COLIN STOOD NEAR the rear of the lending library. From his position behind a bookshelf, he had a clear view of the door. The place reeked of ink and leather bindings and perfume. Ladies strolled here and there, browsing the shelves, murmuring to one another, or signing out their choices at the front desk. He plucked out a volume at random and opened it while furtively monitoring the arrival and departure of the patrons.
Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a lending library. It was the domain of ladies—and the few gentlemen prissy enough to accompany them. But Miss Portia Crompton had a habit of coming here every other afternoon. And he had been reduced to spying on her from a distance as she went about her daily activities.
In the fortnight since they had met, he had been frustrated in his every effort to court her again. He had gone to her house several times, only to be turned away by a stone-faced butler. He had finagled his way into several more social gatherings, but always her mastiff of a mother was lurking nearby, along with the usual horde of suitors. On the few occasions when he had managed to approach Portia, she had frozen him with a glance and walked away.
Obviously, she believed all the nasty tales about him that the ton delighted in circulating. By his own design, she and everyone else had no way of distinguishing truth from falsehood. Damn it, he needed the chance to charm her—and her money—into marriage.
“Rat? I say, is that you?”
Colin bit back a curse. Beside him stood a man in a putrid yellow waistcoat, olive-green coat, and dirt-brown knee breeches. His sandy hair showed signs of receding and his body was stouter than when they had attended Eton more than a decade ago. They had been fast friends back then, comrades in tomfoolery. But damned if he hadn’t chosen an inconvenient time to pop up again.
“Turnbuckle. Always the epitome of bad fashion, I see.”
“And you, Ratcliffe, are looking as ratty as ever.” Clapping Colin on the shoulder, the Earl of Turnbuckle laughed at his own lame jest. “Odd place to find you, old fellow. No dice or cards or”—he lowered his voice—“beautiful hussies.”
Colin kept half his attention on the door. “I enjoy a good book every now and then.”
“What’s that you’re reading?” Turnbuckle stooped to examine the title, then chortled. “The Mysteries of Udolpho? Since when have you taken an interest in gothic romances?”
“I was curious to see what all the ladies were reading. As I suspected, it’s worthless drivel.” Colin clapped the book shut and shoved it back onto the shelf. “How about yourself. What are you doing here?”
“I’m escorting my wife, Marianne. There, in the straw bonnet.” He nodded to the elfin brunette who leaned against a column a short distance away. Obviously increasing beneath her maroon gown, she had her nose stuck in a book. “Ever since I succumbed to the leg shackle last autumn, she’s delighted in dragging me hither and yon. At least the lending library is better than the dress-makers and milliners.”
Despite the complaint, Turnbuckle wore an idiotic grin when he gazed at his wife. The change in him confounded Colin. Was that what marriage did to a man, turned him from a freewheeling bachelor into a panting dog? He himself had no intention of ever being led around on a leash by any female.
But he did intend to wed. He must do so soon out of necessity to pay his crushing debts. For that reason, he had chosen Portia Crompton as his bride. She had proven to be a delightful surprise with her sparkling manner and luscious beauty. And although he intended to coax her into falling in love with him, he had no interest in romantic delusions himself—except when it served his purpose.
Given half a chance, he was confident he could keep her very happy without surrendering his own autonomy. She had fire beneath all that ice. He needed only the opportunity to fan the flames, and then she would be his.
He entertained a vivid fantasy of them naked in bed, of suckling her breasts while she rode him with unbridled lust. Yes, it would be quite enjoyable to teach such an innocent all the wicked ways a woman could please a man.
“I say, is that the famous Miss Crompton?”
For one disconcerting moment, Colin thought Turnbuckle had read his private thoughts. Then a movement near the front door caught his attention. A new arrival had just entered the library.
Portia Crompton.
The coffee-colored pelisse over a rich amber gown accentuated her feminine curves. She was tall and slender, and he feverishly speculated on the long legs beneath the layers of petticoats. A stylish hat adorned with a spray of quail feathers drew attention to her fine features and upswept brown hair. How he would love to unpin that prim bun, to undress her bit by bit, kissing all the soft places he uncovered—
A man stepped in behind her. An older man in a dark tailored coat. Albright. He was handing a black umbrella to a hovering attendant.
Disbelieving anger struck Colin. He had seen the duke dance with Portia at several parties. But fulfilling a polite obligation was a far cry from escorting the woman about her daily routine.
What the devil was his purpose?
The answer hit Colin in a white-hot flash. Albright was courting Portia on purpose. Because he had witnessed Colin’s interest in her. And he had guessed how desperately Colin needed her dowry.
His fingers locked into fists. By God, he would throttle that bastard with his bare hands.
He started to surge out from behind the bookcase, but Turnbuckle stepped squarely to block his passage. “Don’t do it.”
Colin glared in fury. “Get out of my way.”
“Keep your voice down, man.” Turnbuckle’s expression took on a shrewd look. “I heard about the altercation at Albright’s ball. That he stopped you from luring Miss Crompton away and ravishing her.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”
“Right. Well, believe this: if you start a brawl in a library, you’ll never win her hand.”
A glimmer of sanity forced its way into Colin’s brain. He raked his fingers through his hair. He didn’t want to admit it, but Turnbuckle had a point. “Damn him. He’s more than twice her age.”
The earl chuckled. “Since when has that mattered in noble alliances? Albright needs an heir. Her parents wish to buy her a title and they could scarcely do better.”
The lady in question was gazing straight at the bookcase behind which Colin stood. He stared back through the narrow opening, almost certain that the shelves concealed his identity from her view.
He didn’t understand what Turnbuckle found so amusing. Maybe that was another way marriage spoiled a man; it made him gloat to see his single friends forced into the thorny brambles of courtship.
Albright was opening a thick tome and showing it to Portia. She listened to him attentively, nodding her head now and then. The duke had the air of a courteous, obliging suitor who had her best interests at heart.
Like hell. She had no notion of his conniving nature. Only Colin—and his mother—knew the truth about Albright.
Turnbuckle planted a commiserating hand on Colin’s shoulder. “Never fear, all is not lost. There’s another factor that influences the marriage game.”
“Lust.”
The earl laughed. “There is that. But I was referring to the lady’s wishes. It seems you’ll just have to find a clever way to steal her heart.”
“So sorry, no letter,” Kasi said, spreading her hands wide to show her withered brown palms.
Portia frowned at her old ayah, who stood in the doorway of the bedchamber. The short, leathery-skinned woman wore a brilliant orange sari beneath a drab cloak, from which wafted the damp scent of rain. A peacock blue scarf covered the knob of gray hair on her head. Behind her, candlelight flickered in wall sconces along the opulent passageway. It was past ten in the evening, and Kasi had just returned from her half-day off.
Portia should have been dancing tonight at Lady Mortimer’s soiree. It had taken considerable persuasion to convince Mama to let her remain at home. She’d had to pretend a scratchy throat and a fit of coughing that was certain to repel all of her suitors. In reality, Portia had wanted to be here when Kasi returned. The letter she was expecting from India was much too important to miss.
But her scheming had been for naught.
“Nothing?” she asked in dismay. “Did you check directly with Mr. Brindley, not one of his underlings?”
Kasi nodded. “I ride in cab, go to docks like always. But no letter.” Her brown eyes somber, she shook a finger as she’d done countless times during Portia’s childhood. “I know what happen, missy.”
“What?”
“You not do as I say, you not pray to Rama and Sita. That is why Maharaj Arun forsake you.”
“Arun hasn’t forsaken me.” Lips compressed, Portia fished in her pocket for a coin, which she handed to the servant. “And you know full well I can’t pray to your gods. Mama would have a fit. Now, thank you and good night.”
As the door closed behind the muttering servant, Portia paced the length of her bedchamber, taking little notice of the plush carpet beneath her bare feet or the luxurious blue and gilt furnishings. She fretted over what Kasi had said. Had she really faded from Arun’s mind? Had he forgotten the vow they had made to each other on the night before she had set sail for England a year ago?
Impossible. Or was it?
After all, she herself had been guilty of forgetting him, if only momentarily. It had happened a fortnight ago at the Duke of Albright’s ball when she had fallen under the spell of Viscount Ratcliffe.
The memory made Portia blush with shame. She had been on the brink of going off with him, of letting him lure her away from the other guests. Heaven only knew what might have happened if fate had not intervened in the form of the Duke of Albright and her mother. Beneath his polished exterior, Ratcliffe was a ruthless, unprincipled scoundrel. Whether by accident or deliberate malice, he had caused the death of his own father.
The knowledge filled her with revulsion.
She had not gone to their rendezvous in Hyde Park. Rather, she had spent the following morning at the shops with her mother and two sisters, purchasing hats and gloves and other trivialities. She had chatted and smiled, all the while wondering how long Ratcliffe would wait for her, or if he was angered by her absence.
Not that his reaction mattered. He had deceived her into believing him to be an honorable man. But he was just another greedy fortune hunter, a man who would stop at nothing to take what he wanted.
In the past week, she had glimpsed him several times from a distance, once on the street as she was exiting her carriage. Ratcliffe had attempted to approach her, but she had turned a cold shoulder and hurried into the house. Then this afternoon, she was almost certain she had seen him watching her from behind a bookshelf at the lending library. If the Duke of Albright had not been present, she would have marched straight to Ratcliffe and ordered him to mind his own business.
Lately, the duke had become her self-appointed protector, much to her mother’s delight. It rather suited Portia, too, for he was an easy companion, well versed in polite conversation and a formidable deterrent to Lord Ratcliffe’s advances.
Nevertheless, the viscount unnerved her. He was too bold, too corrupt, too seductive. He was like a cobra, beautiful but deadly. And in character he was the precise opposite of Arun.
Arun.
Arun was the man she loved. They had become fast friends as children. While her father conducted business with Arun’s father, the maharajah of Mumbai, she and Arun had played together. She vividly remembered the first time she had met him, a grave little boy in a long white robe, flying a kite in the gardens of the palace. He had given her the string to hold; it was attached to a brilliant butterfly made of colored paper and fine bamboo. The kite had felt alive in her hands, and the delight of seeing it ride the currents of wind still glowed in her memory.
If all went according to her plan, she would return to India at the end of the Season to be with Arun again. This time forever.
She paced to the bedside table and opened the top drawer. From beneath the jumble of handkerchiefs and note cards and books, she drew out a small gold box, the lid encrusted with emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds in the form of a peacock. Using the tiny gold key on her bracelet, she opened the box.
A single item lay nestled inside on a bed of blue velvet. It was an oval miniature of Arun. Cradling the painting in the palm of her hand, she held it beneath the light of a candle and studied his familiar features: the smooth dusky skin, the warm brown eyes, the noble bearing. Well educated by a series of English tutors, he had grown up in a magnificent white palace near the Crompton family home in Bombay.
She had always been aware theirs was a forbidden love, although by tacit agreement they had seldom spoken of it. Rather, they had spent their days in the innocent pleasures of reading to each other in the shade of the banyan trees or sitting on the banks of Mahim Bay to watch the boats pass by and the women doing their laundry.
She remembered the gentleness of their first kiss and then the shock of her mother’s discovery of them in the shadows of the verandah. Livid, Mrs. Crompton had banished Arun from their property and lectured Portia on the impropriety of her actions.
“It’s disgraceful enough that you would allow such liberties,” she had ranted. “But with a native boy—!”
“I love Arun,” Portia countered. “He loves me, too.”
“Love! Have you no thought for your father’s good name? And what about your sisters? You’ll ruin all of us with your rash behavior.”
“No, it won’t be that way. Arun is a prince. When we marry, people will have to accept us.”
Her mother’s face turned white with fury. “I knew it was a mistake for your father to allow you such freedom. But enough is enough. You will not be permitted to dishonor this family.”
No amount of impassioned arguments could sway her mother’s judgment. The incident had caused an explosive quarrel between her parents. Portia had cringed to hear them shouting at each other behind closed doors. The following day, Mrs. Crompton had directed an army of natives to pack the family’s belongings. To Portia’s horror, they were moving to England to take their rightful place in society.
She had begged Arun to run away with her. But his father had been appalled by the notion of the high-caste prince marrying a foreigner. He, too, had prohibited the alliance, and Arun could not renounce his own principles by disobeying. He had assured her that in time, he could persuade the maharajah to accept the match. The British community would be scandalized, of course, but Portia didn’t care if she was shunned. She only wanted to be with the man who made her feel safe and loved, the man who had been her friend forever.
She clasped the miniature to the bodice of her nightgown. Arun always had written to her without fail; this was the first time since her departure for England a year ago that his regular letter had not arrived.
Struck by an awful fear, she groped for the bedpost and clung tightly to the cool mahogany. What if something dreadful had happened to Arun? What if he had fallen ill—or died?
So many dangers abounded in India. Poisonous vipers. Vicious tigers. Rampaging elephants. And then there were the fatal diseases. It was not uncommon for a person to be healthy one day and dead of a fever the next.
Shuddering, she placed the miniature on her pillow, unwilling to lock it away just yet. It would serve no purpose to worry. The missing correspondence was likely due to the vagaries of the mail system—a ship run aground, a voyage delayed. Surely there would be a letter next time, probably two at once.
The trouble was, she would have to wait for an entire month until Kasi’s next half-day off. It was impossible for Portia to escape her mother’s watchful eye long enough to travel clear across London to the shipping office at the docks. And she dared not have the letters delivered to this house lest her parents discover her scheme to return to India.
She went to the window and looked out into the night. It was damp and cold and gloomy. Here, there were no jackals skulking through the shadows, no buzz of crickets in the hot darkness. Had the moon been shining, she might have stepped out onto the balcony to gaze up at the stars. She and Arun had done so many times in India, finding the constellations and making up new ones to amuse themselves.
On a whim, she went into her dressing room and stripped off her pale nightdress, leaving it in a puddle on the floor. The spacious chamber had built-in cabinetry that held an impressive collection of morning gowns and walking dresses, ball gowns and riding clothes. Undoubtedly her mother thought the sky would fall down if the premier heiress of the Season were to be seen in the same attire more than once.
From the depths of a drawer, behind an assortment of corsets and petticoats, Portia pulled out a sari. A deep marigold hue spangled with tiny gold beads, the garment had been a going-away gift from Arun. When she held it to her nose, the faint scent of sandalwood clung to the fabric. She had seldom—never—worn a sari, but often enough had watched Kasi put one on.
Relying on memory, she looped and draped the length of silk around herself, finally tucking the end into her waist. The dressing table had a wide variety of cosmetics, and she used a pot of rouge to apply a tiny ruby dot to her forehead. Going to her jewelry box, she added an array of gold bangles to her arms. Then she stood before the long pier glass and blinked in amazement. Had her skin been darker, she might have been mistaken for a native woman.
How strange she looked, yet how familiar. A curious tug-of-war waged inside her, as if she had one foot planted in England and the other in India. Closing her eyes, she let herself wallow in memories of her childhood home. She remembered days so hot it took her breath away, a sky so bright blue it hurt the eyes, the raucous whistle of mynah birds in the trees. How she longed to feel the sun-baked earth beneath her bare feet again …
A draft of cold air snapped her back to reality. It had come from her bedchamber; the fire must need tending. Shivering, she rubbed her bare arms. The sari was ill suited to the climate of England, and her mother would have an apoplectic fit if she caught Portia wearing it.
But Mama and Papa were out for the night, and her sisters lay abed in their chambers at the end of the passageway. There was no one to stop Portia from indulging in a bit of fantasy. So she imagined herself a bride on her wedding night. Arun would be waiting in the next room, ensconced in her bed. She knew a little about intimate relations, having eavesdropped on the frank talk between native servants, although when she tried to envision herself doing that with her childhood friend, the image failed to materialize.
No matter. She would sit by the fire and dream about Arun holding her close again, gently kissing her …
Smiling, she floated into her bedchamber. Shock brought her to an abrupt halt. A strangled gasp choked her throat.
In the chair by the fire, his boots propped on a footstool, sat Viscount Ratcliffe.