She hesitated. From the corner
of her eye, she could see that Ratcliffe’s seat was vacant. He must have gone
out to the lobby, where she would be vulnerable to his approach. She had no wish
to encounter him again, especially not in the company of the duke. Their
hostility
toward one another had all the makings of an
embarrassing scene.
Here in the duke’s private box, however, she was safe
from being caught in the middle of any such confrontation. It wasn’t cowardly,
she assured herself. Rather, it was mature and responsible of her to avoid all
contact with a rogue like Ratcliffe.
“Lemonade does sound refreshing,” she
said. “But I’m feeling a trifle unwell. Would you mind terribly if I stayed here
rather than faced the crush of people?”
Something flickered in the duke’s
eyes, a faint displeasure that vanished so quickly she might have imagined it.
With perfect civility, he bowed. “I will fetch you a glass, then. And if you
like I will instruct the footman to stand outside and bar any visitors from
entering.”
“Yes!” She toned down her enthusiasm lest he guess that her
illness was merely a pretext. “Thank you, that would be most thoughtful.”
He
departed, the door closed, and she was alone. Releasing a long sigh, Portia
entertained herself by glancing around the theater. Many of the patrons had gone
out, but a scattered few remained, conversing in groups. She couldn’t see
Ratcliffe anywhere.
Had
he gone to the lobby? Or to visit someone
else’s box?
She picked up the opera glasses and slowly scanned the seats. Her
gaze paused on the stout form of Mrs. Beardsley, encased in a hideous brown
dress with too many ruffles. Her daughter, Frances, appeared to be making a cake
of herself as usual, simpering with false shyness while clinging to the arm of a
red-faced Henry Hockenhull.
Portia continued her search. Ratcliffe, thank
heavens, was still nowhere to be seen. It was just as well. Let him
turn his lecherous attentions elsewhere, on someone who
welcomed them.
Just to be fair, though, she had to admit his character wasn’t
completely devoid of redemption. He had helped Hannah Wilton after she’d been
turned out onto the street. He’d given her a place to live and an honest
livelihood. Society would frown on him employing a courtesan, especially one who
was breeding, but Portia thought it a kind and generous act.
Of course, that
was only if he didn’t have additional bedtime duties for Hannah to perform. The
nagging possibility kept Portia from feeling overly charitable toward him. She
didn’t trust him not to take advantage of the poor mother-to-be. Soon, however,
she would ascertain the truth. Portia’s letter had been delivered to the woman
earlier in the day, and she could scarcely wait for a reply—
Her leisurely
perusal of the audience came to an abrupt halt. So did her heart.
Ratcliffe
was climbing onto the railing of the box beside hers, balancing high above the
floor. Several men down below gave a shout. A woman screamed.
Ratcliffe paid
them no heed. He walked nimbly along the railing and leaped into Albright’s box.
Only then did he look down to give a jaunty wave like a performer in a
circus.
Several cheers and huzzahs arose, along with laughter and the
heightened buzz of conversation.
He took the seat beside Portia. A devilish
light danced in his green eyes, as if he’d enjoyed showing off to an
audience—without a thought for the damage to her reputation. “I see that
Albright was careless enough to leave you all alone.”
Sitting stiffly
upright, she breathed deeply in an effort
to calm her
turbulent emotions. “Have you gone mad? You could have killed
yourself.”
“It’s encouraging to know you care whether I live or
die.”
“Care for
you
?” She turned to glare at him. “Your dead body
lying on the seats down below would put a damper on everyone’s evening. And I
for one do not wish for the rest of the play to be canceled.”
“Oh, you are
cold, just like the fair Portia on stage, choosing her husband by whimsical
trickery. It will be interesting to see if she gets her comeuppance in the
second half.”
Portia was too upset to engage in a polite discussion of
Shakespeare’s work—or to argue against the implied similarity to her own
situation. “It was foolish of you to come here. The duke will be furious when he
finds you sitting in his seat. No doubt someone is already hastening to report
your idiotic behavior to him.”
The warning proved no deterrent to Ratcliffe.
He merely grinned and settled more comfortably into the chair. “I’d call my
behavior practical. There’s a rather imposing footman guarding the door. So this
seemed the most expedient way to continue our conversation.”
“There is
nothing more to be said.” She paused, curiosity overcoming her need to eject
him. “Except for one thing. Why did you never tell me you’d visited
India?”
“You never asked.”
She gave him a withering look. “You must have
known I would be interested. Did you only visit Calcutta?”
“Yes. It’s quite
the fascinating area, close to both the jungle and the hills with all the tea
plantations.”
She and her family had lived near Bombay, hundreds of miles
across the country. “How long were you there?”
“Several months.”
“Months?” The news startled her.
“What could have possibly kept you there for so long?”
“I was seeing the
sights. Exploring the countryside.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Buying
books.”
The
Kama Sutra
.
Despite her resolve to remain unaffected,
Portia blushed. To give herself something to do, she took up her fan again and
snapped it open, only to close it as she realized the action might draw his
attention to her overheated state. “You can’t have learned to read Hindi in so
short a time. It’s a difficult language to master since it doesn’t use the
English alphabet.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps for you. But I happen to have an
affinity for foreign tongues.”
What an arrogant jackass! “Foreign tongues in
foreign ladies, no doubt. You were probably carrying on a liaison. That’s what
kept you in Calcutta.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Your low opinion
wounds me, darling.”
His amusement captivated her momentarily. It made her
want to smile, too, when he needed to be blistered into going away. “Do not
address me in so familiar a manner. And you really should leave before the duke
returns with my lemonade.”
Ratcliffe’s good humor faded. “I see you’ve
decided to disregard my warning about Albright.”
“There is no reason for me
to discourage his friendship. At least
he
isn’t chasing after my
wealth.”
“You should know he has a fondness for intrigue and trickery. He
amuses himself by playing the marionette, by making people dance on his
strings.”
“I am not his puppet,” she flared. “His Grace has been the perfect
gentleman. The only cunning schemer I know is
you
.”
Ratcliffe took hold of her hand, his warmth penetrating
the thin kid glove. For once, his face was absolutely serious. “Portia, listen
to me. I’m telling you the truth. You don’t know him as well as I do.”
When
he looked at her that way, his eyes so deep and green, she felt her defenses
melting, letting in an element of doubt about the duke. But she wasn’t a naïve
schoolgirl to accept Ratcliffe at his word. Nor was she a feather-brained lady,
easily gulled by a handsome face and smooth charm. “Then answer the question
I’ve asked you before. Explain to me exactly what he’s done to you.”
Uttering
a growl of frustration, he looked away from her. “I cannot. To do so would
require me to break a confidence. And it is not my story to tell—”
His voice
broke off. His eyes narrowed, he stared intently across the theater. “Good God,”
he muttered under his breath.
“Is something wrong?”
He surged to his feet.
“Pray excuse me.”
“Wait. Where are you going?”
But she was talking to the
air. Ratcliffe had already leaped onto the railing and departed the way he’d
arrived.
A few moments later, the duke came storming back, along with her
parents. She had to explain to them what had happened, that yes, Lord Ratcliffe
had entered her box in a most unorthodox manner, but that nothing untoward had
happened. They had conversed in full view of enough members of the ton to
satisfy even the strictest of moralists.
As she pleaded her case, Portia
caught sight of Ratcliffe entering a box across the theater, just below the one
he’d occupied with his friends. He went straight to a dark-haired female
standing with several gentlemen. The woman was petite and slim, her fine figure
enhanced by a gown in a brilliant shade of peacock blue. He pulled
her aside as if his rights to her company superseded all
others. They stood near the rear of the box with their heads together,
apparently deep in conversation.
A burning lump smoldered inside Portia. Who
was she? Another of Ratcliffe’s mistresses? The nerve of him to come courting
her, then rush off to join another female.
The woman was too far away to
discern her features. Portia dared not pick up the opera glasses to take a
closer look, not with the duke and her parents hovering nearby, dissecting
Ratcliffe’s rude behavior and lack of manners.
Then, just as the duke’s party
was settling down for the rise of the curtain, Ratcliffe took the woman by the
arm and led her out of the box. Although Portia kept close watch for the
remainder of the play, they never reappeared.
Colin allowed her to
precede him through the front door. The house in Berkeley Square had to have
cost a tidy sum, he noted bitterly, assessing the extravagant interior with its
gilt chairs, fine paintings, and curving marble staircase. No doubt he would
receive the invoice for its rental shortly. The thought made him livid.
They
handed their wraps to a waiting footman. Then Colin ushered her into the drawing
room, while another footman hurried ahead to light several branches of candles
and to stir up the fire on the hearth. “Go,” he ordered the servant. “And close
the doors behind you.”
He waited in the center of the plush rug until his
command was obeyed. Only when they were alone did he pivot toward the woman who
had seated herself on a striped chaise.
The sight of her after all these
months stirred a powerful tide of emotion in him—resentment, anger, and yes,
affection. Annoyed with himself for feeling even the
slightest softening, he released the rigid restraint he had employed at the
theater, when he had been determined not to cause a public scene.
“The truth
now, Mother. Why have you come to London?”
Lady Ratcliffe looked up from
arranging her peacock-blue skirt. Except for the fine lines around her green
eyes, her features showed little sign of aging. Her hair was as dark and
luxuriant as it was in the painting that hung in his house; he wondered if she
used lamp blacking to conceal the gray seen in other women of nine-and-forty
years.
“As I said at the theater, I’ve grown weary of the country,” she said
coolly. “All of my dearest friends are here for the Season. It isn’t fair of you
to expect me to languish in the backwaters of Kent for the rest of my
life.”
“You know precisely why you were to stay there. You agreed to the
terms yourself.”
“And I’ve abided by them for three long years.” Her lips
formed a pout. “Besides, my concession was made before I realized how dull it
would be to count the sheep in the meadow and to have as my only entertainment
the doddering old vicar for tea.”
“Dull?” Rage surged in Colin, so strong he
couldn’t stand still. He stalked to the fireplace and brought his fist down on
the mantel, rattling a china figurine of a shepherdess. “And you believe that’s
an adequate excuse for canceling out what you’ve done?”
Behind him, her
skirts rustled as she rose to her feet and approached him. When she laid a
gentle touch on his arm, he stiffened. “Please look at me, Colin, I beg of
you.”
He couldn’t disregard that soft voice. It was the same voice that had
read him stories as a young boy, the same
voice that
had sung him lullabies when he was ill. He reluctantly turned to face
her.
“I’m truly sorry for all that’s happened,” she murmured, reaching up to
touch his cheek. The faint, familiar scent of roses wafted to him. “How many
times must I tell you so? If I could change the past, I would. I swear I
would.”
The tears swimming in her eyes almost did him in. The trouble was, he
believed she spoke the truth. She really did feel remorse for her actions. But
unfortunately, regret wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
He stepped
away from her. “I want you to return to Kent in the morning. You know full well
I haven’t the funds to rent this pile.”
“The lease covers half a year, and
anyway, I wish to stay for the remainder of the Season.”
“The lease is
invalid without my signature.”
She took hold of his hand and rubbed the back
of it. “Please, Colin, don’t be angry. My behavior will be exemplary, I promise
you. Besides, I do so want to meet the heiress who has caught your interest.
Miss Portia Crompton, I believe is her name.”
He scowled, realizing that his
mother must have witnessed his balancing act in the theater, then his
conversation with Portia. “She’s no concern of yours.”