Seducing the Heiress

by Olivia Drake

  In the meantime, she distracted herself by focusing on her surroundings. She wondered if Ratcliffe had ever stood at this window, if he’d ever felt a swell of pride at the sight of his land. It seemed incredible that anyone would choose to stay in the crowded city when he owned such a piece of paradise as this.

  The approach of shuffling footsteps caught her attention. She turned to see Thurgood coming down the passageway. The butler’s face had an amazing number of wrinkles, bringing to mind a withered apple.

  He bent in a respectful bow, and she fancied she could hear his bones creak. “May I be of assistance, miss?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Turning to shut the window, she decided to seize this excellent opportunity to ask questions. “I was wondering about Bane, the boy who came with me. Is he still in the kitchen?”

  “He ate a hearty meal and then went out to the stable yard.” A twinkle in his rheumy blue eyes, Thurgood added, “The little tyke didn’t trust our groom. He insisted upon seeing for himself that the master’s horses were brushed and well fed.”

  Portia smiled at the news. “Bane has taken his duties to heart, it would seem. Thurgood, would you mind giving me a tour of the rooms downstairs?”

  He placed a white-gloved hand over his lapel. “I am completely at your disposal, Miss Crompton. His lordship was most specific on the matter.”

  How odd that the butler didn’t question her presence here without a chaperone. What exactly had Ratcliffe told him? Perhaps Thurgood was so dedicated to his master that it had never occurred to him to question Ratcliffe’s judgment in bringing an unmarried lady to the estate.

  She pursed her lips. Maybe he brought his mistresses here all the time. Was that how the servants saw her, as just another light-skirt?

  Curse him, that had better not be the case!

  As they descended the stairs, she moderated her pace in order to accommodate his slow progress. “Have you served the family for a long time?”

  “Going on seventy years. Under the present viscount’s grandfather, I started out as a spit boy in the kitchen.”

  “A what?”

  “It was my task to turn the haunch of meat over the hearth. From there, I advanced to footman and thence to my present position.”

  As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Portia searched for a tactful way to broach the subject that had nagged at her since first meeting Ratcliffe. “I understand his lordship’s father died three years ago in a terrible accident. Did it happen here?”

  Thurgood nodded mournfully. “Indeed so.”

  “I don’t wish to be intrusive, but it would be helpful for me to understand all the particulars. Were you present at the time?”

  “Yes, it was very late in the evening, so I and the rest of the household staff had already retired. A footman slept in the kitchen in case one of the family rang for service during the night. He awakened me, and when I went upstairs … his lordship was lying on the floor of the library in a pool of blood … with Lady Ratcliffe weeping at his side. He had been shot.” Tears pooled in the old man’s eyes and a decided slump dragged down his shoulders. “Master Colin … or rather, the present Lord Ratcliffe, bade me send for a doctor at once. Alas, by the time help arrived, it was too late.”

  Horrified both at the account and her own stirring up of memories, Portia murmured, “Pray forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s quite all right.” Thurgood pulled a large handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “As his lordship’s betrothed, it is only proper that you would have questions.”

  His betrothed?

  Portia’s spine stiffened. So that was the Banbury tale Ratcliffe had told his servants. It made her situation only marginally more respectable. And if his entire staff was as faithful as Thurgood, they would not question her presence here. Yet that wasn’t sufficient reason to excuse Ratcliffe’s deception.

  She steeled herself to probe deeper. “The courts proved the present Lord Ratcliffe’s pistol went off by accident. However, rumors in society persist that he murdered his father. They say he did it because he is a gambler and he wanted to gain his inheritance.”

  Thurgood reared back as if slapped. “Vile gossips, all of them. Please, Miss Crompton, you must not heed those who have no knowledge of what really happened. The poor lad was in a terrible state of agitation that night. Never in my life have I seen him so distraught.”

  The butler’s certainty gave her pause. He was utterly convinced of Ratcliffe’s innocence in the matter, and not simply out of blind loyalty, she judged. For herself, she shuddered at the thought of Ratcliffe’s shock and horror that night. Any man who went out of his way to help servants as he did would never deliberately shoot his own father in cold blood. How he must blame himself, though! It was little wonder he became snappish whenever anyone mentioned the incident.

  “That is precisely the way I thought things had happened,” she assured Thurgood. “I appreciate your eyewitness account. It makes me all the more determined to correct those who would vilify him.”

  The affirmation wove a sort of friendship between them, and as the old butler took her on a tour of the house, he regaled her with stories of times past. He told her tales of Ratcliffe’s many escapades as a boy that soon had her laughing. Apparently Ratcliffe had had a penchant for sliding down the banister and had done so once during a ball, knocking a portly earl completely off his feet. On another occasion, he had tossed acorns out the nursery window during a garden party. The poor guests had been baffled since the nearest oak trees were some distance away. It had been Thurgood who’d realized the truth while serving and had gone upstairs to administer a sound paddling.

  The tour ended on the ground floor, when Thurgood escorted her to an enormous conservatory. He indicated a wrought-iron table by a bench inside a stone grotto. “Perhaps you would like for me to bring tea to you here.”

  “Yes, thank you, that would be wonderful.”

  Transfixed, she stood in the doorway, scarcely noticing his departure. Sunlight poured through the glass walls and bathed an array of exotic flora. Palm trees brushed the glass ceiling that towered two stories high. Lush vegetation gave the air an earthy aroma, and orchid plants nestled in the crooks of tree branches here and there, spilling their colorful flowers.

  She stroked the large purple petals of one bloom, leaning closer to inhale its faint scent. At last the mystery had been solved as to where Ratcliffe had procured that stem of orchids on the night when he’d invaded her bedchamber. He must have sent a messenger here to fetch it. How remarkable that he had gone to such trouble to please her.

  Following a winding stone pathway, she wandered through the conservatory. The place was fertile and green, the air deliciously warm, bringing back memories of the jungles of her youth. She half expected a tiger to come bursting out of the undergrowth.

  The click of a door opening snapped her attention to the glass wall straight ahead. Ratcliffe rounded a stand of thick shrubbery. His purposeful strides came to a halt as their gazes met. Her heart thumped wildly against her rib cage. For one long moment, they stared at each other like a predator encountering prey. Then he prowled toward her.

  He had discarded his pirate’s garb in favor of tan breeches and work boots. His white shirt lay open at the throat, and he wore no coat or cravat. Several strands of black hair dipped low on his forehead. Portia ached to brush them back, to run her fingers into their thick softness.

  Worse, she wanted to kiss him—and more.

  The powerful force of his attraction made her quiver. For self-preservation, she buried the reaction beneath a cool demeanor. “I’ve been hoping to speak to you, my lord. I’d presumed you were asleep.”

  “There’s always too much to be done here.” He made a vague gesture toward the outside, then braced his hand on the thick trunk of a palm tree. The action stretched his shirt over the contours of his muscles. “You wished to tell me something?”

  Blinking, she pulled her gaze from his c
hest and found him studying her intently. What must he be thinking, now that his plot to force her into marriage had been thwarted? Did he regret abducting her in the hopes of securing her dowry? His manner was curiously aloof, as if she were an uninvited guest. And if he intended to seduce her, he certainly didn’t seem inclined to haul her into the bushes right here and now.

  To her shame, Portia craved for him to do just that.

  She drew a shuddery breath. “It’s about my family,” she said. “They must be very distressed. I’d like to notify them that I haven’t been murdered by brigands.”

  “I’ve already sent a message to your father. He should have received it by post this morning.”

  “I see.” Perversely irked at the way Ratcliffe had seized control of her life, she took a step toward him. “You’ve had the decency to name yourself as my abductor, I hope.”

  “Of course. There was little point in hiding my identity when your father would have guessed it, anyway. Because something tells me your sister Lindsey will confess to our meetings.”

  “The Duke of Albright will guess, as well. And if he’s as resolute in his hatred as you say, then he should be arriving here very soon to rescue me.”

  Not that she wanted him to do so, Portia added to herself. In truth, the thought of Albright riding up the drive made her stomach clench. How horrible of him to abandon Hannah and their child. And then to threaten to kill the poor woman! If Portia never saw him again, it would be too soon.

  “Your parents aren’t likely to have informed Albright of your disappearance,” Ratcliffe said with a decisive shake of his head. “Remember, they don’t know how badly he wants to thwart me. So they will have told him yesterday evening that you fell ill, for fear he would spurn you for being ruined.”

  Crossing her arms, Portia paced the stone pathway. Ratcliffe was right, of course. Mama would have perjured herself in a court of law in order to preserve the alliance with the duke. “Then my father will surely come. And he’ll bring a band of armed men to arrest you.”

  Ratcliffe didn’t look alarmed in the least. “He’s far more likely to set forth on the Great North Road. You see, in my letter I led him to believe we’d eloped to Gretna Green.”

  He’d certainly thought of everything. She had heard tales of couples running off to the closest village over the border because their families had opposed their union. Unlike England, where the law required banns to be read in church for three weeks ahead of the wedding, in Scotland there were no restrictions to prevent a man and woman from being wed immediately. Ratcliffe’s own parents had gone there after Lady Ratcliffe had left Albright standing at the altar.

  As much as Portia disliked the notion of her father being sent on a wild-goose chase, it was a relief not to have to worry about rescuers bursting in on them at any moment. Her fate was sealed, it would seem. Unless she returned to London posthaste, she would be a pariah in the eyes of society. Her absence could be concealed only for a short time. The servants would whisper to their counterparts in other households, and in turn, they would relay the news to their employers. Already the reports of her disappearance might be spreading like wildfire.

  Portia searched herself for regrets. Ratcliffe had set her free from society’s constraints, albeit inadvertently. And yet … did she truly wish to leave England and her family? Could she face the very real possibility of never seeing them again? Of never again seeing Ratcliffe, either?

  That last thought shook her more than it ought. How ludicrous, when he had orchestrated her ruination!

  Thurgood arrived with the tea tray, placing it on the iron table inside the shallow stone grotto. On impulse she asked Ratcliffe, “Will you join me?”

  He hesitated, eyeing her guardedly before nodding. “It would be my pleasure.”

  They sat side by side on the stone bench. A fountain burbled musically in the background, the water flowing from a vase held by a boy carved in white marble. Portia made a conscious decision to set aside her uncertain future for the moment. Why not enjoy the day and forget about tomorrow?

  While waiting for Thurgood to return with another teacup, she asked, “Where did all these plants come from? Does Lady Ratcliffe enjoy gardening?”

  “My mother?” Ratcliffe threw back his head and laughed. “Her idea of gardening is to arrange cut roses in a vase. No, my grandfather imported the palm trees from Egypt some fifty years ago. The rest of this wilderness is my doing, I’m afraid. I collected most of these specimens on my journeys to Africa and India.”

  Nothing could have startled Portia more. “You?”

  “It was rather an adventure, one might say.” A self-deprecating smile quirked his lips. “I hired guides to take me into the jungles and forests. We gathered cuttings and uprooted plants, then I arranged for their shipment to England. Quite a few didn’t survive the transport, but the hardiest of the lot are what you see here.”

  Armed with that startling information, she looked out over the lush green foliage, seeing it all with new eyes. She had assumed his stop in India had been filled with all manner of illicit activities, loose women, gambling, drunkenness. “But … why? I mean, it’s very beautiful, but I never imagined—”

  “That I would have the slightest interest in cultivation?” Looking noticeably uncomfortable, he leaned forward and clasped his hands together, resting his forearms on his knees. “You shouldn’t think much of it, really. It’s nothing more than a hobby. Some travelers purchase cheap souvenirs that end up in an attic, collecting dust. I thought it might be more useful to gather plants.”

  A mere pastime? The verdant vegetation in the conservatory belied his offhand statement. For all its wild appearance, the foliage appeared to be well tended. “You must have a team of gardeners.”

  Ratcliffe shrugged, gazing out at the conservatory, then giving her a sidelong glance. “Actually … I employ only one. I do a fair bit of the labor myself. On visits here, you see. And … in between supervising the farms on the estate, of course.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. He was always such a smooth talker. She’d never known him to sound so halting, as if the words were being wrested from him by force. Portia’s mind leaped back to the books on agriculture that she’d seen in his bedchamber. At the time, she’d thought he was searching for ways to wring every last bit of revenue from his estate. But the truth was, Ratcliffe enjoyed working with plants.

  For the first time, she noticed the tiny smudges of dirt on his shirt, the clump of mud clinging to the sole of his boot. The strength of his body, the sun-burnished quality of his skin, gave further evidence to corroborate his love of outdoor activities. She wanted to laugh in delight. The profligate rake, whom mothers warned their daughters to avoid, actually preferred digging in the soil and coaxing seedlings to grow.

  Portia felt as if she’d been granted a glimpse into the secrets of his soul. It was the precise opposite of the man he presented to the world, the one whose only interests were selfish amusements. In the space of one day, she had learned of his generosity toward those less fortunate than himself. And now of his dedication to nature.

  What other mysteries did he hide?

  He was still gazing out at the conservatory, as if to avoid meeting her eyes. Judging by his rarely seen discomfiture, she suspected he regretted revealing as much as he had. A tender softness grew in her heart, radiating outward until it encompassed her entire being.

  Without conscious thought, she placed her hand on his forearm, absorbing the heat and hardness of his flesh through the sleeve of his shirt. “You’ve accomplished a truly marvelous feat here. It reminds me so very much of the jungles of India.”

  He looked over, his gaze searching hers. “Do you really think so?”

  “Absolutely. When I first walked in, it was uncanny, almost like stepping into another world.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I was hoping to achieve.”

  His face was alight with fervor, his eyes very green and animate. Mingling with the earthy scents all aroun
d them, his faint spicy scent lured her. Then his dark lashes lowered slightly, and she sensed a shift in him to a keen awareness of their proximity. They sat beside each other on the bench, their bodies touching. He turned his arm so that their fingers were intertwined, his thumb rubbing idly across the palm of her hand.

  The moment became charged with sensuality. Deep within her, desire throbbed to vivid life. She could feel the mad rush of blood in her veins, the melting away of her inhibitions. A beautiful hunger filled her, the need to feel his bare flesh pressed to hers. The yearning grew so great it emerged from her in a beseeching sigh.

  His lips parted slightly. He bent his head closer, so that his warm breath fanned her face. Lifting his hand, he tenderly brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek. “Portia … my love …”

  The sound of someone clearing his throat made them spring apart. Thurgood shuffled forward with the second cup, beaming at the two of them like a doting grandfather. “Will you require anything further of me?” he asked.

  A blush suffused Portia from head to toe. She could scarcely meet the old butler’s eyes, let alone voice a coherent reply.

  Luckily, Ratcliffe had no such trouble. Apparently, he could turn off his own feelings like a spigot. His face a cool mask, he gave the servant a nod. “That will be all, thank you.”

  As Thurgood left the conservatory, Portia covered her discomfiture by reaching for the silver teapot. Somehow, she managed to pour the hot liquid into their cups without spilling a drop. The butler’s untimely entry had broken the spell, leaving her awash in a sea of frustration.

  Ratcliffe seemed disinclined to romance her again. Stirring milk into his tea, he began speaking in a casual tone about his plans for the estate. As if the interlude had never happened, he told her about the crops raised by his tenants, and his own idea for growing exotic spices in an old disused greenhouse on the grounds. Portia smiled and nodded at intervals, though her thoughts remained wrapped up in the wondrous memory of what he’d said to her.

  My love.

  By the stars, what had he meant by that? Was it merely an endearment that he murmured to all of his women? Or had he truly fallen in love with her?