by Olivia Drake
“You’re too late,” Ratcliffe said. “She’s going for a drive with me.”
The sound of that deep voice caused a tremor deep inside of Portia, shocking all of her senses awake. She turned to find her nemesis standing at her side, so near that she could feel the heat of his body and smell the spicy scent of his skin. Tall and strikingly handsome, Ratcliffe stood out in the masses of gentlemen and their ladies. The cocoa brown of his coat and the white of his cravat enhanced the swarthiness of his skin. And those lips … the mere memory of his kiss had the power to make her legs melt.
Wrayford scowled. “Ratcliffe. Didn’t think you were welcome in polite society these days.”
Ratcliffe’s green eyes betrayed a mocking amusement. “They may bar me from their homes, but alas, not from a public theater.”
With that, he took Portia’s arm and drew her ahead into the swarm of patrons, leaving Wrayford behind. Her heart fluttered every time Ratcliffe brushed against her, which was often in this crush. She had to remind herself she had traded one fortune-hunter for another.
“You certainly are not taking me for a drive,” she whispered, so no one around them could overhear. “And I didn’t need you to rescue me, either. I am quite capable of managing a persistent suitor.”
“You’ll hear no argument from me on that issue.”
The dry humor in his tone brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. Of course he would say that after she’d shot him. “How is your arm?”
“The pain keeps me awake all night, tossing and turning.” He glanced down at her horrified expression and gave her a grin of pure deviltry. “That was a jest, sweetheart. The wound is healing quite nicely. Which means it must be something else that makes me toss and turn.”
With his voice so soft and silky, there was no mistaking his meaning. Especially when he caught her gaze and held it for a prolonged moment. The dark fire there made it clear that he, too, remembered their kiss and wanted more … much more.
He bent closer, murmuring into her ear, “Have I told you how ravishing you look tonight, Portia?”
His eyes flicked downward to caress her bosom, and she had an entirely different reaction than with Wrayford. This time, she felt as if she were smoldering under the heat of the sun. Her breath grew fast and shallow, making her light-headed. She had the mad desire to pull Ratcliffe into a closet—into anywhere they could be alone—so they could share another wild, passionate tryst.
She turned her gaze from him, staring straight ahead at the quail feather bobbing on a lady’s bonnet. Gritting her teeth, she hissed, “Don’t say things like that. And stop inflicting your presence on me. I’ve no wish to see you ever again.”
“A difficult objective since I’m courting you.”
In spite of her resolve, a thrill jolted her. She denied it at once, shooting him a fierce glare. “You are not courting me. I forbid it.”
He chuckled, infuriatingly undaunted. “You may wish to compose yourself, darling. Your parents are looking this way.”
She immediately schooled her features into an expression of well-bred disinterest. Mama mustn’t suspect even a hint of the intimacy that had transpired with Ratcliffe. She would suffer an apoplexy if she knew he had visited Portia’s bedchamber, and that Portia had done likewise to him.
She’d already had a close call with that letter to Hannah. Thankfully, Mama had not discovered it in Kasi’s keeping, but Portia had an uneasy feeling her luck was bound to run out at some point.
Her parents stood waiting for her by the gilded entrance to the box seats. They made a pleasing couple, Papa the prosperous gentleman in his dark suit and white cravat, and Mama in rich amber satin with a gold circlet adorning her russet hair.
More and more, Portia disliked the notion of disappointing them when they wanted so much for her to be a success. She wouldn’t let herself even think about how distraught they would be at the end of the Season when she proposed to return to India.
She summoned a smile. “Mama, Papa, I lost you in the crowd. Lord Ratcliffe was kind enough to escort me here.”
“I encouraged your daughter to take advantage of my height by asking me to look for you.”
Her mother gave him a cool nod. “We appreciate your assistance, my lord.”
He bowed. “It was my pleasure, Mrs. Crompton. And you must be Mr. Crompton. I understand you’re quite the phenomenon in the business world.”
As the two men shook hands, George Crompton studied the younger man assessingly. “Some might say so. I seem to have a knack for trading in tea and spices.”
“And you’ve the fastest fleet on the high seas. I recall seeing one of your ships myself when I stopped in Calcutta some seven or eight years ago.”
Portia stared at Ratcliffe in astonishment. He’d never breathed a word of having visited India. “You—what—?”
He gave her that famous half-smile, the one that hinted at secrets beyond her imagining. “Many young gentlemen do a European tour. I preferred to see a bit more of the world.”
“A wise choice,” George Crompton said with an approving nod. “If you like, I’ll show you around one of my ships when it comes into port.”
“I’ll hold you to that promise, sir.”
“Excellent.” His hearty smile vanished as he looked at his frowning wife. “Ahem, well, we must be off to our seats. Wouldn’t want to be late and miss the opening scene.”
“We are joining the Duke of Albright in his box,” Mrs. Crompton pointedly told the viscount, taking hold of Portia’s arm. “We mustn’t keep His Grace waiting.”
As they walked off, Portia had one last glimpse of Ratcliffe. The charming courtier had vanished, and a cool mask now covered his features. There was something dangerous in his eyes, something that hadn’t been there until her mother had mentioned the duke.
Something that gave Portia a cold shiver.
CHAPTER 11
“YOU CAN SEE the stage quite well from right here,” the Duke of Albright said as he guided Portia to a gilt chair at the railing.
Ever the gentleman, he waited for her parents to take the two chairs to the rear before sitting down beside her. He was meticulously groomed in a coal-black coat with white satin knee breeches, clocked white stockings, and polished black shoes. In the few minutes since their arrival, he had been a model of courtesy, directing a footman to take their wraps, chatting with her parents, complimenting both Portia and her mother on their gowns.
Portia found his ministrations akin to curling up in a comforting chair by a warm fire. With the duke, she wasn’t beset by a storm of emotional upheaval. She wasn’t in a dither of frustration and anger and—yes—unladylike lust. She wasn’t fretting about her own character flaw in succumbing to the spell of a scoundrel. She could relax and enjoy the evening out.
The well-appointed box enclosed the party in privacy while providing a sweeping view of the theater. Oil lamps flickered at intervals along the walls, painting the scene with a golden glow. The upper tiers, where the aristocrats sat, formed a semicircle around the stage. They looked down on the floor seats, which were a mass of humanity with people jostling to find a place to sit before the play commenced.
“I hope you will enjoy the performance of the esteemed Edmund Kean,” the duke said.
The actor had taken London by storm, and Portia looked forward to seeing his much-praised portrayal of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. “I must confess, although I’ve read a few of Mr. Shakespeare’s plays, I’ve never actually seen one performed.”
“Never? Yes, I suppose you would have had little occasion to experience sophisticated culture, growing up as you did in the remote reaches of the Empire.”
His dismissive tone made her protest, “But you mustn’t think I was deprived. India has all manner of fine art and literature, including heroic plays and epic poetry. And the sights are truly magnificent to behold—in Agra, there is a white marble mausoleum called the Taj Mahal—”
“I meant no offense, my dear. I’m sure
it was all very beautiful.” The duke reached over to pat her hand, and his cordial manner smoothed her ruffled feathers. “Now, are you familiar with the story we are about to see?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then you must prepare yourself for a surprise in regard to one of the central characters.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
Smiling, he would say no more, and curiosity filled her as the crimson curtain began a slow rise. The buzz of conversation died down to silence, except for a cough or two. She turned her attention to the actors on stage and quickly learned that the heroine of the play was a young heiress named Portia. Just like her, the fictitious Portia had to decide which of her many suitors to marry.
The duke glanced at her, seeming to enjoy her amusement as much as the play itself. He lent her a pair of gold opera glasses. As she lifted them to her eyes, however, her gaze fell on a box on the opposite side of the theater—and one of its occupants.
Ratcliffe.
He was sitting with a group of gentlemen and ladies. For someone who was ostracized, he certainly seemed comfortable with the ton. She recognized a few of them as members of the fast crowd, those who liked to gamble and drink and race their carriages, no matter what the danger to innocent pedestrians on the street. All of a sudden, he turned his head. He looked straight at her and smiled.
Blushing, she whipped her attention back to the stage. But the play went unnoticed, because her mind was once again preoccupied with thoughts of Ratcliffe. Instead of the actors, she saw that rakish quirk of his lips. Instead of the dialogue, she heard the murmur of his husky voice in her mind.
It must be something else entirely that makes me toss and turn.
She hadn’t wanted to admit to him that she, too, had lain awake at night. One taste of his mouth had been like partaking of forbidden fruit. Ever since that moment, the deep slumber of the innocent had eluded her. She had lost the ability to find a comfortable position in her vast featherbed. And her restless imagination had developed an annoying tendency to run wild. While lying in the darkness of her chamber, she found herself spinning fantasies of Ratcliffe pressing her down into a nest of pillows, of him covering her with his strong body.
His naked body.
Not, of course, that she had ever viewed a man’s entirely unclothed form—except in drawings of Greek and Roman sculptures.
And in Ratcliffe’s copy of the Kama Sutra.
Abandoning the opera glasses, Portia groped for her fan and snapped it open. Thankfully, everyone was too engrossed in the play to notice her waving the fan at her flushed face. It was most aggravating, the effect he had on her. One would hope she’d have better sense than to moon over a man who had made an art out of seducing women.
Yet the mere thought of him rendered her breathless. Oh, those broad shoulders, the muscularity of his thighs in the form-fitting breeches, the naughty glint in his eyes. It was enough to give her a fit of the vapors …
With a blink, she realized that the curtain was coming down to thunderous applause. She dropped the fan in her lap and clapped along with everyone else.
“The play seemed rather short,” she commented.
The duke gave her a quizzical look. “It’s merely the interlude—the halfway point.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, feeling foolish.
“Portia, darling,” her mother said from the chair to the rear, “your father and I are going to pay our respects to the Marchioness of Wargrave. Do pardon us, Your Grace.”
The duke rose politely as they left. It was a ploy, Portia realized in mortification, to leave her alone with Albright. Didn’t Mama realize how transparent she was being?
Albright extended his white-gloved hand to Portia. “Perhaps you would care to take a short stroll around the theater. You will wish to partake in a glass of lemonade, as well.”
She hesitated. From the corner of her eye, she could see that Ratcliffe’s seat was vacant. He must have gone out to the lobby, where she would be vulnerable to his approach. She had no wish to encounter him again, especially not in the company of the duke. Their hostility toward one another had all the makings of an embarrassing scene.
Here in the duke’s private box, however, she was safe from being caught in the middle of any such confrontation. It wasn’t cowardly, she assured herself. Rather, it was mature and responsible of her to avoid all contact with a rogue like Ratcliffe.
“Lemonade does sound refreshing,” she said. “But I’m feeling a trifle unwell. Would you mind terribly if I stayed here rather than faced the crush of people?”
Something flickered in the duke’s eyes, a faint displeasure that vanished so quickly she might have imagined it. With perfect civility, he bowed. “I will fetch you a glass, then. And if you like I will instruct the footman to stand outside and bar any visitors from entering.”
“Yes!” She toned down her enthusiasm lest he guess that her illness was merely a pretext. “Thank you, that would be most thoughtful.”
He departed, the door closed, and she was alone. Releasing a long sigh, Portia entertained herself by glancing around the theater. Many of the patrons had gone out, but a scattered few remained, conversing in groups. She couldn’t see Ratcliffe anywhere.
Had he gone to the lobby? Or to visit someone else’s box?
She picked up the opera glasses and slowly scanned the seats. Her gaze paused on the stout form of Mrs. Beardsley, encased in a hideous brown dress with too many ruffles. Her daughter, Frances, appeared to be making a cake of herself as usual, simpering with false shyness while clinging to the arm of a red-faced Henry Hockenhull.
Portia continued her search. Ratcliffe, thank heavens, was still nowhere to be seen. It was just as well. Let him turn his lecherous attentions elsewhere, on someone who welcomed them.
Just to be fair, though, she had to admit his character wasn’t completely devoid of redemption. He had helped Hannah Wilton after she’d been turned out onto the street. He’d given her a place to live and an honest livelihood. Society would frown on him employing a courtesan, especially one who was breeding, but Portia thought it a kind and generous act.
Of course, that was only if he didn’t have additional bedtime duties for Hannah to perform. The nagging possibility kept Portia from feeling overly charitable toward him. She didn’t trust him not to take advantage of the poor mother-to-be. Soon, however, she would ascertain the truth. Portia’s letter had been delivered to the woman earlier in the day, and she could scarcely wait for a reply—
Her leisurely perusal of the audience came to an abrupt halt. So did her heart.
Ratcliffe was climbing onto the railing of the box beside hers, balancing high above the floor. Several men down below gave a shout. A woman screamed.
Ratcliffe paid them no heed. He walked nimbly along the railing and leaped into Albright’s box. Only then did he look down to give a jaunty wave like a performer in a circus.
Several cheers and huzzahs arose, along with laughter and the heightened buzz of conversation.
He took the seat beside Portia. A devilish light danced in his green eyes, as if he’d enjoyed showing off to an audience—without a thought for the damage to her reputation. “I see that Albright was careless enough to leave you all alone.”
Sitting stiffly upright, she breathed deeply in an effort to calm her turbulent emotions. “Have you gone mad? You could have killed yourself.”
“It’s encouraging to know you care whether I live or die.”
“Care for you?” She turned to glare at him. “Your dead body lying on the seats down below would put a damper on everyone’s evening. And I for one do not wish for the rest of the play to be canceled.”
“Oh, you are cold, just like the fair Portia on stage, choosing her husband by whimsical trickery. It will be interesting to see if she gets her comeuppance in the second half.”
Portia was too upset to engage in a polite discussion of Shakespeare’s work—or to
argue against the implied similarity to her own situation. “It was foolish of you to come here. The duke will be furious when he finds you sitting in his seat. No doubt someone is already hastening to report your idiotic behavior to him.”
The warning proved no deterrent to Ratcliffe. He merely grinned and settled more comfortably into the chair. “I’d call my behavior practical. There’s a rather imposing footman guarding the door. So this seemed the most expedient way to continue our conversation.”
“There is nothing more to be said.” She paused, curiosity overcoming her need to eject him. “Except for one thing. Why did you never tell me you’d visited India?”
“You never asked.”
She gave him a withering look. “You must have known I would be interested. Did you only visit Calcutta?”
“Yes. It’s quite the fascinating area, close to both the jungle and the hills with all the tea plantations.”
She and her family had lived near Bombay, hundreds of miles across the country. “How long were you there?”
“Several months.”
“Months?” The news startled her. “What could have possibly kept you there for so long?”
“I was seeing the sights. Exploring the countryside.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Buying books.”
The Kama Sutra.
Despite her resolve to remain unaffected, Portia blushed. To give herself something to do, she took up her fan again and snapped it open, only to close it as she realized the action might draw his attention to her overheated state. “You can’t have learned to read Hindi in so short a time. It’s a difficult language to master since it doesn’t use the English alphabet.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps for you. But I happen to have an affinity for foreign tongues.”
What an arrogant jackass! “Foreign tongues in foreign ladies, no doubt. You were probably carrying on a liaison. That’s what kept you in Calcutta.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Your low opinion wounds me, darling.”
His amusement captivated her momentarily. It made her want to smile, too, when he needed to be blistered into going away. “Do not address me in so familiar a manner. And you really should leave before the duke returns with my lemonade.”