by Olivia Drake
The second possibility left her breathless. It was astonishing to contemplate that Ratcliffe might harbor deep feelings for her beyond physical desire and his wish to claim her dowry. She warned herself not to make too much of the statement. Despite her inexperience, she had the sense to know that men spoke sweet nothings in the heat of passion. Especially a man who had a history of luring women into sin.
And yet the unguarded tenderness in Ratcliffe’s voice, the ardent look in his eyes, seemed to preclude any trick designed to entrap her. Now, more than ever, she wanted to see inside his mind, to view his private thoughts and to learn all of his secrets. She burned to know the truth—though there was one question she was too much the coward to ask him.
What exactly had he meant?
CHAPTER 21
COLIN PACED THE confines of his bedchamber. At the wall of windows, he pushed back the green brocade draperies to peer out into the night. The moon had not yet risen above the horizon, but he needed no light to discern the contours of his property. He knew every hill and valley, every field and hedgerow. His fierce pride in the land had its roots in his childhood, when he had wandered and explored at will.
Yet he would give it all away to have Portia in his bed.
His plan to seduce her had gone seriously awry. By now, they should have been naked between the sheets, coupling with unbridled passion. He had imagined it for so long, had been so certain of his persuasive abilities in winning her over, that her reaction to the abduction had been a slap of cold reality.
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.
Yes, she would travel to India and labor the rest of her life as a lowly governess rather than wed him. She scorned him that much. Then she had thanked him—thanked him—for releasing her from her gilded cage.
With a curse, he let go of the draperies and stomped to the closed door. He stood there glowering at it, as he’d done several times since eating the evening meal alone in the formal dining room. Miss Crompton was feeling ill, Thurgood had informed him. She had requested a tray in her chamber.
Ill, like hell. She was avoiding him, that’s what. He hadn’t seen her since that interlude in the conservatory, when he had come within a hair breadth of revealing just how besotted he was with her.
My love.
What brainless stupidity had induced him to utter those words? He wasn’t one to spout sappy sentiments just to get underneath a woman’s skirts. Thankfully, the butler’s interruption had saved Colin from making an even bigger fool of himself.
But the damage had been done. Portia had become quiet and distant, regarding him as she might an escapee from Bedlam. It was a clear indication that she was appalled by the prospect of him falling in love with her.
Not, of course, that he was in love. Rather, he was suffering from an acute case of unremitting lust. There could be nothing more to it. Nothing at all.
Turning on his heel, he stalked to a sideboard and poured himself a brandy. He took a bracing swallow, welcoming the burn in his throat as a distraction. Her bedchamber lay only a few steps across the passageway. He ought to go straight over there and demand his due. It wouldn’t take much effort to awaken her desires since she was an amazingly sensual woman.
He put the brakes on another feverish fantasy. Seducing her was out of the question. She had stated in no uncertain terms that she would never wed a gambler and a reprobate. Which put them at an impasse since he was not at liberty to disavow her of those notions.
And now she intended to set out for foreign shores without him. That was all his rash ruination of her had accomplished. It had ensured he would never see her again. He took another long drink of brandy. Damn his folly. Surely he could have found a better way to stop her from marrying Albright—
A hesitant tapping echoed through the room. His attention jerked to the door. Portia?
Colin threw down his glass and knocked over a chair in his haste to get there. Taking half a second to compose himself, he swung open the dark wood panel. Then his gaze dropped.
Bane hovered in the shadows of the passageway. Hair tousled, he wore a wrinkled linen nightshirt that trailed down to his bare feet.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
The boy hung his head, seemingly fascinated by the sight of his toes digging into the carpet. “Dunno.”
Colin looked up and down the gloomy corridor. “How did you even know which room was mine?”
“Mr. Thurgood tole me t’ count six doors from there.” He pointed toward the darkened staircase used by the servants.
“I see. Well, then. Was there something you needed?”
By way of answer, Bane lifted his thin shoulders in a shrug. He sniffled a little, then scrubbed his nose across his sleeve.
Good God, was the boy crying? Flummoxed, Colin stood there in something of a fix, wondering what to do.
The door directly across the corridor opened. Portia emerged in the ivory satin nightdress that he had purchased for her. The one that clung lovingly to her shapely curves. The one he had imagined himself stripping off her, inch by slow inch.
And holy God, her hair was loose. It flowed in a rich, dark brown mass down her back. One lock had fallen forward to curl around her breasts.
“I heard voices,” she said, looking from him to Bane. “What’s wrong?”
His mouth was too dry to form words. Nevertheless, Colin managed to snap, “Nothing. Go back to bed.”
With me.
Oblivious to him—and his fantasies—she hastened to Bane and crouched down, the gown pooling around her feet. She placed her hands on his shoulders, gazing straight into his face. “What’s the matter, darling? Have you had a nightmare?”
Bane gave a little nod. “ ’Twas pirates,” he mumbled. “They was goin’ t’ slice me throat, then toss me t’ the sharks.”
Colin relaxed. “Well, now you’re awake and you know it didn’t happen.”
Portia flashed a glare up at him, then addressed the boy again. “You poor dear. I’m sure it all seemed very real. I would hate very much to have an awful dream like that.”
She gathered him into her arms. Bane stood there stiffly for a moment, then buried his face in her neck. Cuddling him close, she cooed and stroked his hair.
Standing forgotten in the doorway, Colin scowled down at them. He wanted to be the one clasped to her lush bosom, dammit. How pathetic was that, envying a frightened little boy?
“Was your room too dark?” Portia asked. “Perhaps you’d like to have a candle. I’m sure his lordship wouldn’t mind.”
Bane gave a quick, wordless nod.
She looked up at Colin, sending him a warning not to disagree. “Then you shall have one. And his lordship and I will walk you back upstairs.”
She vanished into her bedchamber and returned a moment later with a lighted taper in a pewter holder. Meanwhile, Colin fetched another from his room, for they would need illumination to find their way back through the darkened house.
Portia held Bane’s hand, and Colin found himself doing likewise on the boy’s other side. As they headed down the corridor, his full awareness was captivated by her. How had she known what to do to calm Bane’s fears?
Another question eclipsed that one. Did she have any notion of the torture Colin endured in her presence? With every breath, he could smell the light feminine fragrance of her skin. With every glance, he found himself eyeing the fullness of her breasts and the curve of her hips. He sternly reminded himself that he had no right to take her virginity. No right to get her with child.
Because she would never marry him.
The truth of that left him moody and frustrated. Damn it, he needed to take a plunge in cold water. Maybe after he saw her back to her chamber, he’d head down to the nearest stream. A brisk swim ought to cool his loins and restore his equilibrium.
He released Bane’s small hand so they coul
d go single file up the narrow flight of stairs that led to the servants’ quarters in the attic. Bane led them to his tiny room under the eaves of the house. He scrambled into the narrow iron bedstead while Portia put the candle on a nearby table and then arranged the blankets securely around him. Her hair swinging loose, she bent down and pressed a kiss to his brow.
Colin watched them obsessively. A strange pang struck him, the keen wish to see her tuck their own child into bed.
It would never happen.
To deny the wrench in his chest, he sought asylum in lust. He wondered what she would do if he came up from behind and pulled her flush against him, while his hands cupped her breasts. The erotic image was so powerful, he was startled when she touched his arm and motioned him out of the room. Glancing back, he saw that Bane was curled up beneath the covers, his eyes already closed.
The house was silent as they made their way back downstairs. Carrying the candle, he preceded her down the flight of stairs. As they walked down the corridor lined with bedchambers, the casement clock down in the entrance hall bonged ten times in a distant, mournful echo.
He halted in between her chamber and his. She was so gorgeously feminine, it took a supreme effort of willpower to keep his hands to himself. “Thank you for the assistance,” he said gruffly. “I confess, I didn’t know what to do with Bane.”
“I was happy to help. I was merely in bed reading.”
He had an instant vision of her in his bed. She wouldn’t have the time—or the inclination—to read if he was lying there with her.
They stared at each other. An enigmatic expression on her face, she made no move to return to her bedchamber, just stood watching him. He tried not to stare as she sank her teeth into her lower lip. She looked uncertain, as if something weighed on her mind.
He certainly had something on his mind—something that placed her virginity in grave peril.
Why the devil didn’t she go? Damn it, could she not sense the danger of lingering in his presence? They were both barely clad, and modesty alone should have sent her scuttling for cover.
Colin forced himself to bow. “Well, then. I’ll bid you good night.”
He stalked toward his door. Without warning, she darted after him, blocking his passage. She slid her hands up his chest and inside the collar of his shirt, her fingers caressing the hot flesh of his neck. In a throaty voice, she murmured, “Please, Ratcliffe. Won’t you … invite me in?”
He nearly dropped the candle. All the blood left his brain on a downward race to his groin. She was too naïve to realize what could happen. “No. That’s hardly prudent.” Curse it, he sounded like a maiden aunt. But he didn’t dare speak otherwise. “It’ll lead to … things you shouldn’t know about.”
She took a deep breath as if for courage. Then she smiled up at him from beneath the screen of her lashes. “I certainly hope so.”
Her provocative manner nearly did him in. It took an effort to make his tongue work. “My God, Portia. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know what I want. And what I want is you.”
When she ran her fingertip over his lips, Colin promptly forgot all the reasons why he had no right to seduce an innocent who had refused his offer of marriage. The torment of the past hours and days and weeks went up in smoke. By God, she was granting him a dream come true. In return, he would give her a night to remember.
He caught her hand and brushed a kiss to the back. “Then come inside at once, my lady.”
CHAPTER 22
PORTIA FELT A bone-deep tremor of excitement. The fervency in his eyes revealed that he did still desire her, after all. She had been so afraid Ratcliffe would spurn her, so worried he would reject the decision that she had arrived at only after much intense reflection.
She had lied to him about being in bed reading. Instead, she had been pacing her chamber, trying to decide how best to approach him. Then fate had awarded her the perfect opportunity in the form of hearing Bane and Ratcliffe outside in the corridor.
In the eyes of society, she was about to engage in the most wicked of sins. Yet what difference did that make now that she was ruined, anyway? In the end, she had come to the conclusion that by letting this moment slip away, she would spend the rest of her life regretting it. And because she couldn’t imagine ever sharing such intimacy with any other man, tonight was her one chance, quite possibly her only chance to experience life to the fullest.
Ratcliffe slid his arm around her. Their hips brushed as he thrust open the door and drew her inside. As he bent down to place the candle on the nearest table, she had the swift impression of a spacious chamber with a cozy fire in the hearth. Its flickering light played over the greens and creams of the furnishings.
The lock in the door clicked as he turned the key.
Then Ratcliffe turned to her and the world fell away. She didn’t know if he reached for her first or if she lunged at him, but all of a sudden they were in each other’s arms, their lips joined in a deep, drowning kiss. The feel of his mouth, the strength of his body, made her delirious with need. His ardor was a powerful aphrodisiac, a reassurance that he desired her as desperately as she did him.
The kiss went on forever, and rather than ease her hunger, it honed it. His hands roved over her back, moving up and down, from her breasts to her hips, as if he could not get enough of her. She experienced that same greed herself as she slid her fingers over his chest and arms, and into the rough silk of his hair.
Dimly, she knew that her feelings for Ratcliffe transcended desire. Until this moment, she had not realized just how lonely she’d been these past weeks without him. He made her feel complete, as if a piece of herself had been missing and now she had become whole. That remarkable revelation only enriched the powerful emotions he evoked in her.
He lifted his head, his breathing harsh. A crooked smile quirking his mouth, he tracked his fingers over the swollen dampness of her lips. “We must slow down … or this will be over inside of a few minutes.”
Portia arched on tiptoes, relishing the slide of her body against his. “I don’t care if it’s fast. As long as we do it.”
Chuckling, he caught her hips and held her still. “You’ll like it better slower. Trust me.”
She did trust him. Utterly and completely. How amazing was that, when for so long she had considered him a blight upon her life?
“Then be slow if you must,” she said slyly. “Just be quick about it.”
“Minx.” He cradled her face in his hands, gently brushing his thumbs over her cheeks. His humor gradually died away and he gazed at her as if she were the answer to his dreams. She ached to be all that—and more. She wanted to be his wife.
The impossible thought caused a sharp pain in the region of her heart. If only Ratcliffe could be a man of integrity, a man whose honor was beyond reproach. If only he were not a gambler and a rogue … but she wouldn’t think about all that now. None of those flaws mattered tonight. All she wanted from him was an introduction to the mysteries of the flesh. And at the tenderness in his eyes, her last lingering doubts dissolved.
“You are so very beautiful,” he murmured. “I want to see all of you.”
As his fingers unfastened the buttons at her bodice, he bent his head to kiss every inch of skin he exposed. The whisper of his warm breath caused a tremor in her legs, requiring her to grip his broad shoulders for support. Under a slight push of his hands, the gown slithered into a puddle on the floor. She shivered from the coolness of the air against her bare flesh, and an unexpected shyness came over her. Unable to bear his scrutiny, she buried her face in his throat.
He tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You must never be afraid of me, Portia. You have my promise, I’ll never harm you by design.”
He was right; any regrets she would suffer in the weeks and months to come would be her own doing. “I’m not afraid.”
“Then what are you thinking?”
“It’s just …” Looking into his gorgeo
us green eyes, she drew an unsteady breath. How could she dare to express the powerful emotions in her heart? “I never want this night to end.”
“Nor do I.”
He pulled her close in another deep kiss that erased all of her inhibitions. There was something incredibly erotic in the feel of his clothing against her bare skin, as if every part of her had become infinitely sensitive and receptive to his touch.
His hands spanned her waist, and he walked her backward toward the bed. Once there, he pressed her down until Portia found herself sitting on the mattress. When she made a move to scoot farther onto the bed, to give him room to join her, Ratcliffe held her in place, positioning her arms behind her.
“Lean back,” he said huskily. “Let me look at you.”
She did as he instructed, propping herself back on her hands. It felt utterly decadent to perch on the edge of the bed without the means to cover her breasts. Under his dark, hooded gaze, she felt like a gift for his pleasure—and her own. The heat he roused in her had become a molten pool of longing, and she didn’t know how much more of this torment she could bear.
He knelt before her and ran his hands lightly over her feet and ankles, caressing an upward path over her calves and knees. The fire burned hotter, and she held her breath in fevered anticipation. To her frustration, he skimmed past the juncture of her thighs and continued upward to circle her breasts, lightly plying the tips. Leaning closer, he suckled her, first one side and then the other. She moaned, loving what he was doing yet aching for him to shift his attention lower. How many times had she relived that rapturous moment in her memory, how many times had she longed to experience it again?
“Ratcliffe …”
She reached for him, but he backed off, shaking his head. “Not yet,” he said hoarsely. “I’m far from through with you.”
“Please … I want …” She bit her lip, bound by ladylike strictures from giving voice to her indecent desires.