by Olivia Drake
He eyed her warily while running his fingers through his hair. “You needn’t answer me now. At least take a few days to consider my proposal.”
“I’ve done all the considering I need to do. The answer is no.”
His lips tightened, but he took a step toward her, his hand held out in supplication. “Portia,” he murmured, “you’re a passionate woman. But I want you to know the act isn’t always so gratifying. Not every man has the skill to bring you to ecstasy.”
Her cheeks burned. Ratcliffe had known exactly what to do, how to use his mouth and hands to arouse a carnal ache in her. He’d had years of practice with all of his courtesans and mistresses. How easily she had been duped into believing he might actually care for her.
A lump formed in her throat. It was sickening to realize she’d hoped that his interest in her had been spurred by affection. That, deep down, she had wanted him to like her for herself.
Not for her money.
Aware of her disheveled state, she tugged up her bodice. “So you expect me to choose a husband on the basis of his bedroom skills. Do you really think me such a featherbrain?”
He frowned quizzically. “Of course not. You’re a beautiful, clever woman. I merely thought to demonstrate the happiness you’d find in our marriage.”
His callousness enraged her. “You care nothing for my happiness. You broke the rules of gentlemanly behavior. You cold-bloodedly plotted this seduction. You even had the gall to execute your scheme at a party with all of society present.”
The faint lilt of music drifted to her ears. Remembering the aristocrats she would have to face, Portia caught her breath in a ragged sob. All she wanted to do was to burrow under the covers of her bed. She wanted to hide from the fact that she’d betrayed Arun by behaving like a wanton with another man.
That was one sin she couldn’t blame on Ratcliffe.
Tears stung her eyes. He started toward her, but she froze him with a look. “Stay away from me.”
“You’ll need help restoring your appearance.”
He nodded at a gilt-framed mirror, and the sight of her reflection appalled her. Her hair was mussed, her bodice sagged, and her skirt was wrinkled. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly compromised.
How could she have been so foolish?
Blinking hard, she turned her back on Ratcliffe and savagely straightened her gown. “Blast you! You’re nothing but a worthless rake. I wouldn’t marry you to save my life.”
He made no reply, and Portia was glad. She was too distraught to engage him in further conversation. To be in the same room as him was intolerable. But she couldn’t leave now, not while she resembled a two-penny whore.
After a moment, she felt his hands at her back, deftly fastening the row of tiny pearl buttons. His touch was impersonal, and even in the midst of her anger and anguish, she wanted him to slide his arms around her, to whisper sweet nothings in her ear. It confounded her, this power he wielded over her.
As she took one last look at herself in the mirror, she caught sight of Ratcliffe standing behind her in the shadows. The grave look on his face tugged at her heart, but that weakness, she bitterly acknowledged, was her fatal flaw. And it only reaffirmed the necessity of staying far away from the scoundrel in the future.
CHAPTER 15
“I MUST SAY, I’m appalled that Viscount Ratcliffe dared to show his face in public yesterday evening,” Mrs. Beardsley said.
Sitting with a group of aristocratic ladies in the gold drawing room, Portia had been dreading this moment. It was inevitable that Ratcliffe would become the subject of conversation because all four of the visitors had one trait in common. They loved to gossip.
She and Mama had been readying themselves to leave on an afternoon of social calls when the Duchess of Milbourne had arrived. While the horse-faced elderly woman had enthroned herself on a chaise by the hearth, white-haired Lady Grantham had been admitted, followed shortly thereafter by plump Mrs. Beardsley and her bird-witted daughter, Miss Frances Beardsley.
Edith Crompton had been delighted to play hostess to such stellar members of the ton, pouring tea from a silver pot and enlisting Portia to deliver the dainty china cups. Now, Mrs. Crompton flashed Portia a keen stare that warned her to remain silent.
“I’m afraid my daughter and I know very little about Lord Ratcliffe,” Mrs. Crompton said smoothly, offering the stout woman another slice of poppy cake from a silver tray. “Perhaps you’ll tell us more, so we will know the necessity of avoiding him in the future.”
Her voice held the perfect note of maternal concern, but Portia knew her mother well enough to detect a trace of stiffness in her manner. She hadn’t forgiven Portia for abandoning the Duke of Albright for the supper dance. Or for being spotted leaving the ballroom in the company of the notorious Viscount Ratcliffe. Although Portia had managed to convince her mother that nothing untoward had happened, she knew she would be watched more closely henceforth.
Little did her mother realize, Portia welcomed the vigilance. The events of the previous evening only proved that she couldn’t trust herself around Ratcliffe. There was a sensual weakness inside her that he knew exactly how to exploit. She loathed him for using such dishonorable means to entice her into marriage, and yet at the same time, she couldn’t stop thinking about that wonderful, euphoric moment. She had slept fitfully, dreaming of his hands on her body and awakening with the longing to experience it all again. The wickedness of her desire was a constant torment.
How could she have responded to him with such utter abandon when she loved Arun?
“Ratcliffe is a gambler and a rake,” the Duchess of Milbourne said with a sniff of her long nose. “Why, he’s had to sell all of his unentailed land in order to pay off his debts.”
“I have it on excellent authority that he began gambling when he was still at Eton,” Mrs. Beardsley added. “My son Geoffrey was a form below him, and he said Ratcliffe was the leader of the libertines.”
Lady Grantham harrumphed, setting her teacup down with a clatter. “Let us not forget his worst sin. Ratcliffe murdered his own father. Shot him in cold blood when he refused to pay the boy’s gaming markers.”
Frances Beardsley uttered a squeak of horror. Dressed in pale pink ruffles, she resembled a china doll as she looked straight at Portia. “How monstrous! I would never be seen with such a man.”
Everyone turned to look at Portia.
Her mother quickly said, “Nor would any of us had we all known the extent of his crimes.”
Portia felt compelled to speak out. Although she despised Ratcliffe—for very different reasons than these biddies—she also disliked injustice. “I thought the courts had exonerated him.”
The Duchess of Milbourne pursed her lips. “Of course he was declared innocent. One can hardly expect a peer of the realm to go to the gallows, lest it give the common people ideas. Why, the next thing we’d know, the masses would be setting up a guillotine and making us all surrender our necks.”
A collective shudder coursed through all the noble ladies. The biggest nightmare of the aristocrats was that they would suffer the same fate as their counterparts in France some twenty years earlier.
Lady Grantham shook her head. “Poor Lady Ratcliffe. How I do pity her, losing her husband under such terrible circumstances, and at the hand of her own son.”
“It is beyond my understanding how she could ever forgive him,” Mrs. Beardsley added. “One can only imagine how difficult it must have been for her. Why, she’s been unable to face the ton these past three years.”
“That’s dreadful,” Edith Crompton commiserated. “I’m afraid I didn’t have the pleasure of an introduction, but she appeared to be a most lovely woman.”
“Lillian is quite beautiful, always has been.” The Duchess of Milbourne leaned forward, her gnarled hands clutching her cane. “If I dare say so, she was once a bit racy herself. Over the years there have been rumors of her illicit affairs.”
Affairs? The news troub
led Portia, although she took it with a grain of salt. Gossip was hardly a reliable source of the truth.
“Then perhaps it is little wonder that her son turned out as despicable as he did,” Mrs. Beardsley pronounced, while her daughter nodded vigorously in agreement, setting her blond curls to bouncing.
Lady Grantham tut-tutted. “Dear me, do you remember that scandal involving Lillian and Albright? It quite set London on its ear.”
Portia froze with her teacup halfway to her lips. This must be what Miss Underhill recalled her mother discussing a long time ago. Portia could not remain silent, no matter how much her own mother might scold her later. “Scandal?” she asked. “What do you mean?”
The Duchess of Melbourne bared her teeth in a caricature of a smile. “Never fear, my girl, Albright did no wrong. Rather, it was Lady Ratcliffe who was at fault. You see, long before you were born, he—”
She stopped in mid-sentence as a white-wigged footman entered the drawing room. The servant bowed to Mrs. Crompton and presented a silver tray to her. When Portia’s mother picked up the pasteboard card that lay upon it, her eyes widened.
“Well! This is most remarkable. Lady Ratcliffe herself has come to call.” She looked to the duchess as the senior woman present. “Shall I be home, Your Grace?”
“Most certainly.”
“Then do send her ladyship up at once, Higgens.”
Portia felt an agonizing stab of disappointment. She had been about to learn the truth at last, but now cruel fate had intervened. Proper etiquette prevented even these ladies from spreading malicious talk in the presence of their subject.
Curse their good manners!
Then she wondered why Lady Ratcliffe had come here at all. Had Ratcliffe put her up to it? Did he think that his mother could smooth troubled waters? Dear heavens, had he confessed to her exactly what he had done last night?
Portia battled the rise of a hot blush. She must remain cool and aloof—and make certain that the viscountess did not corner her for a private chat.
A moment later, Lady Ratcliffe glided into the drawing room. Slender as a girl in deep green silk, she wore a feathered bonnet on her elegantly upswept black hair. She greeted each lady cordially, exchanging pleasantries and gracing Portia with an especially warm smile before sitting in a chair right beside hers.
Portia found it difficult to meet those astute green eyes. It was too embarrassing to wonder how much Lady Ratcliffe knew. Besides, she sensed a shrewd intelligence in the older woman that somehow made her uneasy.
Lady Ratcliffe accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Crompton. Very soon it became clear exactly where her son had inherited his charm.
“Your home is exceptionally lovely,” she told Portia’s mother. “You simply must give me the name of your linen draper, so that I might choose some of these pretty fabrics for myself.”
Edith Crompton preened. “Why, thank you, my lady, I’d be honored to do so.”
Lady Ratcliffe turned her attention to the duchess. “My dear Henrietta, I do regret that we had so little chance to speak yesterday evening, what with the crush of people. After so much time rusticating in the country, I’m looking forward to hearing all the latest on-dits. From all of you ladies.”
She extended her smile to include Lady Grantham, Mrs. Beardsley, and Frances Beardsley. “Now, what is this I hear about Turnbuckle mending his wicked ways by marrying Oglethorpe’s daughter? Colin never breathed a word of it to me, but how like a man to overlook the significance of such an event.”
The ladies launched into a spirited discussion of the marital matches that had been made in the past few years. Quietly observing, Portia couldn’t help but notice how deftly Lady Ratcliffe controlled the conversation, asking questions at the right moment, offering witty commentary to draw laughter, and introducing a new name whenever there was a lull. The older woman made no attempt to speak directly to Portia, much to her relief. She was almost beginning to relax, thinking she’d been mistaken about the purpose of the visit, when Lady Ratcliffe rose to her feet and addressed Mrs. Crompton.
“Pray forgive me, but I have an appointment I simply must keep. Perhaps your daughter wouldn’t mind seeing me to the door?”
Portia froze, her fingers stiff around the saucer. She could think of no gracious way to refuse such a simple request.
Nor, apparently, could her mother. “As you wish, my lady. May I say, we’ve enjoyed your visit very much.”
Portia set down her empty cup on a table. As she accompanied Lady Ratcliffe out of the drawing room, she glimpsed the other women eyeing them with avid speculation. No doubt they, too, would take their leave soon, anxious to be the first to pass along news of the visit. By nightfall, the rumor mill would be abuzz with reports that Ratcliffe’s mother was making a blatant effort to negotiate a match between her son and the premier heiress of the season.
They headed down a high-ceilinged corridor decorated with gilt chairs and landscape paintings. Portia wanted to walk fast, but forced herself to match steps with Lady Ratcliffe’s measured pace.
“Perhaps it is no surprise, Miss Crompton, to learn that I came here hoping to speak to you alone.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t much time. I must return to my other visitors.”
“Surely you can spare a few moments.” The viscountess took Portia’s hand and patted the back of it. “I understand from my son that the two of you quarreled yesterday evening. On the way home, Ratcliffe seemed quite distraught about it.”
Distraught? Portia nearly choked on a lump of suppressed anger. What a cartful of nonsense. If he was upset at all, it was because his dastardly plot had failed.
Then she noted how closely Lady Ratcliffe was watching her, and realized the woman was fishing for information. In that moment she saw her mistake. Ratcliffe hadn’t confessed everything, after all. His mother was merely making guesses as to why he’d been in a sulk.
“I can’t imagine why he would be troubled,” Portia said coolly. “It was nothing of significance—at least not to me.”
“I see. Well, I do want you to feel that you can come to me with any concerns you might have about Colin. After all, I know him better than anyone.”
Once again, Portia felt Lady Ratcliffe was being rather fast in presuming a closeness with her. Yet couldn’t two play that game? “Then perhaps you won’t mind telling me why he and the Duke of Albright dislike one another so much. I’ve gathered it has something to do with you.”
For the barest moment, Lady Ratcliffe looked startled. She blinked those long-lashed green eyes, so similar to her son’s eyes it was uncanny. Giving Portia an assessing look, she laughed with genuine amusement. “Forgive me for being surprised. The incident happened thirty years ago. However, I’m sure the old trolls back there would be more than happy to dig it out of the cave of ancient history.”
“I’d prefer to hear about it from you, my lady.”
“Then so you shall. Take me somewhere private, and I’ll tell you the whole dismal story.”
Her heart thumping, Portia led the way down the curving sweep of the grand staircase and into a small antechamber off the entrance hall. She took care to hide her excitement because she didn’t want Lady Ratcliffe to wonder why Portia was so interested in finding out the truth.
Portia acknowledged her own growing need to understand Ratcliffe. She had speculated on the subject so much, it had become something of an obsession.
Lady Ratcliffe seemed disinclined to sit. She strolled through the antechamber, touching knickknacks with her elegantly gloved hand. “It all started when I was about your age,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Portia, who had also remained standing in deference to her guest. “It was my first Season, and I was having a wonderful time dancing at balls and flirting with all the eligible gentlemen. If it doesn’t seem vainglorious, may I say I was the foremost debutante of the year.”
Portia could believe it. Lady Ratcliffe exuded a vivacity of spirit which, along with her beauty, would have attra
cted men in droves. And an unsettling suspicion told her where this was heading. “Was the Duke of Albright one of your suitors?”
“Yes, he was new to society himself, having just gained the title at the same time as he finished his schoolwork. Within days, he fell madly in love with me …” She paused, then added contritely, “Oh, my dear, I am sorry. I understand he’s now courting you, and I mean no offense.”
The situation did make Portia feel awkward, but not because she cared a fig about Albright’s past loves. It was simply odd to think that the duke had paid his addresses to both of them. “I could never be offended by your honesty, my lady.”
“Well, then, let me say that a number of gentlemen vied for my hand in marriage, including Albright and Roger—Colin’s father. Eventually I bowed to the wishes of my parents and chose Albright as my betrothed.”
Portia was so taken aback, she sank down onto the nearest chair. “You were to marry him?”
“Yes, I agreed to the match even though I couldn’t bring myself to return his professions of love.”
Lady Ratcliffe gazed out the window, the filtered light illuminating an expression of tragic sorrow on her fine features. Portia found herself wondering if the woman had deliberately assumed a pose designed to elicit sympathy. Then she instantly felt guilty for being uncharitable when she hadn’t yet heard the entire tale.
“But … you didn’t wed him. What happened?”
“Though my heart was aching, I went through with all the preparations. It wasn’t until the very day of the wedding, as I was being garbed in my bridal raiment, that I realized the terrible mistake I was making. It was Roger I loved, not Albright. Yet even then I convinced myself that it was too late, that I must go through with the ceremony, or cause terrible dishonor to my family.”
“And to the duke,” Portia added.
“Oh, please be assured his happiness weighed heavily on my mind, as well. And truly, I was firm in my resolve as I reached St. George’s Church. I was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice. I even walked down the aisle on the arm of my father. But then”—she smiled wistfully into the distance—“then as I stood waiting for the nuptials to begin, Roger appeared at the back of the church. Oh, he was such a fine-looking buck and so very bold. He came marching down the aisle, swept me off my feet, and carried me away to Gretna Green.”
