by Olivia Drake
Agitation stirred in the pit of Portia’s stomach, but she attributed it to nerves. Tonight, the Duke of Albright would formally announce their betrothal. At his request, she had dressed as the Roman goddess Diana, so that he might easily recognize her in the crowd.
Accordingly, the soft white folds of a toga left one of her shoulders bare, and a filigreed gold diadem glinted in her upswept chestnut curls. She peered through the eyeholes of a demimask. Against her back rested a leather quiver of arrows, though she’d opted against carrying a longbow, which would have proven awkward while dancing.
She was determined to make the duke proud—and to overcome the lethargy that plagued her of late. In six weeks’ time, she would be a duchess, for Albright wanted their wedding to be a big splash at the end of the Season. The newly exalted position would give her the power to help her family and to ensure good marriages for her sisters. Gossips like Mrs. Beardsley would never again dare to question the Crompton family’s status at the peak of society.
And once she embarked upon her new life, certain memories would be vanquished forever. She wouldn’t think of Ratcliffe at odd moments like now, when she caught herself searching for his tall form among all the Gypsies and princes and military officers. Although he hadn’t been invited, such a trifling obstacle would mean nothing to a rogue like him.
She acknowledged her disappointment when she didn’t spy him anywhere in the swirling throng of guests. Although they often had struck sparks off one another, there had also been laughter and witticisms and a peculiar sort of kinship between them.
But he had made no attempt to see her since that day at the docks. In retrospect, it seemed highly unusual that he hadn’t taken advantage of her grief in an effort to press his own suit. Instead, he had held her close while she’d dampened his coat with her tears …
“Diana the Huntress?”
A Roman senator stood before her, a circlet of laurel leaves adorning his silvered dark hair. Despite his half-mask, she recognized his proud demeanor at once.
“Your Grace.” Portia dipped a curtsy. She thanked the heavens for the domino that helped to conceal her blush. How awful if he were to guess she had been thinking about Ratcliffe.
The duke exchanged courtesies with her parents, and then requested her permission for the first dance, which she had no choice but to grant. “Come, my dear,” he said, offering his arm. “Let all those present envy me for dancing with the loveliest goddess in the room.”
The effusive compliment made her smile, renewing her determination to enjoy the evening. By prior agreement between the duke and her parents, the announcement would not be made until everyone was seated for the midnight supper. With resolute gaiety, Portia joined the line of dancers assembling on the floor. Albright was an excellent dancer, and she soon found herself taking pleasure in the familiar steps and the lilting music of the orchestra.
Throughout the evening, a number of swains approached to secure her company for upcoming sets. It wasn’t terribly difficult to discern their identities. She recognized the Honorable Henry Hockenhull as a court jester, his auburn hair covered by a drooping harlequin’s hat. Lord Wrayford was an Egyptian pharaoh complete with gold paper crown that nearly tumbled off every time he tilted his head down to ogle her bosom. The gangly Marquess of Dunn made an incongruous Robin Hood, complete with doublet and green tights.
Several of her partners made oblique comments on Albright’s preference for her company. Apparently, word of their betrothal was an open secret in the ton, though whether people were merely guessing or whether the duke had dropped a discreet word in the ears of the right gossips, Portia didn’t know. She deftly deflected all attempts to fish for the truth, but the process grew increasingly wearisome.
After bandying words with yet another purse-poor second son—or was he a third?—she escaped upstairs to her bedchamber for a moment of quiet. She removed her domino and rubbed the bridge of her nose, where the half-mask had left red marks. Sinking onto the edge of a chair, she rested her aching feet on the tigerskin rug. It brought a poignant reminder of the time when Ratcliffe had sat right here, his long lean fingers stroking the tiger’s head. He had climbed up the trellis to bring her that stem of orchids. How charming he had been, how very witty and handsome.
Portia released a long sigh. It was useless to think about him anymore. Clearly, he had given up on her. She must focus her mind on the duke and their upcoming nuptials.
The ormolu clock on the mantelpiece ticked a steady reminder of her impending duty. It was half an hour before midnight, nearly time for the supper dance and the big announcement that would set the course for the rest of her life. A part of her dreaded standing before the crowds of nobility, accepting their good wishes, pretending to be happy when all she really wanted was to be left alone.
With a sigh, Portia forced herself up from the chair. There was no point in donning her domino again since everyone would soon know her identity. Abandoning the quiver of arrows, too, she tidied her hair in front of a mirror and then trudged out of the bedchamber, only to stop in surprise.
In the dimly lit corridor, a masked man stood waiting for her.
Her heart leaped with instant recognition. Ratcliffe. No other gentleman of her acquaintance had that tall, cocky stance. Nor had any other guest garbed himself as a pirate. A billowy white shirt covered his broad chest and a red scarf was tied at his throat. Black knee-high boots and tight buckskin breeches defined his long, muscular legs.
Removing his mask, Ratcliffe tucked it into his waistband. His face wore the brash smile that never failed to stir heat in her depths.
It was working spectacularly at the moment.
“You!” she snapped, in an effort to deny his effect on her. “What are you doing up on this floor? You weren’t even invited to the ball.”
He ignored her words as his avid gaze made a slow survey of her from head to toe. “My God, Portia, I’d nearly forgotten how beautiful you are.”
His deep husky voice awakened all of her senses. She drank in the vivid details of his face, the green of his eyes, and the strong angles of his jaw and cheekbones. “Why are you here?” she repeated.
“I had to see you.” His face intent, he strolled toward her. “Where can we talk in private?”
“Nowhere. Now please leave here at once, or I’ll have one of the footmen toss you out on your ear.”
“I’m asking for a few minutes of your time, that’s all.”
She braced herself for his attempt to manhandle her back into her bedchamber. Heaven help her if he tried to kiss her again. Perhaps he would press her down onto the bed and lift her skirts. The very thought sparked an onrush of molten desire.
But oddly, Ratcliffe didn’t take advantage of her nearby bedroom. He slipped his arm through hers and tugged her down the corridor in the opposite direction from the grand staircase. She glanced over her shoulder at the emptiness of the passageway. With every step, the lilt of music and the buzz of voices seemed fainter.
She tried in vain to shake off his hold. “This is absurd. I must return to the ball at once.”
“So you can be there when Albright announces your betrothal?” His lips thinned, Ratcliffe shook his head in disgust. “I want to know why you’ve agreed to marry him despite my warnings. You owe me an explanation.”
“I owe you nothing! What gives you the right to come into my home uninvited and make such demands on me?”
“This does.”
He pulled her close, took her head in his hands, and kissed her. Too transfixed to resist, Portia could only stand there with her hands on his chest while his mouth plundered hers. Awareness of him poured like heated honey through her body, bathing her in the sweet joy of desire. It made her feel vibrantly alive for the first time in weeks.
Succumbing to temptation, she moved her palms over his thin shirt, reveling in the feel of his hard muscles. He groaned in response and cupped her bottom, lifting her to his loins. For one radiant moment, the scantiness of
their costumes revealed the distinct shape of his male anatomy, and she moved her hips in instinctive curiosity. With a muffled curse, he broke off the embrace and held her at arm’s length.
The heaviness of his breathing disturbed the quiet air. “Tell me,” he muttered, “do you respond so passionately to Albright?”
Crashing back to earth, she wanted to lash out at Ratcliffe for causing the wild emotional disruption that good sense warned her to avoid. “Cad! What matters to me in a husband are kindness, chivalry, and respectfulness. You lack all of those qualities.”
Ratcliffe growled in exasperation. Then he took a deep breath and smoothed back her hair with a gentle hand. “Portia, please listen to me. You must see the truth. He’s marrying you because he knows how much I want you.”
“You?” she scoffed. “I haven’t even seen you for the past few weeks. So why would he think you were still pursuing me?”
“Believe me, he knows.”
She remembered the darkness of hatred on the duke’s face whenever he encountered Ratcliffe. Yet wasn’t that understandable given the way Ratcliffe’s mother had abandoned him at the altar? “I don’t doubt the duke despises you and your family. He certainly has every reason to do so. But I’ve seen no evidence of him taking action against you—other than these unfounded suspicions of yours.”
Ratcliffe eyed her measuringly. “Then I’ll tell you the proof. But not here, where someone might happen upon us.”
Taking hold of her upper arm, he accompanied her down a little-used back staircase. He seemed to know his way around her house with unerring instinct. Intrigued, she had only a moment to wonder at his familiarity as they walked down a darkened corridor and through a door that led outside.
There, he grasped her hand and drew her deep into the shadows of the garden. The sound of a waltz drifted from the open windows of the ballroom. Decorative lanterns hung from some of the trees, and a few costumed couples strolled the lighted pathways. Avoiding exposure, Ratcliffe made straight for the stone wall at the rear of the property.
Instinct made Portia wary. She ought to speak up, to dig in her heels and insist upon returning to the ball. Yet the feel of their intertwined fingers, the strength of his presence, filled her with an irresistible excitement. She had a few minutes’ reprieve before the supper dance would begin. What harm could come from listening to whatever he had to say?
Taking a swift look around, as if to make sure there were no observers, Ratcliffe opened the gate. He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her out into the gloom of the mews. The stamp and snort of a horse called her attention to the black outline of a coach at the end of the alley.
Uneasiness prickled over her skin, especially when Ratcliffe urged her in that direction. She reminded herself there were many vehicles parked around the neighborhood, waiting for the ball to end.
Nevertheless, she twisted away from him and stepped back against the stone wall. “That’s quite far enough. No one will hear us here, so give me your proof.”
He stepped very close, an ebony shadow blocking out the faint starlight. “First I’ll have your vow not to speak of this to a soul, aside from the people directly involved.”
She hesitated, reluctant to make promises about the unknown. But curiosity got the better of her. “As you wish.”
“Let me start by correcting a falsehood I’ve told you,” he said. “I suggested that Hannah’s infant could have been fathered by any one of a number of gentlemen. In actuality, the child is Albright’s.”
The statement hit Portia like a jab to the ribs. Certain she must have misunderstood Ratcliffe, she stared up at him in utter disbelief, trying to make out his features in the darkness. “What?”
“You heard me. It’s the truth, I swear it on my father’s grave.” His fingers gently kneaded her shoulders as if to soften the blow of his words. “Hannah was my mistress for a time—I’d taken her away from the brothel where we met and set her up in her own household so that she was mine exclusively. Then one day I called on her unexpectedly and found Albright warming her bed. He’d deliberately set out to woo her away from me with jewels and pretty compliments.”
Portia remembered Hannah’s cagey response as to why she and Ratcliffe had ended their liaison. He discovered me lying with another man.
Yet Hannah hadn’t named the duke. To attribute such reprehensible behavior to Albright seemed impossible, the direct opposite of the gentleman Portia knew.
She shook her head. “I … I cannot believe it.”
“Hannah will corroborate the story if I ask her. Albright kept her as his own mistress until he cast her out for the sin of conceiving his child. He threatened to kill her if she told anyone.”
Portia leaned her head back against the stone wall. Her mind whirled. Was it possible? The duke had always behaved toward her with the utmost gentility. Yet the incident would explain so much—such as why Ratcliffe regarded Albright with such loathing. Dear God, it made her ill to think of any man being so callous as to abandon his own baby.
Ratcliffe took hold of her arm. “I cannot allow you to marry him, Portia. I won’t allow it. I hope you can understand that.”
Wrapped up in her troubled thoughts, she didn’t realize his intentions until it was too late. He propelled her the short distance to the waiting coach, yanked open the door, and half lifted her inside.
CHAPTER 19
PORTIA FOUND HERSELF dumped unceremoniously into the pitch-dark interior of the vehicle. Landing on a cushioned seat, she heard the door shut, followed by the click of a turning key.
With a cry of disbelief, she groped for the handle, only to discover it wouldn’t budge. Ratcliffe had locked her in. He was abducting her!
She pounded on the door. “Blast you, Ratcliffe! Open this door at once. Let me go!”
There was no answer, nor had she expected one. The abrupt rocking of the coach told her they were moving. She cupped her hands to peer out the window, then realized that blacking had been applied to the outside of the pane. There was no hope of signaling for help from a passing vehicle.
Dear God, what was she to do? Her parents would be looking for her by now. The duke would be waiting for her in the ballroom to join him for the supper dance. At the very least, she wanted the chance to ask him about Hannah Wilton and judge by his reaction whether or not Ratcliffe had spoken the truth.
Behind her, a rustling noise caught her attention.
Portia whirled around, her heart pounding. She tried to discern movement in the absolute blackness. “Is someone there?”
A sleepy little voice replied, “Who’re ye?”
There was something very familiar about that childish Cockney accent. But surely not. Wondering if she might have knocked her head on entering the coach, she ventured, “Bane?”
“Aye … who be ye?”
“It’s Miss Crompton. The lady whose purse you filched that day at the docks.” Astonishment rose to the fore as Portia struggled to sort out an explanation for his presence here. “Has Lord Ratcliffe abducted you, too?”
“Ab … wot?”
“Abducted. Stolen you away.” She scooted closer, straining to see him. It was impossible to distinguish anything through the gloom. “Oh, I do wish I had the means to light a lamp.”
“There be a tinderbox, miss. Right ’ere ’neath the seat. Found it when Oi was lookin’ fer a place t’ ’ide.”
Portia heard him moving around, then a metallic rattle sounded as he opened the container. A moment later, he struck the two pieces of flint together and a shower of sparks revealed his presence. It took him several tries before a tiny flame started in the pile of tinder.
Swiftly, she patted the walls and found a lamp fastened to one overhead corner. She moved aside the glass chimney to access the candle, then touched the wick to the tinder. At last a pale glow illuminated the interior of the coach, showing Bane nestled in a blanket on the seat across from her.
He looked considerably cleaner than the last time she’d
seen him. The accumulated grime was gone from his face. In place of his ragged clothing, he wore a smart little suit of blue livery.
Mystified, she asked, “What did you mean just now when you said you were looking for a place to hide? Were you concealing yourself from his lordship?”
“Aye, mum. ’E tole me t’ stay wid Mr. Tudge. But Oi jest couldn’t.” Bane leaned forward, his blue eyes as big as the gold buttons on his coat. “Mr. Tudge be a pirate.”
“A pirate?”
Bane nodded vigorously. “ ’E captured ships an’ kilt folks wid ’is sword. ’Twas the master wot saved ’im from a life o’ crime.”
Her confusion began to clear, replaced by a stunned realization. “The master? Are you saying … you’re now living with Lord Ratcliffe?”
Bane proudly thrust out his skinny chest. “Oi be ’is tiger. Oi runs errands and Oi ’olds the ’orse wherever the master goes. ’E pays me tuppence a week.”
So Ratcliffe hadn’t abandoned Bane, after all. He hadn’t fobbed him off with a handout, either. Instead, he had taken the grubby little street urchin under his wing. He had scrubbed him spotless, given him new clothing and a post where he could earn a wage.
Ratcliffe had done the same for Orson Tudge, if Bane could be believed, and for Hannah Wilton—even though he knew she was carrying the child of his enemy.
Portia drew a shaky breath. Was it possible she’d been blind to his true character? That he was more than just a dissolute profligate? The notion was too much to absorb, so she concentrated on Bane. “You ran away, then. Rather than remain home with Mr. Tudge, you hid yourself in this coach. And you fell asleep here.”
“Aye.” Bane eyed her warily. “Ye won’t tattle on me, will ye, miss?”
He looked so woebegone at the prospect, she had to restrain the impulse to hug him close. “No, of course not. Only tell me, do you know where his lordship is taking me?”
