by Olivia Drake
Soap suds splashed his face, yanking Colin back to the present. He blinked away the stinging bubbles to see Hannah doing her valiant best to wash the boy’s hair. “Ungrateful pipsqueak,” she chided. “I should take a brush to your backside.”
She dunked his head under the water to rinse off the soap. Upon surfacing, Bane spluttered and coughed. “Argh. ’Tis nasty!”
In spite of his dark mood, Colin grinned. Bane looked like a drowned rat. A very scrawny rat. “Keep your mouth shut next time, and you won’t swallow water.”
“Won’t be no next time. Ow!” He tried to shy away as Hannah set to work scouring his grimy face. “Ow, me eyes!”
“Close them,” Hannah said tartly. “Or do I need to wash out your brain, as well?”
“What on earth is going on in here?”
The sound of his mother’s voice caught Colin’s attention. He looked up to see her standing in the doorway. Wearing a copper gown with a matching pelisse, a stylish bonnet framing her face, she radiated an elegance at odds with the disorder in the kitchen.
Orson Tudge hovered behind her. He lifted his massive shoulders as if to say he’d tried his best to show her to the drawing room.
Colin firmed his jaw. He knew full well how difficult it could be to make his mother behave. She also had a knack for visiting at the most inconvenient times.
He rose to his feet, grabbing a linen towel to blot his damp clothing. His shirt was plastered to him and his breeches looked as if he’d had an accident on the way to the privy. “Hello, Mother. If you’d warned me you were coming, I’d have been dressed properly.”
She scarcely glanced at him. Her sharp eyes raked the scene in front of the hearth, Bane in the tub and Hannah kneeling beside him, gripping his thin shoulders to keep him from bolting.
Lady Ratcliffe raised a haughty eyebrow. “Who is that boy?”
“My new tiger.” He could tell she wanted to lecture him on his poor choice of servants, so he signaled his valet into the room and then bent down to address Bane. “This is Mr. Tudge. I’d advise you to obey him because he used to be a pirate.”
Bane ceased thrashing at once. Water dripping from his tangled hair, he gazed up wide-eyed at Tudge. “A—a pirate?”
“Aye, matey,” Tudge said, settling down to take Colin’s place alongside the tub. “If’n ye don’t settle down, I’ll skewer ye wid me cutlass.”
Bane sat frozen, staring at Tudge with a look that was part awe, part apprehension.
“Well, damn,” Colin muttered under his breath. If he’d known the man would have such a miraculous effect, he’d have summoned Tudge at once.
He tossed down the towel and joined his mother in the doorway. “If you wish any refreshment, it’ll have to be sherry. My servants are busy at the moment.”
As they went down the corridor toward the front of the town house, Lady Ratcliffe pursed her mouth in distaste. “Where did you hire such a motley staff? Your valet is a former pirate, the boy is a hooligan, and that woman … she’s in the family way, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Never mind them. I’d rather you get to the point and tell me why you’re here. And if it’s going to take a while, I’d like to change out of these wet clothes first.”
She waved away his untidy state. “I would prefer not to wait. Now, since you’ve offered, I would appreciate a glass of brandy.”
He gave her a pointed stare. His mother never imbibed anything stronger than sherry or champagne except in times of distress. The last time he’d seen her drink brandy was right after his father’s death. What the devil was weighing on her mind now?
God spare him, he didn’t want to know.
He steered her into his study, where he kept a row of decanters on a sideboard. Filling two crystal glasses, he handed one to her. She sipped at it daintily while strolling around his desk, running a gloved fingertip over the account book that lay open to show columns of figures.
“You always were clever at mathematics,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t have much of a head for numbers myself.”
Ominous commentary, Colin judged.
He took a bracing swallow and watched her through narrowed eyes. “So tell me, Mother. What have you done this time?”
“Done?” she repeated on a little tinkling laugh. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“I very much doubt that you came here to chitchat about the estate’s accounts. Unless, of course, you’re in need of funds again.”
She pouted, blinking those long black lashes at him. “And if I am? Please, darling, promise you won’t be angry with me.”
“Tell me the amount,” he said coldly.
“It’s a trifling sum, hardly enough to sneeze at.”
“How much?”
She hemmed and hawed before finally admitting, “Five hundred guineas.”
“What?” Choking on her gall, Colin flung down his glass and seized her by the shoulders. “You’ve taken up gaming again, haven’t you?”
“It was merely a private wager among friends.”
Anger rushed through him. Thinking of the improvements he could have made to the estate with that amount of money made him sick. Only with effort could he keep himself from shouting at her. “By God,” he bit out, “don’t try to pretend this is nothing. You swore me a solemn vow that you’d never again risk another farthing on the turn of a card.”
Tears glossed her eyes. “It was only the once,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t wish to appear a pinchpenny. A lady has her pride, too, you know.”
As a child, he’d been frightened to hear the loud quarrels between his parents behind closed doors that invariably ended in his mother weeping. Now he had a better understanding of them. Struggling to hold his temper in check, he enunciated every word. “To whom do you owe this money?”
“Why should it matter?” she countered with a little shrug of her shoulders.
“It matters when I’m the one paying your markers.”
She flung up her chin, eyeing him defiantly. “All right, then. If you must know … it’s Albright.”
A tide of fury rolled over Colin, so powerful that a red mist blurred his vision. “My God! What the devil were you thinking?”
To keep himself from raking her over the coals, he stalked to the window and stared unseeing into the garden. He couldn’t blame it all on his mother. Albright had been plotting her downfall for years—and Colin’s as well. This was precisely the sort of devious swindle in which the duke specialized.
After a moment, Lady Ratcliffe tentatively touched his arm. “Darling, there is only one thing to be done. You must marry Miss Crompton.”
That was the one thing he couldn’t do. Portia needed time to overcome her grief. Seeing her in such anguish had made him realize how badly he’d underestimated her attachment to that Indian prince of hers. And how little by comparison she cared for Colin.
The incident had opened his eyes to one daunting truth. He wanted her to adore him like that. He craved it with all his soul. But it wouldn’t happen now, at least not anytime in the near future.
And especially not if he married her for her money.
CHAPTER 18
ONE MORNING A fortnight later, a tapping on the door disturbed Portia in her bedchamber. She was curled up in a chair by the hearth, a book open in her lap, although her attempt at reading Miss Austen’s latest novel had met with little success. It wasn’t the fault of the author. Rather, Portia had been too preoccupied to comprehend the words printed on the pages.
She frowned at the door. If she pretended not to hear, then perhaps the visitor would go away. She could think of no one she wanted to see, not her sisters, not her parents, and certainly not any servants bearing gifts from unwanted suitors.
The shock of Arun’s death had been dulled by the passage of time. At first it had been a sharp, unbearable agony. To escape the round of social events, she had pretended illness for several days until her family’s baffled concern for her welfare had prodded her
out of bed.
Mama had wanted her help in planning the upcoming masquerade ball they were hosting, but Lindsey—the only one who knew the true source of Portia’s malaise—had offered to write out the invitations in her stead. Portia had resumed her other daily activities, visiting the nobility and attending various parties, though without her usual high spirits.
A part of her wanted to believe what Ratcliffe had suggested, that Arun might have fallen ill and needed time to recover before writing again. But in her heart, she knew the futility of such a hope. She had witnessed the horrors of other such epidemics in India. And Arun had been the sort of faithful, dependable person who, even in the throes of dire sickness, would have roused himself enough to send a scrawled note. Because he wouldn’t have wanted her to worry.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. It was best to face the truth. He was gone. And denied the objective of returning to India at the end of the Season, Portia found herself drifting like a ship without a rudder.
The rapping came again, louder than before. Again, she ignored it.
But this time, the door opened. Miss Underhill peered inside, her sallow features showing a startled look above the gray serge of her high-necked gown. “Oh! Forgive the intrusion, Miss Crompton. I assumed you were in your dressing room.”
Portia summoned a polite smile. “I’m sorry, I must have been absorbed in my reading.”
Miss Underhill didn’t challenge the fib. A rare smile lighting her usually stern face, she walked into the bedchamber and clapped her hands. “Come, you must make haste. You’ve a very important visitor waiting downstairs.”
“I’d rather not see anyone just now.” Portia had come to treasure the mornings before the hustle and bustle of afternoon visits, and she guarded her free time jealously. “Anyway, isn’t it too early for callers?”
“This is a most special personage. His Grace of Albright.”
Portia frowned, trying to think back to her most recent conversations with the duke. “Why is he here? I don’t recall agreeing to go on a drive with him.”
“Pray, don’t be churlish. You’ve been so cross of late, it’s a wonder you have any suitors left at all.” Miss Underhill removed the book from Portia’s lap and placed it on a nearby table. “You should know, the duke has spoken privately with your father in his study just now. And that can only mean one thing.”
Portia’s mind worked sluggishly. “What?”
“Silly goose. If you can’t guess, you’ll find out soon enough. Stand up now so I can tidy your gown.”
It was easier to comply than to resist. Portia dutifully rose to her feet and allowed the older woman to brush at her skirts and straighten a bit of lace by her bodice. She patted Portia’s hair, twisting several curls around her forefinger and then setting them into place. All the while, she chattered in an untypically exuberant manner.
“It is quite auspicious that just an hour ago, I received a reply from my mother’s cousin.”
She paused expectantly, as if Portia should know what she meant. “And?” Portia prompted.
“If you’ll recall, you asked me to write to her on your behalf. You wanted to know why there was bad blood between the duke and Lord Ratcliffe.”
“Oh … of course.” That concern seemed ages old, as if it had happened in another lifetime. Portia had not allowed herself to think of Ratcliffe these past two weeks. It had seemed disloyal to Arun, especially in light of her guilt over those passionate encounters. Now, she had a clear memory of Ratcliffe holding her close, wiping her tears, murmuring words of comfort. And she felt a sudden aching need to feel his strong arms around her again.
“It seems,” Miss Underhill went on, as she gave the gown one last tug, “that the duke was once betrothed to Lord Ratcliffe’s mother. She left him standing at the altar in front of all the ton, whilst she eloped to Gretna Green with the present viscount’s father. As you might well imagine, it caused quite a scandal back in my mother’s day.”
Portia had heard the story straight from Lady Ratcliffe. Odd how important it had been to her at one time. Instead, she found herself wondering what had happened to Ratcliffe. Why had he ignored her of late? Had he given up on courting her? He must have, for he had made no attempt to contact her since that day at the docks.
A sense of loss settled over her, keen yet somehow different from the grief she’d felt for Arun. She missed Ratcliffe’s wit and charm, the excitement his presence evoked in her. A part of her yearned to feel alive again, instead of being trapped in a gray colorless world. Yet she must never again delude herself into believing he cared for her. The cold hard truth was that he’d only wanted her dowry.
And Bane … she had been so distraught over Arun that she’d gone off in the hackney cab without assuring herself of the boy’s welfare. The memory of his dirty little face haunted her. She hoped that Ratcliffe had had the decency to spare him a coin or two.
Portia continued to brood about Ratcliffe as she and Miss Underhill headed downstairs to the reception rooms. She only marginally noticed her sisters peeking out the doorway of the morning room, whispering and giggling.
Then her mother appeared behind them, shooing the girls back inside before hurrying out to meet Portia. At a dismissing flick of Mrs. Crompton’s fingers, Miss Underhill vanished into the morning room, too.
Mrs. Crompton’s face was flushed with excitement. “Whatever took you so long?” she whispered, critically examining Portia’s hair and gown. “The duke has been waiting for more than ten minutes. You must go to him at once. And remember, under no circumstances are you to turn down his offer.”
She gave Portia a little push into the drawing room. Preoccupied, she found herself walking into the cavernous chamber with its tall gold draperies and its numerous chairs and tables. His offer?
Of marriage?
Reality struck her like a splash of cold water. She faltered to a stop just inside the doorway, seized by the panicked urge to turn around and flee. But the duke was coming forward to greet her, bowing over her hand and then leading her to a chaise by the white marble fireplace. He looked as distinguished as ever in a charcoalgray coat with a diamond stickpin glinting in his cravat.
Without releasing her hand, he seated himself right beside her. The soft kidskin of his glove rubbed soothingly over her stiff, bare fingers. “My dear Miss Crompton,” he said, gazing deeply into her eyes. “It has been an honor these past weeks to enjoy the company of such a lovely young lady as yourself. You must permit me to express how very much I’ve come to hold you in the highest esteem.”
Silver threaded his well-groomed brown hair. Fine lines radiated from the corners of his pale blue eyes. He had always reminded her of a father, not a husband.
Desperate to stave him off, she murmured, “I’m no different from any other girl. Truly I’m not.”
He smiled approvingly. “Modesty becomes you, my dear. It is an admirable quality in a lady—and a wife.” His voice grew husky, his eyes intense. “I have received the blessing of your father to ask you a very important question. Pray know that your answer will most certainly affect my future happiness. Miss Crompton—Portia—will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
Her mouth went completely dry. She saw a startling image of him speaking similar words to Lady Ratcliffe so many years ago. What more did she know of his past? And what did he know of hers? “I—I hardly know what to say. This is so sudden.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Pray don’t regard me as one of the profligates who have tagged at your heels. My affection is solely for you, my dear, and not for any monetary gain. That is why, as a token of my sincerity, I am prepared to refuse your dowry in its entirety.”
His declaration stunned her. Surely this proved Ratcliffe was wrong about the duke. Albright wasn’t a cunning schemer, for only a man of high principles would turn down such a vast sum of money.
Ratcliffe himself would never do such a noble act. He had made it plain from the start tha
t he had courted her only because of her wealth. He had proven himself a cad time and time again.
Burying the bitter thought, Portia looked at the duke with new eyes. The warmth in his gaze revealed a true fondness for her, and the realization was a balm to her battered spirits. Despite the difference in their ages, the duke reminded her of Arun in many ways. Both men were chivalrous, kind, and steady in character.
Perhaps it was time for her to behave in a mature and responsible manner. To leave her childish dreams of romance behind. All of her plans for the future had shifted irrevocably. She had no reason to return to India anymore. And if she were to remain in England, why not wed Albright? He was a pleasant companion, a man who made her feel safe and protected. The marriage would thrill her parents, who wanted her to achieve the pinnacle of society. And there would be no mad emotional upheaval as she’d experienced with Ratcliffe.
Oh, Ratcliffe … but no, she mustn’t think of him ever again. His interest in her had been based on selfish financial gain. He was a part of her past, not her future.
Taking a deep breath, she spoke the words that would seal her destiny. “I’m honored, Your Grace. And I’m very happy to accept you.”
Three days later, Portia strolled through the family ballroom on her father’s arm, her mother at his other side. The scene before her was rather curious, for the occasion was their masquerade ball. Instead of the usual fashionable garb, the ton had turned out in costumes of all sorts, from knights and friars to queens and milkmaids. There had been no receiving line, nor any names announced, since that would have defeated the purpose of trying to guess who was who.
“A most absurd business,” Mr. Crompton muttered, tugging at the sword that kept getting twisted in the striped pantaloons of his medieval king’s attire. He had drawn the line at wearing a mask, and his face reflected exasperation. “How the devil are we to know who’s who?”
“Hush,” Mrs. Crompton hissed. Dressed as Marie Antoinette in a towering white wig and panniered gold gown, she wore a black-and-white domino that covered the top half of her face. “And do smile at our guests, George. This should be the happiest of occasions, the finest hour of our lives.”