by Olivia Drake
Bane shrugged. “Dunno. But Oi ’eard ’im say t’ Miss ’Annah not t’ expect ’im back fer three or four days.”
Days!
Aghast, Portia sank back against the cushions. By tomorrow, her reputation would be in shreds. If days passed, she would be a complete disgrace to her parents, and her sisters would be tainted by her infamy, as well. In all likelihood, the ton would spread malicious rumors that she’d run off with Ratcliffe of her own accord.
And the duke would endure the humiliation of being abandoned by yet another bride. Though perhaps he deserved that and more after his ill treatment of Hannah and his unborn child.
Now that Portia had had time to adjust to the news, she could think more clearly. She could see that only Ratcliffe’s version of events made all the pieces of the puzzle fit. Albright had every reason to hate Lady Ratcliffe and her family. But Portia had never quite been able to grasp why Ratcliffe despised the duke in equal measure.
Unless the duke had exacted revenge against Ratcliffe in the matter of stealing his mistress.
She shivered, chilled by the possibility that she’d been a pawn in a dastardly chess match played by the duke. Her thoughts ranged back to the first time she’d encountered Albright at the start of the Season. It was the same night she had met Ratcliffe. Upon their introduction, the duke had spared her scarcely a glance. It struck her now that he had begun courting her only after he’d observed Ratcliffe’s interest in her.
Her gaze fell on Bane and her heart melted. Asleep again, he lay curled on his side, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. How astonishing to know that Ratcliffe had given the boy a home.
Despite the lulling sway of the coach, Portia felt wide awake. She wrapped herself in a blanket to ward off the cold evening air and spent a long time mulling over all that had happened, contemplating her future, and deciding what to do. Only when she was satisfied with her appraisal of the situation did she finally close her eyes and drift off to sleep.
Early morning light bathed the lush hills of Kent as Colin drove past the pair of stone pillars that marked the entrance to his estate. He waved to the gatekeeper, an ancient codger who had held the position since the time of Colin’s grandfather. The old man lifted a gnarled hand and then shuffled forward to close the gate again.
Holding the reins in his gloved hands, Colin sat hunched in the coachman’s box. His breath fogged the chilly air. The nighttime cold had settled into his bones even though he had donned a greatcoat over his pirate’s costume. In preparation for the long drive, he’d slept all the previous afternoon. Yet his eyes felt scratchy and his limbs were stiff. It had required great concentration to traverse the dark country roads that were lit only by moonlight and the feeble glow of the twin headlamps.
As he directed the team of horses down the long curving drive, he waited for the usual uplifting of his spirits that always occurred upon reaching his estate. There was the pleasure of seeing the planted fields of hops and barley in the distance, the satisfaction of viewing his orchards of apple and pear trees. Instead, he could only brood about Portia, as he’d done all night.
He had expected her to pound on the roof of the coach, to shout or even curse him from time to time. He’d been prepared for her to enact some clever ruse in order to convince him to release her.
But Portia hadn’t made a peep after that one initial outburst, and her silence worried him. Had he been too harsh with her? Had she bumped her head when he’d pushed her into the coach? Or was she otherwise indisposed? For all he knew, traveling over rutted roads for so many hours might have made her ill. One of his aunts had seldom journeyed to London because of the misery she’d endured en route.
For most of the trip, he had been plagued by the image of Portia in such a wretched state. All of his planned strategies would be for naught if she had fallen sick. Or if she’d been injured. Not to mention, he’d have a hard time forgiving himself for putting her through any pain or discomfort.
He urged the team faster. The ten minutes it took to reach the final turn seemed more like ten hours. Then the ivy-covered stone house appeared around a bend in the road. Sunlight touched the mullioned windows, making them wink like diamonds.
Anxious to see his prisoner, Colin reined the horses to a halt near the pillared entryway. He had purposely not sent a note ahead to warn the staff of his visit. That way, there might be a chance to coax Portia into the house with the minimum of fuss.
At least he hoped so.
As he leaped down from the coachman’s box, a groom came running from the stables to hold the horses. Luckily, no one inside the mansion seemed to have noticed his arrival.
Colin dug in the pocket of his greatcoat. Finding the ring of keys, he inserted one in the lock and prepared himself to do battle. If he knew Portia, she wouldn’t submissively accept her fate. She might well come at him with fists flying.
Cautiously, he opened the door. A guttering candle cast a pale glow over the interior. Awake, Portia sat on one side of the coach, looking like a goddess in that white tunic with the gold diadem crowning her deliciously mussed chestnut hair. For a moment, he was awash in a fantasy in which she threw her arms around him and praised him for saving her from the duke.
Instead, she gazed coolly at him, her hands folded in her lap. She was not smiling.
Nevertheless, relief poured through him. She appeared well and unharmed, so at least he could lay those worries to rest. “Good morning, Portia. You must be wondering where we are—”
He broke off his words, startled by something moving inside the heap of blankets across from her. A boy sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
Disbelieving, he stared. “Bane?”
Spying Colin, the lad uttered a squawk and dove back into his nest. Colin reached inside and snatched off the covering. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Er …”
“He was afraid to remain with Tudge,” Portia said. “Tudge is a pirate, you see. Though I cannot imagine why he would feel any safer with you.”
Bloody hell. At the moment, Colin could have cheerfully made Bane walk the plank himself. His presence threatened to put a huge wrinkle in the fabric of Colin’s carefully laid plans.
“I’ll have a word with you later.” Giving the boy one last frown, he returned his attention to Portia and struggled for a semblance of his much-vaunted charm. “Welcome to Willow Bend. I’m sure you’ll want some refreshment after your journey.”
He offered his hand to her, and she accepted his assistance in stepping out of the coach. At least he wouldn’t have to carry her inside, kicking and screaming, past all the servants. But her pursed lips warned him that she wouldn’t fall willingly into his embrace. She must be furious at him for abducting her. By God, he had to make her realize that he’d acted for her own good, that she would have been miserable married to Albright.
The stooped old butler was descending the broad steps, walking slowly due to his arthritic knees. More ancient than the gatekeeper, he wore the same formal black garb that Colin remembered from childhood. A smile wreathed his wrinkled face. “Your lordship! This is indeed a most delightful surprise.”
“Good morning, Thurgood. Pray ask Mrs. Hodge to prepare the Queen’s Bedchamber for Miss Crompton. She’ll want a breakfast tray, as well.”
“As will Bane,” Portia added, placing a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Bane looked decidedly rumpled. The tails of his shirt hung loose from his coat and his brown hair was tousled, with tufts sticking out every which way. His head tilted back, he stared agog at the sprawling mansion.
“He’ll eat in the kitchen,” Colin said. “Thurgood, if you’ll be kind enough to show him the way.”
Thurgood made a creaky bow, revealing a shiny bald pate that was rimmed with wisps of white hair. “Very good, my lord.”
When Bane made no move to follow, the butler took hold of the boy’s hand and led him up the steps. Bane didn’t seem to mind the servant’s sluggish progress.
He was too busy ogling the house with its surrounding gardens and stands of willow trees. It occurred to Colin that Bane had never been out of the city before. Having a taste of country life might do him good—so long as he didn’t interfere with Colin’s purpose here.
He noticed Portia frowning at Thurgood. In a low tone, she said, “He’s rather old to still be on staff. Oughtn’t you give the man a stipend so he can retire?”
“I’ve tried. He’s refused.” Intent on resuming control of the situation, Colin took hold of her arm. “I’ll escort you to your chamber now. You’ll want to freshen up.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Her brief response put him on edge. As they headed for the house, he wished feverishly for the ability to see into her mind. Where was her fighting spirit, her fury at being abducted? Had a miracle happened and she’d finally decided to believe his accusations about Albright? Or was her calm demeanor merely a ruse to entice Colin into lowering his guard so that she could escape?
The last scenario had to be it.
He had no intention of letting her go. Not while there was a chance that Albright and her parents might conspire to cover up her mysterious disappearance. They could put out the story that she’d fallen ill at the costume ball. They could reaffirm her betrothal to the duke. People might whisper among themselves, but no one would dare to shun Albright or his bride-to-be. And Portia would find herself bound forever to a man whose sole purpose was to use her for revenge.
Grimly, Colin ushered her through the echoing entryway and up the curving staircase. The only sound was the scuffing of their shoes on the marble steps. Her continued silence grated on his nerves, but he was determined not to start a quarrel. Better to let her recover from the journey first so they could talk later with clear heads.
Upstairs, he showed Portia into the bedchamber directly across from his. The blue and white décor was a legacy of his grandparents, before the family had lost its money. Now he wished he’d warned the staff to prepare the room. To keep off the dust, white cloth draped most of the furniture. The place looked sadly neglected, old and outdated.
Striding to the windows, he drew open the tall draperies to let in the sunshine. Then he took out his ring of keys. Portia had been studying the landscape painting above the fireplace, but the jingling sound made her whirl to face him.
She frowned first at the keys, then at him. “It isn’t necessary to lock me up again. I’ve no intention of running away.”
“Perhaps not. But I can’t take the risk.”
“There is no risk.” Walking to him, she placed her hand on his arm. “Ratcliffe, listen to me. I’ve had ample time to reflect during the ride here. I can see now that you must have told me the truth about Hannah. Why else would you despise the duke the way you do?”
Why else, indeed? He could give Portia a host of other reasons. But those were things he didn’t want her to know.
Besides, he could scarcely think while she was standing so close. He wanted to drag her to the four-poster bed and make passionate love to her until the beast in his loins had been sated.
The trouble was, that would only bolster her view of him as a worthless rake. “I very much doubt you’ve changed your mind about me based on one incident.”
“You’re right, it was more than that.” Stepping back, she crossed her arms and regarded him intently. “It was Bane who made me realize the truth.”
“Bane?”
“Yes, you took a poor street urchin into your home when others would have left him to starve on the street. You did the same for Hannah, giving her a position in your household. And for Orson Tudge, too, it would seem. I have to wonder, why have you hidden this philanthropic side of yourself?”
“I needed servants. It was easier than dealing with an agency.”
She huffed in disbelief. “Then what about Thurgood? As his employer, you could force him into retirement. But you haven’t. You’ve allowed an old man to have a purpose in his life. And I greatly admire you for that.”
Her praise made him exceedingly uncomfortable. Enough so that he threw away all logic and caution.
He walked away from her, then turned back. “Save your admiration. The truth is, I abducted you in order to achieve your ruin. Now you have no choice but to wed me.”
Portia merely raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what makes you think my father will give you my dowry in such a case? He may well cut me off without a penny.”
Colin brushed off the possibility. Although having the funds certainly would make his life easier, he was willing to take the risk of losing it in order to have Portia in his bed. “Your parents will be so anxious to cover up the scandal they’ll pretend to be happy with the marriage.”
“Perhaps. But how, pray tell, do you intend to force me to speak my vows to you?”
“Coercion won’t be necessary. You’ll do it or your reputation will be damaged beyond repair.”
“And it will all be fixed by marrying a known philanderer?” Smiling, she shook her head. “I’m afraid your plan is for naught, my lord. I won’t be bullied into marriage to you or to any other man, especially one who will squander my dowry at the gaming tables. In fact, you’ve done me a great service.”
He fought the urge to haul her up into his arms and show her the prime benefit of marriage to him. “What the devil does that mean?”
Strolling to a covered chair, she twitched off the dust cloth, then sat down as if settling in for a long visit. “I’ve never cared much for society. It was my parents who wanted me to marry Albright. By ruining me, you’ve allowed me to escape that gilded cage. Now I’m free to go anywhere, even back to India if I choose.”
Her words hit Colin like a sharp jab to his abdomen. He’d thought that upon Arun’s death, she would have put that foolish idea out of her mind. “Don’t be absurd. There are cholera epidemics—and vicious tigers. And even if you survive all that, how would you support yourself? As you said, your parents will cut you off without a penny.”
“I’ll work as a governess. English families often advertise for help in the newspaper there.”
“You can’t be serious. You’ve no notion what it’s like to be poor, unable to pay your bills.” But Colin knew. He knew far too well.
“Then I’ll learn. I’ve saved more than enough of my pin money to pay for the voyage.” Infuriatingly serene, she gazed up at him. “So you see, my lord, I shan’t run away from here. Rather, I owe you my thanks.”
CHAPTER 20
TWO HOURS LATER, Portia stepped out of her bedchamber and paused in the dimly lit corridor. A troop of maids had delivered fresh clothing, hot water for a bath, and a tray of breakfast. It had been a relief to discard that preposterous toga and to soak away the travel dust. The pale green gown she wore fit remarkably well, and she could only surmise that Ratcliffe had sent the garments ahead from London.
He had planned the abduction well—except for his arrogant assumption that she would fall like a goose into his matrimonial trap. Apparently, he hadn’t counted on her discovering that he possessed a sense of integrity underneath all that masculine bluster.
She needed such weapons at her disposal because it was only a matter of time before he attempted to seduce her. A rush of heat permeated her body, sparking a reminder of the rapture she had found in his arms. Now that he had ruined her in the eyes of society, would she allow him to do so in truth? Would she have the strength to resist him—did she even want to resist him?
Pushing the questions away, Portia glanced up and down the deserted passageway. One of the closed doors must lead to Ratcliffe’s chambers. After staying awake driving the coach throughout the night, surely he must be asleep. That should give her a fair bit of time in which to satisfy her curiosity. She burned to discover more about his past, to speak to those who had known him since childhood, and to clear up the mysteries about the man behind the charming façade.
She picked a direction at random and headed down the corridor, peeking into open doors here and ther
e. The house had a certain appeal to its shabby elegance, from the pale yellow painted walls with their shell-shaped sconces to the graceful columns placed at intervals along the passageway. Unfortunately, while gazing up at the arched ceiling, she nearly tripped when a hole in the carpet runner caught the heel of her shoe.
The place had been allowed to fall into sad disrepair. Quite likely because Ratcliffe had gambled away the profits from the estate. Why would a man be so foolish with his money? Especially one who clearly cared for his people and felt a duty to provide for them?
The passageway ended at the landing of a staircase. There, a mullioned window looked out on a lush garden. Unlatching the casement, she pushed open the glass and rested her forearms on the stone sill. Birdsong drifted from a nearby stand of willow trees. Beyond the garden, thick hedgerows formed natural fences for the patchwork of fields. A refreshing breeze carried the scent of the outdoors.
As a sense of contentment crept over her, Portia sighed. How odd to realize that she’d remained in the city ever since her family had moved to England the previous year. Until now, not once had she ventured outside of London. Although vastly different from India, the countryside here made her miss the wide-open rural settings where she had gone on drives with her father.
Papa. The thought of him brought a troubling reminder of her present situation. At first, he and Mama must have been furious when she had failed to appear at the midnight supper. They would have placated the duke while discreetly dispatching a servant in search of her. How swiftly their anger must have changed to alarm when she was nowhere to be found. Did they believe she had run away of her own accord? Or did they guess the truth?
Dear heaven, she wanted desperately to reassure them. She couldn’t bear the thought of her parents and sisters frantic with worry. But what could she do? Thus far, Ratcliffe’s servants seemed to be extremely loyal to him, and he surely would have given them instructions not to post any letters for her. It was a matter she intended to take up with him at the very first opportunity.