Seducing the Heiress

by Olivia Drake

  “It’s no wonder you prefer Lord Ratcliffe. I’ll concede, he is exceedingly handsome.”

  From the way her sister avoided her gaze, Portia had the feeling that wasn’t what she had meant to say. “Please, at least give him a chance. Do try to see there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

  “I’m trying, truly I am.” Frowning, Lindsey gripped Portia’s hands. “Are you certain, absolutely certain, that he’ll make you a good husband?”

  “Yes. And I’ve already thought things through. If I can convince him to live on his estate and avoid the city, he won’t have much opportunity to gamble.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right.” Portia drew a shaky breath. She didn’t want to admit aloud that Ratcliffe had yet to declare his love for her. Did he want to wed her for herself or for her dowry? She desperately needed to find out the truth. “I’m leaving tonight, Linds. I have to make certain he’s well. Somehow I must find a way to return to his estate in Kent.”

  Lindsey sprang to her feet. Seizing the fireplace poker, she stirred the burning coals in the hearth. Then she swung back to face Portia. “There’s something you should know. It’s the real reason I came in here to see you.”

  An ominous quality to her tone lifted the fine hairs at the back of Portia’s neck. “Tell me.”

  “A little while ago, Mama and Papa were talking in his study. They didn’t know I was out in the corridor, listening.” She sat down again and took Portia’s hands in hers. “You’ll be happy to know your beloved Ratcliffe is very much alive. He’s come back to London. But … he’s challenged the Duke of Albright to a duel.”

  Peering out the window of the hackney cab, Portia watched as the pitch-blackness of night lightened to indigo. Veins of pink and orange slowly appeared in the deep blue depths of the sky. She gripped her gloved fingers, her every nerve strung as taut as a bow.

  The duel was to take place at dawn. Would she reach Hampstead Heath in time to stop the madness?

  Nothing thus far had gone her way. First, she’d had the very devil of a time convincing Lindsey to return to her chamber and leave matters to Portia. Then, upon tiptoeing out on her balcony just after midnight, she had been dismayed to hear the low drone of her parents’ voices in the room below hers. She’d been forced to cool her heels and wait.

  It had been past two by the time they’d gone to bed and she could climb down the rose trellis to freedom. Then she had walked—or rather, run—the long blocks to Ratcliffe’s town house on the outskirts of Mayfair. She had banged on the door for what seemed like hours before finally awakening Hannah Wilton. To Portia’s consternation, Ratcliffe and Orson Tudge had already set out for Hampstead Heath, a location north of the city favored by duelers since such matches were prohibited.

  It had taken another precious half an hour to locate a cabbie who was willing to drive the long distance in the middle of the night. Unluckily, though, the cab was drawn by the slowest nag in all of London. Which was why Portia sat on the edge of her seat as the cramped houses of the city gave way to open land and small hamlets nestled in misty valleys.

  Ratcliffe had survived the duke’s attack, praise God. She wanted urgently to see him, to convince him not to risk his life. Closing her eyes, she whispered a frantic prayer that she would not be too late.

  At last the cab jerked to a stop on the edge of a clearing. Scrambling out, she spied a copse of trees straight ahead where several carriages were parked, one group on one side, another group on the other. Portia tossed a few coins to the driver and bade him wait. Picking up her skirts, she darted across the dewy grass to join the small party of people. The stout man in the black top hat was clearly a doctor, judging by the brown satchel he held.

  The dim morning light shone on the silvering hair of the duke. He was approached by a youngish man who looked vaguely familiar, his broad form clad in a leaf-green coat and buff breeches. She recognized him as the Earl of Turnbuckle, a friend of Ratcliffe’s.

  Turnbuckle held out an open case from which Albright removed a long-barreled pistol. Then the earl returned to the other party, half hidden by several carriages. As he did so, another man stepped into view and her heart leaped in wild joy.

  Ratcliffe.

  Slowing to a walk, she drank in the sight of him. In a dark blue coat, buckskins, and knee-high boots, he looked ready for a morning ride in the park rather than a duel to the death. His attention was on the case that Turnbuckle proffered to him. Her happiness turned to revulsion as Ratcliffe took out the second pistol, pointed it away into the trees, and sighted down the long barrel.

  She closed the distance between them—and received a jolt of surprise. Lady Ratcliffe came out from behind the screen of carriages and touched his arm, saying something to him. He gave a sharp, impatient shake of his head and strode away from her. His mother stood there, a slim tragic figure wrapped in a sea-foam-green cloak, the hood down to reveal her swanlike neck.

  He headed toward a flat area of ground a short distance away. So did Albright.

  Portia hastened to the carriages. “Ratcliffe, no!”

  He spun around on his heel and stared at her. His steely glare pierced her. He voiced no greeting, his face betraying no sign of pleasure at her presence, no trace of the tender lover who had awakened all of her hopes and dreams. If anything, he appeared irked by her sudden appearance.

  Under the close watch of their seconds—Turnbuckle for Ratcliffe, and an unknown gentleman for the duke—the two duelers stood back to back and then counted off ten paces apiece.

  Lady Ratcliffe hastened to Portia. “Colin mustn’t do this!” she said frantically. “He’ll die and it will be all my fault!”

  With that, she ran to the duke and seized hold of his arm. “Please don’t punish my son. I’ll pay the money back to you somehow, just as I did last time. I should never have gambled with you in the first place.”

  Portia had stepped forward, but the comment confused her for an instant. Lady Ratcliffe was a gambler? She owed money to Albright?

  The duke shook her off so hard she stumbled backward. His second took hold of Lady Ratcliffe and guided her back to Portia.

  The men had achieved their ten paces. They turned. The Earl of Turnbuckle stood nearby, ready to drop the white handkerchief as a signal to fire.

  With a strangled cry, Portia dashed in between Albright and Ratcliffe. “Stop this nonsense at once. I won’t allow it.”

  Ratcliffe stood with his dueling pistol pointed to the ground. His face grim, he said nothing, only nodded to Orson Tudge. At once, the beefy man marched forward to pull her off the field. She struggled to free herself, but it was like wrestling with a tree trunk.

  “Ratcliffe, listen to me! This isn’t necessary. I’ve ended my betrothal to the duke. I intend to marry you.”

  Ratcliffe had been watching the duke. But now his gaze flashed to her and at last she glimpsed a flare of intense emotion in him. In the same instant, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Taking advantage of Ratcliffe’s distraction, the duke was raising his arm to fire.

  “No—” she screamed in warning.

  Too late.

  Two shots shattered the air. The duke’s went off wildly, and he stumbled backward, clutching his chest. Blood bloomed on his pearl-gray coat as he fell awkwardly to the ground.

  CHAPTER 25

  A SHORT DISTANCE away, Lady Ratcliffe stood frozen with her arm extended, a small pistol glinting in the early morning light. A sob escaped her, and she swayed on her feet.

  Ratcliffe and the other men rushed to the duke. The doctor knelt beside him to assess the wound.

  Gripped by horror, Portia sprang to Lady Ratcliffe and slid an arm around her to keep her from falling. The older woman dropped the spent pistol and clung to Portia, tremors rippling through her slender form.

  While murmuring soothing words to Lady Ratcliffe, Portia watched in disbelief as the doctor shook his head and closed the duke’s eyes. He was dead? Her mi
nd resisted the truth of it.

  In a daze, she drew Lady Ratcliffe away. The woman was weeping uncontrollably, and it would only be worse if she lingered near the body.

  “Which is your carriage?” she asked.

  For a moment, Lady Ratcliffe stared dully at her, her green eyes misted with tears. Then she pointed. “The last one.”

  Portia took her there and helped her inside while the coachman held the door. Unwilling to leave the distraught woman alone, she seated herself beside Lady Ratcliffe and offered her a folded handkerchief.

  “Here, my lady. Dry your tears.”

  “It’s all my fault. What have I done? Oh, what have I done?”

  “You did what was necessary. The duke attempted an act of treachery. If not for you, he would have shot your son.” The notion of what might have happened to Ratcliffe made Portia shiver. How close he had come to being the one lying cold on the ground!

  Lady Ratcliffe wiped her eyes, then twisted the handkerchief between her fingers. As if speaking to herself, she whispered, “I should have known better than to let Albright draw me into that card game. If I hadn’t owed him so much money …”

  Gambling. She had been gambling with the duke.

  Reminded of what Lady Ratcliffe had said in an attempt to stop the duel, Portia was appalled. Why would the viscountess be so foolish as to gamble with a man who hated her and her family? “How much did you lose to Albright?”

  Lady Ratcliffe blinked at her. “Quite a lot. Colin was furious with me. You see, I—I’d sworn to stay away from the card tables. But I only wanted a bit of fun … there’s nothing wrong with that. It wasn’t fair of Colin to make me stay away from London for so long.”

  As the woman continued to justify her own wrongdoing, Portia’s mind worked furiously. Lady Ratcliffe was a gambler. Had Ratcliffe needed the dowry in order to pay off his mother’s illicit debts, rather than his own? Was it possible that Ratcliffe himself was not the wastrel people believed him to be? The revelation shook Portia to the core.

  If that was the truth, why hadn’t he told her so? Was it some sort of misguided gallantry on his part, a means of protecting his mother’s reputation?

  Portia eyed the dainty woman who sat crying piteously. What would become of Lady Ratcliffe now? She had killed a peer of the realm. Surely there would be consequences …

  The sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention. The door opened and Ratcliffe thrust his head inside. He glanced at his mother, then looked at Portia. Their gazes locked for one long eloquent moment. A depth of feeling seemed to leap across the small confines of the coach. Then the intensity in his eyes faded to a bleak coldness.

  Lady Ratcliffe groped for his hand. “Colin! I didn’t mean to kill him. Whatever am I to do?”

  “You’re to go straight back to your town house. Perhaps Miss Crompton will be kind enough to escort you.”

  His formal use of her name caused a knell of alarm in Portia. “Certainly. But where are you going?”

  “I’ll be leaving England,” he stated grimly. “Quite possibly for a long time.”

  She gasped. “What?”

  “I shot Albright to death. That is the story the seconds have agreed to tell. Mother, you were merely a bystander.”

  Lady Ratcliffe looked stricken. “But … my dear boy …”

  “You did nothing, is that quite clear?” She nodded slowly, releasing his hand and sitting back to stare down at her hands. He turned his stern gaze on Portia. “And you are to corroborate the tale. No one else is to know what really transpired here today.”

  Portia was aghast. He intended to shoulder the blame for his mother’s act. He would flee to the Continent to avoid being prosecuted for murder. Her spine stiffened at the injustice of it. “I most certainly will not repeat such a lie! No one will blame Lady Ratcliffe for firing her pistol. She did it to save your life!”

  “That is not the way society will view matters. I won’t have her involved in such a scandal.”

  “I’ll explain it to everyone. I’ll vouch for you—and for her!”

  A wintry smile touched his lips. “No one will believe you. You’ll be wasting your breath. I’m the one with the wild reputation, remember?”

  The cynical truth in his words gave her pause. The self-righteous snobs of society had already tarred and feathered him. They viewed him as a worthless profligate. Everyone knew about the feud between Ratcliffe and Albright, so they would be quick to believe he had killed the duke in cold blood. No matter what they heard to the contrary.

  Agonized by the notion of losing him, Portia lifted her hand to his face and stroked the vital warmth of his skin. She made a swift, heartfelt decision. “Then I’ll go with you.”

  A muscle in his jaw clenched. He drew back sharply, out of her reach. “No. I’m riding fast, and you’ll slow me down.”

  His rejection hit her like a slap. Without further ado, he slammed the door of the carriage and walked out of her life.

  Colin lay flat on his back in the narrow bed, his arms folded behind his head. It made a better pillow than the flat one provided by the inn. Because a storm had blown in, he had been forced to take a room in Dover. No ships would risk crossing the Channel until the morning at the very earliest.

  Rain drummed against the window, and a damp chill seeped through cracks in the walls. If the nasty weather kept up tomorrow, he would be forced to go into hiding farther up the coast. He certainly couldn’t remain here where he was a sitting duck for the Bow Street runners.

  Cautiously, he fingered the lump nestled in his hair. He had the very devil of a headache. The cowardly blow had caught him off guard the other morning because he had been so livid at seeing Albright with his hand on Portia.

  Now Albright was dead. And Colin was left with nothing more than a hollow sense of relief. The spider had devoted his life to playing sly tricks on Colin’s family, but when he had extended his web to ensnare Portia, that had been the final straw. If his mother hadn’t pulled the trigger, then Colin would have done so—gladly. Either way, the road to ruin led straight here to this rented room with its bare walls and dingy furnishings.

  The law wouldn’t look kindly on the murder of an exalted duke.

  Colin stared up at the bare plank ceiling. The crashing of the surf and the howling of the wind should have lulled him to sleep. God knew, he was weary enough. In preparing for the duel the previous night, he had slept only an hour or two, and not much more the night before that—the night he had spent in Portia’s arms.

  Those golden hours had been burned into his memory. Nothing could have prepared him for the bond of closeness between them. The depth of his feelings for her had knocked him off kilter. Even now, when he knew it was impossible, he kept entertaining feverish, foolish hopes of a reunion.

  I’ll go with you.

  She had no idea of what she was offering. All of her talk about traveling to India and becoming a governess had been just so much nonsense. Poverty was out of the realm of her experience. Having grown up in luxury, she would be miserable living on the run with him, without being able to set down roots or even knowing if they had the funds to purchase their next meal. And once the romantic haze wore off, their closeness would deteriorate into wretched squabbling—as had happened to his own parents.

  Nevertheless, Colin found himself wishing he had hauled her out of the carriage and taken her up onto his horse. It had nearly killed him to close the door on her, his last memory the sight of her stricken expression. The pull of her magnetism kept luring his thoughts back to London. He fought the craving to abandon his flight, and damn the consequences.

  He shifted restlessly on the bed. The last thing he needed was to be alone with only his thoughts for company. He ought to go down to the tavern where at least there would be a few other lost souls hunched over their pints of ale. But it was too dangerous to show his face. Better he should stay out of sight so that fewer people could identify his presence.

  The gray light slowly faded
to black. Colin fell asleep. Sometime during the night, he was awakened by the faint rattle of a key in the lock. Snapping to awareness, he sat up, the covers falling away. He grabbed the primed pistol lying on the bedside table.

  A party of men burst into the room. One held an oil lamp high.

  Squinting against the brightness, Colin cursed.

  One shot. Three men.

  “Lay down your weapon, my lord, lest things go worse for you,” stated the tall one with the lantern. “As a representative of the Crown, I am hereby arresting you for the murder of His Grace of Albright.”

  CHAPTER 26

  FOUR DAYS LATER, Portia marched up the stairs of an elegant town house in Berkeley Square. Her gloved fingers grasping the brass knocker, she rapped hard. A moment later, a white-wigged footman opened the door.

  “I should like to speak to Lady Ratcliffe,” she said.

  “I’m afraid her ladyship is not receiving at the moment. You may, however, leave your card.”

  “No. Pray tell her that Miss Crompton is here to see her.”

  “That is quite impossible. You see, her instructions were very specific—”

  Portia pushed past the startled servant and walked into the foyer. The high-ceilinged entry was decorated in delicate greens and yellows, and a crystal chandelier glinted in the sunlight streaming through the front windows. But the beauty of the place didn’t interest her. She headed straight for the curving marble staircase.

  The pompous footman leaped forward to block her passage. “You mayn’t go up there, miss.”

  “Then fetch your mistress at once. And pray relay the message that if she refuses to see me, I will come in search of her.”

  The footman hastened up the stairs, casting glances back over his shoulder as if she were a lunatic. He wouldn’t be far from wrong. At the moment, Portia felt in the grips of a mad fear that Ratcliffe would go to the gallows and she had no power to stop it.

  Her soles scuffed on the marble floor as she paced back and forth in the foyer. She was lucky to have escaped her mother’s watchful eyes this morning, for she had been kept a virtual prisoner in her house. After the duel, with Ratcliffe gone, she’d had no other choice but to return home. She had been lectured until her ears hurt. Her parents had been aghast over the death of the duke, and horrified she had been brazen enough to sneak out of the house and witness it. They blamed her for Ratcliffe challenging the duke. If she hadn’t run off with the wicked viscount, they’d said, Albright would still be alive.