Seducing the Heiress

by Olivia Drake

  “Let’s get her into the coach,” Albright instructed her father. “The sooner we’re away from here, the better.”

  “You take her,” her father said, grimly removing his coat and rolling up his sleeves. “I intend to find Lord Ratcliffe and teach him not to touch my daughter.”

  “No!” Portia cried out. Nothing could be worse than the two men she loved battling each other. For that matter, she feared Ratcliffe would be too honorable to defend himself. “You mustn’t! I won’t have you fighting.”

  “Nor will I,” said the duke. “I intend to take care of Ratcliffe myself later.”

  Scowling, George Crompton flexed his fists. “It’s my responsibility and I won’t shirk it.”

  Desperate to ward off violence, she said urgently, “Please, Papa, I won’t get into the coach without you, I swear I won’t. If you truly wish me to go home, you’ll have to come right now, too.”

  Agony tore at her heart. The last thing she wanted was to leave here. But what else was she to do? How was she to escape the inevitable? By fleeing upstairs, by seeking Ratcliffe’s help, she would be endangering him, as well.

  Her father released a furious breath. “As you wish, then. I’ll leave this rat’s nest for now.”

  Guided by the duke, Portia moved on leaden feet. Every step felt as if she were progressing toward the gallows. All of her hopes and dreams had been shattered to bits. Her happiness of only moments ago had turned into a nightmare. She wanted to cry and rail and fight, yet she dared not.

  “What the devil—Portia!”

  The sound of Ratcliffe’s voice made her heart leap. She whirled around to see him standing in the open doorway of the house, wearing only a shirt and breeches.

  Fury hardened his face. He came charging down the steps of the porch, and her heart leaped with joy.

  And in the next moment, with terror.

  Releasing her, Albright used both hands to grip his walking stick like a cudgel. He kept the weapon hidden behind her skirts so Ratcliffe wouldn’t see it.

  Realizing his intent, she moved to shove him off balance.

  Too late.

  The duke surged forward and swung the cane. The silver knob struck the side of Ratcliffe’s head.

  Ratcliffe staggered backward, then dropped like a stone.

  She was smuggled into the house through the mews.

  The coach had been driven straight into the stables. To thwart any nosy neighbors, her father wrapped a cloak around Portia, pulling up the hood and instructing her to keep her face down while they walked through the garden. The duke followed close behind as they went up a back staircase to the morning room, where her mother and sisters were waiting.

  Lindsey and Blythe fell upon Portia with glad cries, hugging and kissing her. She craved their comfort, but they were swiftly shooed away by their mother. “Run along, girls. You’ve seen her now, and you’ll have a chance to visit later.”

  With much grumbling complaints, they trudged out of the room. George Crompton shut the door after them, then went to pour two cups of coffee from the silver pot on the sideboard, respectfully offering one to the duke.

  Edith Crompton embraced her eldest daughter, enveloping her in the scent of lilac. Portia clung to her, wanting to weep, but she had no tears left, not after the buckets she had shed on the long drive home.

  How she ached to pour out her fears to Mama. What had happened to Ratcliffe? How badly had he been injured?

  But her mother wouldn’t offer sympathy. Her father hadn’t understood, either, when Portia had begged him to turn back so she could check on Ratcliffe. Instead, he and the duke had each guarded a door of the coach. She had been their prisoner, and for that cruelty she would never forgive her father.

  When her mother pulled back, any happiness she might have felt at Portia’s safe return had vanished. Her lips were pinched and censure narrowed her hazel eyes. “Well! We have been worried to the point of illness. What have you to say for yourself?”

  “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  Portia spoke by rote without really meaning the words. She felt drained and empty, unable to fight any longer. She sank wearily into the nearest chair, propping her elbow on the arm. All she wanted was to retreat to her chamber.

  No! All she wanted was Ratcliffe. She needed him desperately. Dear God, was he dead?

  Her mind rejected the horror of that possibility. It couldn’t be true. It had only been a knock on the head, and surely he would recover. Yet over and over, she found herself reliving the moment of seeing him fall, trying to discern if he’d been dealt a mortal blow.

  “We cannot thank you enough, Your Grace,” Mrs. Crompton said, curtsying to the duke. “To have offered your assistance so swiftly, and under such horrendous circumstances … we will remain forever in your debt.”

  “I must concur,” Mr. Crompton added, placing an arm around his wife. “I would never have found Portia so swiftly without your aid. We owe you our undying gratitude.”

  Mrs. Crompton pressed her palms together in supplication. “And may I add, we implore you not to think too poorly of our wayward daughter. She knew not what she was doing, to put herself into the company of that vile rascal.”

  Leaning on his silver-topped cane, Albright regarded them gravely. He looked as dapper as ever in his charcoalgray coat, the ubiquitous diamond stickpin in his cravat. His composed appearance betrayed no hint of remorse that he might have just murdered a man.

  “It certainly has been a regrettable turn of events,” he stated. “However, I must take a portion of the guilt upon myself. I knew the sort of scoundrel Ratcliffe was, and I should have guarded Portia against his villainy.”

  How smooth he was, how oily and snakelike, Portia thought scornfully. She angled her head away, staring at a blue porcelain vase of yellow roses. The sight of him sickened her. She just wanted him to go away. Then she would never have to see his loathsome face again.

  “You are indeed the soul of kindness,” her mother gushed. “How can we ever repay you?”

  “It was no great deed on my part,” the duke replied. “After all, I’ve a duty to protect her good name since she is to be my wife.”

  That last statement penetrated the lethargy that weighed on Portia. Turning back, she stared at him in utter shock. What was he saying? That her ruination didn’t matter to him? That he was not ending their betrothal?

  “I’m sure you’ll agree to the necessity of my leaving at once to obtain a special license,” he went on to her parents. “In light of this scandal, the marriage must be performed as swiftly as possible. Then my stature will silence all the gossips.”

  Her mother clasped her hands to her bosom. “Oh, Your Grace, you are indeed a knight in shining armor. It is so magnanimous of you to—”

  “No!” Portia surged to her feet. The others turned to stare at her. On the long ride home, she had attempted to denounce the duke, but her father had sternly ordered her to be quiet. So she had spent the time fuming in silence, and now all of her bottled-up anger broke free of restraint.

  She stepped rapidly toward her mother. “I won’t marry him. Not now or ever. Mama, he hit Ratcliffe on the head with his cane. It was a coward’s blow, too. He hid his weapon behind my skirts until Ratcliffe came close enough to strike.” Her voice broke, but she forced herself to go on. “He might have killed Ratcliffe. Then they pushed me into the coach without even checking to see if he was alive …”

  “Is this true?” Mrs. Crompton asked, frowning from the duke to her husband.

  “Indeed so,” Mr. Crompton said grimly. “However, His Grace had little choice in the matter. The viscount was running straight toward us. God knows, the churl might have seized Portia and done harm to her.”

  “He most certainly would not have,” Portia flared. “It was the duke he was going after. The two of them have been enemies for years. His Grace has never forgiven Lady Ratcliffe for spurning him at the altar.”

  Albright’s face turned rigid, but he said nothing.
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  “Well!” Mrs. Crompton declared. “I’m sure if Lord Ratcliffe is dead, he deserved it for his contemptible actions. Perhaps he has finally received his just due for killing his own father.”

  “He didn’t kill his father. He was exonerated in court. And it’s the duke who deserves your contempt.” She swung toward Albright. “Tell them, Your Grace. Tell them how you fathered Hannah Wilton’s baby and then tossed her out into the street. You also threatened to kill her if she tried to expose you as a cad.”

  The duke neither denied or confirmed it. His face might have been carved from marble. His stony silence confirmed his perfidy.

  Her father shot a frown at Albright. “What’s this all about?”

  “Hannah Wilton?” Mrs. Crompton asked in bewilderment. “Who in heaven’s name is she?”

  “His former mistress,” Portia said. “And he stole her away from Ratcliffe, as well.”

  With a gasp, Mrs. Crompton came bustling toward her. “That’s quite enough, young lady. I’m astonished at you, making such sordid accusations when the duke has been your savior today. You should not even know of such matters, let alone speak of them.”

  “It’s all true. And I won’t have such a cruel, heartless man for a husband. It’s Ratcliffe I intend to wed.” She held back a sob. If he was alive. If he still wanted her after all the trouble she’d brought down on him. If he loved her …

  Her mother caught Portia by the arm. “Silence! You will not say another word!”

  “Nor will I speak my vows to the duke, Mama. And there’s nothing you can do to force me.”

  “Hush! You will show His Grace the proper respect.” An angry red flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. She glanced wildly at Albright, then at her husband. “George! Will you allow her to be so insolent? Come here and chastise your daughter at once.”

  Mr. Crompton looked rather troubled. He trudged forward to stand in front of Portia. But any hope she might have had for his support ended when he spoke.

  “Go to your chamber, child,” he said heavily. “You’ll stay there until you’ve realized the value of obedience.”

  CHAPTER 24

  PORTIA COULDN’T SIT still. For the umpteenth time, she went to the window and surveyed the darkened garden. Lights winked in neighboring residences. By looking down, she could see a faint glow from the windows of her own house, too.

  Every few minutes, she glanced at the ormolu clock on the fireplace mantel. It was past nine o’clock. The gold hands had been creeping around the dial at an agonizingly slow pace.

  Two hours had passed since Kasi had delivered a supper tray, along with the whispered news that Portia’s parents had remained in the house for the evening, rather than attend any social events. The old ayah had provided sympathy and a shoulder on which to cry, but little more.

  James, a young, freckle-faced footman, had stood waiting in the doorway for the servant. Portia had pleaded with him to summon her sisters, but he had refused, citing strict orders from her parents. Once he and Kasi left, he had locked the door again. When Portia knelt down and peered through the keyhole, she could glimpse him standing guard out in the corridor.

  Little did her jailers realize, however, there was a crack in their defenses. The door to the balcony had not been secured. If Ratcliffe had once managed to climb down the rose trellis, then by heaven so could she.

  But it was too early to make her move yet. She didn’t dare risk being spotted by a servant or a neighbor or one of her parents. As nerve-racking as it might be, Portia had decided to wait until after midnight to make her escape.

  Meanwhile, she had been roaming aimlessly through her bedchamber. Now, she went to the bedside table, opened the bottom drawer, and found the oval miniature that lay hidden beneath some books and papers.

  A lump in her throat, she gazed down at the image of Ratcliffe. Her fingers moved lovingly over the tiny painting. He had been depicted at a younger age, his face not yet marked by maturity. But that devilish glint in his eyes brought a smile to her lips.

  He had placed his image over Arun’s, and she had left it there. It seemed the appropriate thing to do. After all, Arun was her past, Ratcliffe would be her future.

  Or at least she prayed so.

  Holding the miniature to her breast, Portia recalled the night when she had come out of her dressing room to see Ratcliffe lounging in the chair by the fire. How cocky he had been, how very handsome and charming. He had brought her a stem of orchid blossoms. At the time, she hadn’t realized the unique quality of his gift. Who would have thought he had collected the plant himself in the jungles of India, brought it back to England, and coaxed it into bloom in his own conservatory? Back then, there had been so many things about him that she hadn’t known, so much about his capacity for compassion and tenderness.

  Her body still ached pleasantly from the residual effects of their night together. Only twenty-four hours ago, she had been in his arms, rejoicing in the warmth of his embrace and the passion of his kisses. The closeness they had shared had brought her a greater happiness than she had ever dreamed possible. Then in one felling blow, it had ended.

  Dear God, where was Ratcliffe at this moment? Lying unconscious in his bed—or dead?

  Shuddering, Portia ordered herself not to assume the worst. He would recover, he must recover. And in the meantime, she intended to find her way back to his estate, by mail coach or hired carriage.

  She went into the dressing room and added the miniature to the small bundle of her belongings. It contained a change of clothing, the meager amount of money she could find, and several small pieces of jewelry to use for barter. The rest of her things were just that—things. She would suffer no qualms about leaving behind a wardrobe full of fancy ball gowns and other costly personal items. None of it mattered to her anymore, not if it came at the expense of love.

  Her thoughts ranged back to Ratcliffe’s manor house. What must the servants think of her abrupt disappearance? And what about Bane? How frightened he must have been to see Ratcliffe injured. Hopefully, Thurgood had taken the boy under his wing and soothed his distress.

  The sound of voices came from out in the corridor. Hurrying to the door, she bent down to listen through the keyhole. That feminine tone had to belong to Blythe. She was talking excitedly to James, although Portia couldn’t quite make out their words.

  Then all fell silent again. No key rattled in the lock. James must have refused her entry.

  Discouraged, Portia prowled back and forth in front of her bed. How she would have loved to have seen her sister! Although Blythe was a flighty fifteen-year-old, at least she would have offered a friendly listening ear so that Portia would not feel so all alone. And Portia would have had the chance to hug her sister good-bye.

  Her heart ached. Mama and Papa surely would denounce her for fleeing to Ratcliffe. It might be weeks, even months, before she could see her sisters again. She only hoped that her parents would eventually realize the value of welcoming Ratcliffe as her husband. Despite his shady reputation, he was a peer, after all. And perhaps his mother would assist in smoothing things over with society …

  Another noise outside in the corridor caught her attention. She spun around, staring. Was it Blythe again? Had she succeeded in persuading James, after all?

  The door opened, and to Portia’s surprise, Lindsey slipped into the bedchamber. Her chestnut hair hung in a long braid down her back. Clad in a dark blue night robe, her sister scanned the corridor one last time before closing the door.

  Portia hastened to give her a quick, heartfelt embrace. “What are you doing here? James said he had orders not to let you or Blythe into my room.”

  Lindsey’s blue eyes danced with mischief. “I borrowed the master key from Papa’s desk. As for James, well, Blythe asked him to hurry and catch a mouse that’s running loose in her chamber. Which should take him quite a while since the mouse doesn’t exist!”

  Portia laughed. “How clever of her—of you both.”

  �
��Surely you didn’t think we’d forgotten you, I hope.” Grabbing Portia’s hand, she led her to a chair by the fire, then perched on a nearby footstool. “Now tell me all that’s happened. Lord Ratcliffe abducted you, didn’t he? Mama was afraid you’d run away with him of your own accord, but I knew that couldn’t possibly be true.”

  “Yes, he did induce me to go with him.” Biting her lip, Portia glanced at the door. If James wasn’t standing on guard, then maybe she should leave right now. Except for the fact that her parents might catch her in the act …

  She returned her attention to her sister. “You mustn’t think ill of Ratcliffe. There’s so much you don’t know about him. It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, my feelings toward him have utterly changed. I’m in love with him now and I’m determined to marry him.”

  Lindsey recoiled. “What do you mean? He’s a rake and a gambler.”

  “He’s so much more than just that. Oh, Linds, he’s truly a wonderful man.” Quickly, she outlined his kindness toward his servants, his keen interest in horticulture, and his refusal to seduce her—without mentioning that she herself had taken the first step. Their night together was a precious secret that belonged to no one else but her and Ratcliffe. “Then this morning … it was so dreadful. I was out for a walk when Papa and the duke arrived to bring me home. When Ratcliffe tried to stop them, the duke knocked him over the head with his walking stick. Ratcliffe fell down … and … oh, dear God, I don’t know what’s happened to him.”

  The despair in her overflowed, and she buried her face in her hands.

  Lindsey rubbed a soothing hand over Portia’s back. “I never did like that prissy old duke,” she declared. “When you seemed to favor the match, well, I didn’t want to disparage him too much. But I always suspected there was something sneaky about him. In truth, it’s no wonder …”

  Portia lifted her head. “Yes?”