IN THE GARRET where the servants slept, Portia cautiously opened one of the doors off the passageway. The dim little room with its narrow cot smelled strongly of sandalwood. A curl of smoke rose from the saucer of incense in front of a shrine to Shiva. There, a small stone statue depicted the Hindu god sitting in a meditative pose, his hands resting in the cradle of his crossed legs. Pansies scattered the bare plank floor in front of the shrine.
Kasi swayed in front of the figurine, singing softly in her native tongue. Her thin gray hair was drawn up in a knob, while a green sari covered her squat form.
Portia stepped inside and closed the door, anxiously turning the sealed letter in her hands until the ayah finished her song. “Kasi, did you not hear my knock?”
“I hear,” the old woman said serenely. Picking up a porcelain pitcher, she poured a thin stream of milk over the flowers, an offering to the gods that Portia had seen her perform often back in India.
The familiar ritual made her momentarily forget her urgent errand. None of their other Indian servants had made the voyage to England. Her parents had consented to bring Kasi only because all three girls had begged and pleaded. Kasi had been a mother to them for more years than Portia could remember. The ayah had crooned to them when they were ill and coddled them after Papa’s scoldings when they were naughty. Her loyalty to the family was fierce and unwavering.
“Should you be doing that here?” Portia asked dubiously. “The milk will curdle and smell.”
“English do not understand,” Kasi replied as she set down the pitcher. “Gods need food, too. And gifts to grant favors.”
“Why are you praying in the middle of the day, anyway? I thought you did so only at dawn.”
“I pray for you, missy. More prayers, more help.”
Portia blinked in surprise. It seemed uncanny because she had come here to beg a favor of Kasi. “Help? Why would you think I needed help?”
“To find your karma, your destiny.” Kasi shuffled forward to pat Portia’s cheek with her leathery hand. The warm touch was as familiar and comforting as her singsong voice. “Shiva help you if I pray to him.”
“You mean … my destiny with Arun?”
Without answering, the ayah took hold of Portia’s hand, running her fingers over the palm, exploring it with her stubby forefinger and tracing the various lines. It was something she had done a number of times over the years, to Portia as well as to her sisters. When they were children, having their palms read had been pure entertainment, for Kasi would spin tales about all the wonderful things that lay in store for them in the future. At least she had until the day Mrs. Crompton had walked in on one of their sessions. Mama had denounced palmistry as heathen superstition and had forbidden Kasi to practice it.
Now, the ayah muttered to herself while bobbing her head. She kept rubbing the topmost line on Portia’s palm, following it all the way to Portia’s little finger.
“What is it? What do you see?”
“Fate give you one love, missy. He live here in England.”
Ratcliffe’s sinfully handsome face popped into her mind. Although two days had passed, the memory of his kiss was so vivid she felt a pulse of raw desire. It was the same response that plagued her thoughts by day and haunted her dreams at night.
Appalled, she grabbed hold of Kasi’s arm. “That can’t possibly be true. Arun is the man I love.”
Kasi shrugged. “I tell what I see.”
Portia stiffened. “Well, I won’t listen to such rubbish. It’s too dim in here to see my hand, anyway.”
Those dark button eyes seemed to peer into Portia’s soul. Then Kasi pressed her palms together and bowed deeply in a salaam. “Do not be angry, missy. I not speak of it again.”
Portia compressed her lips. She was well aware that Kasi hadn’t changed her convictions, only promised not to voice them. It irked her that the ayah would declare that Arun was not a part of her future.
A revelation struck Portia, one that had never occurred to her before but now seemed very possible. “You don’t like that I’ve promised myself to a native prince, do you? Because I’m a foreigner and not of his caste.”
“It not for me to say.”
Kasi kept her eyes lowered, hiding her thoughts. That evasiveness confirmed Portia’s deduction. Who would have guessed that all this time while Kasi had been going faithfully to the docks once a month to pick up Arun’s letters, she disapproved of the association? Portia felt foolish for not realizing the truth before now. It made perfect sense because the Indians had a class system that was every bit as rigid as the English one.
And that would explain the palm reading, too. It wasn’t that Kasi was deliberately lying to her. Rather, the ayah had seen only what she had wanted to see.
Perversely reassured, Portia decided to let the subject pass. Kasi was faithful and trustworthy, and at the moment nothing else mattered.
“I need you to do something for me.” She pressed the letter into Kasi’s hand. “Please post this for me. It’s already been franked. And take great care that no one sees you, for I wouldn’t want anyone to connect the letter to me—especially not my parents.”
“Yes, missy.”
“Thank you so very much.” Touched by the ayah’s loyalty, Portia enveloped her stout form in a hug. Kasi smelled of incense, a nostalgic reminder of Portia’s childhood. Those happy memories lingered, making her smile as she left the attic room and closed the door.
“Portia? Is that you?”
She froze, her eyes widening at the sight of her mother gliding down the cramped passageway. Clad in a morning dress of white and green striped muslin, Edith Crompton wore a stylish bonnet over her dark russet hair. Her elegant appearance in the servants’ quarters was as incongruous as seeing snow fall from the hot Indian sky. “Mama! Why have you come up here?”
“I could ask you the very same question.”
“I—I was visiting Kasi, that’s all.”
Edith Crompton shook her head in disapproval. “Henceforth, you are not to do so. Proper young ladies do not mingle with the staff. You haven’t the same leniency here as you had in India.”
Under different circumstances, Portia might have argued that Kasi was almost a member of the family. But now she merely said, “Yes, Mama.”
“We are due to call on Lord and Lady Madison shortly.” That critical hazel gaze examined Portia from head to toe. “It would behoove you to tidy your hair. And wear the straw bonnet with the blue ribbons. It will match the sprigged flowers in your gown quite nicely.”
Portia refrained from heaving a sigh at the prospect of another afternoon spent making visits. She started toward the stairway, only to pause when her mother didn’t follow. “Aren’t you coming downstairs with me?”
“I wish to speak to Kasi myself. I will see you in the entrance hall in precisely ten minutes.”
That dismissing tone brooked no more questions. Uneasy, Portia headed for the stairs, looking over her shoulder. She had the distinct impression that her mother had not ventured up here in search of her missing daughter, but for the sole purpose of seeing Kasi. But if Mama wanted some little task done, why had she not rung for the servant? Or sent a footman to summon Kasi downstairs? It didn’t make sense, especially since Mama had become such a stickler for rules.
As she made her way down a narrow staircase to the opulent family quarters, a far greater concern swamped Portia. Heaven help her if Mama caught sight of that letter. She would confiscate it at once.
And then she would demand to know why Portia was writing to one Hannah Wilton, in care of the notorious Viscount Ratcliffe.
“Miss Crompton, you are looking exceptionally lovely tonight.” Lord Wrayford bent over her gloved hand that evening, giving her a view of the bald spot at the back of his sandy hair.
“Thank you, my lord,” Portia said with a polite smile.
They stood in the crowded foyer at the Drury Lane Theater. Along with the other patrons, they were slowly making their way toward their seats. While her parents paused to exchange greetings with several acquaintances, Wrayford had taken the opportunity to corner her.
It wasn’t the first time he had done so. The purse-poor profligate had sought her out at every ball and rout. He spent most of the time ogling her bosom as he was doing now. The scrutiny of those pale blue eyes made her wish she had worn one of Miss Underhill’s high-necked gowns, instead of the primrose silk with its fashionably low bodice.
Her mother and father had inched ahead, still chatting with their friends, not noticing that she’d fallen behind. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I must catch up to my parents.”
When she tried to extricate her hand, Wrayford held on tightly. “My dear Miss Crompton, we are forever meeting in a mob. I simply must have you all to myself. May I take you for a drive on the morrow? I should like for you to see my new yellow curricle.”
The ardent expression on his florid face made her want to flee at once. Yet good manners dictated that she let him down easily. “That’s very kind of you to offer, but—”
“You’re too late,” Ratcliffe said. “She’s going for a drive with me.”
The sound of that deep voice caused a tremor deep inside of Portia, shocking all of her senses awake. She turned to find her nemesis standing at her side, so near that she could feel the heat of his body and smell the spicy scent of his skin. Tall and strikingly handsome, Ratcliffe stood out in the masses of gentlemen and their ladies. The cocoa brown of his coat and the white of his cravat enhanced the swarthiness of his skin. And those lips … the mere memory of his kiss had the power to make her legs melt.
Wrayford scowled. “Ratcliffe. Didn’t think you were welcome in polite society these days.”
Ratcliffe’s green eyes betrayed a mocking amusement. “They may bar me from their homes, but alas, not from a public theater.”
With that, he took Portia’s arm and drew her ahead into the swarm of patrons, leaving Wrayford behind. Her heart fluttered every time Ratcliffe brushed against her, which was often in this crush. She had to remind herself she had traded one fortune-hunter for another.
“You certainly are not taking me for a drive,” she whispered, so no one around them could overhear. “And I didn’t need you to rescue me, either. I am quite capable of managing a persistent suitor.”
“You’ll hear no argument from me on that issue.”
The dry humor in his tone brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. Of course he would say that after she’d shot him. “How is your arm?”
“The pain keeps me awake all night, tossing and turning.” He glanced down at her horrified expression and gave her a grin of pure deviltry. “That was a jest, sweetheart. The wound is healing quite nicely. Which means it must be something else that makes me toss and turn.”
With his voice so soft and silky, there was no mistaking his meaning. Especially when he caught her gaze and held it for a prolonged moment. The dark fire there made it clear that he, too, remembered their kiss and wanted more … much more.
He bent closer, murmuring into her ear, “Have I told you how ravishing you look tonight, Portia?”
His eyes flicked downward to caress her bosom, and she had an entirely different reaction than with Wrayford. This time, she felt as if she were smoldering under the heat of the sun. Her breath grew fast and shallow, making her light-headed. She had the mad desire to pull Ratcliffe into a closet—into anywhere they could be alone—so they could share another wild, passionate tryst.
She turned her gaze from him, staring straight ahead at the quail feather bobbing on a lady’s bonnet. Gritting her teeth, she hissed, “Don’t say things like that. And stop inflicting your presence on me. I’ve no wish to see you ever again.”
“A difficult objective since I’m courting you.”
In spite of her resolve, a thrill jolted her. She denied it at once, shooting him a fierce glare. “You are not courting me. I forbid it.”
He chuckled, infuriatingly undaunted. “You may wish to compose yourself, darling. Your parents are looking this way.”
She immediately schooled her features into an expression of well-bred disinterest. Mama mustn’t suspect even a hint of the intimacy that had transpired with Ratcliffe. She would suffer an apoplexy if she knew he had visited Portia’s bedchamber, and that Portia had done likewise to him.
She’d already had a close call with that letter to Hannah. Thankfully, Mama had not discovered it in Kasi’s keeping, but Portia had an uneasy feeling her luck was bound to run out at some point.
Her parents stood waiting for her by the gilded entrance to the box seats. They made a pleasing couple, Papa the prosperous gentleman in his dark suit and white cravat, and Mama in rich amber satin with a gold circlet adorning her russet hair.
More and more, Portia disliked the notion of disappointing them when they wanted so much for her to be a success. She wouldn’t let herself even think about how distraught they would be at the end of the Season when she proposed to return to India.
She summoned a smile. “Mama, Papa, I lost you in the crowd. Lord Ratcliffe was kind enough to escort me here.”
“I encouraged your daughter to take advantage of my height by asking me to look for you.”
Her mother gave him a cool nod. “We appreciate your assistance, my lord.”
He bowed. “It was my pleasure, Mrs. Crompton. And you must be Mr. Crompton. I understand you’re quite the phenomenon in the business world.”
As the two men shook hands, George Crompton studied the younger man assessingly. “Some might say so. I seem to have a knack for trading in tea and spices.”
“And you’ve the fastest fleet on the high seas. I recall seeing one of your ships myself when I stopped in Calcutta some seven or eight years ago.”
Portia stared at Ratcliffe in astonishment. He’d never breathed a word of having visited India. “You—what—?”
He gave her that famous half-smile, the one that hinted at secrets beyond her imagining. “Many young gentlemen do a European tour. I preferred to see a bit more of the world.”
“A wise choice,” George Crompton said with an approving nod. “If you like, I’ll show you around one of my ships when it comes into port.”
“I’ll hold you to that promise, sir.”
“Excellent.” His hearty smile vanished as he looked at his frowning wife. “Ahem, well, we must be off to our seats. Wouldn’t want to be late and miss the opening scene.”
“We are joining the Duke of Albright in his box,” Mrs. Crompton pointedly told the viscount, taking hold of Portia’s arm. “We mustn’t keep His Grace waiting.”
As they walked off, Portia had one last glimpse of Ratcliffe. The charming courtier had vanished, and a cool mask now covered his features. There was something dangerous in his eyes, something that hadn’t been there until her mother had mentioned the duke.
Something that gave Portia a cold shiver.