by Olivia Drake
Yet he was here tonight. That one brief sighting had raised the specter of his presence—if indeed she wasn’t mistaken. She would rather ascertain the truth right now than wait on pins and needles for him to approach her.
Several guests moved, and her heart fluttered like hummingbird wings. By heaven, it was Ratcliffe.
He was strolling through the throngs of aristocrats, a petite lady clinging to his arm. His dark hair gleamed in the glow of the candles. He looked breathtakingly handsome in a mahogany brown coat, a gold pinstriped waistcoat, and buff breeches.
He bent down to say something to the lady with him. She smiled up at him, her manner coquettish. Slim and beautiful in a gown of midnight blue, she had a swanlike neck and upswept black hair crowned by a diamond tiara.
A nasty jolt of recognition struck Portia. It was the woman from the theater. The one who had made him leave Portia and go rushing off to her side.
Her lips tightened. So his current paramour was a member of society, was she? Had the rascal come to this ball tonight not to court Portia, but to flirt with that … that female?
As they drew nearer, the lady turned her head and, with uncanny accuracy, gazed straight at Portia. She murmured something to Ratcliffe, then left his company to glide in Portia’s direction.
Portia stood glued to the floor. Guests swirled around her, but if any of them spoke, the roaring in her ears blocked it out. Why would one of his mistresses seek her out? Did the woman intend to warn her off Ratcliffe? Would she cause a scene right in the middle of the ballroom while all the ton watched?
Portia ordered herself to walk away. But the ability to move had deserted her. There was something vaguely familiar about that exquisitely lovely face, something she couldn’t quite place.
The lady stopped in front of her, her gaze politely assessing, as if she were memorizing every detail of Portia, from her Grecian-styled hair down to the embroidered hem of her pale pink gown. From close up, the woman was older than she had looked from a distance, with fine lines around her green eyes and mouth, and an unmistakable maturity to her patrician face.
“Do pardon my boldness,” she said in a throaty voice, offering a slender, gloved hand. “You are Miss Crompton, I believe.”
Portia hesitated, then reluctantly touched the woman’s hand. Why hadn’t she provided her own name? And why did Portia feel so tongue-tied in her presence? “Yes … I …”
A faint amusement curved those ruby lips. “You must be wondering who I am, why a perfect stranger would waylay you like this. I cannot say that I blame you for looking apprehensive.”
At that moment, Ratcliffe appeared at her side. He gave the woman a hard stare that was part irritation and part fondness.
He snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and handed one to each lady. “Stop teasing the poor girl, and allow me to make a proper introduction. Mother, this is Miss Portia Crompton. Portia, pray meet my meddlesome mother, Lady Ratcliffe.”
His mother. He had abandoned Portia at the theater in order to visit with his mother.
Sipping the champagne, Portia felt such a lifting of relief, she almost laughed out loud. No wonder Lady Ratcliffe looked familiar; she was the young, vivacious woman in the painting on Ratcliffe’s staircase. The resemblance to her son was subtle but apparent in the high cheekbones, the sensual shape of the mouth, the deep green of the eyes.
A sobering memory entered Portia’s mind. The Duke of Albright had claimed that Ratcliffe kept his mother confined to his estate, that he’d refused her permission to come to London. Ratcliffe, on the other hand, had insisted that his mother preferred the country life. It was unsettling to discover that the duke either had been mistaken or had lied to Portia.
“I am hardly meddlesome,” Lady Ratcliffe said, affording her son a mock glare. “Rather, it seems only right for me to meet the girl who has so captivated your attention. And he does speak highly of you, Miss Crompton.”
Ratcliffe quirked an eyebrow as if to make light of her comment. “You’ve only just arrived in town, Mother. We’ve barely had a chance to speak at all.” He turned his gaze on Portia, and his warm scrutiny stirred shivers that congregated in her inner depths. His eyes seemed to convey the message that he’d thought of little else but her since their last meeting.
In a determined effort to ignore him, she focused her attention on his mother. “Forgive me for looking so puzzled earlier, my lady. I must confess I never anticipated meeting you. Lord Ratcliffe has mentioned that you spend most of your time in Kent.”
“I’ve leased a home in Berkeley Square for the Season, so that I might visit my friends here. Perhaps you would do me the kindness of joining me for tea soon. It would be quite pleasant for the two of us to have a cozy chat.”
The invitation made Portia acutely uncomfortable. It seemed rather fast of Lady Ratcliffe to expect a tête-à-tête with Portia when there was no betrothal on the horizon. Was she merely anxious to see her profligate son settle down and marry? Or had Ratcliffe told his mother a Banbury tale about the closeness of their relationship?
As she took a fizzy swallow from her glass, another thought occurred to her. As unsuitable as it might seem on the surface, the visit might be a brilliant opportunity to uncover the truth about the feud between Ratcliffe and Albright. Portia would have to be very circumspect in her questioning so as not to offend Lady Ratcliffe, yet so much could be learned. “Thank you, my lady, I’d consider it an honor—”
“No,” Ratcliffe stated, scowling from her to his mother. “It wouldn’t be appropriate in the least.”
Lady Ratcliffe gave a tinkling laugh. “Since when have you cared about the proprieties, my dear boy?” Reaching up, she patted his cheek as if she were proud of his rakish reputation. “Now, I hear the orchestra tuning their instruments. Do ask Miss Crompton to stand up with you for the next dance.”
He flashed his mother a sardonic look before he dutifully bowed to Portia. “May I have the honor?”
Portia’s breath caught at the image of them waltzing over the dance floor, their bodies so close she could feel his heat …
She took a step backward on the pretext of setting her empty glass on a table. “I’m sorry,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “It’s the supper dance, and I’ve promised it to the Duke of Albright.”
Lady Ratcliffe’s mouth twisted in a secretive smirk. “Never mind Albright. I’ll be happy to have a word with him on your behalf.”
CHAPTER 14
PORTIA FOUND HERSELF being whisked through the crowd of guests against her will. Or was it against her will?
Ratcliffe’s hand rested at the small of her back, propelling her forward with subtle power. His touch seemed shockingly intimate against the gauze of her gown, as if his fingers rested right on her bare skin. As if he were branding her as his before all the nobility.
A trio of older ladies stood watching, muttering among themselves. Another gray-haired matron lifted her jeweled lorgnette in a cold scrutiny, her thin lips curled in disdain. The stooped-shouldered gentleman with her frowned, then turned his back in a cut direct.
Ratcliffe seemed oblivious to it all. He nodded to a few acquaintances, his expression unperturbed even when there was no reciprocal greeting.
Portia felt a peculiar immunity to the stares, as well. Perhaps it was the champagne she’d drunk, but a giddy excitement seemed to cushion her from all censure. It was as if she and Ratcliffe were enclosed in a golden bubble where nothing from the outside world could affect them.
As they passed through an arched doorway, she noticed they were heading away from the dance floor. “The lines are forming,” she murmured. “We need to take our places.”
“I’d rather be alone with you.”
His husky words gave her a pleasurable shiver. A part of her brain scolded her for being so reckless. The voice in her head sounded so much like Miss Underhill that Portia ignored its dire warning. What could happen in a house full of people?
Except pe
rhaps a stolen kiss in a quiet corner.
Anticipation sizzled through her, but she immediately squelched it. No, she mustn’t allow Ratcliffe even that much liberty. Yet she rather enjoyed matching wits with him. Especially now when she was fairly bursting with recriminations to throw in his face.
He guided her past several groups of guests in the entrance hall and down a passageway where she caught a glimpse of gentlemen and ladies playing cards in a drawing room, then a second chamber from which the smell of cigar smoke wafted.
In another moment, they were walking down a deserted corridor. He sent her ahead of him through a doorway and into a sitting room decorated with an Egyptian motif. An oil lamp on a table cast flickering shadows over the alabaster statues, a large painting of the pyramids, and numerous chairs with carved scarabs on the backs.
She stopped beside a closed stone sarcophagus and ran her fingers over the cold granite. “I do hope there isn’t a mummy in here.”
Ratcliffe didn’t answer. The click of the door closing brought Portia whirling around. The sight of him striding purposefully toward her stirred a measure of alarm in her. She didn’t want to be this alone with him.
“Shouldn’t you leave the door open?”
“No one saw us come in, so it hardly matters.”
“It does matter,” she objected. “If we’re discovered here without a chaperone, my reputation will be ruined. Or perhaps that’s your intention.”
As she attempted to step past him on her way to the door, Ratcliffe took hold of her shoulders and brought her to a stop. “I simply don’t want anyone to overhear us,” he said, his gaze intent on her. “I wanted to ask you. Did you receive my gift?”
The reminder snapped her fully to her senses. “The miniature? Unfortunately, yes. And may I add, I do not appreciate your replacing Arun’s picture with your own.”
The faint tension in Ratcliffe’s face melted away. He gave her a brash smile. “As the Bard said, all’s fair in love and war. I was rather hoping you’d sleep with it under your pillow.”
She had hidden the little oval in her bedside table. He didn’t need to know that several times she’d given in to the temptation to study the image of him as a young man, and had wondered what he’d been like then.
She pulled back and crossed her arms. “Very amusing. Now what have you done with Arun’s picture? If you’ve destroyed it, I vow I will never forgive you.”
“There’s no need to fret. It’s still safe and sound.”
“I’m not fretting. I’m ordering you to return my stolen property.”
“All in good time. We’ll see if you still want it when I’m through courting you.”
His arrogance raked at her nerves. She wanted to shake him hard and see the tiny painting fall out of his pocket. She would do it, too, if she truly believed he had secreted it on his person.
Where could he have put it?
Needing an outlet for her pent-up frustration, she paced to the unlit fireplace. “Conceited oaf. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were shunned by society. Or are you hiding behind your mother’s skirts?”
His gaze turned frosty. “She invited me as her escort tonight. Lady Jersey could hardly protest the arrangement.”
“Your mother seems to be a very pleasant lady. Why have you barred her from coming to London before now?”
“I’ve told you before, I’ve done no such thing. She stayed in Kent of her own accord.”
Was it just a trick of the lamplight, or did something secretive flicker in his gaze?
Then she forgot the question as he crossed to her in several quick steps. Drawing her close, he circled his arms around her waist to hold her flush against him. Her body thrilled to the awareness of his muscular strength. The brief anger in his expression had faded beneath an alluring sensual darkness.
“I didn’t bring you here to quarrel, Portia,” he said, his voice lowering to a deep, rasping murmur. “I was hoping we might find something better to do with our time.”
Her heart was beating so fast, he must surely feel it. This was what kept her awake at night, this irrepressible longing to be held in his arms again. She ached to savor every moment of it, to rest her cheek on his chest and breathe in his scent, to run her fingers through his thick black hair. In token resistance, she whispered, “Let me go.”
“That isn’t what you want. What you want is me—every bit as much as I want you.” As he stroked her cheek, his impassioned tone stirred a shivery warmth that penetrated to the core of her. “You’ve driven me mad these past weeks. I can think of no other woman but you, Portia.”
He brought his mouth down onto hers. The contact was deliciously arousing, firm and commanding. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, enticing her into opening to his exploration. The glorious experience of being kissed by Ratcliffe was a real-life dream that enveloped her entire body. From head to toe, every part of her felt a hot wash of yearning. It was an elixir to her heart to know that he’d been as obsessed with her as she’d been with him. Surrendering to the need inside herself, she arched on tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Had she been of sound mind, Portia could have come up with a dozen reasons why he was all wrong for her, why she ought to run as far and as fast as possible. But at the moment, she didn’t want to think, she only wanted to feel, to enjoy the pleasure of his touch.
And touch her he did. His fingers adored the smooth skin of her throat, and then moved downward to worship at the shrine of her bosom. The deep kiss went on and on, and somehow—she couldn’t identify when—he loosened the back of her gown, enough to allow his hand to slide into her bodice. He pushed aside the linen chemise and worked his way inside her corset to cup her naked flesh, his thumb playing with the tip. The shocking intimacy wrested a gasp from her.
She tilted her head back, intending to order him to stop, but instead found herself uttering little whimpers of delight. When her knees threatened to buckle, he tightened his arm around her waist. He continued his magical assault on her breasts, giving equal attention to each one. Then he did something even more wicked. Reaching down, he slipped his hand underneath her skirts and up her stockinged leg.
Even through the haze of her arousal, she realized the danger of his action. “No … you mustn’t …”
“I mean you no harm, darling,” he murmured, his face in shadow. “I swear it on my life. I want only your happiness.”
He silenced any further protest with an impassioned kiss. But his mouth held only a small portion of her attention. The rest of her perception was focused on the progress of his fingers along her inner thigh. She was scandalized and intrigued, fevered and breathless, unsure of what to expect, yet eager for it all the same.
Brushing past garters and petticoats, he found her most private place. She moaned under the stunning bliss of his touch. Ratcliffe pressed his lips to her throat, her name emerging from him in a long groan. He moved his finger in light circles that seemed equal parts torture and pleasure, causing her to squirm against him in a quest for relief.
Yet as maddening as it was, she didn’t want him to stop. Mindless with need, she clutched the smooth lapels of his evening coat in an instinctive effort to keep him close. She craved what he was doing so much that she feared she might die if he ceased. His exploration became deeper, sliding into her slick folds and rhythmically stroking her. His every caress caused a hot throb of sensation deep inside her. Never had she dreamed that a man’s touch could wrest such a powerful reaction from her body. It was almost too much to bear.
“Ratcliffe, please, oh please … I want …”
“Damn,” he swore, his breath heating her throat. “Damn it to hell.”
She heard him through a mist of passion, only dimly registering the torment in his voice. Then she was caught up in her own swelling desire, uttering tiny gasps of desperation, writhing against his hand. All at once, a powerful surge of pleasure poured through her. She cried out, and he swallowed the sound with another
kiss, his fingers continuing to caress her until the last sensations died away.
In the idyllic aftermath, she clung limply to him, trying to catch her breath. Her face was tucked in the lee of his neck, her mind unable to think beyond the wonder he had introduced to her. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for such an extravagance of feelings.
He abruptly removed his hand from beneath her skirts. Lifting her head, she opened her eyes to look at him. The taut expression on his face was almost a grimace. He was breathing hard, and even in her innocence she realized his own appetites had not been satisfied.
She reached up to touch his face. “Ratcliffe …”
He seized hold of her hand and brought it to his lips. His eyes glittered in the shadows. “Marry me, Portia. Marry me, and we can do that as often as you like.”
Astonishment and fervor vied within her. For an instant, she found herself swaying toward him, enthralled by the prospect of endless lovemaking. Already the splendor had faded, leaving her hungering for another taste of that extraordinary pleasure.
Then the cold meaning behind his words slapped her. This had all been a ploy. Ratcliffe didn’t love her. He had used his expertise to coax a response from her body; he had offered rapture as an enticement to marriage, nothing more. He had done so for the sole purpose of securing her dowry.
And she had fallen for his trick.
She shook her head, wanting to deny the creeping horror that left her chilled. “Dear God,” she whispered, “what have I done?”
“You’ve done no wrong.” Ratcliffe bent his head and lightly kissed her brow. “You’ve only seen how very perfect we are together.”
His overconfident manner filled her with fury. She gave him a mighty shove, sending him staggering backward. “Dastard! I’m not marrying you.”
