And left
Albright standing at the altar. With all the ton watching.
Aghast, Portia
imagined the scene in her mind. It would have been a dreadful humiliation to any
man, especially one who had as much pride as the duke. And if Albright had truly
loved Lady Ratcliffe, then his heart must have been broken. Yet Lady Ratcliffe
had made no mention of the pain she had caused him. Probably because she had
been too wrapped up in her own romantic adventure.
At least now Portia could
understand the loathing exhibited by the duke. “Albright must have transferred
his anger at you to your son.”
Her face grave, Lady Ratcliffe nodded. “So it
would seem. I’ve expressed my apologies to him several times. But I do fear he
will never forgive me.”
As the viscountess took her leave, Portia was
stricken by a troublesome thought. Was
she
like Lady Ratcliffe?
The
similarity of their situations disturbed Portia. She had promised herself to a
decent, admirable man. Then she had forgotten him the instant she’d met a
handsome rake. She had allowed Ratcliffe to sweep her off her feet. And in the
doing, she had betrayed Arun.
Edith Crompton tried not to be obvious
about watching the doorway. But even as she chatted amiably with her
aristocratic guests, she was fuming inside. How
dare
Lady Ratcliffe whisk Portia away like that. The woman must be attempting to
arrange a match for her wastrel son.
Edith had no intention of allowing
Portia to wed a mere viscount. Especially one who had earned the censure of all
the ladies present. They had made their low opinion of him quite clear, and
Edith was keenly aware of how swiftly a female could fall from grace. It could
take only a single misstep, and the previous evening Portia had already pressed
her luck by going off alone with that handsome rakehell.
The girl had a
wayward streak that had first manifested itself with that native boy back in
India. She was strong-willed and rebellious, but Edith had no intention of
suffering such disobedient behavior from her ever again.
“We have decided
your home will be the perfect setting,” the Duchess of Milbourne said.
Edith
realized the haughty old woman was addressing her. And she hadn’t the foggiest
notion as to the drift of the conversation. Cautiously, she said, “Indeed, Your
Grace?”
Clutching the knob of her cane, the duchess gave an imperious nod.
“Lord and Lady Dearborn usually host the annual masquerade ball. However,
Annabel has fallen ill with the ague, and thusly we have determined that you and
Mr. Crompton should take over the duty this year.”
“We simply must have a
masquerade,” Lady Grantham said with a bob of her white curls. “Why, it is a
tradition of every Season!”
Edith’s heart pounded. They were asking
her
to sponsor a ball? She could scarcely believe her ears. This moment
was the very pinnacle of social acceptance she had longed for as a girl here in
England, when she had been
a nobody staring enviously
at the privileged nobility. That dream had sustained her all those dreadful
years in India, too, when George had accumulated their riches and she had
struggled to convince him to return to London.
Hiding her elation, she formed
her lips into a gracious smile. “Why, I would be honored.”
“Since it is a
masquerade, you won’t be expected to make any introductions,” Mrs. Beardsley
explained, brushing a cake crumb from her massive bosom. “That is why you are so
admirably suited to the task.”
“What Mama means,” Frances Beardsley added
guilelessly, “is that, well, you know so few people in society.”
Edith’s
euphoria drained away at once. It took a herculean effort to keep a pleasant
look pasted on her face. Just like that, they had knocked her back down to the
common masses with the reminder that she had not been born a lady.
They were
all looking at her, the Duchess of Milbourne, Lady Grantham, Mrs. Beardsley, and
her odious blond daughter.
Edith rallied her strength of will. She would
never allow them to glimpse her shredded pride. The time would soon come when
Portia would marry the Duke of Albright, and then Edith would have an
indisputable position in their exalted ranks. No one, especially not Lord
Ratcliffe, must interfere with that objective.
Picking up the silver pot, she
smiled amiably. “More tea?”
CHAPTER 16
Colin
had been reduced to spying on Portia again. He sat on a park bench where he
could keep watch on her house. His old brown nag cropped a nearby patch of
grass.
He wasn’t accustomed to rising so early, at least not here in London.
He seldom felt the chill of the morning mist or saw the servants out shining the
door brass. But for the past three nights he’d slept only fitfully, awaking at
dawn with a hunger that had him growling at Tudge and snapping at Hannah.
His
appetite had little to do with food and everything to do with Miss Portia
Crompton. Each night he’d tossed and turned, filled with the memory of kissing
her sweet mouth, of caressing her beautiful breasts, and touching her moist
heat. It had been intoxicating, the pleasure he’d taken in building her arousal
to a fever pitch.
Lying alone in his bed each night, he had relived her cries
of ecstasy again and again. Knowing he was the first man to bring her to the
summit had been a triumph—and an unbearable torment, as well. Stroking himself
brought only temporary relief, not the bone-deep satisfaction he craved. He felt
no inclination to visit a bawdy house, either. It was Portia he desired, Portia
he craved. He wanted to lose himself inside her, flesh to flesh, to share with
her the closeness of full-fledged lovemaking.
Instead, his dissolute actions had driven her away from
him.
You’re nothing but a worthless rake. I wouldn’t marry you to save my
life.
Haunted by her censure, Colin shifted position on the hard bench.
He took full blame for what had happened. It had been wrong of him to treat her
like a bit of Haymarket fluff. Never before had he attempted to corrupt an
innocent girl. Despite his reputation, he had enough gentlemanly scruples to
confine his trysts to more experienced women. But from the moment he’d taken
Portia in his arms, he’d been doomed. The temptation had been too powerful to
resist.
Now she had refused to see him. She had returned his letters
unopened. She had walked away from him at a party. He’d lost all his carefully
laid groundwork and was back to the barren beginning: hiding in bushes and
peering around corners, hoping to catch her alone and unguarded. He couldn’t
give up on her—he wouldn’t. Certainly, he still needed her money to pay his
mounting bills. Yet there was no denying that Portia had become more than just a
bank account to him. His pride had taken a dive out the window, and he didn’t
even care.
For the first time in his life, his knack for charming the fairer
sex had failed him. Portia had opposed him at every turn because she fancied
herself in love with the son of a maharajah. He would never forget the look of
horror on her face when she’d returned to her senses. Nor could he erase from
his mind her guilt-stricken words.
Dear God, what have I
done?
Scowling, he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The
utter foolishness of her plan befuddled him. By running off to India and
marrying a native, she would be shunned by her family, her friends, her
acquaintances.
Did she think he could just stand by
and allow her to ruin herself?
Then he caught himself.
He
had nearly
ruined her. If anyone had walked in on them three nights ago, Portia would have
been condemned along with him. He had abandoned all decency in subjecting an
innocent young lady to such intimacy. It was little wonder she had been shocked
and traumatized, for no one would have warned her of how utterly enthralling the
act could be.
Nevertheless, given half a chance he would do it again. It
didn’t matter if his soul was cast into the blackest depths of hell. Nothing
would satisfy him but the feel of Portia lying naked beneath him, panting and
moaning. And this time, he would have his pleasure, too . . .
A movement at
her house snapped him out of his sensual trance. Two women had walked out the
front door and onto the pillared porch. They were bundled up in bonnets and
cloaks, making it difficult to establish their identities. Squinting, he
recognized Portia and her middle sister, Lindsey.
He surged to his feet, his
legs stiff from the damp chill. Untying the chestnut mare, he started after the
women, not wanting to draw attention to himself by mounting. He followed them at
a circumspect distance, watching as they rounded a corner and vanished. If they
were going on a walk, perhaps to Hyde Park, he might have a chance to approach
them.
Leading the horse, he quickened his steps. When he caught sight of them
again, they had stopped on the side street. Portia gave Lindsey a brief hug.
Then, much to his surprise, she left her sister standing on the curbstone while
she hailed a hackney coach and clambered inside.
Alone.
Colin swung onto
his swaybacked mount. The old mare trudged along placidly, and he was forced to
dig in
his heels to increase her speed to a canter.
Making a detour to avoid encountering Lindsey, he pulled his beaver hat down
low, the better to disguise himself. Not for the world would he allow that nosy
girl to intercept him—or to cry out a warning to Portia.
In his haste, he
nearly ran down a stout maidservant walking a pug. With an apologetic tip of his
hat, he rode onward. He kept the hired hack in sight, riding fast until he
achieved a comfortable distance. Then he slowed to a walk, keeping pace with the
enclosed black coach as it maneuvered through the crowded streets.
It was
highly unusual for a young lady of privilege to set out on her own. At this
early hour, she wouldn’t be going to call on anyone respectable. And if she was
heading for the shops, why was she alone? At the very least, why had she brought
no servant to carry her packages?
Colin could only surmise that her purpose
was clandestine. If not, she would have taken the family coach. A maid and a
footman would have accompanied her. And Lindsey would not have left the house
with her, making it appear to their parents as if the sisters were going on a
walk together.
Yes, Portia was up to no good. Just where the devil was she
going?
His mood grew progressively grimmer as the hired hack left the elegant
streets of Mayfair and headed toward the Strand. She could have no justifiable
reason for visiting an area that dealt in commerce and industry. The traffic
here was denser, with drays hauling kegs of beer or piles of merchandise,
workmen riding the omnibus, and tradesmen going about their business. Costers
hawked their wares on street corners, selling all manner of foodstuffs from hot
meat pies to pickled whelks. The shops catered to the middle classes, bakeries
and greengrocers and secondhand clothing stores.
A
stiff breeze carried the fishy odor of the river. After a time, he could see the
spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral jutting into the cloudy sky. They were nearing
Blackfriars now, hardly a place for any decent young woman to venture.
In a
shadowed alleyway, a drunkard lay sprawled beside an empty bottle of gin.
Strings of laundry hung between the grimy buildings. A burst of loud laughter
came from a public house. Here and there, a slattern stood soliciting customers.
Several of them blew kisses to him, lifting their ragged skirts to show off
their wares.
Scowling, Colin narrowed the gap between himself and the hack.
With her privileged upbringing, Portia could have no notion of the evils that
might befall her in the stews of London. He did, though, and kept a sharp eye
out for ruffians. A band of them could easily overpower the hunched old cabman
and take her hostage. Of course, Colin would plunge in with fists flying, but
she didn’t know that. And there was always the possibility that one of them
might have a pistol. If she were shot in the mayhem of a fight . . .
His gut
churned. He wanted to ride ahead, to force the hack to turn around and take her
straight home. Reluctantly, he rejected the action. Portia likely would oppose
his command, and this was hardly the place for a gentleman and a lady to stand
in the middle of the street and quarrel. Besides, he wanted to find out where
she was heading.
And then once he had her safe, by God, he would blister her
hide.
To avoid attracting attention in the seedy neighborhood, Portia
kept as far from the windows as possible. The task was a challenge. The cab
jolted and swayed over the cobblestones, jostling her from side to side. She
hung
onto the frayed strap with one hand, using her
other hand to press a handkerchief to her nose, for the smells of damp musty
leather and stale cigar smoke permeated the interior.
This public vehicle was
a far cry from her family’s well-sprung coach with its plush velvet cushions and
sparkling clean windows. Nothing short of desperate determination could have
induced her to set out alone on this errand.
Tension knotted her stomach. She
prayed her absence had not been discovered. Lindsey had made a solemn vow to
remain in hiding until Portia returned, letting everyone believe they were out
on a walk. If Mama discovered otherwise . . .
There was no need to worry,
Portia reminded herself. Edith Crompton had taken ill with a headache during the
night and remained abed, with Kasi waiting on her hand and foot. She’d been
resting with a cold cloth on her brow when Portia had departed.