“LORD RATCLIFFE, INNOCENT OF murder?” Mrs. Beardsley pronounced. “Upon my word, it is too much to believe.”
“Surely the courts have made a mistake,” her daughter Frances said hopefully, blinking her china-blue eyes.
While the gossip swirled around her, Portia serenely sipped her tea. It took great concentration to keep from showing her elation over Ratcliffe’s release. The news had broken only a short time ago, and the grand hens of society had come flocking to the Cromptons’ drawing room—probably because they hoped to spark a reaction from the debutante who had been involved with Ratcliffe.
“More tea?” Mrs. Crompton asked with grim-faced fortitude, offering the silver pot.
With a gnarled hand, the Duchess of Milbourne waved her away. “There has been no mistake in the matter,” she told the disappointed Beardsleys. “I heard the truth from Lillian herself. Apparently, her son shouldered the guilt in order to protect her good name.”
“Will she go to the gallows?” white-haired Lady Grantham asked with a shudder. “Oh, my stars, I cannot imagine it!”
“The magistrate has verified the word of the seconds,” the duchess replied. “The incident was deemed an act of treachery on the duke’s part, so there will be no need for a trial. At present, Lillian is packing to return to the country.” The elderly woman stared straight at Portia. “It seems Ratcliffe has ordered her to take up residence in the dower house on his estate.”
Portia pretended interest in the lukewarm dregs of her cup. Her mind worked feverishly. Ratcliffe was moving his mother out of the main house? What did it mean? That he didn’t want her interfering when he brought home a wife?
She mustn’t let herself hope. So much had happened since the duel. To her, the night they’d shared had bound them together forever. However, it might have meant very little to Ratcliffe. After all, he had engaged in many such trysts. She may already have faded in his mind, especially if he believed her father viewed him as too scandal-ridden to deserve her dowry.
Did he love her—or not?
Mrs. Beardsley tut-tutted. “Poor Lady Ratcliffe, to be banished to the country.”
Her daughter nodded vigorously, making her blond curls bounce. “How cruel of his lordship to send her away from all the shopping in the city. And to deny her the company of the ton, as well!”
“Nonsense,” the duchess said crisply, motioning imperiously for Mrs. Crompton to hand her a slice of poppy seed cake. “No matter what the circumstances, Lillian is responsible for Albright’s death. I, for one, am pleased she has had the good sense to retire from society once and for all.”
Her firm tone brooked no disagreement, and Lady Grantham and Mrs. Crompton quickly murmured their support. Portia bit back a smile to see the consternation on the faces of their other two guests. Stout Mrs. Beardsley looked as if she’d bitten into a lemon, while her pink-gowned daughter Frances thrust out her lower lip in a petulant pout.
Mrs. Beardsley harrumphed. “Well, this incident certainly does not absolve Lord Ratcliffe of his many sins. He remains a menace to the young ladies of society.”
“I quite agree,” said Frances, with a sly glance at Portia. “What do you think, Miss Crompton? You know him better than the rest of us.”
Portia let her teacup clatter down on the nearest table. She had heard quite enough of their small-minded censure. Despite her mother’s warnings to stay silent, it was time to state her opinion in no uncertain terms.
She looked at each woman in turn. “Ratcliffe deserves to be commended, rather than criticized. For too long, he’s been denigrated by those of you who know nothing of his admirable character. After having met every bachelor in the ton, I can say without doubt he is the finest gentleman of my acquaintance.”
Her mother gasped. Lady Grantham’s jaw dropped. The Beardsleys stared agog.
The Duchess of Milbourne thumped her cane on the fine carpet. “Well said, my girl! I myself must confess to a new admiration for the fellow. It is the mark of a true gentleman to protect his family from harm. Why, he harkens back to my day, when men were not so slavishly devoted to such silly matters as tying the perfect cravat!”
“Ahem.”
The sound of a clearing throat drew Portia’s attention to the doorway of the drawing room. Her father stood there. But that wasn’t why her heart took flight. Beside him, dressed to perfection in a topaz-brown coat and buckskin breeches, was Ratcliffe.
Colin followed Portia down the corridor. Gazing at the sway of her hips, he was hard-pressed to remember the source of his grievance with her. The gauzy blue gown skimmed the curves of her perfect, womanly form. By damn, he wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her upstairs to the nearest bedchamber. Maybe in lovemaking they could forget all their differences. And he could do his best to ensure that she devoted herself to him for the rest of their lives.
Not, of course, that he would dare any such brazen act right here under the noses of her parents. He needed their approval, which was why he had sought out her father rather than go straight to Portia. But that didn’t stop Colin from fantasizing.
He burned to know why she had offered to go with him on his flight to the Continent. Was it lust—or love?
He had caught only a few words spoken by that old crone Duchess Milbourne. Something about men nowadays being slavishly devoted to tying the perfect cravat. Now, he wished he’d had the opportunity to eavesdrop outside the doorway, because those biddies had to have come here to gossip about his discharge from prison. He desperately wanted to know what—if anything—Portia had said in response to them. Had she informed them of her own role in securing his release?
The reminder of her interference irked him.
At the end of the ornate passageway, they entered a cozy sitting room. Portia waved him past her and closed the door. When she turned to face him, her gaze was guarded. Rather than throw herself into his arms, she primly clasped her hands at her waist.
God help him, he could drown in those blue eyes of hers.
He expected her to ask why he’d been speaking to her father. Instead, she merely said, “You’re looking well. I must say, I’m happy your name has been cleared at last.”
Her polite manner made him want to shake her. No, he wanted to haul her close and kiss her senseless. But first he had to set her straight. “My name was cleared at the expense of my mother. You deliberately interfered against my express wishes.”
“Your wishes allowed Lady Ratcliffe to escape all responsibility for her actions. It was completely unfair to you—to both of you.”
Colin negated the judgment with a slash of his hand. “That’s for me to decide, not you or anyone else. And because of you, she might have been thrown into prison.”
Portia set her hands on her hips. “Well, she wasn’t. Once I persuaded her to do right by you, we went to speak to each of the seconds and the doctor, too. It was a simple matter to convince them all to tell the truth to the authorities.”
“And little wonder!” he snapped. “They haven’t sworn a vow to protect her.”
Frowning, Portia took a step toward him. “A vow?”
“To my father as he lay dying.”
Ridden with guilt, Colin raked his fingers through his hair, already regretting the admission. It was something he had never told anyone else. That moment was seared into his memory—his father, lying on the floor in a pool of blood, barely able to talk, using his final breaths to beg the promise from Colin … to guard his mother from all blame.
A hint of compassion softening her face, Portia stood watching him. “So that’s why you’ve been so tenacious in your protection of her. This isn’t the first time you’ve covered for your mother.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t pretend ignorance. I know about her gambling. You’ve let people believe you are the profligate. But in reality, she is the reason you haven’t any money.”
“A lady’s reputation is more easily ruined than a man’s.”
“And there’s also the fact that she killed your father—not you. It was a tragic accident.”
The words hit Colin like a punch to the jaw. A plethora of emotions threatened to overwhelm him. To keep himself from raging like a lunatic, he strode away, then pivoted to face her. “My God! Have you exposed all that to the public, as well?”
“Certainly not. I’ve no vendetta against her. In truth, your sense of honor is to be applauded.” She took another step toward him. “But surely you can see that I had to set you free. Or perhaps you would have preferred to hang?”
Her tart tone gave no clue to her real feelings. By God, why had she taken up his defense? Because she truly cared for him? Or merely in a quest for justice?
He took a deep breath. “You didn’t need to sully her name in the process. I would have found a way to escape the gallows.”
“I couldn’t take that chance.” Portia regarded him a moment, then lifted her chin. “After all, you owe me a wedding ring. We could hardly marry if you were behind bars.”
His heart lurched. Good God, was she proposing to him? “What?”
“Everyone in society thinks we ran off together. They believe that’s the only reason you and Albright dueled. Now, they’re sure to be speculating over why you were speaking to Papa just now.”
It was hardly the tender admission of love that he had hoped for. Portia wouldn’t be marrying him out of heartfelt affection, but for protection against gossip.
That knowledge stuck in his gullet like a bitter pill. Yet he had no more pride left where she was concerned. Moonstruck calf that he was, he’d take her under any circumstances she offered.
He bowed stiffly. “Your father has left the decision up to you. Since you’re in agreement, I shall apply for the special license at once.”
Watching him stride out of the sitting room, Portia sagged down onto the nearest chair. She and Ratcliffe were going to be married. But he was acting out of a sense of duty rather than love. And she mustn’t forget that he still needed her dowry, too, to pay off his mother’s debts. How cold he had been, how angry at Portia for interfering in his life!
For a moment, when their eyes had first met in the drawing room, she’d had reason to hope for an ardent reunion. His keen gaze had been concentrated on her, as if he were aware of no one else but her in the room. But after his formal greeting to the ladies, he had treated Portia with a cool remoteness that left her more discouraged than ever.
Why had he not taken her into his arms? What had happened to the passion they had shared on that one wonderful night?
Portia forced herself up from the chair. She refused to wallow in self-pity. Somehow, she must find a way to win his heart.
And he did have a heart. One had only to look at the way he helped those in his employ and his willingness to protect his own mother. Duchess Milbourne was right; very few gentlemen would suffer jail and possible execution in order to hide the guilt of a loved one. Once they were wed, Portia would have the chance to make herself indispensable to Ratcliffe. Perhaps love given would encourage love returned.
Yes. She had to keep faith in that possibility.
Heading down the passageway, she decided to slip upstairs rather than return to their guests. It was too daunting to think of facing all those nosy ladies who would poke and prod, trying to find out what she and Ratcliffe had discussed. Besides, she burned to tell her sisters about the imminent marriage. Lindsey and Blythe could always be counted on to bolster her spirits. They would say that given half a chance, he was bound to fall madly in love with her.
Turning the corner near the staircase, she glanced down the corridor. And frowned.
Ratcliffe hadn’t departed, after all. He stood talking to a cinnamon-skinned man in flowing white trousers and a turquoise surcoat, a turban on his head. The visitor’s fingers winked with multicolored jewels.
Portia stared. Her heart lurched. Impossible.
Without conscious thought, she found herself running down the corridor. Stopping in front of him, she drank in his familiar features. Her lips parted in a disbelieving gasp.
“Arun?”