WATCHING HER INTENTLY, he held up his hand. “Don’t scream—please. I mean you no harm.”
Portia didn’t scream, not because he had said so but because she was horrifyingly aware that no one would hear her. Her parents would be out until the wee hours, her sisters were asleep in their rooms far down the corridor, and the servants were either in their attic bedchambers or in the basement workrooms.
But a footman remained on duty downstairs in the entrance hall.
Heart pounding, she made a dash for the door, prepared to cry out for help. The knob refused to turn. She frantically rattled it, shoving at the white-painted panel.
“It’s locked,” Ratcliffe said, holding up the skeleton key that usually rested in the keyhole. “A mere precaution.”
Frightened and furious, she spun to face him. “How dare you!”
“I’d dare quite a lot to see you, Miss Crompton. When you didn’t attend Lady Mortimer’s soiree tonight, I had to resort to drastic measures.”
What was he doing here? Had he gone mad?
Portia considered lunging at him, wresting the key out of his hand. Then she bitterly acknowledged his superior strength. If she gave him half a chance, he could easily grab her.
Her only hope was to summon a maid by tugging on the bellpull. But the gold cord hung near the fireplace. It was impossible to reach it without risking capture. Nor were there any handy weapons in the bedchamber—except for the fireplace poker which was propped beside him against the mantel.
“How did you get past the footman?” she demanded.
“I climbed up the trellis.”
He waved to the balcony doors. Portia flicked a glance there to see the doors slightly ajar. No wonder she’d felt a draft of cold air … although she hadn’t heard a sound. How had he even known which bedchamber belonged to her? He must have spied her as she’d stood at the window a short while ago. Under different circumstances, she might have marveled at his resourcefulness.
But not tonight, not when she was alone, not when he had her at a deadly disadvantage.
In her iciest tone, she stated, “Get out.”
“I mean you no harm,” he repeated in a soothing tone, dropping the key into an inner pocket of his dark green coat. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll remain right here in this chair.”
“I don’t want you here at all. Now go.”
He made no move to obey. “I only wish to talk. You have my word.”
“Your word. You, a man who would sneak into my house in the middle of the night. But I don’t suppose that is anything unusual to someone of your wicked character.”
“I vow I’ve never before entered a lady’s bedchamber without her permission.”
The gleam in his green eyes unnerved her. He lounged in the chair as if he were a friend come to share a cozy chat. He was smiling, his manner disarming, his black hair tousled and damp with mist. His skin was swarthy against the stark white of his cravat, and a trace of whiskers shadowed his lean cheeks. Under the force of his scrutiny, she grew aware of her nakedness beneath the silk sari.
Deep within her, something dark and disturbing stirred to life.
She smothered it viciously. Colin Byrd was a rogue who seduced women. Worse, he was a killer who had shot his own father under mysterious circumstances.
Willing her teeth not to chatter, she said, “Why are you here? State your business and be gone.”
“First things first.” He reached to the piecrust table beside him. “I brought you a gift.”
He tossed something underhand, and she caught it by reflex. Startled, she found herself holding a stalk of lush purple flowers, each one the size of her fist. “Orchids?”
“I thought you might like them. That variety is native to India.”
Portia had seen such blooms growing in the jungle, the plants clinging to the branches of trees. He couldn’t possibly have known of her love for them. Yet none of her other suitors had bothered to consider her likes and dislikes. They brought her English roses and French bonbons and expected her to launch into rhapsodies of gratitude.
It wouldn’t happen now, either.
She dropped the stalk on a nearby table. In a tone heavy with sarcasm, she said, “You cannot really think to dazzle me with flowers, my lord.”
“One can always hope.” Grinning, he looked down at the orange and black striped fur beneath his feet. “So this is the famous tigerskin rug.” With languid fingers, he stroked the feline’s head, its glass eyes staring and its sharp-toothed mouth open in a perpetual snarl. “I understand you shot the beast yourself. Will you tell me about it?”
The request startled Portia. Where had he learned of that? Did he really have acute hearing as he’d claimed at the Duke of Albright’s ball? No, the account she had told to Mrs. Beardsley and the others must have reached his ears through gossip.
She would not permit him to turn this invasion of her privacy into a social visit. “I’ve no interest in chitchat. I’m ill, that’s why I stayed home tonight.”
“You appear in the pink of health to me.” His gaze sweeping over her, he went on, “If I may add, you look extremely fetching. What is that garment you’re wearing?”
“A sari. Now that’s enough questions. You may call on me at a more appropriate time and place.”
“And be refused admittance once more?” He shook his head. “Come, come, Miss Crompton. We both know that were I to depart now, I’d never have the slightest chance of seeing you alone again. You’ve made it devilishly difficult to get within a dozen yards of you.”
“So you’ll break into my chamber and hold me hostage?” she snapped in frustration. “Is that supposed to inspire my trust in you?”
For a long moment Ratcliffe stared at her, his expression dark and unreadable. A sense of foreboding crept like cold fingers down her spine. She knew so little about him. He might be volatile, hot tempered, even unhinged. If she drove him to fury, he could overpower her in a flash.
He abruptly broke his promise to remain seated. Rising to his feet, he seemed to crowd the dimly lit bedroom with his menacing presence. He slid his hand inside the front of his coat.
Portia took an involuntary step backward. Her muscles tensed and her heart pounded. God help her, if he had a pistol …
But he merely withdrew her key from inside his coat, went to the door and unlocked it. He returned to his chair and resumed his relaxed posture. “Go on, then,” he said. “If you’re so terrified of me, you may as well flee.”
Half of her itched to do just that. The other half—the prideful half—balked at another display of spineless panic.
How neatly Ratcliffe had maneuvered her. By unlocking the door, he had made flight the act of a coward.
“If you’re discovered here,” she said coldly, “my reputation will be ruined. No doubt that’s your intention, to force me into marriage.”
He shook his head. “I’ve already told you, I merely came to talk. There didn’t seem to be any other way to catch you alone.”
Her lips compressed. She could hardly throw him out on his ear when he had the advantage of superior physical power. It might be best to let him have his say. Perhaps then she could convince him to go.
“Answer one question truthfully,” she said. “If you refuse, there is no chance of me believing anything else you have to say.”
“Did I kill my father?” Though steel touched his tone, Ratcliffe kept his gaze focused on her. “The answer is yes, though it was a tragic accident. I won’t discuss the matter any further—not with you or with anyone else.”
The shadows in his eyes intrigued Portia. She sensed secrets there that she longed to probe. Was he telling the truth? If so, what exactly had happened? Had he been cleaning a pistol and it had gone off? Was it a hunting mishap? Or perhaps a stray shot in the dark at a burglar?
Sympathy tugged at her, but she resisted its allure. She must not allow any weakening of her defenses. For all she knew, he could be lying through his teeth. The incident could have occurred just as the Duke of Albright believed, that Ratcliffe had murdered his father in order to gain his inheritance.
“That wasn’t my question,” she said.
He lifted one dark brow inquiringly, but made no reply. The only sounds were the soft ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel and a spattering of raindrops against the windowpanes.
Uneasy with the silence, she asked, “I would like to know, would you be pursuing me if I were penniless—if I didn’t have the largest dowry of any of the debutantes?”
“An interesting question. I applaud your directness.”
“A simple no or yes will suffice.”
“Then no … and yes. I’ll admit, your marriage portion is what first drew you to my attention.”
“So you came uninvited to Albright’s ball for the sole purpose of cozening me.”
He frowned, clearly annoyed to have his stratagem exposed. “If you choose to regard it that way. However, matters changed once we met. That’s the yes in answer to your question. I would pursue you, Portia, no matter what your circumstances. Because you fascinate me.”
He spoke in the smooth, deep tone of a man experienced in luring women. She should correct his forwardness in using her name, yet there were other, more important issues at stake. “Never mind the flattery. The truth is all that matters to me.”
“I’ll grant you both.” He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “I came to that ball expecting to meet a giggly girl with air for brains. Instead I found a spirited woman who is more than able to match wits with me. From that moment onward, I’ve been determined to make you mine.”
Despite her mistrust of him, her pulse leaped. The feeling was nothing more than an instinctive reaction to an attractive man, she assured herself. Arun owned her heart. Arun, whose kindness and chivalry put this scoundrel to shame.
Crossing her arms, she glared at Ratcliffe. “To be quite frank, my lord, I can see no benefit to allowing your courtship. For title and status, I certainly can do better than a viscount with a wicked reputation.”
His jaw tightened, and she feared for a moment that she’d driven him over the edge. “Albright,” he snapped.
She almost blurted out that the duke was merely a friend, not a suitor. But if she could use Albright to convince Ratcliffe he had no chance … “You saw us together today at the lending library,” she said. “I thought that was you, hiding behind the shelves.”
The dangerous look faded, and she wondered if she had imagined it. Once again, his eyes were unfathomable, making her intensely curious about the secrets behind those too-handsome features.
Much to her surprise, a slow grin banished his moody expression. He looked exactly like the devil-may-care rogue she had met at the duke’s ball. “That’s what you’ve reduced me to,” he said. “A lonely wretch skulking in the shadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of your beauty.”
Unexpected laughter bubbled up inside her. His teasing somehow eased her inner tension, and she found herself sinking cautiously onto a chair a short distance from him. “A wretch, yes, you are that. But I very much doubt you’re lonely.”
“I am, indeed, every moment we’re apart.”
Heaven help her, he was charming. He must have women falling at his feet. “Enough of your nonsense. If you’re so determined to make conversation, then tell me about yourself.”
“I find you far more interesting—”
“No. It’s my home and I’ll set the rules. I should like to know why you believe yourself worthy to be my suitor. Tell me about your family, your interests, how you live your life.”
Colin felt his mouth go dry. He seldom discussed private matters even with his friends. It was easier to keep things light, to guard those certain events best kept hidden from the world.
Unfortunately, Portia Crompton was far less susceptible to glib talk than any woman of his acquaintance. God, she was gorgeous, even in her self-righteousness. The gold sari clung to her curves like a second skin and tendrils of curly chestnut hair had sprung loose from her topknot. He wanted nothing more than to haul her over to the bed and kiss her senseless, to touch her and stroke her until she lay purring in his arms. Unfortunately, such a rapscallion approach was guaranteed to win her ire.
She sat primly on the straight-backed chair, her skeptical expression trained on him. Clearly, she was waiting for him to reveal his redeeming qualities—if he possessed any, her look seemed to say.
He cleared his throat. “I own an estate in Kent, some five thousand acres of entailed farmland. My mother lives there, too. I have a younger sister, Elizabeth, who’s married to a Scotsman and lives in Edinburgh. She has three children, two boys and a girl.”
Portia didn’t need to know that Elizabeth had deliberately chosen a husband who would take her far away from their childhood home. Colin hadn’t seen her in more than five years. She hadn’t even returned for their father’s funeral three years ago, although to be fair, she had been recovering from childbirth at the time.
“You make yourself sound like the typical country gentleman,” Portia said. “However, I understand you’re deeply in debt because of your gambling.”
Colin struggled to keep the vexation from his face. Did she hold no topics sacred? “The subject of my finances is best left to your father.”
“You haven’t my permission to speak to Papa about anything,” she countered. “And let me make one fact clear. I’ll never wed a man who would squander my dowry on dice and cards.”
It came as no surprise that she had her mind made up about him. He considered spilling his guts, but that would mean breaking a vow and he wasn’t yet so desperate. So he pacified her with a half-truth. “You have my promise that I’ll never again set foot in a gaming hell.”
She gave him a withering look. “If you think to bamboozle me, Lord Ratcliffe, we’ve nothing more to discuss.”
“Then perhaps you’ll talk about this.” Determined to shift the heat off himself, Colin reached down between the cushions and withdrew the miniature he had tucked there. He had a burning need to know the identity of the man whose image she clearly held dear.
Portia sucked in an audible breath. She gripped the sides of the chair. Her big blue eyes fastened on the little oval painting, then swung to him. “Where did you get that?”
“When I came in, I saw it lying on your pillow.”
She surged to her feet and marched toward him, the bangles on her arms jingling musically. “It doesn’t belong to you. Give it back to me at once.”
Colin sprang up, too. “First tell me who he is.”
“A friend.”
She made a grab for the miniature, but he held it high out of her reach. “He must have a name.”
“Arun,” she ground out. “Now hand it over to me. You’ve no right to come in here and touch my things.”
The panic on her face intrigued Colin. What importance could a young, handsome native man have to her? A man whose picture she would keep in her bedchamber? The most probable answer made Colin livid. “He must be more than a friend. Was he your lover while you lived in India?”
“No!”
She made another futile attempt to snatch the miniature out of his hand, her bosom brushing against him. The chance to slide his arm around her proved too delicious to resist. Colin clasped her close, keenly aware of the curves barely concealed by thin gold silk.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “While you blistered me for my sins, it would appear you yourself are no angel.”
Pressing her palms to his chest, she pushed hard. “Release me at once!”
“Only when you tell me the truth about him.”
“I am telling you the truth.”
She struggled against his grip, but Colin had no intention of letting her go. His loins had an instantaneous reaction to her sinuous movements. Again, he was sorely tempted to carry her across the room to the four-poster bed. Bending closer, he murmured, “Stay still. Unless you wish me to forget what little gentlemanly restraint I have.”
Gasping, she reared back at once, drawing her upper body as far away from him as possible. Desperation blazed in her eyes. “All right, blast you. I love Arun. When I return to India, we’re going to be married.”
Stunned, he stared into her flushed features. He could see every individual black lash that lined her clear blue eyes. She wasn’t lying. She planned to do the unthinkable. It suddenly made sense to him why she was dressed in the sari, why she had that ridiculous red dot on her forehead and the armful of bangles.
She was pretending to be Arun’s bride.
Tossing the miniature onto the chair, he grasped hold of her shoulders. “Do your parents know this?” Seeing the flash of guilt on her face, he answered for her. “Of course they don’t. You’ve let everyone believe you’re available for marriage. But you’ve never had any intention of choosing an Englishman for a husband.”
She lifted her chin. “No. So you see, you’ll never win me over. You might as well leave.”
Colin was still trying to get his mind around the rashness of her plan. “You can’t marry a native. You’ll be shunned, not just here but in India, too.”
“It’s my decision. There’s no one in society I care about, anyway.”
“Your father will cut you off without a penny. How will you live?” She had no idea what it was like to be poor. But Colin knew all too well.
“Arun is the son of a maharajah. I’ll live in luxury in a palace.”
The news that his rival was a prince irritated him more than it ought. “You can’t have thought this through. You’re giving up everything, your life, your country, your family. Once you act on this foolishness, there’ll be no turning back.”
She glanced away for a moment, then raised her chin in resolute stubbornness. “My mind is made up. I won’t be dissuaded. And … and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“So now I’m your trusted confidant? There’s a turnaround.”
“You give me no other choice—oh!”
A knocking on the door startled both of them. Instantly, Colin released her, holding his finger to his lips. Portia frantically shooed him toward the balcony.
Damn it, he was not through speaking to her. He had no intention of giving up his suit. She had to realize the sheer idiocy of her plan—if only because he needed a rich wife and she was far too wealthy a prize to relinquish.
Perhaps if he waited outside for a bit, the visitor would go away. He doubted Portia would betray his presence, especially considering the volatile secret he now knew about her.
But he had taken only one step toward the balcony when the passageway door swung open. Two girls in white nightgowns burst into the bedchamber.