The reminder snapped her
fully to her senses. “The miniature? Unfortunately, yes. And may I add, I do not
appreciate your replacing Arun’s picture with your own.”
The faint tension in
Ratcliffe’s face melted away. He gave her a brash smile. “As the Bard said,
all’s fair in love and war. I was rather hoping you’d sleep with it under your
pillow.”
She had hidden the little oval in her bedside table. He didn’t need
to know that several times she’d given in to the temptation to study the image
of him as a young man, and had wondered what he’d been like then.
She pulled
back and crossed her arms. “Very amusing. Now what have you done with Arun’s
picture? If you’ve destroyed it, I vow I will never forgive you.”
“There’s no
need to fret. It’s still safe and sound.”
“I’m not
fretting.
I’m
ordering you to return my stolen property.”
“All in good time. We’ll see if
you still want it when I’m through courting you.”
His arrogance raked at her
nerves. She wanted to shake him hard and see the tiny painting fall out of his
pocket. She would do it, too, if she truly believed he had secreted it on his
person.
Where could he have put it?
Needing an outlet for her pent-up
frustration, she paced to the unlit fireplace. “Conceited oaf. What are you
doing here, anyway? I thought you were shunned by society. Or are you hiding
behind your mother’s skirts?”
His gaze turned frosty. “She invited me as her
escort
tonight. Lady Jersey could hardly protest the
arrangement.”
“Your mother seems to be a very pleasant lady. Why have you
barred her from coming to London before now?”
“I’ve told you before, I’ve
done no such thing. She stayed in Kent of her own accord.”
Was it just a
trick of the lamplight, or did something secretive flicker in his gaze?
Then
she forgot the question as he crossed to her in several quick steps. Drawing her
close, he circled his arms around her waist to hold her flush against him. Her
body thrilled to the awareness of his muscular strength. The brief anger in his
expression had faded beneath an alluring sensual darkness.
“I didn’t bring
you here to quarrel, Portia,” he said, his voice lowering to a deep, rasping
murmur. “I was hoping we might find something better to do with our
time.”
Her heart was beating so fast, he must surely feel it. This was what
kept her awake at night, this irrepressible longing to be held in his arms
again. She ached to savor every moment of it, to rest her cheek on his chest and
breathe in his scent, to run her fingers through his thick black hair. In token
resistance, she whispered, “Let me go.”
“That isn’t what you want. What you
want is me—every bit as much as I want you.” As he stroked her cheek, his
impassioned tone stirred a shivery warmth that penetrated to the core of her.
“You’ve driven me mad these past weeks. I can think of no other woman but you,
Portia.”
He brought his mouth down onto hers. The contact was deliciously
arousing, firm and commanding. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, enticing
her into opening to his exploration. The glorious experience of being kissed by
Ratcliffe was a real-life dream that enveloped
her
entire body. From head to toe, every part of her felt a hot wash of yearning. It
was an elixir to her heart to know that he’d been as obsessed with her as she’d
been with him. Surrendering to the need inside herself, she arched on tiptoes
and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Had she been of sound mind, Portia
could have come up with a dozen reasons why he was all wrong for her, why she
ought to run as far and as fast as possible. But at the moment, she didn’t want
to think, she only wanted to feel, to enjoy the pleasure of his touch.
And
touch her he did. His fingers adored the smooth skin of her throat, and then
moved downward to worship at the shrine of her bosom. The deep kiss went on and
on, and somehow—she couldn’t identify when—he loosened the back of her gown,
enough to allow his hand to slide into her bodice. He pushed aside the linen
chemise and worked his way inside her corset to cup her naked flesh, his thumb
playing with the tip. The shocking intimacy wrested a gasp from her.
She
tilted her head back, intending to order him to stop, but instead found herself
uttering little whimpers of delight. When her knees threatened to buckle, he
tightened his arm around her waist. He continued his magical assault on her
breasts, giving equal attention to each one. Then he did something even more
wicked. Reaching down, he slipped his hand underneath her skirts and up her
stockinged leg.
Even through the haze of her arousal, she realized the danger
of his action. “No . . . you mustn’t . . .”
“I mean you no harm, darling,” he
murmured, his face in shadow. “I swear it on my life. I want only your
happiness.”
He silenced any further protest with an impassioned kiss. But his
mouth held only a small portion of her attention.
The
rest of her perception was focused on the progress of his fingers along her
inner thigh. She was scandalized and intrigued, fevered and breathless, unsure
of what to expect, yet eager for it all the same.
Brushing past garters and
petticoats, he found her most private place. She moaned under the stunning bliss
of his touch. Ratcliffe pressed his lips to her throat, her name emerging from
him in a long groan. He moved his finger in light circles that seemed equal
parts torture and pleasure, causing her to squirm against him in a quest for
relief.
Yet as maddening as it was, she didn’t want him to stop. Mindless
with need, she clutched the smooth lapels of his evening coat in an instinctive
effort to keep him close. She craved what he was doing so much that she feared
she might die if he ceased. His exploration became deeper, sliding into her
slick folds and rhythmically stroking her. His every caress caused a hot throb
of sensation deep inside her. Never had she dreamed that a man’s touch could
wrest such a powerful reaction from her body. It was almost too much to
bear.
“Ratcliffe, please, oh, please . . . I want . . .”
“Damn,” he swore,
his breath heating her throat. “Damn it to
hell
.”
She heard him
through a mist of passion, only dimly registering the torment in his voice. Then
she was caught up in her own swelling desire, uttering tiny gasps of
desperation, writhing against his hand. All at once, a powerful surge of
pleasure poured through her. She cried out, and he swallowed the sound with
another kiss, his fingers continuing to caress her until the last sensations
died away.
In the idyllic aftermath, she clung limply to him, trying to catch
her breath. Her face was tucked in the lee of his neck, her mind unable to think
beyond the wonder he
had introduced to her. Nothing in
her experience had prepared her for such an extravagance of feelings.
He
abruptly removed his hand from beneath her skirts. Lifting her head, she opened
her eyes to look at him. The taut expression on his face was almost a grimace.
He was breathing hard, and even in her innocence she realized his own appetites
had not been satisfied.
She reached up to touch his face. “Ratcliffe . .
.”
He seized hold of her hand and brought it to his lips. His eyes glittered
in the shadows. “Marry me, Portia. Marry me, and we can do that as often as you
like.”
Astonishment and fervor vied within her. For an instant, she found
herself swaying toward him, enthralled by the prospect of endless lovemaking.
Already the splendor had faded, leaving her hungering for another taste of that
extraordinary pleasure.
Then the cold meaning behind his words slapped her.
This had all been a ploy. Ratcliffe didn’t love her. He had used his expertise
to coax a response from her body; he had offered rapture as an enticement to
marriage, nothing more. He had done so for the sole purpose of securing her
dowry.
And she had fallen for his trick.
She shook her head, wanting to
deny the creeping horror that left her chilled. “Dear God,” she whispered, “what
have I done?”
“You’ve done no wrong.” Ratcliffe bent his head and lightly
kissed her brow. “You’ve only seen how very perfect we are together.”
His
overconfident manner filled her with fury. She gave him a mighty shove, sending
him staggering backward. “Dastard! I’m not marrying you.”
He eyed her warily
while running his fingers through his hair. “You needn’t answer me now. At least
take a few days to consider my proposal.”
“I’ve
done all the considering I need to do. The answer is
no
.”
His lips
tightened, but he took a step toward her, his hand held out in supplication.
“Portia,” he murmured, “you’re a passionate woman. But I want you to know the
act isn’t always so gratifying. Not every man has the skill to bring you to
ecstasy.”
Her cheeks burned. Ratcliffe had known exactly what to do, how to
use his mouth and hands to arouse a carnal ache in her. He’d had years of
practice with all of his courtesans and mistresses. How easily she had been
duped into believing he might actually care for her.
A lump formed in her
throat. It was sickening to realize she’d hoped that his interest in her had
been spurred by affection. That, deep down, she had wanted him to like her for
herself.
Not for her money.
Aware of her disheveled state, she tugged up
her bodice. “So you expect me to choose a husband on the basis of his bedroom
skills. Do you really think me such a featherbrain?”
He frowned quizzically.
“Of course not. You’re a beautiful, clever woman. I merely thought to
demonstrate the happiness you’d find in our marriage.”
His callousness
enraged her. “You care nothing for my happiness. You broke the rules of
gentlemanly behavior. You cold-bloodedly plotted this seduction. You even had
the gall to execute your scheme at a party with all of society present.”
The
faint lilt of music drifted to her ears. Remembering the aristocrats she would
have to face, Portia caught her breath in a ragged sob. All she wanted to do was
to burrow under the covers of her bed. She wanted to hide from the fact that
she’d betrayed Arun by behaving like a wanton with another man.
That was one sin she couldn’t blame on
Ratcliffe.
Tears stung her eyes. He started toward her, but she froze him
with a look. “Stay away from me.”
“You’ll need help restoring your
appearance.”
He nodded at a gilt-framed mirror, and the sight of her
reflection appalled her. Her hair was mussed, her bodice sagged, and her skirt
was wrinkled. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly
compromised.
How
could she have been so foolish?
Blinking hard, she
turned her back on Ratcliffe and savagely straightened her gown. “Blast you!
You’re nothing but a worthless rake. I wouldn’t marry you to save my
life.”
He made no reply, and Portia was glad. She was too distraught to
engage him in further conversation. To be in the same room as him was
intolerable. But she couldn’t leave now, not while she resembled a two-penny
whore.
After a moment, she felt his hands at her back, deftly fastening the
row of tiny pearl buttons. His touch was impersonal, and even in the midst of
her anger and anguish, she wanted him to slide his arms around her, to whisper
sweet nothings in her ear. It confounded her, this power he wielded over
her.
As she took one last look at herself in the mirror, she caught sight of
Ratcliffe standing behind her in the shadows. The grave look on his face tugged
at her heart, but that weakness, she bitterly acknowledged, was her fatal flaw.
And it only reaffirmed the necessity of staying far away from the scoundrel in
the future.
CHAPTER 15
“I
must say, I’m appalled that Viscount Ratcliffe dared to show his face in public
yesterday evening,” Mrs. Beardsley said.
Sitting with a group of aristocratic
ladies in the gold drawing room, Portia had been dreading this moment. It was
inevitable that Ratcliffe would become the subject of conversation because all
four of the visitors had one trait in common: They loved to gossip.
She and
Mama had been readying themselves to leave on an afternoon of social calls when
the Duchess of Milbourne had arrived. While the horse-faced elderly woman had
enthroned herself on a chaise by the hearth, white-haired Lady Grantham had been
admitted, followed shortly thereafter by plump Mrs. Beardsley and her
bird-witted daughter, Miss Frances Beardsley.
Edith Crompton had been
delighted to play hostess to such stellar members of the ton, pouring tea from a
silver pot and enlisting Portia to deliver the dainty china cups. Now, Mrs.
Crompton flashed Portia a keen stare that warned her to remain silent.
“I’m
afraid my daughter and I know very little about Lord Ratcliffe,” Mrs. Crompton
said smoothly, offering the stout woman another slice of poppy cake from a
silver
tray. “Perhaps you’ll tell us more, so we will
know the necessity of avoiding him in the future.”
Her voice held the perfect
note of maternal concern, but Portia knew her mother well enough to detect a
trace of stiffness in her manner. She hadn’t forgiven Portia for abandoning the
Duke of Albright for the supper dance. Or for being spotted leaving the ballroom
in the company of the notorious Viscount Ratcliffe. Although Portia had managed
to convince her mother that nothing untoward had happened, she knew she would be
watched more closely henceforth.