by Olivia Drake
He frowned, clearly annoyed to have his stratagem exposed. “If you choose to regard it that way. However, matters changed once we met. That’s the yes in answer to your question. I would pursue you, Portia, no matter what your circumstances. Because you fascinate me.”
He spoke in the smooth, deep tone of a man experienced in luring women. She should correct his forwardness in using her name, yet there were other, more important issues at stake. “Never mind the flattery. The truth is all that matters to me.”
“I’ll grant you both.” He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “I came to that ball expecting to meet a giggly girl with air for brains. Instead I found a spirited woman who is more than able to match wits with me. From that moment onward, I’ve been determined to make you mine.”
Despite her mistrust of him, her pulse leaped. The feeling was nothing more than an instinctive reaction to an attractive man, she assured herself. Arun owned her heart. Arun, whose kindness and chivalry put this scoundrel to shame.
Crossing her arms, she glared at Ratcliffe. “To be quite frank, my lord, I can see no benefit to allowing your courtship. For title and status, I certainly can do better than a viscount with a wicked reputation.”
His jaw tightened, and she feared for a moment that she’d driven him over the edge. “Albright,” he snapped.
She almost blurted out that the duke was merely a friend, not a suitor. But if she could use Albright to convince Ratcliffe he had no chance … “You saw us together today at the lending library,” she said. “I thought that was you, hiding behind the shelves.”
The dangerous look faded, and she wondered if she had imagined it. Once again, his eyes were unfathomable, making her intensely curious about the secrets behind those too-handsome features.
Much to her surprise, a slow grin banished his moody expression. He looked exactly like the devil-may-care rogue she had met at the duke’s ball. “That’s what you’ve reduced me to,” he said. “A lonely wretch skulking in the shadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of your beauty.”
Unexpected laughter bubbled up inside her. His teasing somehow eased her inner tension, and she found herself sinking cautiously onto a chair a short distance from him. “A wretch, yes, you are that. But I very much doubt you’re lonely.”
“I am, indeed, every moment we’re apart.”
Heaven help her, he was charming. He must have women falling at his feet. “Enough of your nonsense. If you’re so determined to make conversation, then tell me about yourself.”
“I find you far more interesting—”
“No. It’s my home and I’ll set the rules. I should like to know why you believe yourself worthy to be my suitor. Tell me about your family, your interests, how you live your life.”
Colin felt his mouth go dry. He seldom discussed private matters even with his friends. It was easier to keep things light, to guard those certain events best kept hidden from the world.
Unfortunately, Portia Crompton was far less susceptible to glib talk than any woman of his acquaintance. God, she was gorgeous, even in her self-righteousness. The gold sari clung to her curves like a second skin and tendrils of curly chestnut hair had sprung loose from her topknot. He wanted nothing more than to haul her over to the bed and kiss her senseless, to touch her and stroke her until she lay purring in his arms. Unfortunately, such a rapscallion approach was guaranteed to win her ire.
She sat primly on the straight-backed chair, her skeptical expression trained on him. Clearly, she was waiting for him to reveal his redeeming qualities—if he possessed any, her look seemed to say.
He cleared his throat. “I own an estate in Kent, some five thousand acres of entailed farmland. My mother lives there, too. I have a younger sister, Elizabeth, who’s married to a Scotsman and lives in Edinburgh. She has three children, two boys and a girl.”
Portia didn’t need to know that Elizabeth had deliberately chosen a husband who would take her far away from their childhood home. Colin hadn’t seen her in more than five years. She hadn’t even returned for their father’s funeral three years ago, although to be fair, she had been recovering from childbirth at the time.
“You make yourself sound like the typical country gentleman,” Portia said. “However, I understand you’re deeply in debt because of your gambling.”
Colin struggled to keep the vexation from his face. Did she hold no topics sacred? “The subject of my finances is best left to your father.”
“You haven’t my permission to speak to Papa about anything,” she countered. “And let me make one fact clear. I’ll never wed a man who would squander my dowry on dice and cards.”
It came as no surprise that she had her mind made up about him. He considered spilling his guts, but that would mean breaking a vow and he wasn’t yet so desperate. So he pacified her with a half-truth. “You have my promise that I’ll never again set foot in a gaming hell.”
She gave him a withering look. “If you think to bamboozle me, Lord Ratcliffe, we’ve nothing more to discuss.”
“Then perhaps you’ll talk about this.” Determined to shift the heat off himself, Colin reached down between the cushions and withdrew the miniature he had tucked there. He had a burning need to know the identity of the man whose image she clearly held dear.
Portia sucked in an audible breath. She gripped the sides of the chair. Her big blue eyes fastened on the little oval painting, then swung to him. “Where did you get that?”
“When I came in, I saw it lying on your pillow.”
She surged to her feet and marched toward him, the bangles on her arms jingling musically. “It doesn’t belong to you. Give it back to me at once.”
Colin sprang up, too. “First tell me who he is.”
“A friend.”
She made a grab for the miniature, but he held it high out of her reach. “He must have a name.”
“Arun,” she ground out. “Now hand it over to me. You’ve no right to come in here and touch my things.”
The panic on her face intrigued Colin. What importance could a young, handsome native man have to her? A man whose picture she would keep in her bedchamber? The most probable answer made Colin livid. “He must be more than a friend. Was he your lover while you lived in India?”
“No!”
She made another futile attempt to snatch the miniature out of his hand, her bosom brushing against him. The chance to slide his arm around her proved too delicious to resist. Colin clasped her close, keenly aware of the curves barely concealed by thin gold silk.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “While you blistered me for my sins, it would appear you yourself are no angel.”
Pressing her palms to his chest, she pushed hard. “Release me at once!”
“Only when you tell me the truth about him.”
“I am telling you the truth.”
She struggled against his grip, but Colin had no intention of letting her go. His loins had an instantaneous reaction to her sinuous movements. Again, he was sorely tempted to carry her across the room to the four-poster bed. Bending closer, he murmured, “Stay still. Unless you wish me to forget what little gentlemanly restraint I have.”
Gasping, she reared back at once, drawing her upper body as far away from him as possible. Desperation blazed in her eyes. “All right, blast you. I love Arun. When I return to India, we’re going to be married.”
Stunned, he stared into her flushed features. He could see every individual black lash that lined her clear blue eyes. She wasn’t lying. She planned to do the unthinkable. It suddenly made sense to him why she was dressed in the sari, why she had that ridiculous red dot on her forehead and the armful of bangles.
She was pretending to be Arun’s bride.
Tossing the miniature onto the chair, he grasped hold of her shoulders. “Do your parents know this?” Seeing the flash of guilt on her face, he answered for her. “Of course they don’t. You’ve let everyone believe you’re available for marriage. But you’
ve never had any intention of choosing an Englishman for a husband.”
She lifted her chin. “No. So you see, you’ll never win me over. You might as well leave.”
Colin was still trying to get his mind around the rashness of her plan. “You can’t marry a native. You’ll be shunned, not just here but in India, too.”
“It’s my decision. There’s no one in society I care about, anyway.”
“Your father will cut you off without a penny. How will you live?” She had no idea what it was like to be poor. But Colin knew all too well.
“Arun is the son of a maharajah. I’ll live in luxury in a palace.”
The news that his rival was a prince irritated him more than it ought. “You can’t have thought this through. You’re giving up everything, your life, your country, your family. Once you act on this foolishness, there’ll be no turning back.”
She glanced away for a moment, then raised her chin in resolute stubbornness. “My mind is made up. I won’t be dissuaded. And … and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“So now I’m your trusted confidant? There’s a turnaround.”
“You give me no other choice—oh!”
A knocking on the door startled both of them. Instantly, Colin released her, holding his finger to his lips. Portia frantically shooed him toward the balcony.
Damn it, he was not through speaking to her. He had no intention of giving up his suit. She had to realize the sheer idiocy of her plan—if only because he needed a rich wife and she was far too wealthy a prize to relinquish.
Perhaps if he waited outside for a bit, the visitor would go away. He doubted Portia would betray his presence, especially considering the volatile secret he now knew about her.
But he had taken only one step toward the balcony when the passageway door swung open. Two girls in white nightgowns burst into the bedchamber.
CHAPTER 4
PORTIA SELDOM SAW her sisters speechless. But she did now.
Blythe had entered first, of course. As the youngest, she considered it her right to do as she pleased, even if it meant invading a bedroom without an invitation. Spying the man standing beside Portia, she stopped short and stared.
Lindsey, the middle sister and the tallest of the three, barreled straight into Blythe. For once they didn’t squabble over who had caused the collision. They were too busy ogling Lord Ratcliffe.
Portia longed to sink into the floor. She bitterly regretted inducing him to unlock the door. Had he not done so, she would have had the chance to hide him from sight. How in the world was she to explain his presence here?
Blythe recovered first. Short and curvaceous, she patted her coppery hair, which was tied up in rags to create the wavy curls that came naturally to her sisters. Of the three, she looked the most like their mother. “I couldn’t sleep. Linds and I were going down to the drawing room to fetch a deck of cards when we heard voices.”
“More specifically, a man’s voice,” Lindsey corrected. Always a stickler for rules, she frowned accusingly at Portia while eyeing her sari. “Why are you dressed like that? And who is he?”
Portia was keenly aware of how damning the scene must look. She decided it was best to ignore the question about her garb. “This is Viscount Ratcliffe. Lord Ratcliffe, my sisters, Blythe and Lindsey.”
As if they were in a ballroom, Lord Ratcliffe bowed deeply from the waist. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I can see that beauty is a family trait.”
Blythe giggled like a seasoned coquette instead of the barely fifteen-year-old schoolgirl she was. “How generous of you to say so, my lord, since we’re hardly dressed for company.”
“Ratcliffe?” Lindsey muttered, pulling the edges of her nightgown close around her neck. “I should like to know why he’s in your bedchamber.”
“He came to … to give me something.” Portia cast about for an excuse, then snatched up the stalk of orchids from the table. “This.”
Blythe clasped her hands to the bosom of her nightdress. “Oh, famous. They’re beautiful. Exactly like the ones Patel used to fetch from the jungle.”
Lindsey looked unimpressed. “They should have been delivered at a more suitable time and place.”
“I’ve already told Lord Ratcliffe exactly that,” Portia said. “He oughtn’t to have come here. He needs to leave at once.”
“As you wish,” he said in a suspiciously meek tone. “Oh, but I seem to have dropped my pocket watch.”
He casually sauntered back to the fireplace to pick up the gold-framed miniature of Arun, half-hidden by the arm of the chair. Her sisters fell for the ruse, much to Portia’s relief. Although they knew about Arun, they—like her parents—believed she had put the youthful indiscretion behind her. They had no inkling of her plan to return to India and become his bride.
In the next breath, Portia realized that Ratcliffe was heading toward the balcony door with the miniature hidden in the palm of his hand.
Alarmed, she went flying after him. “I’ll see him out,” she told her sisters over her shoulder.
She caught up to him as he opened the door. In her haste, she brushed against him. The feel of his hard-muscled form caused a tingling rush of awareness in her. Portia rubbed her arms, wishing she could blame the irksome reaction on the chilly air.
Glancing at her sisters to make sure they couldn’t overhear, she whispered, “The miniature. I want it back.”
A calculating smile touched his lips. “I’m sure you do. However, I don’t stand a chance of winning your heart if you’re mooning over another man.”
“You don’t stand a chance regardless.” Though he towered over her, she stood her ground, thrusting out her hand. “Now give it to me at once.”
“You look as if you’d like to claw my eyes out. Pray remember it wouldn’t be wise to create a scene in front of your sisters.”
He was right. She didn’t want Lindsey and Blythe to witness her wrestling him for the miniature. Besides, if they saw the painting, they would discover that Arun remained a shining part of her future.
Ratcliffe lifted her hand to his mouth, and the warm brush of his lips tickled her skin. It set off a scandalous heat in the depths of her body. “Forget about him,” he murmured, his voice deep, soft, velvety. “Dream of me tonight.”
Shaken by his audacity, Portia yanked her hand free and stepped back in an instinctive effort to put distance between them. As she did so, he tucked the miniature in an inner pocket of his coat, then strode out onto the night-darkened balcony. He grasped hold of the stone railing, vaulted over the side, and vanished from sight.
She flew to the balcony. “Wait,” she cried out.
But he was already a dark shadow at the bottom of the rose trellis. He turned, gave her a jaunty wave, then went loping off into the gloom of the garden, where the trees soon hid him from sight.
Her tongue brimmed with unladylike curses. Blast him, blast him to hell. Dream of him? She would sooner dream of the devil himself!
A panicky thought displaced her fury. He alone knew her secret, he alone had the proof of her devotion to Arun. If Ratcliffe tried to blackmail her, threatened to tell her parents …
She realized that Blythe stood beside her, peering out into the darkness. “Is that how Lord Ratcliffe reached your bedchamber, by climbing up the trellis?” she asked in awe. “How very romantic! Why, it’s like something out of a storybook.”
“It’s appalling, that’s what,” Lindsey said, marching over to join them. She pulled them both back inside, then shut the balcony door with a decisive bang. “Had we not arrived when we did, he might have murdered our sister in her bed.”
“Oh, bah,” Blythe said with a wave of her hand. “You always think the worst of people.”
“I have the good sense to be cautious. And I’ve heard talk about Lord Ratcliffe from the servants, that he shot his own father in cold blood.” Lindsey gripped Portia’s arm and gazed searchingly at her. “Do you suppose he had a pistol just now?”
“No! Of course not.” Portia didn’t want to give her sister any more fodder for suspicion. “He … he wishes only to court me. For my dowry, of course.”
“How can you be certain? I shall report the matter to Papa the instant he arrives home.”
“And then Papa will make Lord Ratcliffe wed you,” Blythe added. Clasping her hands to her bosom, she sighed. “He’s so handsome and dashing, only think how the other ladies will envy you!”
Portia rolled her eyes, then turned to Lindsey. “Do you see what will happen if you tell? I’ll be forced into marriage. And Ratcliffe is a scoundrel—he would make a deplorable husband. So you must both promise me you’ll keep silent.”
Her sisters glanced at each other, Lindsey clearly troubled and Blythe just as clearly disappointed. Much to Portia’s relief, however, they both nodded. At least she knew she could trust them.
Needing time to think, she shooed them out of the bedchamber. Then she paced to the fireplace and used the poker to brutally stir the coals, causing the flames to hiss and dance. The action failed to calm her volatile mood.
Now that Ratcliffe had stolen the miniature from right under her nose, he had her in his power. He could threaten to go to her father with the evidence of her duplicity. He could claim the picture had fallen out of her reticule, that he had coaxed her into telling him the truth, that she planned to return to India at the end of the season. Her parents would be furious, heartbroken, and, worst of all, disappointed in her. They would keep her under lock and key until she married an English lord according to their wishes.
The alternative would be to submit to Ratcliffe’s blackmail and accept him as her husband. Either way, she would lose Arun forever.
Despair washed over her. What was she to do now? In one fell swoop, Ratcliffe had ruined everything. Unless …
Her mind working feverishly, Portia set down the poker and straightened her shoulders. Unless she could figure out a way to steal the miniature back from him.
* * *
By breakfast the next day, Portia had settled on a plan. It was risky, it was dangerous, but it just might work. The only trouble was, the scheme would be difficult to manage without help—and she needed more than Kasi’s assistance this time. So after much agonized reflection, Portia had decided to take Lindsey into her confidence.