Seducing the Heiress

by Olivia Drake

  “You want this.”

  His warm palm slid downward over her flat belly, then at last his forefinger slid into her moist center. A pulse of pleasure rolled through her, causing her hips to move of their own volition. “Yes … oh, yes …”

  Tilting her head back, she parted her legs to welcome the indulgence of his caress. He stroked her with a thoroughness that brought all of her senses to vivid life. Everything in her became fixated on the demands of her most feminine part. As the sensations grew more torturous, she found herself panting, begging, melting bonelessly back onto the bed.

  All at once, he removed his hand, and when she would have protested, he bent his dark head to her privates. The shock of his action wrested a gasp from her. But at the first swirling lick of his tongue, all of her objections fell away in a swift descent into madness. She felt immersed in a delight so scandalous it took her breath away, sending her on a headlong plunge into waves of bliss.

  As the rapture gradually faded, leaving her limp and happy, she returned to the awareness that Ratcliffe stood beside the bed, wrestling with the cuff link on one of his sleeves. From his glowering expression, it occurred to her that his needs had yet to be satisfied.

  Blushing at her own selfishness, she said, “May I help?”

  “The cursed thing is stuck.”

  “Let me see.”

  He held out his arm, and she quickly worked the silver link loose from its mooring. She made short work of the one on his other sleeve, then helped him push off the shirt. As he tossed it to the floor, Portia slid her palms up the hard planes of his chest, marveling at the strength of his muscles, the breadth of his shoulders, the tapering perfection of his torso. It wasn’t so uncommon to see a shirtless man in India, but none of them had ever moved her to awe as Ratcliffe did. His skin was taut and sprinkled with dark hair that arrowed downward into the waistband of his breeches.

  Dear heaven, she couldn’t bring herself to look lower.

  With a quivery sigh, Portia glanced up only to find him staring down at her, his eyes dark and rich with promise. Taking hold of her hands, he placed them on the placket of his breeches. “I’ll need your assistance here, as well.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she applied herself to the task of opening each button. The telltale bulge there made her breath catch, and her fingers became clumsy, brushing against him more than once.

  He made a tortured sound in his chest. Pushing her hands aside, he freed himself from the confinement of cloth, giving Portia her first view of a man in full arousal. The sight filled her with mingled awe and alarm, for it seemed impossible that they could ever be joined.

  “Touch me.”

  His rasping command sounded torn from him. He wrapped her fingers around him, and she marveled at the velvety hardness of his flesh. As she explored him, the muscles in his groin contracted. On a daring impulse, she leaned closer and kissed him as he had kissed her. Groaning, he tangled his hands into her hair in wordless encouragement. His unashamed pleasure gratified her, stirring the rise of her own passion again as well.

  “Enough.”

  Abruptly, he caught hold of her and pressed her down onto the bed, covering her with his body. A tremor coursed through his powerful form and he looked deeply in her eyes. “My God,” he murmured in a reverent tone. “What you do to me …”

  The hunger in his voice inspired a tremendous rush of sentiment in her, and she tenderly ran her fingertips over his face. “My dearest Ratcliffe …”

  Their mouths melded again with a wild urgency, so full of feeling she wanted to weep from the joy of it. Nothing had ever felt so right as his weight upon her. He sipped from her lips, then his mouth trailed down to the hollow of her throat and to her breasts. Desire kindled in her, much richer and deeper this time, for the closeness of their bodies gave the moment an even greater significance. She was keenly aware of him, hard and hot against her thigh, and then he was parting her legs, pushing inside of her. The sting of his entry caught her by surprise, and when she gasped, he soothed her with a swift conciliatory kiss.

  “Forgive me. Are you … in pain?”

  His intense gaze searched hers. He was breathing hard, holding himself very still. The discomfort melted into a glorious sense of fullness, and she arched her hips, the better to feel him. “Oh … it’s heaven.”

  The light of passion flared in his eyes, and he began to move inside of her, each plunge delivering a bolt of pleasure to her senses. She wrapped her arms and legs around him in an effort to bring him ever closer. Hearts beating as one, they found a shared rhythm that carried them deeper and deeper into the frantic throes of passion.

  With exquisite control, he whispered encouragements in her ear, kissing her until a liquid heat suffused her entire body. The rising tension took her on a wild ride to the pinnacle. Only as she shuddered and cried out in the maelstrom of release did he join her there, groaning her name on one final thrust.

  They clung to each other in the aftermath, drawing in long gasps of air. As her wildly hammering heartbeat returned to normal, Portia floated in a haze of pure happiness. After a time, he shifted position so that they lay side by side. He gathered her close and kissed her brow while she settled her head onto the hard pillow of his shoulder.

  Snuggling closer, she sighed. “I never knew … never dreamed … how wonderful it would be. Is it always like that?”

  “It is with you.”

  Colin knew the answer was inadequate. The trouble was, he couldn’t quite express in words the magnitude of what they had just shared because it had knocked him off kilter. He’d had more than his fair share of trysts with loose women. His bodily appetites had been slaked many times over the years. But now, those episodes paled in comparison to his union with Portia—because he had never before realized the difference between mere coupling and making love.

  It was a stunning revelation for a man of nine-and-twenty to make. Especially one who had prided himself on his sexual prowess.

  He held Portia close, marveling at the perfect peace he felt in her arms. She had a wit that made him laugh, a spirit that kept him on his toes, and a strength that both frustrated and fascinated him. If truth be told, he didn’t ever want to move from this spot beside her. They could carry him away in a casket fifty years from now, and he would have died a happy man.

  Portia was idly exploring his torso as if to acquaint herself with every aspect of his body. Her fingers met the scar on his upper arm where she had shot him. Uttering a mournful cry, she lifted herself up to lean over and plant a soft kiss there. “I’d forgotten all about this. I could have killed you!”

  At her stricken expression, he tried not to grin. “I’m glad you’ve finally realized that.”

  “Oh, do stop. You know I never meant for that pistol to go off.”

  “I don’t know any such thing. At the time, you held me in utter contempt.”

  Did she still? Her indictment against him just that morning had been scathing. In her view, he was nothing more than a rake and a scapegrace, and to a degree, she was right. He had sown his wild oats for a long time, so why should she believe him when he said he was ready to set down roots?

  Her lips curved in a come-hither smile. She draped herself over him, her legs entwining with his. “I confess, my contempt was merely a mask. Even back then, I was desperate to hide my desire for you, my lord.”

  He sucked in a breath. It was too soon, all of his strength had been drained, yet he felt an undeniable stirring in his loins. “Indeed?”

  “Yes. From the moment we met, I’ve wanted you.” She moved her hips lightly against him. “Oh, Ratcliffe, for so long I’ve been yearning to be with you like this.”

  His chest contracted. He’d fantasized for weeks about hearing her say just that. But now it wasn’t enough, damn it. He wanted her to say she’d been pining in love with him. Because he had been pining. It was a shock to face that truth: he was in love with Portia.

  Hopelessly, madly, completely in love wit
h the one woman who, in her own words, refused to be bullied into marriage.

  Hiding his quandary, he pressed a kiss to her brow. “It’s about time you addressed me by my given name.”

  “Colin … but do you really mind Ratcliffe so very much?” Her hand crept downward, exploring him with bold curiosity. “I’ve grown rather fond of the name.”

  He released a groan. “You can call me Robin Hood or even Maid Marian so long as you keep touching me like that.”

  Her smile was that of a siren who has just learned the extent of her powers. “Does that mean we can do it again?”

  “As often as you like.”

  He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her long and deep. Then he devoted himself to teaching her all the myriad ways they could arouse each other. It resulted in an orgy of pleasure that left them both blissfully exhausted.

  Much later, the fire on the hearth had died down, and she lay sleeping in his arms. Colin stared into the darkness and wondered if she’d considered the possible consequences of their lovemaking. He had always taken care not to sire any offspring. His women had all had their tricks for avoiding pregnancy. But Portia had taken no such precautions. And when he thought of her growing large with his child, a primal ache gripped his gut. By God, he would never allow his son or daughter to grow up without him as a father.

  He almost hoped she had conceived because then she would have to wed him, whether she liked it or not. Let her put that damned dowry in trust for their children, for all he cared. It had been nothing but a thorn in his side, and somehow he would find a way to shore up his finances without it.

  Now that he’d made the decision he couldn’t wait to tell her. Yet he had to wait.

  Peering down at her through the shadows, he felt shaken by a powerful surge of love. Not for the world would he disturb her much-needed rest. They could talk in the morning, and maybe, after the spectacular night they’d shared, she would finally see the advantages of marrying him.

  On that hopeful thought, he closed his eyes and slipped into a deep slumber. But when he awakened after dawn, she was gone.

  CHAPTER 23

  PORTIA UNLATCHED THE front door and slipped out of the house. It was early, so there were no servants about yet, except perhaps in the kitchen. She might have been the only person in the world.

  Pausing on the porch, she took a deep breath of brisk morning air. The stone column felt cool to her bare fingertips. She had been in such a dreamlike state while dressing that she had forgotten her gloves. It was a wonder she’d remembered to don shoes and stockings.

  After descending the short flight of steps, she followed the curve of the drive until it disappeared around a bend near a stand of willow trees. There, she stood looking over the hilly landscape. A flock of starlings swooped and swirled against a blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. Only a few sounds disturbed the silence: the twittering of a bird, the baaing of a sheep somewhere in the distance, the whisper of the breeze through the leaves.

  The peaceful setting served as a reminder that all was right with the world. Nothing had changed but herself.

  A short while ago, she had awakened in Ratcliffe’s bed. Cloaked in shadow, he had been sprawled on his back sound asleep, his arm thrown over his head. The sight of his nude body had riveted her. How she had wanted to kiss him, to enjoy the pleasure of his embrace one more time. But after driving the coach all night on their journey here, he needed his sleep. And she dared not dally past dawn for fear a servant might discover them in bed together.

  The very thought made her blush. In the light of day, it was a bit shocking to face the fact that she had willingly offered herself to a man. And not just any man, but the notorious Lord Ratcliffe.

  Yet how very different he was from the scandalous rogue he presented to the world. The snobs of society couldn’t guess—nor would they have cared—that he had gone out of his way to help Bane and Hannah and other servants. Or that he had such a keen interest in the care and cultivation of his land.

  And the most amazing secret of all was that he possessed the principles of a true gentleman. He would not have forced her into his bed—even though he’d had her at his mercy. Thank heavens she’d mustered the courage to approach him, for otherwise their marvelous night together would never have happened.

  And she would not have been forever transformed.

  The difference in her went far beyond the physical loss of her innocence. To be sure, a slight soreness lingered and her reputation lay in tatters. Yet in her heart, she had gained so very much. Intimacy with Ratcliffe had left her feeling enriched and blessed, as if her eyes had been opened and her childhood left behind. Now she could see clearly that her feelings for Arun had been the infatuation of a young girl. At last she had learned the difference between mere affection and womanly love.

  Ratcliffe would be the perfect husband, the man of her dreams—if only he could curb his profligate nature.

  She kicked a piece of gravel with her toe, sending it sailing into the underbrush. Curse him for romancing so many women. And curse him twice for being a gambler!

  Her arms swinging, Portia continued down the drive. Her burst of anger died a quick death as another thought occurred to her. Perhaps she should be praising his flaws, not denouncing them. Because if he hadn’t had those weaknesses, in all likelihood he would have already settled down and married another woman. And he wouldn’t have been in need of funds. Which meant he wouldn’t have approached Portia with the intention of gaining her dowry.

  She laughed aloud at her convoluted reasoning. No, she wouldn’t waste time wishing Ratcliffe’s past could be changed. Rather, she should concentrate on the goodness in him, the true character that few people bothered to see. If he could be persuaded to stay out of London and away from the gaming tables, then perhaps he could mend his wicked ways.

  Who better than a wife to hold him close and encourage him?

  Portia came to a complete stop in the middle of the drive. Drawing a shaky breath, she found herself enthralled by the notion of devoting the rest of her life to him. How wonderful it would be to live here in the country, to raise a family, to grow old together.

  To have every night be as superb as the one they had just shared.

  Desire began a slow burn inside her. Ratcliffe hadn’t spoken words of love, she reminded herself. But he had held her in a cherishing manner, whispering endearments in her ears. If only they could nurture their closeness, perhaps love would soon follow. She had to at least give him that chance.

  Without conscious thought, she found herself turning back toward the house, a lightness in her steps. How foolish she had been to leave Ratcliffe’s bed. Every moment with him was a precious gift that must not be squandered. If her father had gone off to Scotland yesterday, then it might be several more days before he found her here. In the meantime, she and Ratcliffe could be together. She wanted to know about every aspect of his life, to see the estate, to wander through his house, arm in arm.

  Did couples make love in the middle of the day? What was to stop them from stealing into a deserted room, locking the door, and engaging in a clandestine bout of pleasure? Oh, heaven. She would have to raise that wicked notion with Ratcliffe at the first opportunity.

  The distant sound of an approaching carriage shattered her fantasy. The quiet was broken by the clatter of wheels and the thudding of horse hooves. Curious, she glanced over her shoulder, but the trees masked the oncoming visitor from view. It was too early for any of the local gentry to call, unless there was some sort of an emergency.

  Or … what if it was her father? What if he hadn’t fallen for the ruse, after all?

  A sudden chill made her shiver. No. She mustn’t let herself panic. It was more likely an acquaintance of Ratcliffe’s, someone who had found out about his arrival yesterday.

  Nevertheless, Portia picked up her skirts and darted toward the house. It wouldn’t do for her to be seen here, not even by a neighbor. Sticky questions would arise as to wh
y a lady was staying under Ratcliffe’s roof without the benefit of a chaperone. And unfortunately, there was nowhere to hide out here on the wide graveled drive. The house was as close as the nearest concealment of trees.

  She stumbled over a rut in the road and nearly fell. Catching her balance, she hastened toward the front porch without looking back again. She was almost there when a fine black coach drew up alongside her.

  A liveried coachman sat atop the high seat. Her gaze flashed to the silver insignia on the door.

  Her steps faltered to a stop. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Her heart thumped so hard it nearly made her swoon. Uttering a cry of denial, she made a mad dash for the stairs.

  A commotion came from behind her, running footsteps. A hand clamped around her upper arm and yanked her to an enforced halt. Turning, she found herself gazing into a familiar stern face. His aristocratic features filled her with revulsion.

  The Duke of Albright.

  He leaned on his silver-topped walking stick, his pale blue eyes raking her with contempt. “So you are here, just as I suspected,” he snapped without greeting. “Where is Ratcliffe?”

  Not for the world would she betray him. “He’s gone. He’s out riding. I’m all alone.” She struggled futilely against his iron grip. “Now unhand me at once.”

  A stout man hurried up behind him.

  “Papa!” she cried.

  Her father appeared haggard, with deep lines in his face, his thinning brown hair rumpled as if he’d combed his fingers through it innumerable times. He embraced her briefly, then stepped back to look her over as if checking for injury. Tears brimmed in his eyes. “Thank God! Oh, thank God you’re safe.”

  “Please tell the duke to release me. He has no right to hold me like … like a criminal.”

  George Crompton glanced at Albright, then slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid we daren’t trust you, darling. You might run back to that scoundrel. We’re here to escort you home.”

  Run back? Did they think she had come here willingly with him? Of course, that letter Ratcliffe had written to her father claimed they were eloping to Gretna Green. Her mind worked feverishly. She mustn’t reveal the truth. If they knew Ratcliffe had abducted her, it would only give them further grievance against him.