Seducing the Heiress

by Olivia Drake

  “You wouldn’t dare, because then I would tell her that you borrowed them from the lending library for me.”

  “And I will declare I had no idea they were so full of manly derring-do and swaggering nonsense unfit for a lady’s eyes. In any event, she will make certain you never read one ever again.”

  Crossing her arms, Lindsey stuck out her lower lip. “Why are you being so mean? If that’s all the thanks I receive for helping you last night—”

  “You did help me, very much so,” Portia conceded. “Although I have mixed feelings about the pistol. Where did you obtain it, anyway?”

  “It’s Mama’s, of course.”

  “Mama’s?”

  “Yes, she keeps it in her bedside table for protection against thieves, I heard her tell her maid.” Lindsey shrugged. “And don’t worry, I put it back this morning while she was asleep.”

  “Good heavens.” Portia was astonished to learn their mother kept a pistol, let alone that her sister had the bravado to steal it and then return it while their mother was in the room. Truly, Lindsey was becoming far too adept at subterfuge.

  “There will be no more guns or knives,” Portia said firmly. “And promise me you won’t go anywhere near his lordship’s house ever again.” She held up her hand. “I’ll have your sacred blood vow.”

  With obvious reluctance, Lindsey touched the tips of their fingers together according to the secret gesture they had devised as children, when they had been shut inside during the monsoon season with nothing else to do but dream and play.

  “Oh, have it your way, then.” She lowered her voice to a petulant whisper. “But it’ll serve you right if Ratcliffe presents that miniature to Papa—and tells him about your plan to marry Arun. That might be the best thing, anyway. At least then our family wouldn’t be split asunder by your moving back to India.”

  Her head high, she flounced back into the ballroom to finish the dancing lesson.

  Portia released a long sigh. She wilted down onto one of the gilded chairs that lined the opulent passageway. In a distinctly unladylike pose, she leaned forward to rest her chin in her hands.

  Her mind dwelled on the troublesome realization of how distressed Lindsey would be when Portia left England. She had been so wrapped up in her own secret plans that it hadn’t even occurred to her to consider the effect on her sisters and her parents. What if she never saw them again? Was her love for Arun strong enough to sustain a permanent separation from her family?

  It hadn’t been strong enough to stop her from finding pleasure in another man’s arms.

  The vivid memory of that kiss threatened to beguile her again, but she pushed it away. Ratcliffe was a skilled lover, that was all. He could probably coax a nun into sinful acts. However, there was no substance to his passion because it lacked the vital essence of love.

  But Arun felt true affection for her. Arun, with his warm smile and gallant nature. She would return to India and be reunited with him. No one must be allowed to dissuade her from that purpose.

  She felt a sudden desperate emptiness that could only be attributed to a longing to be back in the familiar surroundings of her childhood. Perhaps it was just that she hadn’t received a letter from Arun in ages. She craved to read his thoughtful observations about life there. It was frustrating that she would have to wait for weeks until her old ayah, Kasi, had her next half-day off and could make inquiries at the London docks. No doubt next time there would be two letters at once.

  Buoyed by the thought, Portia rose to her feet. In the meantime, it would be prudent to unearth the truth about the feud between Albright and Ratcliffe. If she were to hold both suitors at bay, she needed as much knowledge as possible in her arsenal. With any luck, she might even uncover information to hold over Ratcliffe’s head.

  Wouldn’t that be turning the tables?

  She started purposefully down the corridor. There would be no twiddling her thumbs while Miss Underhill waited for a reply from her mother’s aging cousin. Rather, Portia had another plan that she intended to implement at the first opportunity.

  Her sister didn’t know it, but all future sleuthing would be done by Portia herself.

  A commotion out in the hall caught Colin’s attention in his study. The upraised voices broke his concentration. He had spent the morning poring over the monthly report from his steward, immersed in a detailed description of the spring planting, and it was disconcerting to be yanked back to reality. At least for a time, he had managed to forget the dull soreness in his upper arm—and the woman who had caused it.

  Grimacing, he removed his spectacles, tossing them down on the desk as he surged to his feet. He stalked out into the foyer to find Tudge face-to-face with a midget in the front doorway.

  Well, perhaps it was more like face-to-chest, for Tudge towered over his adversary. The stranger’s oily black hair had shed a snowstorm of dandruff onto the shoulders of his ill-fitting green coat. He clutched a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  “I’ll give these to his lordship and nobody else,” the man insisted, shaking the papers in Tudge’s face. “I brung them all the way from Kent, I did.”

  “An’ ye can take them all the way back, too,” Tudge countered. “Now get out, ye little pipsqueak, afore I toss ye in the gutter like the rubbish ye is.”

  A dun collector. Colin should have surmised as much and remained in his study. But he couldn’t dodge the unpaid bills forever.

  He strode forward to address the visitor. “I am Lord Ratcliffe. You may hand the invoices to me.”

  The man did so, his small black eyes and twitchy nose reminding Colin of a rat sniffing for cheese. “An’ what about me payment? I ain’t leavin’ without gold coins in me pocket.”

  “Ye’ll leave quick enough,” Tudge retorted, brandishing a ham-sized fist, “wid the help of an undercut to the jaw.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Colin said. He addressed the bill collector. “Follow me into my study while I review these charges.”

  Five minutes later, he sent the odious little man on his way with a partial payment that caused a considerable lightening of his strongbox. It was money that had been meant to pay the crushing monthly cost of upkeep on his properties.

  The bills lay scattered across the mahogany desk. In a fit of anger, he wadded them into a ball which he hurled into the fire. Then he stood by the hearth, watching as the edges blackened and curled before being consumed by the hungry flames.

  Once again, his mother had gone on a spending spree. He had hoped that by relegating her to the estate in Kent, he could better control her expenditures. Instead, it seemed she had imported a mantua-maker from London and ordered an entire new wardrobe. She had not asked his permission because she knew full well he would have forbidden the extravagance.

  Going to the sideboard, he splashed brandy into a glass. He tossed back the drink, wincing as the motion caused a jab of pain in his arm. It reminded him of Portia ministering to the gunshot wound, inadvertently teasing him with a view of her breasts. Much to his chagrin, he found himself consumed as much by the fire of lust as by his cold-blooded objective of making a rich marriage.

  He closed his eyes, recalling the exotic fragrance of her skin, a blend of cinnamon and something else, something as mysterious as the look in her beautiful blue eyes. And that kiss. She had been wild for him, rising on tiptoe as if she couldn’t get enough of his mouth, abandoning her acerbic words for the sweetness of passion. He had intended only to coax her, to give her a taste of pleasure. But her swift, uninhibited response had made him lose his head. It was the only explanation he could fathom for pushing her down onto his bed.

  Damn it, he knew better than to seduce a virgin. Even if she felt so perfect beneath him. Even if he couldn’t resist the taste of her skin and the enticing curves of her body.

  “Excuse me, your lordship.”

  Startled, he opened his eyes to see Hannah hovering in the doorway. She looked very different in the gray serge gown of a servant, a white cap
hiding her red hair and a ruffled apron concealing all but a hint that she was breeding.

  “Yes?” he barked.

  “I have your luncheon ready in the dining room. Or would you care for a tray in here instead?”

  “The dining room will do. In the future, ring the gong.”

  “I’m sorry … I didn’t know.”

  Hannah went away, but not before he spied a flash of hurt in her eyes. Bloody hell. He shouldn’t have snapped at her. Now she would think he was still angry about that long-ago betrayal, when her past misbehavior simply didn’t matter to him anymore.

  Hannah had been trying very hard to adjust to the new role of housekeeper. It wasn’t her fault she had interrupted his fevered fantasy.

  He was hungry all right, but not for food.

  And not for any other woman but Miss Portia Crompton.

  CHAPTER 10

  IN THE GARRET where the servants slept, Portia cautiously opened one of the doors off the passageway. The dim little room with its narrow cot smelled strongly of sandalwood. A curl of smoke rose from the saucer of incense in front of a shrine to Shiva. There, a small stone statue depicted the Hindu god sitting in a meditative pose, his hands resting in the cradle of his crossed legs. Pansies scattered the bare plank floor in front of the shrine.

  Kasi swayed in front of the figurine, singing softly in her native tongue. Her thin gray hair was drawn up in a knob, while a green sari covered her squat form.

  Portia stepped inside and closed the door, anxiously turning the sealed letter in her hands until the ayah finished her song. “Kasi, did you not hear my knock?”

  “I hear,” the old woman said serenely. Picking up a porcelain pitcher, she poured a thin stream of milk over the flowers, an offering to the gods that Portia had seen her perform often back in India.

  The familiar ritual made her momentarily forget her urgent errand. None of their other Indian servants had made the voyage to England. Her parents had consented to bring Kasi only because all three girls had begged and pleaded. Kasi had been a mother to them for more years than Portia could remember. The ayah had crooned to them when they were ill and coddled them after Papa’s scoldings when they were naughty. Her loyalty to the family was fierce and unwavering.

  “Should you be doing that here?” Portia asked dubiously. “The milk will curdle and smell.”

  “English do not understand,” Kasi replied as she set down the pitcher. “Gods need food, too. And gifts to grant favors.”

  “Why are you praying in the middle of the day, anyway? I thought you did so only at dawn.”

  “I pray for you, missy. More prayers, more help.”

  Portia blinked in surprise. It seemed uncanny because she had come here to beg a favor of Kasi. “Help? Why would you think I needed help?”

  “To find your karma, your destiny.” Kasi shuffled forward to pat Portia’s cheek with her leathery hand. The warm touch was as familiar and comforting as her singsong voice. “Shiva help you if I pray to him.”

  “You mean … my destiny with Arun?”

  Without answering, the ayah took hold of Portia’s hand, running her fingers over the palm, exploring it with her stubby forefinger and tracing the various lines. It was something she had done a number of times over the years, to Portia as well as to her sisters. When they were children, having their palms read had been pure entertainment, for Kasi would spin tales about all the wonderful things that lay in store for them in the future. At least she had until the day Mrs. Crompton had walked in on one of their sessions. Mama had denounced palmistry as heathen superstition and had forbidden Kasi to practice it.

  Now, the ayah muttered to herself while bobbing her head. She kept rubbing the topmost line on Portia’s palm, following it all the way to Portia’s little finger.

  “What is it? What do you see?”

  “Fate give you one love, missy. He live here in England.”

  Ratcliffe’s sinfully handsome face popped into her mind. Although two days had passed, the memory of his kiss was so vivid she felt a pulse of raw desire. It was the same response that plagued her thoughts by day and haunted her dreams at night.

  Appalled, she grabbed hold of Kasi’s arm. “That can’t possibly be true. Arun is the man I love.”

  Kasi shrugged. “I tell what I see.”

  Portia stiffened. “Well, I won’t listen to such rubbish. It’s too dim in here to see my hand, anyway.”

  Those dark button eyes seemed to peer into Portia’s soul. Then Kasi pressed her palms together and bowed deeply in a salaam. “Do not be angry, missy. I not speak of it again.”

  Portia compressed her lips. She was well aware that Kasi hadn’t changed her convictions, only promised not to voice them. It irked her that the ayah would declare that Arun was not a part of her future.

  A revelation struck Portia, one that had never occurred to her before but now seemed very possible. “You don’t like that I’ve promised myself to a native prince, do you? Because I’m a foreigner and not of his caste.”

  “It not for me to say.”

  Kasi kept her eyes lowered, hiding her thoughts. That evasiveness confirmed Portia’s deduction. Who would have guessed that all this time while Kasi had been going faithfully to the docks once a month to pick up Arun’s letters, she disapproved of the association? Portia felt foolish for not realizing the truth before now. It made perfect sense because the Indians had a class system that was every bit as rigid as the English one.

  And that would explain the palm reading, too. It wasn’t that Kasi was deliberately lying to her. Rather, the ayah had seen only what she had wanted to see.

  Perversely reassured, Portia decided to let the subject pass. Kasi was faithful and trustworthy, and at the moment nothing else mattered.

  “I need you to do something for me.” She pressed the letter into Kasi’s hand. “Please post this for me. It’s already been franked. And take great care that no one sees you, for I wouldn’t want anyone to connect the letter to me—especially not my parents.”

  “Yes, missy.”

  “Thank you so very much.” Touched by the ayah’s loyalty, Portia enveloped her stout form in a hug. Kasi smelled of incense, a nostalgic reminder of Portia’s childhood. Those happy memories lingered, making her smile as she left the attic room and closed the door.

  “Portia? Is that you?”

  She froze, her eyes widening at the sight of her mother gliding down the cramped passageway. Clad in a morning dress of white and green striped muslin, Edith Crompton wore a stylish bonnet over her dark russet hair. Her elegant appearance in the servants’ quarters was as incongruous as seeing snow fall from the hot Indian sky. “Mama! Why have you come up here?”

  “I could ask you the very same question.”

  “I—I was visiting Kasi, that’s all.”

  Edith Crompton shook her head in disapproval. “Henceforth, you are not to do so. Proper young ladies do not mingle with the staff. You haven’t the same leniency here as you had in India.”

  Under different circumstances, Portia might have argued that Kasi was almost a member of the family. But now she merely said, “Yes, Mama.”

  “We are due to call on Lord and Lady Madison shortly.” That critical hazel gaze examined Portia from head to toe. “It would behoove you to tidy your hair. And wear the straw bonnet with the blue ribbons. It will match the sprigged flowers in your gown quite nicely.”

  Portia refrained from heaving a sigh at the prospect of another afternoon spent making visits. She started toward the stairway, only to pause when her mother didn’t follow. “Aren’t you coming downstairs with me?”

  “I wish to speak to Kasi myself. I will see you in the entrance hall in precisely ten minutes.”

  That dismissing tone brooked no more questions. Uneasy, Portia headed for the stairs, looking over her shoulder. She had the distinct impression that her mother had not ventured up here in search of her missing daughter, but for the sole purpose of seeing Kasi. But if Mama wanted some l
ittle task done, why had she not rung for the servant? Or sent a footman to summon Kasi downstairs? It didn’t make sense, especially since Mama had become such a stickler for rules.

  As she made her way down a narrow staircase to the opulent family quarters, a far greater concern swamped Portia. Heaven help her if Mama caught sight of that letter. She would confiscate it at once.

  And then she would demand to know why Portia was writing to one Hannah Wilton, in care of the notorious Viscount Ratcliffe.

  “Miss Crompton, you are looking exceptionally lovely tonight.” Lord Wrayford bent over her gloved hand that evening, giving her a view of the bald spot at the back of his sandy hair.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Portia said with a polite smile.

  They stood in the crowded foyer at the Drury Lane Theater. Along with the other patrons, they were slowly making their way toward their seats. While her parents paused to exchange greetings with several acquaintances, Wrayford had taken the opportunity to corner her.

  It wasn’t the first time he had done so. The purse-poor profligate had sought her out at every ball and rout. He spent most of the time ogling her bosom as he was doing now. The scrutiny of those pale blue eyes made her wish she had worn one of Miss Underhill’s high-necked gowns, instead of the primrose silk with its fashionably low bodice.

  Her mother and father had inched ahead, still chatting with their friends, not noticing that she’d fallen behind. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I must catch up to my parents.”

  When she tried to extricate her hand, Wrayford held on tightly. “My dear Miss Crompton, we are forever meeting in a mob. I simply must have you all to myself. May I take you for a drive on the morrow? I should like for you to see my new yellow curricle.”

  The ardent expression on his florid face made her want to flee at once. Yet good manners dictated that she let him down easily. “That’s very kind of you to offer, but—”