must hear it. She couldn’t believe his boldness, not only in what he said, but also in the way he was touching her mouth. That one simple caress caused eddies of sensation throughout her body. It made her want to lift up on tiptoes and press her lips to his.
That would be madness. Sheer, utter madness.
The temptation was so strong, she turned her face away to break the contact. “Conceited cad. You’ve no right to speak to me so crudely.”
“Under ordinary circumstances, I would agree. But you’re a bit more knowledgeable than most innocent ladies.” He glanced meaningfully at the fireplace. “I saw you looking at my books, one in particular. Then you stared at my bed for quite a while. I can’t help but wonder what exactly you were thinking about.”
A wild blush burned her cheeks. He had been watching her from the concealment of the dressing room. He had seen her paging through the Kama Sutra. Dear God, if he were to guess even half of her unladylike fantasies …
Horrified, she tried to push him away. “I was thinking about how much I despise you. Now let me go.”
He ignored her request. Instead, she found herself being clasped more securely in his arms. He held her flush against him while his hands moved in soothing patterns over her back. “Forgive me,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t tease you. I keep forgetting just how young you are.”
Portia went still, partly because she recognized the futility of struggling against his iron strength, and partly because she was captivated by the novelty of his embrace. She stood stiffly, her head turned to the side, her cheek pressed to the smooth fabric of his coat as the scent and feel of him flooded her senses.
His fingers found her chin and tipped up her face. He was all seriousness now, his face devoid of its usual rakish smile. His shadowy features had a curiously tender aspect that intrigued her.
“Passion is nothing to be feared,” he murmured. “It all begins with a kiss.”
Bending closer, he captured her mouth. His action shouldn’t have caught her by surprise, yet it did. Without thinking, she closed her eyes and lifted her lips to the thrilling pressure of his. When his tongue entered her mouth, she gasped and tried to draw back, but his arms tightened, keeping her locked to him as he tasted deeply of her.
The experience was not at all like the warm, affectionate peck she had shared with Arun. Ratcliffe’s kiss was hot and erotic, and she reacted to it with stunning fervor. Her body melted like wax beneath the flame of a candle, ready to be shaped by his skilled hands. She had never guessed a man’s touch could arouse such a powerful yearning inside her.
Of their own accord, her palms slid over his coat to explore the heated skin of his neck. The strands of his hair felt coarse yet silky, and she indulged the desire to tangle her fingers there. He seemed to take that as an incentive to deepen the kiss, plundering her mouth until he filled her with his taste. His large hands roved up and down her back, following the contour of her curves. Bliss infused her body until she found herself moving against him in shameless delight, making small pleading sounds in her throat.
No wonder he had such a scandalous reputation. He knew exactly how to keep a woman enthralled. It was folly to let herself fall under his spell like this, but the pull of pleasure was too great to resist. And surely no harm could come of a mere kiss.
Even as the hazy thought flitted through her mind, Portia had the sensation of falling, of being guided downward onto the bed. Then the heavy weight of his body settled over hers without breaking the heated contact of their mouths. The shock of his intentions struck the fog from her dazzled senses.
Ratcliffe wanted more than just a kiss. He meant to seduce her, right here, right now.
She jerked her head to the side and squirmed in his grasp. “Stop, my lord! You can’t do this. You mustn’t.”
Denied her mouth, he kissed her throat, and her cloak fell open when he unfastened the clasp. “Don’t fight your feelings. And call me Colin … I want to hear you say it.”
Colin. She was momentarily distracted to remember that Ratcliffe possessed such an ordinary name.
She shook her head. “I hardly know you. I—oh!”
The moistness of his tongue traced the skin along her low-cut bodice, sending shivers of sensation down to her core. His hand cupped her fullness. “You’ve nothing to fear from me,” he murmured. “I only want to taste you,
that’s all.”
Nothing to fear?
The gauzy gown provided scant protection from his assault, and the sight of his dark head bent over her breasts sparked a fire of longing and alarm in her. What was she doing, lying with him on his bed? As much as she craved the feel of his lips on her skin and the stroking of his hands on her body, the prospect of surrendering her virtue to this scoundrel released a monsoon of panic in her.
He had no intention of stopping. Not while he had the prize within his grasp. And once he’d dishonored her, he would have the perfect tool to force her into marriage.
She must never allow that to happen.
Driven by desperation, she reached down and groped for the lump in the pocket of her cloak. Her trembling fingers wrenched the pistol free. She jammed the small barrel into his ribs.
“Get off me at once, or by heaven, I’ll shoot you.”
CHAPTER 8
COLIN SWAM UP from a dark pool of passion. Lifting his head, he saw Portia glowering up at him. For a moment he couldn’t comprehend her frown. He was too taken by her aura of eroticism, the dark brown hair so soft and tumbled, the eyes so blue and long-lashed, the breasts so perfectly formed. He was keenly aware of her lush body beneath him as his blood-starved brain strove to decipher her harsh words. She was pressing a small round object to his side.
A pistol?
Reality returned with a jolt. Where the devil had she found the weapon? She must have had it secreted in her cloak—because she damn sure couldn’t have hidden it in that form-fitting gown.
For the first time in his life, he was struck speechless. No woman had ever drawn a gun on him. They usually begged him to continue, rather than commanded him to stop.
“You heard me,” Portia said sharply. “Move quickly now. This pistol may be small, but it’s deadly at this range.”
By God, she meant it. She would put a bullet through him if he didn’t obey. The realization was as galling as it was startling.
Bracing his hands on the mattress, he thrust himself from her. The weapon she pointed at him was a tiny pistol, almost a toy, but she was right, it could kill at this short distance as easily as a rifle at twenty paces.
A plethora of emotions bombarded Colin. His forced capitulation to her demand left him mortified and insulted. He was frustrated by his unslaked desire, angry with himself for taking the kiss further than he’d planned, and irked with her for threatening him. It was enough to make his temper snap.
“Have you gone mad? Give me that gun.”
He lunged for the pistol, catching her off guard as she was scrambling from the bed.
“No!” she cried, twisting herself away from him.
He caught her by the wrist and tried to pry the pistol free from her taut fingers. For a moment they struggled, and he managed to turn her to face him, keeping the barrel pointed away from him. She was stronger than she looked. On some distant level, he was appalled at himself for wrestling with a lady, but he wasn’t about to let her continue to threaten his life, either.
Uttering a choked cry, she gave a sudden violent lurch, breaking his hold on her. A shot exploded.
Colin saw the flash and a puff of smoke, felt a sharp sting along his upper arm. The shock of it sent him stumbling backward to crash into the escritoire. Blinking, he looked down to see a neat furrow torn in his sleeve.
An instant later, it burned like hellfire.
The stink of gunpowder gave him a dizzying jolt. It sent him rushing back to a dark place, to another room where his father lay in a pool of blood. The horror of that memory made him sway on his feet.
Her eyes wide, Portia dropped the spent pistol and clapped her hands to her mouth. “Oh, my heavens! Are you hurt?”
Banishing the past, he sucked a breath through his teeth. “I’ll live, I’m sure. Much to your sorrow.”
Anxious to examine the wound, he gingerly tugged at his fashionably tight coat, and she hastened to help him remove it. “I didn’t mean to pull the trigger,” she said, looking shaken. “I just wanted you to stay away from me.”
“Never mind. No doubt I deserved it.”
The throbbing pain had banished every vestige of lust in him, allowing him to see his disreputable actions more clearly. That is, until she pushed him into a chair and bent over him, removing his silver cuff link and rolling up his sleeve.
Her cloak had fallen to the floor by the bed. He had a magnificent view of her breasts, mounded above her revealing red bodice. He could see right down into that tantalizing valley where he wanted to bury his face and breathe deeply of her scent—
“Argh!” He bit off an involuntary curse as she thrust a folded handkerchief over the bleeding wound and pressed hard. “Must you be so brutal?”
“Must you stare at my bosom?”
He snatched the cloth out of her hand and applied it in a more cautious manner. “I can’t imagine what else I am to look at when you’re flaunting it right in front of me.”
“I’m not flaunting anything.” Stepping back, she crossed her arms in a futile attempt to hide her charms. “I’m trying to help you. Not that you’ve shown the slightest appreciation.”
“I don’t appreciate the fact that you shot me.”
“Lecher! It’s your own fault for trying to seduce me.”
She glared at him, and he glared back. Any retort he might have uttered died on his tongue as someone rapped hard on the door. Before he could even move, the door burst open.
A woman in a flowing green dressing gown scurried into the bedchamber, her hair caught in a long red braid down her back. Her exquisite features were drawn with worry.
Colin suppressed a groan. God help him, here was a complication he didn’t need.
“I heard gunfire,” she said breathlessly, glancing from him to Portia, then back again. “Oh, my stars! Have you been injured, my lord? Shall I summon a doctor?”
“No. Go back to your chamber at once.”
“Wait,” Portia said, countermanding his order. Her eyes narrowed, she marched toward the woman. “You’re Hannah Wilton, aren’t you? I saw you walking with Lord Ratcliffe in Hyde Park.”
“Yes, miss, I recognize you, too.” Dipping a curtsy, Hannah gazed askance at Portia’s skimpy gown, as if trying to work out why she was in his bedchamber. “You’re Miss Crompton. His lordship mentioned your name.”
Portia arched a skeptical eyebrow at Colin. “Oh? And just what did he say—”
Another arrival interrupted her, much to Colin’s relief. The last thing he wanted was any conversation between his former mistress and the woman he intended to coax into marriage.
Orson Tudge stomped into the bedchamber. “Wot’s goin’ on in ’ere?” he asked. “I ’eard a gun go off. Woke me up all the way down in the basement.”
“It was nothing,” Colin snapped. “Return to bed, both of you.”
But Tudge was staring from the dainty pistol lying on the floor to Colin, who was still sitting down while holding the compress over his upper arm. “So the little lady shot ye, eh?” He cast a rather admiring look at Portia.
She gave a crisp nod. “I did, indeed. He tried to force me into his bed.”
Colin bit back a retort that she had encouraged him by melting in his arms. But no gentleman kissed and told, and despite her low opinion of him, he possessed at least a modicum of honor.
Much to his annoyance, Tudge chortled. “Lemme ’ave a look at the damage.” He tramped closer, pushed Colin’s hand away, and pulled off the handkerchief. “A right fine furrow. But t’ain’t near as bad as when Westbrook shot you in that duel last year.”
“He’d never have succeeded had not my pistol misfired,” Colin said, gritting his teeth as Tudge poked at the wound. He waved the servant away. “That’s enough of your fussing.”
Hannah was hovering, too. “You should pour some whiskey on it,” she advised. “My father was in the army and that is what he would have done.”
“I believe I saw some right here,” Portia said, hurryi
ng to a cabinet and withdrawing a chipped crystal decanter. She brought it over, along with a glass.
Hannah gave her a sidelong look of startlement. She must be wondering how a refined young lady like Portia knew her way around his bedchamber, Colin thought blackly. Hannah didn’t know about Portia’s search for the miniature. He would have to come up with an explanation, lest she think Portia had come to his bedchamber for a liaison gone awry.
Good God, how had he landed himself in such a royal mess?
A searing pain penetrated his arm. He sucked in a breath as Portia poured a trickle of liquor over the injury while Hannah held a washbasin beneath his arm to catch the drips.
“Cease and desist,” he growled, tired of being treated like a complete sapskull who had no say in his own treatment. “It’s a waste of good Irish whiskey. Pour me a glass instead.”
No one listened to him.
“Have you any basilicum ointment, Mr. Tudge?” Portia asked. “It will help prevent infection. And fetch some bandages, too, if you will.”
As Tudge went to do her bidding, he was nearly bowled over by a tall, pretty girl who came running into the bedchamber. A black cloak flapped like the wings of a crow around her dark gown. Colin was taken aback to realize she was Portia’s middle sister, Lindsey, whom he had met the previous night in Portia’s bedchamber.
What the devil was she doing here?
Remembering his manners, he attempted to stand up, saw spots swirl in his vision, and promptly sat back down. It was aggravating since he’d hardly lost enough blood to fill a thimble.
Well, perhaps several large thimbles.
“What’s happened?” she cried out. “I heard a shot downstairs and came as quickly as I could.”
“Downstairs?” Portia asked. “You were supposed to be outside.”
“I was searching his lordship’s study. It didn’t make any sense for me to stand out in the cold, doing nothing.”
“ ’Ow’d ye get in?” Tudge asked with a lowering frown. “Place is locked up tight as a drum.”
“I used a hairpin to spring the back latch,” Lindsey said. “You really ought to invest in iron bolts. Now, what is going on here?” She pushed everyone aside and planted herself squarely in front of Colin, her hands on her hips. “Did you harm my sister, Ratcliffe? Because if you touched one hair on her head, I shall summon the Watch and have you hauled off at once to Bow Street Station.”
