by Olivia Drake
And left Albright standing at the altar. With all the ton watching.
Aghast, Portia imagined the scene in her mind. It would have been a dreadful humiliation to any man, especially one who had as much pride as the duke. And if Albright had truly loved Lady Ratcliffe, then his heart must have been broken. Yet Lady Ratcliffe had made no mention of the pain she had caused him. Probably because she had been too wrapped up in her own romantic adventure.
At least now Portia could understand the loathing exhibited by the duke. “Albright must have transferred his anger at you to your son.”
Her face grave, Lady Ratcliffe nodded. “So it would seem. I’ve expressed my apologies to him several times. But I do fear he will never forgive me.”
As the viscountess took her leave, Portia was stricken by a troublesome thought. Was she like Lady Ratcliffe?
The similarity of their situations disturbed Portia. She had promised herself to a decent, admirable man. Then she had forgotten him the instant she’d met a handsome rake. She had allowed Ratcliffe to sweep her off her feet. And in the doing, she had betrayed Arun.
Edith Crompton tried not to be obvious about watching the doorway. But even as she chatted amiably with her aristocratic guests, she was fuming inside. How dare Lady Ratcliffe whisk Portia away like that. The woman must be attempting to arrange a match for her wastrel son.
Edith had no intention of allowing Portia to wed a mere viscount. Especially one who had earned the censure of all the ladies present. They had made their low opinion of him quite clear, and Edith was keenly aware of how swiftly a female could fall from grace. It could take only a single misstep, and the previous evening Portia had already pressed her luck by going off alone with that handsome rakehell.
The girl had a wayward streak that had first manifested itself with that native boy back in India. She was strong-willed and rebellious, but Edith had no intention of suffering such disobedient behavior from her ever again.
“We have decided your home will be the perfect setting,” the Duchess of Milbourne said.
Edith realized the haughty old woman was addressing her. And she hadn’t the foggiest notion as to the drift of the conversation. Cautiously, she said, “Indeed, Your Grace?”
Clutching the knob of her cane, the duchess gave an imperious nod. “Lord and Lady Dearborn usually host the annual masquerade ball. However, Annabel has fallen ill with the ague, and thusly we have determined that you and Mr. Crompton should take over the duty this year.”
“We simply must have a masquerade,” Lady Grantham said with a bob of her white curls. “Why, it is a tradition of every Season!”
Edith’s heart pounded. They were asking her to sponsor a ball? She could scarcely believe her ears. This moment was the very pinnacle of social acceptance she had longed for as a girl here in England, when she had been a nobody staring enviously at the priviliged nobility. That dream had sustained her all those dreadful years in India, too, when George had accumulated their riches and she had struggled to convince him to return to London.
Hiding her elation, she formed her lips into a gracious smile. “Why, I would be honored.”
“Since it is a masquerade, you won’t be expected to make any introductions,” Mrs. Beardsley explained, brushing a cake crumb from her massive bosom. “That is why you are so admirably suited to the task.”
“What Mama means,” Frances Beardsley added guilelessly, “is that, well, you know so few people in society.”
Edith’s euphoria drained away at once. It took a herculean effort to keep a pleasant look pasted on her face. Just like that, they had knocked her back down to the common masses with the reminder that she had not been born a lady.
They were all looking at her, the Duchess of Milbourne, Lady Grantham, Mrs. Beardsley, and her odious blond daughter.
Edith rallied her strength of will. She would never allow them to glimpse her shredded pride. The time would soon come when Portia would marry the Duke of Albright, and then Edith would have an indisputable position in their exalted ranks. No one, especially not Lord Ratcliffe, must interfere with that objective.
Picking up the silver pot, she smiled amiably. “More tea?”
CHAPTER 16
COLIN HAD BEEN reduced to spying on Portia again. He sat on a park bench where he could keep watch on her house. His old brown nag cropped a nearby patch of grass.
He wasn’t accustomed to rising so early, at least not here in London. He seldom felt the chill of the morning mist or saw the servants out shining the door brass. But for the past three nights he’d slept only fitfully, awaking at dawn with a hunger that had him growling at Tudge and snapping at Hannah.
His appetite had little to do with food and everything to do with Miss Portia Crompton. Each night he’d tossed and turned, filled with the memory of kissing her sweet mouth, of caressing her beautiful breasts, and touching her moist heat. It had been intoxicating, the pleasure he’d taken in building her arousal to a fever pitch.
Lying alone in his bed each night, he had relived her cries of ecstasy again and again. Knowing he was the first man to bring her to the summit had been a triumph—and an unbearable torment, as well. Stroking himself brought only temporary relief, not the bone-deep satisfaction he craved. He felt no inclination to visit a bawdy house, either. It was Portia he desired, Portia he craved. He wanted to lose himself inside her, flesh to flesh, to share with her the closeness of full-fledged lovemaking.
Instead, his dissolute actions had driven her away from him.
You’re nothing but a worthless rake. I wouldn’t marry you to save my life.
Haunted by her censure, Colin shifted position on the hard bench. He took full blame for what had happened. It had been wrong of him to treat her like a bit of Haymarket fluff. Never before had he attempted to corrupt an innocent girl. Despite his reputation, he had enough gentlemanly scruples to confine his trysts to more experienced women. But from the moment he’d taken Portia in his arms, he’d been doomed. The temptation had been too powerful to resist.
Now she had refused to see him. She had returned his letters unopened. She had walked away from him at a party. He’d lost all his carefully laid groundwork and was back to the barren beginning: hiding in bushes and peering around corners, hoping to catch her alone and unguarded. He couldn’t give up on her—he wouldn’t. Certainly, he still needed her money to pay his mounting bills. Yet there was no denying that Portia had become more than just a bank account to him. His pride had taken a dive out the window, and he didn’t even care.
For the first time in his life, his knack for charming the fairer sex had failed him. Portia had opposed him at every turn because she fancied herself in love with the son of a maharajah. He would never forget the look of horror on her face when she’d returned to her senses. Nor could he erase from his mind her guilt-stricken words.
Dear God, what have I done?
Scowling, he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The utter foolishness of her plan befuddled him. By running off to India and marrying a native, she would be shunned by her family, her friends, her acquaintances. Did she think he could just stand by and allow her to ruin herself?
Then he caught himself. He had nearly ruined her. If anyone had walked in on them three nights ago, Portia would have been condemned along with him. He had abandoned all decency in subjecting an innocent young lady to such intimacy. It was little wonder she had been shocked and traumatized, for no one would have warned her of how utterly enthralling the act could be.
Nevertheless, given half a chance he would do it again. It didn’t matter if his soul was cast into the blackest depths of hell. Nothing would satisfy him but the feel of Portia lying naked beneath him, panting and moaning. And this time, he would have his pleasure, too …
A movement at her house snapped him out of his sensual trance. Two women had walked out the front door and onto the pillared porch. They were bundled up in bonnets and cloaks, making it difficult to establish their identitie
s. Squinting, he recognized Portia and her middle sister, Lindsey.
He surged to his feet, his legs stiff from the damp chill. Untying the chestnut mare, he started after the women, not wanting to draw attention to himself by mounting. He followed them at a circumspect distance, watching as they rounded a corner and vanished. If they were going on a walk, perhaps to Hyde Park, he might have a chance to approach them.
Leading the horse, he quickened his steps. When he caught sight of them again, they had stopped on the side street. Portia gave Lindsey a brief hug. Then, much to his surprise, she left her sister standing on the curbstone while she hailed a hackney coach and clambered inside.
Alone.
Colin swung onto his swaybacked mount. The old mare trudged along placidly, and he was forced to dig in his heels to increase her speed to a canter. Making a detour to avoid encountering Lindsey, he pulled his beaver hat down low, the better to disguise himself. Not for the world would he allow that nosy girl to intercept him—or to cry out a warning to Portia.
In his haste, he nearly ran down a stout maidservant walking a pug. With an apologetic tip of his hat, he rode onward. He kept the hired hack in sight, riding fast until he achieved a comfortable distance. Then he slowed to a walk, keeping pace with the enclosed black coach as it maneuvered through the crowded streets.
It was highly unusual for a young lady of privilege to set out on her own. At this early hour, she wouldn’t be going to call on anyone respectable. And if she was heading for the shops, why was she alone? At the very least, why had she brought no servant to carry her packages?
Colin could only surmise that her purpose was clandestine. If not, she would have taken the family coach. A maid and a footman would have accompanied her. And Lindsey would not have left the house with her, making it appear to their parents as if the sisters were going on a walk together.
Yes, Portia was up to no good. Just where the devil was she going?
His mood grew progressively grimmer as the hired hack left the elegant streets of Mayfair and headed toward the Strand. She could have no justifiable reason for visiting an area that dealt in commerce and industry. The traffic here was denser, with drays hauling kegs of beer or piles of merchandise, workmen riding the omnibus, and tradesmen going about their business. Costers hawked their wares on street corners, selling all manner of foodstuffs from hot meat pies to pickled whelks. The shops catered to the middle classes, bakeries and greengrocers and secondhand clothing stores.
A stiff breeze carried the fishy odor of the river. After a time, he could see the spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral jutting into the cloudy sky. They were nearing Blackfriars now, hardly a place for any decent young woman to venture.
In a shadowed alleyway, a drunkard lay sprawled beside an empty bottle of gin. Strings of laundry hung between the grimy buildings. A burst of loud laughter came from a public house. Here and there, a slattern stood soliciting customers. Several of them blew kisses to him, lifting their ragged skirts to show off their wares.
Scowling, Colin narrowed the gap between himself and the hack. With her privileged upbringing, Portia could have no notion of the evils that might befall her in the stews of London. He did, though, and kept a sharp eye out for ruffians. A band of them could easily overpower the hunched old cabman and take her hostage. Of course, Colin would plunge in with fists flying, but she didn’t know that. And there was always the possibility that one of them might have a pistol. If she were shot in the mayhem of a fight …
His gut churned. He wanted to ride ahead, to force the hack to turn around and take her straight home. Reluctantly, he rejected the action. Portia likely would oppose his command, and this was hardly the place for a gentleman and a lady to stand in the middle of the street and quarrel. Besides, he wanted to find out where she was heading.
And then once he had her safe, by God, he would blister her hide.
To avoid attracting attention in the seedy neighborhood, Portia kept as far from the windows as possible. The task was a challenge. The cab jolted and swayed over the cobblestones, jostling her from side to side. She hung onto the frayed strap with one hand, using her other hand to press a handkerchief to her nose, for the smells of damp musty leather and stale cigar smoke permeated the interior.
This public vehicle was a far cry from her family’s well-sprung coach with its plush velvet cushions and sparkling clean windows. Nothing short of desperate determination could have induced her to set out alone on this errand.
Tension knotted her stomach. She prayed her absence had not been discovered. Lindsey had made a solemn vow to remain in hiding until Portia returned, letting everyone believe they were out on a walk. If Mama discovered otherwise …
There was no need to worry, Portia reminded herself. Edith Crompton had taken ill with a headache during the night and remained abed, with Kasi waiting on her hand and foot. She’d been resting with a cold cloth on her brow when Portia had departed.
There would never be a better opportunity.
Unfortunately, traffic on the main streets had been heavy, and the trip was taking longer than she’d anticipated. She opened her reticule and checked her pocket watch. The dainty gold hands indicated she had been riding in this cramped vehicle for more than an hour already.
Uneasily she wondered if the coachman might be leading her astray. Her imagination offered up a scenario in which he was in cahoots with a band of thieves and was at this very moment driving her to their lair. Perhaps he did that all the time, waited until he picked up a vulnerable female passenger and then took her deep into the stews of London, never to be seen again.
Shivering, she scooted closer to the door and peered through the smeared window. To her vast relief, a forest of masts pierced the skyline. The cramped tenements had given way to clusters of brick warehouses and small office buildings.
Men scurried to and fro, hefting heavy crates or rolling casks down gangways. Sailors swabbed down the deck of a huge merchant ship. A workman moved along the railing, pausing now and then to pound in a nail with his hammer.
She watched all the activity in wide-eyed fascination. It had always been a treat for her to accompany her father to the docks in Bombay. There, the workers had been dark-skinned Hindus and the burning hot sun had replaced the overcast sky, but otherwise, the hustle and bustle was much the same.
Did any of these ships belong to her father? Luckily, he hadn’t mentioned any new arrivals before disappearing into his study after breakfast. Nor had he spoken of visiting the docks to check on cargoes. It was a blessing not to have to worry about running into him here.
And now that she’d arrived, matters would go smoothly. It would take only a few minutes to conduct her business. Then she could return home again with no one the wiser.
Her emotions had been in such turmoil of late, she couldn’t bear to wait until Kasi had her next half-day off. Portia had to know right now if Arun had written any letters.
She closed her eyes, calling up the memory of their last meeting. Under the guise of an errand, she had joined him in the bazaar the morning before her father’s ship had set sail for England.
The rendezvous had been planned as a chance encounter. They’d stood side by side in a booth, pretending to examine the colorful saris on the display table. A lump tightened her throat, and she’d scarcely noticed the swirl of native shoppers and the cacophony of voices.
“Promise me you’ll write,” she’d whispered, sliding her hand over his, entwining their fingers atop a pile of silk garments. “Please, I must be certain you won’t forget me.”
“I will send you many letters, my dear Portia,” Arun vowed in his musical voice. “And you, too, must not forget me, either. You must take this as a token of my love. It will help you remember.”
He pressed the miniature of himself into her palm. While she blinked away tears, he purchased a sari for her in a deep marigold color, waiting gravely while the shopkeeper wrapped it in brown paper. Then Arun had presented that to her, as well. Sh
e had looked up at him, memorizing every aspect of his dear features …
Opening her eyes inside the cab, Portia realized with a knell of dismay that she could no longer conjure Arun in her mind. The previous evening, the same awful event had happened. When she had tried to picture him, his image had grown somewhat hazy. Was the dimple on the right side of his face—or the left? Did his black hair cover the tips of his ears—or was it cut shorter? If only she had the miniature, she could have checked every detail.
In its absence, she craved a letter from Arun as a reminder of the boy who had been her dearest friend for many years—the man she loved with all her heart. She wanted a tangible token that would prompt her to think of him while falling asleep at night. Not Ratcliffe.
Ratcliffe.
Portia had been steadfast in her determination to shut him from her thoughts, but before she could slam the door on those memories, a slew of vivid impressions rushed out to entice her. His laughing green eyes. The sinful quirk of his lips. The hard strength of his body as he held her close.
And oh sweet heaven, his hands on her bosom, beneath her skirts, between her legs. A powerful wave of desire swept away all her good intentions, and she found herself flush with yearning again, aching for the pleasure of his touch …
The coach jerked to a stop. She drew several shaky breaths in an effort to compose herself. Blast the man! He was a cad of the worst ilk. His disrespectful treatment of her only proved him to be the most ungentlemanly of gentlemen.
Fuming, she climbed out and fished in her reticule for a coin. Handing the stoop-shouldered man half a guinea, she instructed him to wait for her return. Then she started toward the soot-blackened brick building in front of her. The structure had a squalid appearance from the sagging lintel of the door to the cracked windows and peeling paint.
