ONE MORNING A fortnight later, a tapping on the door disturbed Portia in her bedchamber. She was curled up in a chair by the hearth, a book open in her lap, although her attempt at reading Miss Austen’s latest novel had met with little success. It wasn’t the fault of the author. Rather, Portia had been too preoccupied to comprehend the words printed on the pages.
She frowned at the door. If she pretended not to hear, then perhaps the visitor would go away. She could think of no one she wanted to see, not her sisters, not her parents, and certainly not any servants bearing gifts from unwanted suitors.
The shock of Arun’s death had been dulled by the passage of time. At first it had been a sharp, unbearable agony. To escape the round of social events, she had pretended illness for several days until her family’s baffled concern for her welfare had prodded her out of bed.
Mama had wanted her help in planning the upcoming masquerade ball they were hosting, but Lindsey—the only one who knew the true source of Portia’s malaise—had offered to write out the invitations in her stead. Portia had resumed her other daily activities, visiting the nobility and attending various parties, though without her usual high spirits.
A part of her wanted to believe what Ratcliffe had suggested, that Arun might have fallen ill and needed time to recover before writing again. But in her heart, she knew the futility of such a hope. She had witnessed the horrors of other such epidemics in India. And Arun had been the sort of faithful, dependable person who, even in the throes of dire sickness, would have roused himself enough to send a scrawled note. Because he wouldn’t have wanted her to worry.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. It was best to face the truth. He was gone. And denied the objective of returning to India at the end of the Season, Portia found herself drifting like a ship without a rudder.
The rapping came again, louder than before. Again, she ignored it.
But this time, the door opened. Miss Underhill peered inside, her sallow features showing a startled look above the gray serge of her high-necked gown. “Oh! Forgive the intrusion, Miss Crompton. I assumed you were in your dressing room.”
Portia summoned a polite smile. “I’m sorry, I must have been absorbed in my reading.”
Miss Underhill didn’t challenge the fib. A rare smile lighting her usually stern face, she walked into the bedchamber and clapped her hands. “Come, you must make haste. You’ve a very important visitor waiting downstairs.”
“I’d rather not see anyone just now.” Portia had come to treasure the mornings before the hustle and bustle of afternoon visits, and she guarded her free time jealously. “Anyway, isn’t it too early for callers?”
“This is a most special personage. His Grace of Albright.”
Portia frowned, trying to think back to her most recent conversations with the duke. “Why is he here? I don’t recall agreeing to go on a drive with him.”
“Pray, don’t be churlish. You’ve been so cross of late, it’s a wonder you have any suitors left at all.” Miss Underhill removed the book from Portia’s lap and placed it on a nearby table. “You should know, the duke has spoken privately with your father in his study just now. And that can only mean one thing.”
Portia’s mind worked sluggishly. “What?”
“Silly goose. If you can’t guess, you’ll find out soon enough. Stand up now so I can tidy your gown.”
It was easier to comply than to resist. Portia dutifully rose to her feet and allowed the older woman to brush at her skirts and straighten a bit of lace by her bodice. She patted Portia’s hair, twisting several curls around her forefinger and then setting them into place. All the while, she chattered in an untypically exuberant manner.
“It is quite auspicious that just an hour ago, I received a reply from my mother’s cousin.”
She paused expectantly, as if Portia should know what she meant. “And?” Portia prompted.
“If you’ll recall, you asked me to write to her on your behalf. You wanted to know why there was bad blood between the duke and Lord Ratcliffe.”
“Oh … of course.” That concern seemed ages old, as if it had happened in another lifetime. Portia had not allowed herself to think of Ratcliffe these past two weeks. It had seemed disloyal to Arun, especially in light of her guilt over those passionate encounters. Now, she had a clear memory of Ratcliffe holding her close, wiping her tears, murmuring words of comfort. And she felt a sudden aching need to feel his strong arms around her again.
“It seems,” Miss Underhill went on, as she gave the gown one last tug, “that the duke was once betrothed to Lord Ratcliffe’s mother. She left him standing at the altar in front of all the ton, whilst she eloped to Gretna Green with the present viscount’s father. As you might well imagine, it caused quite a scandal back in my mother’s day.”
Portia had heard the story straight from Lady Ratcliffe. Odd how important it had been to her at one time. Instead, she found herself wondering what had happened to Ratcliffe. Why had he ignored her of late? Had he given up on courting her? He must have, for he had made no attempt to contact her since that day at the docks.
A sense of loss settled over her, keen yet somehow different from the grief she’d felt for Arun. She missed Ratcliffe’s wit and charm, the excitement his presence evoked in her. A part of her yearned to feel alive again, instead of being trapped in a gray colorless world. Yet she must never again delude herself into believing he cared for her. The cold hard truth was that he’d only wanted her dowry.
And Bane … she had been so distraught over Arun that she’d gone off in the hackney cab without assuring herself of the boy’s welfare. The memory of his dirty little face haunted her. She hoped that Ratcliffe had had the decency to spare him a coin or two.
Portia continued to brood about Ratcliffe as she and Miss Underhill headed downstairs to the reception rooms. She only marginally noticed her sisters peeking out the doorway of the morning room, whispering and giggling.
Then her mother appeared behind them, shooing the girls back inside before hurrying out to meet Portia. At a dismissing flick of Mrs. Crompton’s fingers, Miss Underhill vanished into the morning room, too.
Mrs. Crompton’s face was flushed with excitement. “Whatever took you so long?” she whispered, critically examining Portia’s hair and gown. “The duke has been waiting for more than ten minutes. You must go to him at once. And remember, under no circumstances are you to turn down his offer.”
She gave Portia a little push into the drawing room. Preoccupied, she found herself walking into the cavernous chamber with its tall gold draperies and its numerous chairs and tables. His offer?
Of marriage?
Reality struck her like a splash of cold water. She faltered to a stop just inside the doorway, seized by the panicked urge to turn around and flee. But the duke was coming forward to greet her, bowing over her hand and then leading her to a chaise by the white marble fireplace. He looked as distinguished as ever in a charcoalgray coat with a diamond stickpin glinting in his cravat.
Without releasing her hand, he seated himself right beside her. The soft kidskin of his glove rubbed soothingly over her stiff, bare fingers. “My dear Miss Crompton,” he said, gazing deeply into her eyes. “It has been an honor these past weeks to enjoy the company of such a lovely young lady as yourself. You must permit me to express how very much I’ve come to hold you in the highest esteem.”
Silver threaded his well-groomed brown hair. Fine lines radiated from the corners of his pale blue eyes. He had always reminded her of a father, not a husband.
Desperate to stave him off, she murmured, “I’m no different from any other girl. Truly I’m not.”
He smiled approvingly. “Modesty becomes you, my dear. It is an admirable quality in a lady—and a wife.” His voice grew husky, his eyes intense. “I have received the blessing of your father to ask you a very important question. Pray know that your answer will most certainly affect my future happiness. Miss Crompton—Portia—will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
Her mouth went completely dry. She saw a startling image of him speaking similar words to Lady Ratcliffe so many years ago. What more did she know of his past? And what did he know of hers? “I—I hardly know what to say. This is so sudden.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Pray don’t regard me as one of the profligates who have tagged at your heels. My affection is solely for you, my dear, and not for any monetary gain. That is why, as a token of my sincerity, I am prepared to refuse your dowry in its entirety.”
His declaration stunned her. Surely this proved Ratcliffe was wrong about the duke. Albright wasn’t a cunning schemer, for only a man of high principles would turn down such a vast sum of money.
Ratcliffe himself would never do such a noble act. He had made it plain from the start that he had courted her only because of her wealth. He had proven himself a cad time and time again.
Burying the bitter thought, Portia looked at the duke with new eyes. The warmth in his gaze revealed a true fondness for her, and the realization was a balm to her battered spirits. Despite the difference in their ages, the duke reminded her of Arun in many ways. Both men were chivalrous, kind, and steady in character.
Perhaps it was time for her to behave in a mature and responsible manner. To leave her childish dreams of romance behind. All of her plans for the future had shifted irrevocably. She had no reason to return to India anymore. And if she were to remain in England, why not wed Albright? He was a pleasant companion, a man who made her feel safe and protected. The marriage would thrill her parents, who wanted her to achieve the pinnacle of society. And there would be no mad emotional upheaval as she’d experienced with Ratcliffe.
Oh, Ratcliffe … but no, she mustn’t think of him ever again. His interest in her had been based on selfish financial gain. He was a part of her past, not her future.
Taking a deep breath, she spoke the words that would seal her destiny. “I’m honored, Your Grace. And I’m very happy to accept you.”
Three days later, Portia strolled through the family ballroom on her father’s arm, her mother at his other side. The scene before her was rather curious, for the occasion was their masquerade ball. Instead of the usual fashionable garb, the ton had turned out in costumes of all sorts, from knights and friars to queens and milkmaids. There had been no receiving line, nor any names announced, since that would have defeated the purpose of trying to guess who was who.
“A most absurd business,” Mr. Crompton muttered, tugging at the sword that kept getting twisted in the striped pantaloons of his medieval king’s attire. He had drawn the line at wearing a mask, and his face reflected exasperation. “How the devil are we to know who’s who?”
“Hush,” Mrs. Crompton hissed. Dressed as Marie Antoinette in a towering white wig and panniered gold gown, she wore a black-and-white domino that covered the top half of her face. “And do smile at our guests, George. This should be the happiest of occasions, the finest hour of our lives.”
Agitation stirred in the pit of Portia’s stomach, but she attributed it to nerves. Tonight, the Duke of Albright would formally announce their betrothal. At his request, she had dressed as the Roman goddess Diana, so that he might easily recognize her in the crowd.
Accordingly, the soft white folds of a toga left one of her shoulders bare, and a filigreed gold diadem glinted in her upswept chestnut curls. She peered through the eyeholes of a demimask. Against her back rested a leather quiver of arrows, though she’d opted against carrying a longbow, which would have proven awkward while dancing.
She was determined to make the duke proud—and to overcome the lethargy that plagued her of late. In six weeks’ time, she would be a duchess, for Albright wanted their wedding to be a big splash at the end of the Season. The newly exalted position would give her the power to help her family and to ensure good marriages for her sisters. Gossips like Mrs. Beardsley would never again dare to question the Crompton family’s status at the peak of society.
And once she embarked upon her new life, certain memories would be vanquished forever. She wouldn’t think of Ratcliffe at odd moments like now, when she caught herself searching for his tall form among all the Gypsies and princes and military officers. Although he hadn’t been invited, such a trifling obstacle would mean nothing to a rogue like him.
She acknowledged her disappointment when she didn’t spy him anywhere in the swirling throng of guests. Although they often had struck sparks off one another, there had also been laughter and witticisms and a peculiar sort of kinship between them.
But he had made no attempt to see her since that day at the docks. In retrospect, it seemed highly unusual that he hadn’t taken advantage of her grief in an effort to press his own suit. Instead, he had held her close while she’d dampened his coat with her tears …
“Diana the Huntress?”
A Roman senator stood before her, a circlet of laurel leaves adorning his silvered dark hair. Despite his half-mask, she recognized his proud demeanor at once.
“Your Grace.” Portia dipped a curtsy. She thanked the heavens for the domino that helped to conceal her blush. How awful if he were to guess she had been thinking about Ratcliffe.
The duke exchanged courtesies with her parents, and then requested her permission for the first dance, which she had no choice but to grant. “Come, my dear,” he said, offering his arm. “Let all those present envy me for dancing with the loveliest goddess in the room.”
The effusive compliment made her smile, renewing her determination to enjoy the evening. By prior agreement between the duke and her parents, the announcement would not be made until everyone was seated for the midnight supper. With resolute gaiety, Portia joined the line of dancers assembling on the floor. Albright was an excellent dancer, and she soon found herself taking pleasure in the familiar steps and the lilting music of the orchestra.
Throughout the evening, a number of swains approached to secure her company for upcoming sets. It wasn’t terribly difficult to discern their identities. She recognized the Honorable Henry Hockenhull as a court jester, his auburn hair covered by a drooping harlequin’s hat. Lord Wrayford was an Egyptian pharaoh complete with gold paper crown that nearly tumbled off every time he tilted his head down to ogle her bosom. The gangly Marquess of Dunn made an incongruous Robin Hood, complete with doublet and green tights.
Several of her partners made oblique comments on Albright’s preference for her company. Apparently, word of their betrothal was an open secret in the ton, though whether people were merely guessing or whether the duke had dropped a discreet word in the ears of the right gossips, Portia didn’t know. She deftly deflected all attempts to fish for the truth, but the process grew increasingly wearisome.
After bandying words with yet another purse-poor second son—or was he a third?—she escaped upstairs to her bedchamber for a moment of quiet. She removed her domino and rubbed the bridge of her nose, where the half-mask had left red marks. Sinking onto the edge of a chair, she rested her aching feet on the tigerskin rug. It brought a poignant reminder of the time when Ratcliffe had sat right here, his long lean fingers stroking the tiger’s head. He had climbed up the trellis to bring her that stem of orchids. How charming he had been, how very witty and handsome.
Portia released a long sigh. It was useless to think about him anymore. Clearly, he had given up on her. She must focus her mind on the duke and their upcoming nuptials.
The ormolu clock on the mantelpiece ticked a steady reminder of her impending duty. It was half an hour before midnight, nearly time for the supper dance and the big announcement that would set the course for the rest of her life. A part of her dreaded standing before the crowds of nobility, accepting their good wishes, pretending to be happy when all she really wanted was to be left alone.
With a sigh, Portia forced herself up from the chair. There was no point in donning her domino again since everyone would soon know her identity. Abandoning the quiver of arrows, too, she tidied her hair in front of a mirror and then trudged out of the bedchamber, only to stop in surprise.
In the dimly lit corridor, a masked man stood waiting for her.
Her heart leaped with instant recognition. Ratcliffe. No other gentleman of her acquaintance had that tall, cocky stance. Nor had any other guest garbed himself as a pirate. A billowy white shirt covered his broad chest and a red scarf was tied at his throat. Black knee-high boots and tight buckskin breeches defined his long, muscular legs.
Removing his mask, Ratcliffe tucked it into his waistband. His face wore the brash smile that never failed to stir heat in her depths.
It was working spectacularly at the moment.
“You!” she snapped, in an effort to deny his effect on her. “What are you doing up on this floor? You weren’t even invited to the ball.”
He ignored her words as his avid gaze made a slow survey of her from head to toe. “My God, Portia, I’d nearly forgotten how beautiful you are.”
His deep husky voice awakened all of her senses. She drank in the vivid details of his face, the green of his eyes, and the strong angles of his jaw and cheekbones. “Why are you here?” she repeated.
“I had to see you.” His face intent, he strolled toward her. “Where can we talk in private?”
“Nowhere. Now please leave here at once, or I’ll have one of the footmen toss you out on your ear.”
“I’m asking for a few minutes of your time, that’s all.”
She braced herself for his attempt to manhandle her back into her bedchamber. Heaven help her if he tried to kiss her again. Perhaps he would press her down onto the bed and lift her skirts. The very thought sparked an onrush of molten desire.
But oddly, Ratcliffe didn’t take advantage of her nearby bedroom. He slipped his arm through hers and tugged her down the corridor in the opposite direction from the grand staircase. She glanced over her shoulder at the emptiness of the passageway. With every step, the lilt of music and the buzz of voices seemed fainter.
She tried in vain to shake off his hold. “This is absurd. I must return to the ball at once.”
“So you can be there when Albright announces your betrothal?” His lips thinned, Ratcliffe shook his head in disgust. “I want to know why you’ve agreed to marry him despite my warnings. You owe me an explanation.”
“I owe you nothing! What gives you the right to come into my home uninvited and make such demands on me?”
“This does.”
He pulled her close, took her head in his hands, and kissed her. Too transfixed to resist, Portia could only stand there with her hands on his chest while his mouth plundered hers. Awareness of him poured like heated honey through her body, bathing her in the sweet joy of desire. It made her feel vibrantly alive for the first time in weeks.
Succumbing to temptation, she moved her palms over his thin shirt, reveling in the feel of his hard muscles. He groaned in response and cupped her bottom, lifting her to his loins. For one radiant moment, the scantiness of their costumes revealed the distinct shape of his male anatomy, and she moved her hips in instinctive curiosity. With a muffled curse, he broke off the embrace and held her at arm’s length.
The heaviness of his breathing disturbed the quiet air. “Tell me,” he muttered, “do you respond so passionately to Albright?”
Crashing back to earth, she wanted to lash out at Ratcliffe for causing the wild emotional disruption that good sense warned her to avoid. “Cad! What matters to me in a husband are kindness, chivalry, and respectfulness. You lack all of those qualities.”
Ratcliffe growled in exasperation. Then he took a deep breath and smoothed back her hair with a gentle hand. “Portia, please listen to me. You must see the truth. He’s marrying you because he knows how much I want you.”
“You?” she scoffed. “I haven’t even seen you for the past few weeks. So why would he think you were still pursuing me?”
“Believe me, he knows.”
She remembered the darkness of hatred on the duke’s face whenever he encountered Ratcliffe. Yet wasn’t that understandable given the way Ratcliffe’s mother had abandoned him at the altar? “I don’t doubt the duke despises you and your family. He certainly has every reason to do so. But I’ve seen no evidence of him taking action against you—other than these unfounded suspicions of yours.”
Ratcliffe eyed her measuringly. “Then I’ll tell you the proof. But not here, where someone might happen upon us.”
Taking hold of her upper arm, he accompanied her down a little-used back staircase. He seemed to know his way around her house with unerring instinct. Intrigued, she had only a moment to wonder at his familiarity as they walked down a darkened corridor and through a door that led outside.
There, he grasped her hand and drew her deep into the shadows of the garden. The sound of a waltz drifted from the open windows of the ballroom. Decorative lanterns hung from some of the trees, and a few costumed couples strolled the lighted pathways. Avoiding exposure, Ratcliffe made straight for the stone wall at the rear of the property.
Instinct made Portia wary. She ought to speak up, to dig in her heels and insist upon returning to the ball. Yet the feel of their intertwined fingers, the strength of his presence, filled her with an irresistible excitement. She had a few minutes’ reprieve before the supper dance would begin. What harm could come from listening to whatever he had to say?
Taking a swift look around, as if to make sure there were no observers, Ratcliffe opened the gate. He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her out into the gloom of the mews. The stamp and snort of a horse called her attention to the black outline of a coach at the end of the alley.
Uneasiness prickled over her skin, especially when Ratcliffe urged her in that direction. She reminded herself there were many vehicles parked around the neighborhood, waiting for the ball to end.
Nevertheless, she twisted away from him and stepped back against the stone wall. “That’s quite far enough. No one will hear us here, so give me your proof.”
He stepped very close, an ebony shadow blocking out the faint starlight. “First I’ll have your vow not to speak of this to a soul, aside from the people directly involved.”
She hesitated, reluctant to make promises about the unknown. But curiosity got the better of her. “As you wish.”
“Let me start by correcting a falsehood I’ve told you,” he said. “I suggested that Hannah’s infant could have been fathered by any one of a number of gentlemen. In actuality, the child is Albright’s.”
The statement hit Portia like a jab to the ribs. Certain she must have misunderstood Ratcliffe, she stared up at him in utter disbelief, trying to make out his features in the darkness. “What?”
“You heard me. It’s the truth, I swear it on my father’s grave.” His fingers gently kneaded her shoulders as if to soften the blow of his words. “Hannah was my mistress for a time—I’d taken her away from the brothel where we met and set her up in her own household so that she was mine exclusively. Then one day I called on her unexpectedly and found Albright warming her bed. He’d deliberately set out to woo her away from me with jewels and pretty compliments.”
Portia remembered Hannah’s cagey response as to why she and Ratcliffe had ended their liaison. He discovered me lying with another man.
Yet Hannah hadn’t named the duke. To attribute such reprehensible behavior to Albright seemed impossible, the direct opposite of the gentleman Portia knew.
She shook her head. “I … I cannot believe it.”
“Hannah will corroborate the story if I ask her. Albright kept her as his own mistress until he cast her out for the sin of conceiving his child. He threatened to kill her if she told anyone.”
Portia leaned her head back against the stone wall. Her mind whirled. Was it possible? The duke had always behaved toward her with the utmost gentility. Yet the incident would explain so much—such as why Ratcliffe regarded Albright with such loathing. Dear God, it made her ill to think of any man being so callous as to abandon his own baby.
Ratcliffe took hold of her arm. “I cannot allow you to marry him, Portia. I won’t allow it. I hope you can understand that.”
Wrapped up in her troubled thoughts, she didn’t realize his intentions until it was too late. He propelled her the short distance to the waiting coach, yanked open the door, and half lifted her inside.