Seducing the Heiress (18 page)

 

“I
think they’re all going to buy flowers,” Blythe said as she strolled to another
table overflowing with bouquets. “It does seem the standard token to send to a
lady he danced with the previous evening.”

 

Portia had to concur. She had
attended a ball at Lord and Lady Wortham’s house until the wee hours, and her
feet still ached from the hours of dancing. This morning, a torrent of gifts had
begun arriving from the men who had vied for her attention. A team of servants
had been kept busy accepting deliveries and arranging flowers in
vases.

 

“Men.” Lindsey snorted. “I can’t imagine why they think a mere posy
would influence how a lady regards them.”

 

“Oh, I rather think it depends upon
the posy,” Blythe said. “Portia, do you hold any affection for the Honorable
Henry Hockenhull? I hope not, because he’s only sent you daisies.”

 

Portia
laughed. “Daisies are fine enough. And in his defense, he’s a third son with
very few coins to spare.”

 

Blythe was reading the cards tucked into each vase
of blooms. “The daffodils are from Lord Dunn. Pretty but a bit too prissy, I
think. And this enormous bouquet of tulips is from the Duke of Albright, of
course. He always manages to outdo all of your other suitors.”

 

Portia kept
silent. Increasingly, she felt uncomfortable showing any interest in the duke.
She didn’t know what the fuss was all about, anyway. He always treated her with
the utmost courtesy. He never asked her for more than two dances at any ball. He
had never made any improper advances toward her, either.

 

Unlike another man
she knew.

 

Ratcliffe had flirted outrageously at
every opportunity. He had pushed her onto his bed and kissed her madly. The mere
memory of it threatened to suck her into a quagmire of longing.

 

“I suppose
one
can
learn something about a man by the gifts he chooses,” Lindsey
said thoughtfully.

 

“Absolutely,” Blythe agreed. “Take these pink roses from
Lord Wrayford, for instance. They’re beautiful, I’ll grant, but rather clichéd,
which suggests the gentleman himself is lackluster. Is that true,
Portia?”

 

The man’s sole interest was staring at her bosom. “Quite.”

 

“And
look at the other presents. Bonbons? Delicious, but dull. A handkerchief? How
practical of a suitor to give a lady something with which to wipe her
nose.”

 

Lindsey looked up from her sewing, her mouth curled in droll humor.
“What’s worse, it’s something else that Miss Underhill will expect Portia to
embroider.”

 

As the girls shared a laugh, Blythe went on. “The best flowers
you’ve received aren’t even here, Portia. Remember how Lord Ratcliffe climbed up
to your bedchamber to deliver a stem of orchids to you? Now
that’s
original.”

 

A thrill skittered over Portia’s skin. She did remember. Far too
well. Even now, she couldn’t walk through her room without thinking of him
sitting in her chair by the fire, a wicked half-smile on his lips.

 

“Shhh,”
she said, glancing at the open doorway. “I don’t want anyone to know about
that.”

 

“I expected him to call on you sometime,” Blythe went on in a lowered
tone, giving her a speculative look. “I wonder why he hasn’t.”

 

“Obviously
you’ve forgotten, the scoundrel has been barred from polite society.” Anxious to
change the subject, Portia added, “So you’ve found fault with everything here.
What sort of gifts
would
please you?”

 

Her
sister took the distraction. “Diamonds,” she declared, a mischievous glint in
her hazel eyes. “Necklaces and bracelets and earbobs.”

 

“A young lady must
never accept jewelry from a man unless they are betrothed,” Lindsey said in a
fair imitation of Miss Underhill’s severe voice.

 

“Oh, pooh. When
I
am
a debutante, I intend to break all the rules.” Blythe twirled around the drawing
room, her skirts flying. “I’ll waltz at my first ball. I’ll dance more than
twice with any man I like. I’ll—oh!”

 

She came to an abrupt halt, narrowly
avoiding a collision with a footman who had entered the drawing room.

 

The
poker-faced servant was carrying a silver salver, on which rested a parcel no
larger than a snuffbox. He advanced straight to Portia. “A delivery for you,
Miss Crompton.”

 

In the middle of a stitch, she nodded at the table across the
room. “Pray set it down over there with the other things, please.”

 

Blythe
came hurrying over, snatching the little box from the tray and turning it over
in her hands. “Who is it from? Oh, there doesn’t seem to be a return address.
May I open it, please? I do so enjoy unwrapping presents.”

 

Portia smiled.
“It’s likely another handkerchief. But go ahead.”

 

“Maybe it’s jewelry. Maybe
one of these buffoons has finally given you something interesting.” Blythe
gleefully tore at the paper and opened the box. Reaching inside, she lifted out
a small object and frowned. “Why, look at this. Someone’s sent you a
miniature.”

 

Portia’s head shot up. From across the room, she recognized the
distinctive filigreed gold frame.

 

Horror surged through her. Blythe would see
the painting of Arun. She would want to know where it had come
from. She might run to Mama with the news and there would
be all sorts of sticky questions . . .

 

Uttering a choked cry, Portia threw
down her sewing and leaped out of her chair. Too late.

 

Blythe had turned over
the frame and was gazing down at the picture. “Oh, my! Now here’s something
novel—”

 

“Give me that.” Portia snatched it out of her hands. Fingers
trembling, she looked at the little oval frame, expecting to see Arun’s familiar
features.

 

Instead, she was flummoxed to find herself staring at a portrait of
Ratcliffe. It must have been painted at least a decade in the past because his
face had a more youthful look, his black hair was cut shorter, and his features
had not yet gone hard and calculating.

 

Blast him! The scoundrel had replaced
the painting of Arun with one of himself. She was too livid to feel even the
slightest relief that her secret was safe.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” Blythe
said in an injured tone. “You told me I could open it.”

 

Portia reined in her
runaway fury. “I know. I’m sorry. I—I just couldn’t believe anyone would be so
bold as to send me a miniature of himself.”

 

“Let me see,” Lindsey said.
Taking it, she studied it for a moment before handing it back to Portia. “Lord
Ratcliffe. And to think we were just talking about what a depraved man he
is.”

 

“I knew he hadn’t given up on you,” Blythe crowed. “I just knew
it.”

 

“Oh, bah,” Lindsey said. “Imagine, giving such a personal item as a
gift. I’ve never heard of anything so conceited.”

 

“I don’t believe it’s
conceited at all,” Blythe enthused. “I believe it’s romantic and clever. Lord
Ratcliffe wants Portia to think of him, and what better way than to send her a
miniature of himself?”

 

What better way, indeed?
Portia thought darkly as she jammed the miniature into her pocket. It gave her
more reason than ever to despise him. She was incensed to know he had dared to
get rid of Arun’s picture. What had the rascal done with it?

 

Just what had
he done with it?

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 13

 

Colin
was beginning to doubt himself. It was irritating because he seldom suffered
qualms over his own actions. The nagging uncertainty he felt was about as
welcome as a sore tooth.

 

Or a sore arm.

 

In his dressing room, he winced
while donning his fashionably tight coat with the help of Tudge. “Good God, man.
Have a care how hard you yank on that sleeve.”

 

The manservant chuckled.
“Ain’t healed yet, eh? Who’d a thought ye’d be brung down by a mere slip of a
girl.”

 

“That slip of a girl is stronger than you think,” Colin
muttered.

 

Tudge didn’t know Portia very well, or he wouldn’t view her as
weak. She had turned out to be a far more formidable woman than the naïve young
girl Colin had envisioned at first. She wasn’t easily charmed. She could match
wits with him in a way no other female of his acquaintance had ever done. And he
couldn’t always predict her reactions. He had fallen far short on the business
of the miniature.

 

At the least, he had expected to receive a scathing letter
from her. At the most, he’d harbored the hope that she might come charging over
here to his house to blister
him in person—and then he
would have another prime opportunity to romance her.

 

But in the past three
days, there had been no communication from Portia. Not a word.

 

Her silence
set him on edge. Perhaps he had made a mistake in sending her that miniature of
himself. Perhaps she viewed his replacement of her dear Arun’s picture as an
unforgivable sacrilege.

 

Or perhaps she hadn’t received the miniature at all.
Maybe that dragon of a mother of hers had opened her daughter’s mail and then
tossed it into the rubbish bin.

 

That last possibility had spurred him into
action. He had cooled his heels long enough. He had to talk to Portia.
Tonight.

 

Adjusting the lapels on his dark brown coat, Colin strode to the
pier glass. He wanted to look his best, but the sight of his reflection made him
scowl. “This green waistcoat looks all wrong. And what the devil is this cravat
you’ve tied for me?”

 

“A waterfall,” Tudge replied, eyeing him proudly. “ ’Tis
the latest rage among the toffs.”

 

“It looks more like a puffed-up snowball.”
Colin ripped off the offending raiment and reached for a fresh strip of linen.
“I should never have plucked you out of that sinking ship in Madagascar. You
make a better pirate than you do a valet.”

 

“Huh. Lemme do that.” Tudge stood
in front of Colin, his thick fingers deftly tying the new cravat. “Mebbe I
shouldn’t ’ave saved yer skin along the Barbary Coast, either. If I ’adn’t known
them pirates, ye’d’ve been fed to the sharks.”

 

“Instead, I’ll be fed to the
sharks tonight.”

 

He was going to a ball that would be attended by all the
snooty hens of society who had been so quick to condemn him as his father’s
murderer. Always clucking
gossip, they would be eager
to revive the old scandal, especially now that his mother was back in their
flock. He only hoped they had the manners to shutter their beaks in her
presence.

 

“Off to lure Miss Crompton into yer clutches again, are ye?” A grin
slashed across Tudge’s scarred face. “No wonder ye’re so jittery.”

 

“I’m
perfectly calm.” Realizing his snappish words had failed to put a damper on
Tudge’s amusement, he added in a more reasonable tone, “I shan’t wait around
twiddling my thumbs while she’s being courted by the Duke of
Albright.”

 

Glinting in the lamplight, a knife appeared in Tudge’s hand. “Ye
want I should waylay ’is coach, m’lord? ’Twould be a pleasure to slit ’is
scrawny throat.”

 

“For pity’s sake, put your weapon away. You’re not sailing
under the Jolly Roger anymore. I’ll handle Albright myself.”

 

He couldn’t
fault Tudge for his loyalty. The man had been his boon companion on his world
tour. Having left home the instant he’d reached his majority, funded by a small
inheritance from a maiden aunt, Colin had spent four years on the high seas,
traveling to Africa and India and China. He had absorbed the sights, collected
exotic plants, and reveled in the freedom of answering to no one. When at last
he had returned to England, a pauper again, all hell had broken loose at
home.

 

Or rather, all hell had continued during his absence, and resolving the
disagreements between his parents had once again fallen onto his shoulders. It
was the same old drama, act seven hundred and forty-five, scene two thousand and
one.

 

Would he have such a marriage with Portia? The uneasy thought made him
break out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t imagine how two people could live forever
together
in peace, especially when they were like
tinder and flint, as he and Portia were.

 

It didn’t matter, he reminded
himself. He was only wedding her for her money. The lust he felt was merely an
added bonus, ensuring them nights of vigorous lovemaking. Nothing else
mattered.

 

At least he knew one sure method to melt her frosty regard. He had
only to disrobe her, to stroke that beautiful body in all the right places, and
she would be his willing slave. The fantasy invigorated him, yet an unsettling
disquiet lingered. It was time he coaxed her into marriage, using any means
possible.

 

Only then would he have the right to keep her all to himself. He
wanted no other man to touch her, not her precious Arun, not all those toadying
lordlings, and certainly not that viper Albright—

 

A knock sounded on the
outer door, jolting him back to the present. Tudge went to answer it, and Colin
followed, leaving the dressing room and entering his bedchamber.

 

The door
opened before Tudge was halfway there, and Hannah stepped inside. It was still
rather startling to see her in the modest gray gown, the ruffled white apron
concealing all but a hint of her pregnancy, rather than the scandalous garb of
her past.

 

“I could have been dressing,” he growled. “Next time, kindly wait
until you’re admitted.”

 

She arched an eyebrow. “Forgive me, your lordship.
Though if I may be permitted to point out, I’ve already seen everything you have
to offer.”

 

Her impudence rubbed him the wrong way. Then again, everything had
rubbed him the wrong way tonight. Nevertheless, he was about to take her to task
again when he spied the letter in her hands. “Is that for me?”