As one, the gentlemen
leaned forward, their eyes avid. “Your bedchamber?” said the Marquess of
Dunn.
“That must be quite a sight to behold,” added Lord Wrayford.
“I
should like to see—” Henry Hockenhull broke off, blushing to the tips of his big
ears.
Belatedly, Portia remembered that ladies didn’t mention their
bedchambers in public. It was another of the many ridiculous rules of the
highbrow British society that she had never aspired to join.
Mrs. Beardsley
fanned herself with a white lace handkerchief. “This is too much. Close your
ears, my darling Frances, lest you hear any more unseemly remarks.”
“Yes,
Mama.” Miss Beardsley obediently lifted her hands to frame her face, although it
was obvious from her alert expression that she had no intention of missing
a single word of the conversation. Undoubtedly, she would
take glee in repeating it to all of her friends. Portia would become the object
of malicious gossip.
And then she would be in grave trouble with her parents.
They wanted desperately for her to make an excellent match and establish the
Crompton family as full-fledged members of society. At present, they were
accepted solely on the basis of their immense wealth. It wasn’t for her own
prospects that she feared. Rather, her parents had warned Portia that failure
would mean the ruin of her sisters, too.
And that she could never
abide.
She forced a contrite smile. “I spoke out of turn. Pray forgive me if
I’ve offended anyone.”
The three gentlemen spoke all at once.
“You’ve done
no wrong.”
“No offense taken.”
“You’re utterly blameless.”
Mrs.
Beardsley’s lips pinched into a thin line. “Spoken very prettily, Miss Crompton.
However, I am reminded of the old saying: One cannot make a silk purse out of a
sow’s ear.”
The insult slapped Portia. Although she had expected intolerance
from the nobility, she had never anticipated such unbridled spite. To make
matters worse, Mrs. Beardsley had projected her voice, and some of the guests at
neighboring tables had cocked their heads to eavesdrop.
You’re the nasty
sow.
The retort sprang to the tip of Portia’s tongue. It remained
unspoken, for at that moment a tiny missile soared through the air.
It struck
Mrs. Beardsley just above the décolletage of her gown, splattering red droplets
over the pasty mounds of exposed skin.
Portia
blinked. Was that . . . a
strawberry
?
Mrs. Beardsley released an
unearthly howl. She reared back in her chair, her tight curls bouncing around
her pudgy face. For the space of a heartbeat, the juicy morsel perched on the
mountain of flesh. Then the strawberry skied down the white slope into the deep
valley of her bosom and vanished from sight.
She screeched again. Throughout
the supper room, gentlemen sprang to their feet. A flock of ladies flew to the
rescue. Frances proved useless, half swooning into the arms of the hapless Lord
Dunn. Lord Wrayford attempted to fish out the fruit with his silver spoon, which
only made Mrs. Beardsley yell louder and beat at his hand.
Portia swallowed
another untimely gurgle of laughter. Now
that
was judgment from the
heavens.
But the strawberry hadn’t fallen from the sky. Nor had it been
dropped accidentally. Someone must have thrown it. Who would have dared?
She
turned to scan the gathering. Throngs of people clustered around the table,
making it difficult to see past them. Rising from her chair, Portia squeezed her
way out of the crush. Her gaze stopped on an extraordinarily handsome,
dark-haired man leaning against one of the pillars near the buffet table. His
burgundy coat and crisp white cravat enhanced his powerful male physique.
She
guessed at once that he was the culprit. Perhaps it was the way he stood
watching her, his eyes a startling green against the tanned skin of his face.
Perhaps it was the wicked smile that quirked one corner of his mouth. Or perhaps
it was just that he looked like the sort of rascal who would enjoy playing a
prank on one of the grande dames of society.
His next action affirmed his
guilt. His gaze holding hers, he plucked another strawberry from a dish on the
buffet and proceeded to eat it with relish, licking his
fingers clean afterward.
A flush radiated from the core of her body. The
warmth made Portia long for the fan she had left lying on the table. She
couldn’t quite fathom her spontaneous reaction to him. It rattled her composure
and awakened irrepressible questions.
She had strict orders to avoid the
company of any gentleman to whom she had not been properly introduced. But
curiosity overwhelmed her. Seizing advantage of the hubbub, she marched straight
to the stranger.
He was tall, forcing her to lift her chin to meet his gaze.
Despite his casual pose, he radiated confidence and something else, something
that made her pulse beat faster. Oddly, it robbed the breath from her lungs as
well.
Unwilling to be intimidated, Portia resisted the impulse to take a step
backward. “Sir,” she said, keeping her voice low. “You threw that strawberry.
Why?”
“It seemed an effective way to distract the woman.”
Had Mrs.
Beardsley’s abuse been so loud? “You couldn’t possibly have heard our
conversation from halfway across the room.”
“Shall I claim to be blessed by
acute hearing?” He paused, considering her with those remarkable eyes. “No, I
can see you’re too clever a girl to trust such a boast. So let’s just say I know
the old baggage and the poison she spews.”
He smiled, and her heart gave an
irksome lurch. Of course, the involuntary effect didn’t signify anything. He had
done her a favor—even if in an indecent manner. “Well,” she said, allowing a
trace of hauteur to enter her voice, “I appreciate the diversion. You saved me
from insulting her in public.”
“Hypocrites deserve to be insulted.” He picked
up the
dish of plump red fruit and offered it to her.
“Would you care for a strawberry?”
Eyes widening, she glanced over her
shoulder. Thankfully, most of the guests still gathered around Mrs. Beardsley,
who was being helped to her feet by a crimson-faced Henry Hockenhull.
Portia
snatched the dish out of the stranger’s hand and replaced it on the table. “Have
you gone mad? Everyone will guess you’re the cause of this uproar.”
“You’re
quite right. I shouldn’t wish to be tossed out on my ear when I’ve only just met
the loveliest female present.”
The tribute was too outrageous to be genuine.
Yet he had a smooth sincerity that warmed her nonetheless. “Thank you, but we
haven’t
met. I shouldn’t even be speaking to you. If you’ll excuse
me.”
He took a quick step to block her departure. “Viscount Ratcliffe, at
your service. Otherwise known to my friends as Colin Byrd. There, I am no
stranger to you now.”
It was hardly a proper introduction. But he was a peer,
so surely her mother wouldn’t object to her bending the rules. And Portia did so
want to loiter in his company. There was a compelling aura about Viscount
Ratcliffe that drew her interest like a lodestone. “It’s a pleasure to make your
acquaintance, my lord.”
She offered him her hand, intending for him to shake
it. Instead, he bent down and the brush of his lips on her bare skin stirred a
flurry of goose bumps. Once again, she found herself breathless.
“It’s
my
pleasure,” he said. “And you are . . . ?”
She hesitated, reluctant
to surrender anonymity. “Miss Portia Crompton.”
“Ah, the new arrival from
India. I’m happy to discover the rumors of your beauty are no exaggeration.” He
playfully fingered the dainty gold bracelet on her
wrist. “Is this the key to your heart?”
Startled, she jerked her hand free.
If only he knew.
His silky tone and warm smile betrayed no surprise that he
was conversing with the wealthiest heiress on the marriage mart. Had he known
her identity all along? Had he lobbed that strawberry in order to draw her
attention from his rivals?
The thought stirred a sharp disappointment in her.
Lord Ratcliffe must be just another gentleman who lavished compliments in the
hopes of claiming her rich dowry. She ought to take her leave, yet perversely
she lingered. “Why did you call Mrs. Beardsley a hypocrite?”
“Because she was
looking down her nose at you. It’s rather ironic considering the dark secret in
her past.”
“Secret?”
“Not gossip, but an irrefutable fact.” Lord Ratcliffe
aimed a roguish wink at her. “Come closer and I’ll tell you.”
Without
thinking, Portia found herself taking a step toward him, rising slightly on
tiptoes, inhaling the spicy scent of his cologne. Eagerness tingled in her. It
was absurd to react as if he were a snake charmer playing his
pungi
. But
he made her so . . . so curious. “What is it?”
He bent down to whisper in her
ear, his breath warm on her skin. “Mrs. Beardsley isn’t the blue blood she would
have you believe. Her grandfather was a fishmonger at Billingsgate
Market.”
The amusement Portia had been repressing all evening bubbled forth.
“Truly? Oh, I shouldn’t laugh. My father is a merchant, too.”
“So he is. And
I can only think highly of a man who has raised so lively a daughter.” Taking
hold of her arm, Lord Ratcliffe said, “It’s far too noisy in here, don’t you
agree? Come, let’s find a quiet corner and you can tell me
all about yourself.”
Just like that, he steered her toward the arched
doorway. His nearness invigorated her, and she felt a burning desire to talk
about
him.
What were his favorite pursuits? Where was his home? Who were
his family? How swiftly a sense of camaraderie had formed between them, yet
Portia knew next to nothing about him.
Certainly she liked his sense of
humor. He was clever and charming and handsome. If she had to endure a Season in
London society, she might as well pass the time with amusing companions. The
prospect filled her with giddy anticipation.
From the ballroom came the
inharmonious sounds of the orchestra tuning their instruments. The high drama of
Mrs. Beardsley’s mishap had passed, and streams of guests were leaving the
supper room to join the next set.
As the viscount guided her to the edge of
the throng, Portia noticed people staring at them, gentlemen frowning and women
whispering behind their fans. Lord Ratcliffe nodded at a few without stopping to
talk. Somehow, she had the distinct impression it was he who had drawn their
interest, not she.
Or was it just her imagination?
His hand firmed around
her upper arm. Pulling her to an abrupt halt, he muttered under his breath,
“Blast.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Then Portia spied her mother sailing
toward them against the tidal flow of the crowd. A petite woman with a girlish
figure untouched by time, Mrs. Edith Crompton wore a fashionable gown in a rich
royal blue with a low-cut neck and short sleeves. A peacock feather bobbed and
swayed in her upswept russet hair. She ruled the house with relentless vigor.
Portia’s father fondly referred to her as his little tigress, and at the moment,
Portia could
tell by the set expression on her face
that she was perturbed.
Very
perturbed.
“It’s my mother,” she said,
bracing herself for battle. “She’ll want to meet you.”
“Not if Albright has
any say in the matter.”
Only then did Portia notice the man at her mother’s
side. The sea of guests parted to allow him passage. A middle-aged man with
silver at his temples, the duke was the epitome of sophistication in a gray silk
coat, black waistcoat and breeches, with a diamond stickpin glinting in his
white cravat. He strode forward with the authority of one who has known since
birth of his exalted stature.
His alliance with her mother confused Portia.
Upon her arrival in the vast entrance hall, she had made the obligatory curtsy
to the duke in the long receiving line, a chore for her and a triumph for her
parents. He had uttered a perfunctory greeting, hardly seeming even to notice
the obeisance of yet another debutante.
Why did he look so intent on her
now?
Lord Ratcliffe bent to whisper in her ear. The warmth of his breath sent
a delicious shiver over her skin. “Meet me in Hyde Park at ten tomorrow
morning,” he said. “I’ll be waiting in the small temple near the Serpentine. Do
you know the place?”
“Yes, but—”
“Please, I must see you again. At least
promise you’ll try.”
His urgent manner mystified her. “All right.”
Then
the duke and her mother stopped before them. The other guests gave them wide
berth, while casting inquisitive glances their way.
Lord Ratcliffe seemed
oblivious to any watchers. He radiated cool charisma as he inclined his head.
“Albright. And Mrs. Crompton, I understand. May I say you have a most charming
daughter.”
“That’s enough, Ratcliffe,” Albright
snapped. “I don’t recall seeing your name on the list of invitations.”
“An
oversight, I’m sure.”
“Hardly. You aren’t wanted here. I won’t have my guests
consorting with murderers.”
The breath seared Portia’s throat. Try as she
might, she couldn’t draw air into her lungs. Several gasps and excited murmurs
came from the onlookers. But her gaze remained fixed on Lord Ratcliffe. He was
still smiling, though his lips now formed a tight line.