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?”
“Yes. It’s just arrived.”
He snatched it from her. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps Portia finally had written to him. He grabbed his gold-rimmed spectacles from the bedside table and shoved them on. His heart thumping, he tore the letter open.
As abruptly as his hopes had arisen, they crashed to pieces. He was staring down at another bill. This one for a diamond tiara ordered by his mother.
“Damn!” Crumpling the paper, he hurled it onto the bed. For good measure, he slapped the mahogany bedpost. “Damn, damn, damn.”
His palm stinging, he turned to see Tudge and Hannah standing side by side, their heads together. They made an incongruous couple, Tudge with his scarred face and missing ear, and Hannah with her sensual beauty beneath a prim white mobcap.
“Master’s a bit tetchy tonight,” the manservant was telling her. “ “E’s goin’ to see ’is little miss.”
“Oh? I’d been wondering if he’d lost interest in Miss Crompton. Considering his present mood, I’m thinking perhaps it might be best for her if he did.”
Colin wanted to retort that he was standing right there and they could cease their infernal gossiping. But expedience made him swallow his ill humor.
“I need a woman’s opinion,” he told Hannah. “What do you think of this waistcoat? Would I look better in a gold pinstripe?”
Portia had just finished dancing a reel with the Honorable Henry Hockenhull when she spied Lord Ratcliffe.
She came to an abrupt halt. Much to her frustration, the brief glimpse of him was blocked by the clusters of guests leaving the dance floor. Surely he was a figment of her imagination. He wouldn’t have been invited, not to a ball given by Lady Jersey, one of the grandes dames of society. Not when so many of the ton still believed he had murdered his own father.
“Are you feeling faint?” Mr. Hockenhull asked, his gloved hand cupping her elbow as if she were a delicate butterfly. “Did the dance overtax you, Miss Crompton?”
She dragged her attention back to her partner. His freckled features were taut with worry beneath a boyish thatch of auburn hair. “Certainly not,” she murmured, while covertly trying to look over his shoulder at the area where Ratcliffe—or his twin—had been walking through the crowd. “I enjoyed it very much.”
“May I fetch you a glass of punch? Or champagne perhaps?”
“Thank you, but no. I’m perfectly fine, truly I am. And you needn’t escort me back to my mother. I can see my next partner right over there.”
Portia nodded vaguely toward the entryway, and while he turned his head to peer in that direction, she slipped away into the throng of guests. She garnered a few curious looks, no doubt due to her solitary status. It was a cardinal rule that young ladies were to be taken back to their guardians at the end of each dance. Portia had only a few minutes until the next set, which she had promised to the Duke of Albright.
But she could not ignore the curiosity burning inside of her.
To discourage conversation, she kept her gaze modestly lowered so as not to meet anyone’s eye. She didn’t quite understand her sense of urgency. She ought to be avoiding Ratcliffe. After receiving the miniature in the mail, she had vowed not to give that scoundrel the satisfaction of a response. Why bother when it was highly doubtful that he would tell her what he had done with the painting of Arun. Besides, if she ignored him, he might lose interest and leave her be.
Yet he was here tonight. That one brief sighting had raised the specter of his presence—if indeed she wasn’t mistaken. She would rather ascertain the truth right now than wait on pins and needles for him to approach her.
Several guests moved, and her heart fluttered like hummingbird wings. By heaven, it was Ratcliffe.
He was strolling through the throngs of aristocrats, a petite lady clinging to his arm. His dark hair gleamed in the glow of the candles. He looked breathtakingly handsome in a mahogany brown coat, a gold pinstriped waistcoat, and buff breeches.
He bent down to say something to the lady with him. She smiled up at him, her manner coquettish. Slim and beautiful in a gown of midnight blue, she had a swanlike neck and upswept black hair crowned by a diamond tiara.
A nasty jolt of recognition struck Portia. It was the woman from the theater. The one who had made him leave Portia and go rushing off to her side.
Her lips tightened. So his current paramour was a member of society, was she? Had the rascal come to this ball tonight not to court Portia, but to flirt with that … that female?
As they drew nearer, the lady turned her head and, with uncanny accuracy, gazed straight at Portia. She murmured something to Ratcliffe, then left his company to glide in Portia’s direction.
Portia stood glued to the floor. Guests swirled around her, but if any of them spoke, the roaring in her ears blocked it out. Why would one of his mistresses seek her out? Did the woman intend to warn her off Ratcliffe? Would she cause a scene right in the middle of the ballroom while all the ton watched?
Portia ordered herself to walk away. But the ability to move had deserted her. There was something vaguely familiar about that exquisitely lovely face, something she couldn’t quite place.
The lady stopped in front of her, her gaze politely assessing, as if she were memorizing every detail of Portia, from her Grecian-styled hair down to the embroidered hem of her pale pink gown. From close up, the woman was older than she had looked from a distance, with fine lines around her green eyes and mouth, and an unmistakable maturity to her patrician face.
“Do pardon my boldness,” she said in a throaty voice, offering a slender, gloved hand. “You are Miss Crompton, I believe.”
Portia hesitated, then reluctantly touched the woman’s hand. Why hadn’t she provided her own name? And why did Portia feel so tongue-tied in her presence? “Yes … I …”
A faint amusement curved those ruby lips. “You must be wondering who I am, why a perfect stranger would waylay you like this. I cannot say that I blame you for looking apprehensive.”
At that moment, Ratcliffe appeared at her side. He gave the woman a hard stare that was part irritation and part fondness.
He snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and handed one to each lady. “Stop teasing the poor girl, and allow me to make a proper introduction. Mother, this is Miss Portia Crompton. Portia, pray meet my meddlesome mother, Lady Ratcliffe.”
His mother. He had abandoned Portia at the theater in order to visit with his mother.
Sipping the champagne, Portia felt such a lifting of relief, she almost laughed out loud. No wonder Lady Ratcliffe looked familiar; she was the young, vivacious woman in the painting on Ratcliffe’s staircase. The resemblance to her son was subtle but apparent in the high cheekbones, the sensual shape of the mouth, the deep green of the eyes.
A sobering memory entered Portia’s mind. The Duke of Albright had claimed that Ratcliffe kept his mother confined to his estate, that he’d refused her permission to come to London. Ratcliffe, on the other hand, had insisted that his mother preferred the country life. It was unsettling to discover that the duke either had been mistaken or had lied to Portia.
“I am hardly meddlesome,” Lady Ratcliffe said, affording her son a mock glare. “Rather, it seems only right for me to meet the girl who has so captivated your attention. And he does speak highly of you, Miss Crompton.”
Ratcliffe quirked an eyebrow as if to make light of her comment. “You’ve only just arrived in town, Mother. We’ve barely had a chance to speak at all.” He turned his gaze on Portia, and his warm scrutiny stirred shivers that congregated in her inner depths. His eyes seemed to convey the message that he’d thought of little else but her since their last meeting.
In a determined effort to ignore him, she focused her attention on his mother. “Forgive me for looking so puzzled earlier, my lady. I must confess I never anticipated meeting you. Lord Ratcliffe has mentioned that you spend most of your time in Kent.”
“I’ve leased a home in Berkeley Square for the Season, so that I might visit my friends here. Perhaps you would do me the kindness of joining me for tea soon. It would be quite pleasant for the two of us to have a cozy chat.”
The invitation made Portia acutely uncomfortable. It seemed rather fast of Lady Ratcliffe to expect a tête-à-tête with Portia when there was no betrothal on the horizon. Was she merely anxious to see her profligate son settle down and marry? Or had Ratcliffe told his mother a Banbury tale about the closeness of their relationship?
As she took a fizzy swallow from her glass, another thought occurred to her. As unsuitable as it might seem on the surface, the visit might be a brilliant opportunity to uncover the truth about the feud between Ratcliffe and Albright. Portia would have to be very circumspect in her questioning so as not to offend Lady Ratcliffe, yet so much could be learned. “Thank you, my lady, I’d consider it an honor—”
“No,” Ratcliffe stated, scowling from her to his mother. “It wouldn’t be appropriate in the least.”
Lady Ratcliffe gave a tinkling laugh. “Since when have you cared about the proprieties, my dear boy?” Reaching up, she patted his cheek as if she were proud of his rakish reputation. “Now, I hear the orchestra tuning their instruments. Do ask Miss Crompton to stand up with you for the next dance.”
He flashed his mother a sardonic look before he dutifully bowed to Portia. “May I have the honor?”
Portia’s breath caught at the image of them waltzing over the dance floor, their bodies so close she could feel his heat …
She took a step backward on the pretext of setting her empty glass on a table. “I’m sorry,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “It’s the supper dance, and I’ve promised it to the Duke of Albright.”
Lady Ratcliffe’s mouth twisted in a secretive smirk. “Never mind Albright. I’ll be happy to have a word with him on your behalf.”