PORTIA’S FEET FELT rooted to the rug. She could scarcely believe her eyes. Ratcliffe was dressed for the evening in a tailored dark coat and knee breeches, a white cravat at his throat. At the ball, she had danced with a score of gentlemen clad just like him.
But none of them had looked so intimidating. None of them had made her pulse race with alarm—and something darker. None of them had watched her with the hungry acuity of a predator.
Dear God, how had he discovered her deception so swiftly?
“You’re supposed to be in Turnbuckle’s garden,” she said hoarsely.
“Or so you hoped.” His smile deepened with mockery. “You almost convinced me of your sincerity in that note you sent. But being suspicious by nature, I doubted you’d wish to be alone with me again. So I asked a favor of Turnbuckle.”
With a sinking sensation, she remembered meeting the jovial earl who was of an age with Ratcliffe. Numbly, she stated, “You know his lordship, then.”
“We were good friends at Eton. He allowed me to wait in an antechamber during the ball so I could keep an eye on you, to see if you truly meant to meet me in the garden. When I saw you leave early, I surmised your intention and took a shortcut straight back here.”
So she had been right to sense someone watching her all evening. From the start, her plan had been doomed. Then another thought appalled her even more. Ratcliffe must have been in the dressing room the entire time, observing her search, waiting, biding his time.
Had he seen her looking through his copy of the Kama Sutra?
She moistened her lips. “You must think yourself exceedingly clever to have caught me, my lord. I imagine even the ogre was playacting.”
“The ogre?” His fleeting frown cleared, and Ratcliffe chuckled. “Oh, you mean Orson Tudge. Yes, he did as I instructed. I told him not to let you in too easily lest you become suspicious.”
“Does that mean he’s more gracious to your other women callers?” Portia clamped her lips shut. She hadn’t intended to sound so shrewish. She had no interest in his mistresses. He could have a thousand of them for all she cared.
Ratcliffe looked genuinely amused. “Pray don’t take offense. Tudge is never gracious to anyone. But he’s loyal to a fault. He and I share a long history.”
Which meant that if she screamed, the ogre wouldn’t come running to her aid. He would turn a deaf ear to whatever transpired in the master’s bedchamber. And it was doubtful her sister would hear anything outside with the windows shut tightly.
Portia was on her own.
She drew a sharp breath as Ratcliffe moved abruptly. He stepped out of the dressing room and walked to the door of the bedchamber, blocking her only escape route. He placed his hands on his hips, his coat pushed back to reveal a leanly muscled form beneath the gentlemanly trappings of charcoal gray waistcoat and white shirt.
“We seem to have a penchant for meeting in bedchambers,” he said, a hint of flirtatiousness entering his tone. “Tell me, what shall I do with you now?”
A disturbing warmth flared to life deep inside her. It radiated throughout her body until her knees felt on the verge of buckling. The involuntary reaction was shocking in its intensity, nay, even in its existence. How could she feel even the slightest attraction to this scoundrel?
It wasn’t violence she feared from Ratcliffe. It was seduction.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her cloak lying on his bed. She edged toward it, anxious for the protection of the hidden pistol. “You’ll let me go, that’s what. After you’ve given me the miniature, of course. It belongs to me and I want it back.”
“All in good time.” His voice lowered a notch, becoming velvety smooth. “First, though, you and I should use this opportunity to get to know each other better.”
His gaze flitted to her gauzy scarlet gown with its indecently low neckline. Her skin tingled and she crossed her arms, hoping the gloom hid the atrocious effect he had on her. It had been Lindsey’s idea for her to pose as a fallen woman in case any servants questioned her presence in the house. Heaven only knew where her sister had procured such a vulgar garment. But now Portia fervently wished she had refused to wear it.
“Yes, do let’s talk,” she said, desperate to forestall his lecherous intentions. “You may begin by explaining to me why you keep your mother confined to your estate.”
Her accusation had the desired effect. He took a step toward her, his face darkening and his charm vanishing. “Who told you that? Let me guess. Albright.”
“Yes. He said you won’t permit Lady Ratcliffe to come to London. That you purposely keep her from her dearest friends and her favorite pastimes.”
He made a dismissing gesture. “My mother enjoys many friends and amusements in the country. So you shouldn’t believe everything people tell you.”
“The duke seems to have particular knowledge of your family. Are he and your mother acquainted?”
“Everyone in society is acquainted to some degree or another. And Albright is a master at twisting the facts to suit his own purposes.”
Ratcliffe hadn’t really answered her question, Portia noted. It was too dim in the bedchamber to read the nuances of his expression, yet she had the distinct impression he was hiding something. “Is that your mother’s portrait I saw on the staircase landing?”
Ratcliffe glanced over his shoulder at the door, as if he could peer through it. “Yes. It was painted shortly after my parents were married.” He started forward and she retreated in alarm, the backs of her legs bumping into the bed. But he merely walked to a stool, propped up one foot, and regarded her gravely. “I must say, I’m concerned that you consider Albright so trustworthy.”
Incredulous, she laughed. “How ridiculous for you to cast aspersions on him. You’re the one with the wicked reputation.”
“He isn’t all that he seems, Portia. Take it as a word of caution, that’s all.”
He had his own purpose in trying to make her doubt the duke. Ratcliffe wanted to win her—and her dowry—for himself. Yet she also remembered Albright’s attitude toward him, a loathing that implied a personal connection. “If the two of you have quarreled in the past, then tell me the nature of your disagreement. Perhaps that will convince me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Then I see no reason to credit your vague warnings.” She decided it was time to put a firm end to his marital aspirations. “For that matter, I’ll tell you exactly why I prefer the duke to you. He’s extremely wealthy, which means he isn’t chasing after my money. Nor does he consort with sordid women behind my back.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re referring to Hannah Wilton, the woman with me in Hyde Park today.”
Hannah. So the woman had a name.
Portia considered herself a tolerant person, yet the thought of that flame-haired floozy hanging on his arm made her livid. “Quite,” she said icily. “Although if you choose to spend your time with filthy whores, it is of little importance to me.”
Turning away, she grabbed for her cloak. Just like that, he was standing beside her. He tossed the garment back down on the bed and took hold of her shoulders, bringing her around to face him. His cold expression revealed no hint of the charming rogue.
“Hannah and I were close at one time,” he said sharply. “For that reason, I will not tolerate hearing her belittled by a pampered young miss. She’s a kindhearted woman who was forced into the service of men by dire circumstance. You should be grateful that your wealth has insulated you from being reduced to her position.”
The blood rushed into Portia’s face. Pampered young miss? Kindhearted woman? She was furious with him for comparing her so unfavorably with his ex-mistress, and a little ashamed as well, for it had never occurred to her to consider the woman’s background.
She focused on the anger, tilting her head back to glare at him. “If you aren’t seeing her any longer, then why were you out walking with her?”
He hesitated, then dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back. “Hannah is in a spot of trouble. The details don’t matter, but she asked for my help.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“She was tossed out of the house where she had worked for a number of years. Beyond that, it isn’t a topic that any decent young lady should know about.”
His secretiveness frustrated Portia. The candlelight played over his face, casting stark shadows over his chiseled features. There was so much about himself that he kept hidden from her. Or perhaps it was just her own mulish curiosity that refused to quit.
“Tell me, anyway,” she said. “I don’t care a fig for false propriety.”
“If you must know, she’s with child.” He held up his hand. “And lest you accuse me of abandonment, let me assure you, the baby cannot possibly be mine. She and I parted ways nearly a year ago.”
Her mind whirling, Portia leaned against the bedpost. A baby. She remembered the malicious whispers in India when the daughter of an English merchant became pregnant out of wedlock. There had been a hasty marriage and an infant boy born five months later. Even though the shame had lingered, the close-knit family had weathered the storm together.
Now Portia could see how lucky that girl had been. “Does Hannah have no relatives?”
“None that will acknowledge her.”
“Shouldn’t she seek help from the father, then?”
His mouth twisted, and he looked away. “Unfortunately, he could be any one of a number of gentlemen.”
Portia was struck by the sordidness of the men of society using a lower-class female for their own gratification, then abandoning her to her fate. She had never before considered the consequences to the woman—or to the children that might result from an illicit union. In truth, she had hardly been aware that such women even existed because the topic wasn’t considered fit for the ears of ladies.
A distasteful notion occurred to her. What if the father of Hannah’s child was one of the gentlemen who had flocked around Portia, seeking to win her hand? She wouldn’t be able to look at any of them again without wondering. They were a high-and-mighty lot who had never been required to take responsibility for their actions.
She took a step toward Ratcliffe. “Well, then? Did you help her?”
“I’ve seen to the matter.”
His answer was too evasive, and she mistrusted his word, anyway. “But where is she? Does she have food? A roof over her head? And who will take care of her when her baby is born?”
“Enough questions. I’ve said too much already.” His authoritative voice softened, taking on a silky quality. “Besides, we’ve strayed far from the topic of you and I.”
He had that look in his eyes again, the one that reminded her they were all alone in his bedchamber. The one that made her blood beat faster. The one that proved that when it came to the gentlemen of society, Lord Ratcliffe himself was the most notorious of the lot.
“There is no ‘you and I.’ There never was and there never will be.” She snatched up her cloak again and swirled it over her shoulders, her fingers fumbling with the clasp. “And since you refuse to hand over the miniature, there is no point to me staying here a moment longer.”
He stepped closer, crowding her against the bedpost. “You can’t expect me to let you walk out of here just like that. We aren’t finished talking.”
His nearness made her breathless. She leaned as far back as possible to avoid touching him. Even so, she could feel the heat of his body, smell the intoxicating scent of him. “Perhaps you aren’t finished, but I certainly am.”
“At least hear me out, if you will. You’ve chastised me several times for wanting your dowry. But you’ve never once asked me what I have to offer you.”
“The miniature returned in exchange for my hand in marriage, is that it? Well, the answer is no. I won’t stoop to your blackmail.”
“Never mind the blasted miniature.” His hands settled on her shoulders, kneading the tense muscles through the fabric of the cloak. “I can give you something far better. It’s something you won’t find with Arun or Albright or any other man.”
“Trouble, that’s what. Trouble is all you’ve ever given me.”
He threw back his head and laughed, and the effect held her transfixed. The enjoyment on his sinfully handsome face gave her a rush of pleasure, reminding her of the fascinating man she had first met more than a fortnight ago before she had learned of his wicked reputation. On that occasion, he had seen Mrs. Beardsley’s nasty treatment of Portia, and he had lobbed a strawberry in retaliation. Though his weapon had been unconventional, she had viewed him as her knight in shining armor, if only for a brief time.
His smile mellowed into an expression of devastating appeal. His palm cupped the underside of her jaw, his thumb playing lightly with the corner of her mouth. “What I can give you, Portia, is this: passion beyond your wildest dreams.”
Her mouth went dry. Her heart was pounding so rapidly he surely must hear it. She couldn’t believe his boldness, not only in what he said, but also in the way he was touching her mouth. That one simple caress caused eddies of sensation throughout her body. It made her want to lift up on tiptoes and press her lips to his.
That would be madness. Sheer, utter madness.
The temptation was so strong, she turned her face away to break the contact. “Conceited cad. You’ve no right to speak to me so crudely.”
“Under ordinary circumstances, I would agree. But you’re a bit more knowledgeable than most innocent ladies.” He glanced meaningfully at the fireplace. “I saw you looking at my books, one in particular. Then you stared at my bed for quite a while. I can’t help but wonder what exactly you were thinking about.”
A wild blush burned her cheeks. He had been watching her from the concealment of the dressing room. He had seen her paging through the Kama Sutra. Dear God, if he were to guess even half of her unladylike fantasies …
Horrified, she tried to push him away. “I was thinking about how much I despise you. Now let me go.”
He ignored her request. Instead, she found herself being clasped more securely in his arms. He held her flush against him while his hands moved in soothing patterns over her back. “Forgive me,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t tease you. I keep forgetting just how young you are.”
Portia went still, partly because she recognized the futility of struggling against his iron strength, and partly because she was captivated by the novelty of his embrace. She stood stiffly, her head turned to the side, her cheek pressed to the smooth fabric of his coat as the scent and feel of him flooded her senses.
His fingers found her chin and tipped up her face. He was all seriousness now, his face devoid of its usual rakish smile. His shadowy features had a curiously tender aspect that intrigued her.
“Passion is nothing to be feared,” he murmured. “It all begins with a kiss.”
Bending closer, he captured her mouth. His action shouldn’t have caught her by surprise, yet it did. Without thinking, she closed her eyes and lifted her lips to the thrilling pressure of his. When his tongue entered her mouth, she gasped and tried to draw back, but his arms tightened, keeping her locked to him as he tasted deeply of her.
The experience was not at all like the warm, affectionate peck she had shared with Arun. Ratcliffe’s kiss was hot and erotic, and she reacted to it with stunning fervor. Her body melted like wax beneath the flame of a candle, ready to be shaped by his skilled hands. She had never guessed a man’s touch could arouse such a powerful yearning inside her.
Of their own accord, her palms slid over his coat to explore the heated skin of his neck. The strands of his hair felt coarse yet silky, and she indulged the desire to tangle her fingers there. He seemed to take that as an incentive to deepen the kiss, plundering her mouth until he filled her with his taste. His large hands roved up and down her back, following the contour of her curves. Bliss infused her body until she found herself moving against him in shameless delight, making small pleading sounds in her throat.
No wonder he had such a scandalous reputation. He knew exactly how to keep a woman enthralled. It was folly to let herself fall under his spell like this, but the pull of pleasure was too great to resist. And surely no harm could come of a mere kiss.
Even as the hazy thought flitted through her mind, Portia had the sensation of falling, of being guided downward onto the bed. Then the heavy weight of his body settled over hers without breaking the heated contact of their mouths. The shock of his intentions struck the fog from her dazzled senses.
Ratcliffe wanted more than just a kiss. He meant to seduce her, right here, right now.
She jerked her head to the side and squirmed in his grasp. “Stop, my lord! You can’t do this. You mustn’t.”
Denied her mouth, he kissed her throat, and her cloak fell open when he unfastened the clasp. “Don’t fight your feelings. And call me Colin … I want to hear you say it.”
Colin. She was momentarily distracted to remember that Ratcliffe possessed such an ordinary name.
She shook her head. “I hardly know you. I—oh!”
The moistness of his tongue traced the skin along her low-cut bodice, sending shivers of sensation down to her core. His hand cupped her fullness. “You’ve nothing to fear from me,” he murmured. “I only want to taste you, that’s all.”
Nothing to fear?
The gauzy gown provided scant protection from his assault, and the sight of his dark head bent over her breasts sparked a fire of longing and alarm in her. What was she doing, lying with him on his bed? As much as she craved the feel of his lips on her skin and the stroking of his hands on her body, the prospect of surrendering her virtue to this scoundrel released a monsoon of panic in her.
He had no intention of stopping. Not while he had the prize within his grasp. And once he’d dishonored her, he would have the perfect tool to force her into marriage.
She must never allow that to happen.
Driven by desperation, she reached down and groped for the lump in the pocket of her cloak. Her trembling fingers wrenched the pistol free. She jammed the small barrel into his ribs.
“Get off me at once, or by heaven, I’ll shoot you.”