Seducing the Heiress

by Olivia Drake

  “And little wonder!” he snapped. “They haven’t sworn a vow to protect her.”

  Frowning, Portia took a step toward him. “A vow?”

  “To my father as he lay dying.”

  Ridden with guilt, Colin raked his fingers through his hair, already regretting the admission. It was something he had never told anyone else. That moment was seared into his memory—his father, lying on the floor in a pool of blood, barely able to talk, using his final breaths to beg the promise from Colin … to guard his mother from all blame.

  A hint of compassion softening her face, Portia stood watching him. “So that’s why you’ve been so tenacious in your protection of her. This isn’t the first time you’ve covered for your mother.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t pretend ignorance. I know about her gambling. You’ve let people believe you are the profligate. But in reality, she is the reason you haven’t any money.”

  “A lady’s reputation is more easily ruined than a man’s.”

  “And there’s also the fact that she killed your father—not you. It was a tragic accident.”

  The words hit Colin like a punch to the jaw. A plethora of emotions threatened to overwhelm him. To keep himself from raging like a lunatic, he strode away, then pivoted to face her. “My God! Have you exposed all that to the public, as well?”

  “Certainly not. I’ve no vendetta against her. In truth, your sense of honor is to be applauded.” She took another step toward him. “But surely you can see that I had to set you free. Or perhaps you would have preferred to hang?”

  Her tart tone gave no clue to her real feelings. By God, why had she taken up his defense? Because she truly cared for him? Or merely in a quest for justice?

  He took a deep breath. “You didn’t need to sully her name in the process. I would have found a way to escape the gallows.”

  “I couldn’t take that chance.” Portia regarded him a moment, then lifted her chin. “After all, you owe me a wedding ring. We could hardly marry if you were behind bars.”

  His heart lurched. Good God, was she proposing to him? “What?”

  “Everyone in society thinks we ran off together. They believe that’s the only reason you and Albright dueled. Now, they’re sure to be speculating over why you were speaking to Papa just now.”

  It was hardly the tender admission of love that he had hoped for. Portia wouldn’t be marrying him out of heartfelt affection, but for protection against gossip.

  That knowledge stuck in his gullet like a bitter pill. Yet he had no more pride left where she was concerned. Moonstruck calf that he was, he’d take her under any circumstances she offered.

  He bowed stiffly. “Your father has left the decision up to you. Since you’re in agreement, I shall apply for the special license at once.”

  Watching him stride out of the sitting room, Portia sagged down onto the nearest chair. She and Ratcliffe were going to be married. But he was acting out of a sense of duty rather than love. And she mustn’t forget that he still needed her dowry, too, to pay off his mother’s debts. How cold he had been, how angry at Portia for interfering in his life!

  For a moment, when their eyes had first met in the drawing room, she’d had reason to hope for an ardent reunion. His keen gaze had been concentrated on her, as if he were aware of no one else but her in the room. But after his formal greeting to the ladies, he had treated Portia with a cool remoteness that left her more discouraged than ever.

  Why had he not taken her into his arms? What had happened to the passion they had shared on that one wonderful night?

  Portia forced herself up from the chair. She refused to wallow in self-pity. Somehow, she must find a way to win his heart.

  And he did have a heart. One had only to look at the way he helped those in his employ and his willingness to protect his own mother. Duchess Milbourne was right; very few gentlemen would suffer jail and possible execution in order to hide the guilt of a loved one. Once they were wed, Portia would have the chance to make herself indispensable to Ratcliffe. Perhaps love given would encourage love returned.

  Yes. She had to keep faith in that possibility.

  Heading down the passageway, she decided to slip upstairs rather than return to their guests. It was too daunting to think of facing all those nosy ladies who would poke and prod, trying to find out what she and Ratcliffe had discussed. Besides, she burned to tell her sisters about the imminent marriage. Lindsey and Blythe could always be counted on to bolster her spirits. They would say that given half a chance, he was bound to fall madly in love with her.

  Turning the corner near the staircase, she glanced down the corridor. And frowned.

  Ratcliffe hadn’t departed, after all. He stood talking to a cinnamon-skinned man in flowing white trousers and a turquoise surcoat, a turban on his head. The visitor’s fingers winked with multicolored jewels.

  Portia stared. Her heart lurched. Impossible.

  Without conscious thought, she found herself running down the corridor. Stopping in front of him, she drank in his familiar features. Her lips parted in a disbelieving gasp.

  “Arun?”

  CHAPTER 28

  THE ENGLISH LADIES—with the exception of her glowering mother—were positively slavering over the appearance of an exotic prince in their midst. Or rather, a maharajah, for Arun’s father had died months ago in the cholera epidemic.

  “If I may be so bold,” Mrs. Beardsley said, “what sort of title is maharajah?”

  “It means king,” Arun explained in his modest way. “It is a great honor for me to bear.”

  “Oooh,” Frances Beardsley twittered. “Then your wife would be a queen!”

  He gave Portia an unreadable look. “Yes, the maharani.”

  Arun was alive. The shock of it hadn’t quite settled into her heart and mind. Instead of writing any more letters, he had traveled halfway around the globe to surprise her. Quite probably to tell her there was no longer any impediment to their marriage, at least from his family.

  Portia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Watching Arun chat with the ladies, entertaining them with stories about his private zoo of tigers and elephants in his white marble palace, filled her with an unimaginable joy. She loved listening to his musical voice; it brought back nostalgic memories of her childhood.

  Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about Ratcliffe.

  His face had been stony, unsmiling. He had been standing right there as witness while she had thrown her arms around Arun and wept with thanksgiving over his survival. Then, a few minutes later, when she had turned around to introduce him, Ratcliffe had vanished.

  Just like that, he’d left without saying good-bye. Dear God, what must he have thought? It was easy to imagine. He would believe mistakenly that she preferred to wed Arun.

  The thought was so wrenching that she rose abruptly to her feet. Arun stood up as well, his quizzical gaze on her.

  Frances Beardsley batted her lashes at him. “Please don’t leave just yet, Your Majesty. You haven’t finished telling us about your pet monkey.”

  Arun flashed her his beautiful smile, all dazzling white teeth and warm brown eyes. Pressing his palms together, he bowed. “It is time I speak to Miss Crompton. Perhaps later we talk?”

  Frances gave him a sappy smile. “You simply must come to visit me tomorrow. May he, Mama? Please?”

  “Why, we would be honored to entertain royalty such as yourself,” Mrs. Beardsley said, avidly eyeing his jewels, from the huge oval sapphire on his turban to the diamond and ruby brooch at his throat. “Perhaps dinner with a few select members of society?”

  Arun bowed his acquiescence, then Portia escorted him across the corridor to the blue sitting room. She was torn between wanting to catch up on all the news with her old friend, and her pressing need to find Ratcliffe. Had he gone to apply for the special license? Surely he must have. To contemplate anything else was too alarming.

  Arun sat down beside her on a cha
ise. “You are worried,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I see it in your face.”

  What was she to say? She laced her fingers through his, reveling in his warmth. “I’m so glad you’re alive, Arun. It’s absolutely wonderful to see you again. You cannot imagine how much.”

  When she paused, he added gently, “Yet you love another man now. Lord Ratcliffe.”

  Portia bit her lip. Had she been so obvious? “Oh, Arun, I thought you were dead. I was heartbroken. And the more I came to know Ratcliffe, the more I fell in love with him. I don’t know quite how it happened, but it did.”

  The corners of Arun’s mouth turned downward, then he gave a slow nod. “The distance between us was too great. I should have defied my father’s wishes and come after you. But I did not.”

  “Yet you did come to see me. So it is all my fault, not yours.”

  He gave a little laugh, smiling at her. “We will not blame ourselves, dear Portia. It is karma that has decided the direction of our lives. You have found a man who loves you deeply, and as your friend I am happy for you.”

  Her heart overflowed. Arun’s charitable, forgiving nature was one of the things she’d always treasured about him. She clutched his smooth fingers, desperately needing his friendship. “I must confess, it is not quite a love match for Ratcliffe.”

  “No? But I am certain it is so. The eyes do not lie. The way he looked at you revealed all to me.”

  She shook her head, afraid to believe it. “I don’t doubt he cares for me, at least a little. But that isn’t love. In truth, it’s my rich dowry he needs.”

  Arun drew back, steepling his hands together in a contemplative pose. “Then it is my duty to help you uncover the truth. I know the very way to put your Ratcliffe to the test.”

  “I vow, I shall never recover from another day such as this one,” Edith Crompton told her husband that evening, while brushing her hair with hard strokes. “Never as long as I live!”

  George came to stand behind her in the boudoir. Their gazes clashed in the mirror. He looked infuriatingly content.

  He bent down to kiss her neck. “Now, darling, it isn’t the end of the world. Portia will be a viscountess. After speaking at length to Ratcliffe, I rather suspect they will be happy together.”

  Edith slammed down the hairbrush and swiveled on the stool to face him. “Happy! She was supposed to be the Duchess of Albright. Our grandson would have been duke someday.”

  A scowl deepened the wrinkles on his weathered brow. “Albright. I’d always had my doubts about the fellow. If I’d known that he’d tossed his pregnant mistress out into the street, or that he would act with such treachery in the duel, I’d never have let you talk me into approving the match.” Walking back and forth, George shook his head in disgust. “Portia deserves far better than such a man, duke or not.”

  He had always favored their eldest, a fact that Edith had exploited on occasion. Getting nowhere now, she changed her attack. “Perhaps you would as soon have her wed that Hindu prince of hers. It was you who let him into this house, wasn’t it?”

  “Certainly. I saw no reason why our daughter shouldn’t visit with an old friend.”

  “He’s a filthy native, that’s why! It’s a wonder his presence didn’t taint us in front of society. And right on the heels of that dreadful scandal when Portia ran off with Ratcliffe.”

  “Everything has turned out remarkably well,” he said sternly. “Portia will marry Ratcliffe. The matter is settled. I will hear no more about it from you.”

  Edith knew from his reddened face that his temper was on the verge of exploding. Yet she couldn’t resist one final dig. “Then I suppose this is what you had in mind when we came to London—Portia betrothed to a rogue who is beyond the pale!”

  He slammed his palm down on the dressing table, making the bottles and jars rattle. “Enough! These ambitions are yours, not mine. If you cannot bide your tongue, we will all go straight back to India, and damn your infernal matchmaking!”

  Edith compressed her lips. She had pushed him too far. Nothing made her quail more than to think of returning to that heathen land. It was here in the rarefied culture of England that she had always aspired to be, a respected member of society. She had craved it ever since she had been a girl laboring for a living, watching and learning, studying her betters, planning the day when she would become one of them. And she was not content to be just a hanger-on at the fringes, someone accepted only because of her money.

  No, she wanted her daughters to take her to the very pinnacle of the ton.

  Leashing her frustration, she peered into the mirror and plucked out a stray gray hair among her thick russet tresses. All was not lost. Portia may have made a less than illustrious choice, but there was still Lindsey and Blythe.

  * * *

  Just after luncheon the following day, Portia stood in the middle of her bedchamber and gripped a letter. A footman had just delivered it, and she had run straight up here to read the missive. Her disbelieving gaze skimmed the bold black script again:

  My dear Portia,

  In light of recent events, I must hereby grant you a release from your consent to our nuptials. Pray know that you will always have a place in my heart.

  Ratcliffe

  Her legs gave way and she sank onto the edge of the bed. Despair pervaded every part of her soul. Arun’s plan had failed spectacularly. He had promised to call on Ratcliffe today and offer him a treasure trove of jewels worth far more than her dowry.

  In exchange, Ratcliffe would have to agree to give up Portia. If he refused to do so, as Arun predicted, she would know that Ratcliffe loved her more than any amount of wealth.

  But apparently he had accepted Arun’s offer.

  She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back a hot rush of tears. Dear God, she had allowed herself to hope. She had taken heart from Arun’s confidence that Ratcliffe loved her dearly. She had gone to sleep with a smile on her face and awakened with eager anticipation.

  Instead, Ratcliffe had chosen the jewels over her. And then he dared to write that she would always have a place in his heart.

  Blast him!

  In sudden anger, she dashed her tears away. All of their closeness had been merely a sham—at least for him. After all they’d shared, did the coward think he could fob her off with a hastily scrawled note?

  By heaven, she wouldn’t allow it.

  Standing in the open doorway of his town house, Colin scowled down at the street. He watched as Arun climbed into the gold-trimmed coach, the door held by a burly guard with a scimitar at his side. Two other men staggered under the weight of a massive trunk, which they hoisted into another coach behind the maharajah’s. Their turbans and flowing turquoise garments garnered attention from all the neighbors, several of whom stood unabashedly gawking on the foot pavement.

  The damn fool had a bigger retinue than the Prince Regent himself.

  Arun would be able to give Portia the life she deserved. With him, she would never want for anything, and her every whim would be fulfilled. And the damnable thing was, he seemed a decent enough chap, grave and polite even as he’d offered Colin a bloody fortune to relinquish Portia into his keeping.

  Colin hadn’t bothered to tell him about the letter he’d already written to her. Let the fool find out on his own that his bribe had been unnecessary.

  He slammed the door shut and turned to see that his own three motley servants had gathered behind him in the foyer.

  “Cor!” Bane said in awe, trotting to the window to press his nose to the glass. “Was all them jewels real?”

  “Yes, and good riddance to them.”

  “But … who was that foreigner?” Hannah asked in confusion. She rested her hands on her pregnant belly, and Tudge had his arm around her waist. “Why did he bring you a huge trunk full of jewels?”

  “He wanted to trade them for Portia. In exchange for her hand in marriage.” Raking his fingers through his hair, Colin paced back and forth. He focused on rage as a means of
keeping the powerful ache inside him at bay. “You can be damned sure I told him exactly where he could stick them.”

  “Ye might ’ave a predicament,” Tudge commented.

  “What the devil does that mean?”

  Tudge exchanged a glance with Hannah, and there seemed to be a silent communication between them. The two of them had been rather close lately, doing little things for each other, Tudge carrying heavy pails of water for her, while she cooked his favorite dishes. Colin had even had to duck out of the kitchen one evening when he had happened upon them kissing. It was a pitiful day when his own romantic life paled beside that of his servants.

  Hannah’s eyes widened and she looked at Colin. “That letter, my lord. The one you had Mr. Tudge deliver to Miss Crompton’s house a short while ago.”

  “Ye broke off yer engagement,” Tudge added, as if Colin would have already forgotten the contents.

  He had wrestled with his conscience for half the night. By the morning, he had come to the daunting, inescapable conclusion that he had no right to separate her from the man she loved. Arun was alive, he was here, and she had always intended to marry him. So Colin had forced himself to pen the note to Portia, releasing her from their betrothal.

  He lapsed into a fantasy where she hastened here to tell him that he was wrong, that she loved him so much she couldn’t bear to live without him. In the next moment, he cursed himself for a fool.

  Realizing his servants were watching him expectantly, he snapped, “What about the blasted letter?”

  “It’s quite simple,” Hannah said. “If Miss Crompton knew that man was intending to offer you jewels, she’s sure to think you were bribed into ending the engagement.”

  The pain of that cut into him. Had Arun really told her he was coming here today with his infamous offer? What if he never revealed that Colin had refused the jewels? For the rest of her life, Portia would believe he had been bought off, rather than having performed a selfless act of sacrifice.