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 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—or
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.
CHAPTER 11
“You
can see the stage quite well from right here,” the Duke of Albright said as he
guided Portia to a gilt chair at the railing.
Ever the gentleman, he waited
for her parents to take the two chairs to the rear before sitting down beside
her. He was meticulously groomed in a coal-black coat with white satin knee
breeches, clocked white stockings, and polished black shoes. In the few minutes
since their arrival, he had been a model of courtesy, directing a footman to
take their wraps, chatting with her parents, complimenting both Portia and her
mother on their gowns.
Portia found his ministrations akin to curling up in a
comforting chair by a warm fire. With the duke, she wasn’t beset by a storm of
emotional upheaval. She wasn’t in a dither of frustration and anger
and—yes—unladylike lust. She wasn’t fretting about her own character flaw in
succumbing to the spell of a scoundrel. She could relax and enjoy the evening
out.
The well-appointed box enclosed the party in privacy while providing a
sweeping view of the theater. Oil lamps flickered at intervals along the walls,
painting the scene with a golden glow. The upper tiers, where the aristocrats
sat, formed a semicircle around the stage. They looked down on the floor seats,
which were a mass of humanity
with people jostling to
find a place to sit before the play commenced.
“I hope you will enjoy the
performance of the esteemed Edmund Kean,” the duke said.
The actor had taken
London by storm, and Portia looked forward to seeing his much-praised portrayal
of Shylock in
The Merchant of Venice.
“I must confess, although I’ve read
a few of Mr. Shakespeare’s plays, I’ve never actually seen one
performed.”
“Never? Yes, I suppose you would have had little occasion to
experience sophisticated culture, growing up as you did in the remote reaches of
the Empire.”
His dismissive tone made her protest, “But you mustn’t think I
was deprived. India has all manner of fine art and literature, including heroic
plays and epic poetry. And the sights are truly magnificent to behold—in Agra,
there is a white marble mausoleum called the Taj Mahal—”
“I meant no offense,
my dear. I’m sure it was all very beautiful.” The duke reached over to pat her
hand, and his cordial manner smoothed her ruffled feathers. “Now, are you
familiar with the story we are about to see?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then you
must prepare yourself for a surprise in regard to one of the central
characters.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
Smiling, he
would say no more, and curiosity filled her as the crimson curtain began a slow
rise. The buzz of conversation died down to silence, except for a cough or two.
She turned her attention to the actors on stage and quickly learned that the
heroine of the play was a young heiress named Portia. Just like her, the
fictitious Portia had to decide which of her many suitors to marry.
The duke
glanced at her, seeming to enjoy her amusement as much as the play itself. He
lent her a pair of gold
opera glasses. As she lifted
them to her eyes, however, her gaze fell on a box on the opposite side of the
theater—and one of its occupants.
Ratcliffe.
He was sitting with a group
of gentlemen and ladies. For someone who was ostracized, he certainly seemed
comfortable with the ton. She recognized a few of them as members of the fast
crowd, those who liked to gamble and drink and race their carriages, no matter
what the danger to innocent pedestrians on the street. All of a sudden, he
turned his head. He looked straight at her and smiled.
Blushing, she whipped
her attention back to the stage. But the play went unnoticed, because her mind
was once again preoccupied with thoughts of Ratcliffe. Instead of the actors,
she saw that rakish quirk of his lips. Instead of the dialogue, she heard the
murmur of his husky voice in her mind.
It must be something else entirely
that makes me toss and turn.
She hadn’t wanted to admit to him that she,
too, had lain awake at night. One taste of his mouth had been like partaking of
forbidden fruit. Ever since that moment, the deep slumber of the innocent had
eluded her. She had lost the ability to find a comfortable position in her vast
featherbed. And her restless imagination had developed an annoying tendency to
run wild. While lying in the darkness of her chamber, she found herself spinning
fantasies of Ratcliffe pressing her down into a nest of pillows, of him covering
her with his strong body.
His naked body.
Not, of course, that she had
ever viewed a man’s entirely unclothed form—except in drawings of Greek and
Roman sculptures.
And in Ratcliffe’s copy of the
Kama Sutra
.
Abandoning the opera glasses, Portia groped for her fan
and snapped it open. Thankfully, everyone was too engrossed in the play to
notice her waving the fan at her flushed face. It was most aggravating, the
effect he had on her. One would hope she’d have better sense than to moon over a
man who had made an art out of seducing women.
Yet the mere thought of him
rendered her breathless. Oh, those broad shoulders, the muscularity of his
thighs in the form-fitting breeches, the naughty glint in his eyes. It was
enough to give her a fit of the vapors . . .
With a blink, she realized that
the curtain was coming down to thunderous applause. She dropped the fan in her
lap and clapped along with everyone else.
“The play seemed rather short,” she
commented.
The duke gave her a quizzical look. “It’s merely the interlude—the
halfway point.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, feeling foolish. “Portia, darling,”
her mother said from the chair to the rear, “your father and I are going to pay
our respects to the Marchioness of Wargrave. Do pardon us, Your Grace.”
The
duke rose politely as they left. It was a ploy, Portia realized in
mortification, to leave her alone with Albright. Didn’t Mama realize how
transparent she was being?
Albright extended his white-gloved hand to Portia.
“Perhaps you would care to take a short stroll around the theater. You will wish
to partake in a glass of lemonade, as well.”