Bane sat frozen, staring at Tudge with
a look that was part awe, part apprehension.
“Well, damn,” Colin muttered
under his breath. If he’d known the man would have such a miraculous effect,
he’d have summoned Tudge at once.
He tossed down the towel and joined his
mother in
the doorway. “If you wish any refreshment,
it’ll have to be sherry. My servants are busy at the moment.”
As they went
down the corridor toward the front of the town house, Lady Ratcliffe pursed her
mouth in distaste. “Where did you hire such a motley staff? Your valet is a
former pirate, the boy is a hooligan, and that woman . . . she’s in the family
way, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Never mind them. I’d rather you get to the point
and tell me why you’re here. And if it’s going to take a while, I’d like to
change out of these wet clothes first.”
She waved away his untidy state. “I
would prefer not to wait. Now, since you’ve offered, I would appreciate a glass
of brandy.”
He gave her a pointed stare. His mother never imbibed anything
stronger than sherry or champagne except in times of distress. The last time
he’d seen her drink brandy was right after his father’s death. What the devil
was weighing on her mind now?
God spare him, he didn’t want to know.
He
steered her into his study, where he kept a row of decanters on a sideboard.
Filling two crystal glasses, he handed one to her. She sipped at it daintily
while strolling around his desk, running a gloved fingertip over the account
book that lay open to show columns of figures.
“You always were clever at
mathematics,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t have much of a head for numbers
myself.”
Ominous commentary, Colin judged.
He took a bracing swallow and
watched her through narrowed eyes. “So tell me, Mother. What have you done this
time?”
“Done?” she repeated on a little tinkling laugh. “I can’t imagine what
you mean.”
“I very much doubt that you came here to chitchat
about the estate’s accounts. Unless, of course, you’re in
need of funds again.”
She pouted, blinking those long black lashes at him.
“And if I am? Please, darling, promise you won’t be angry with me.”
“Tell me
the amount,” he said coldly.
“It’s a trifling sum, hardly enough to sneeze
at.”
“How much?”
She hemmed and hawed before finally admitting,
“Five hundred guineas.”
“What?” Choking on her gall, Colin flung down his
glass and seized her by the shoulders. “You’ve taken up gaming again, haven’t
you?”
“It was merely a private wager among friends.”
Anger rushed through
him. Thinking of the improvements he could have made to the estate with that
amount of money made him sick. Only with effort could he keep himself from
shouting at her. “By God,” he bit out, “don’t try to pretend this is nothing.
You swore me a solemn vow that you’d never again risk another farthing on the
turn of a card.”
Tears glossed her eyes. “It was only the once,” she said in
a small voice. “I didn’t wish to appear a pinchpenny. A lady has her pride, too,
you know.”
As a child, he’d been frightened to hear the loud quarrels between
his parents behind closed doors that invariably ended in his mother weeping. Now
he had a better understanding of them. Struggling to hold his temper in check,
he enunciated every word. “To whom do you owe this money?”
“Why should it
matter?” she countered with a little shrug of her shoulders.
“It matters when
I’m the one paying your markers.”
She flung up her chin, eyeing him
defiantly. “All right, then. If you must know . . . it’s Albright.”
A tide of fury rolled over Colin, so powerful that a red
mist blurred his vision. “My God! What the devil were you thinking?”
To keep
himself from raking her over the coals, he stalked to the window and stared
unseeing into the garden. He couldn’t blame it all on his mother. Albright had
been plotting her downfall for years—and Colin’s as well. This was precisely the
sort of devious swindle in which the duke specialized.
After a moment, Lady
Ratcliffe tentatively touched his arm. “Darling, there is only one thing to be
done. You must marry Miss Crompton.”
That was the one thing he couldn’t do.
Portia needed time to overcome her grief. Seeing her in such anguish had made
him realize how badly he’d underestimated her attachment to that Indian prince
of hers. And how little by comparison she cared for Colin.
The incident had
opened his eyes to one daunting truth. He wanted her to adore
him
like
that. He craved it with all his soul. But it wouldn’t happen now, at least not
anytime in the near future.
And especially not if he married her for her
money.
CHAPTER 18
One
morning a fortnight later, a tapping on the door disturbed Portia in her
bedchamber. She was curled up in a chair by the hearth, a book open in her lap,
although her attempt at reading Miss Austen’s latest novel had met with little
success. It wasn’t the fault of the author. Rather, Portia had been too
preoccupied to comprehend the words printed on the pages.
She frowned at the
door. If she pretended not to hear, then perhaps the visitor would go away. She
could think of no one she wanted to see, not her sisters, not her parents, and
certainly not any servants bearing gifts from unwanted suitors.
The shock of
Arun’s death had been dulled by the passage of time. At first it had been a
sharp, unbearable agony. To escape the round of social events, she had pretended
illness for several days until her family’s baffled concern for her welfare had
prodded her out of bed.
Mama had wanted her help in planning the upcoming
masquerade ball they were hosting, but Lindsey—the only one who knew the true
source of Portia’s malaise—had offered to write out the invitations in her
stead. Portia had resumed her other daily activities, visiting the nobility and
attending various parties, though without her usual high spirits.
A part of her wanted to believe what Ratcliffe had
suggested, that Arun might have fallen ill and needed time to recover before
writing again. But in her heart, she knew the futility of such a hope. She had
witnessed the horrors of other such epidemics in India. And Arun had been the
sort of faithful, dependable person who, even in the throes of dire sickness,
would have roused himself enough to send a scrawled note. Because he wouldn’t
have wanted her to worry.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them
away. It was best to face the truth. He was gone. And denied the objective of
returning to India at the end of the Season, Portia found herself drifting like
a ship without a rudder.
The rapping came again, louder than before. Again,
she ignored it.
But this time, the door opened. Miss Underhill peered inside,
her sallow features showing a startled look above the gray serge of her
high-necked gown. “Oh! Forgive the intrusion, Miss Crompton. I assumed you were
in your dressing room.”
Portia summoned a polite smile. “I’m sorry, I must
have been absorbed in my reading.”
Miss Underhill didn’t challenge the fib. A
rare smile lighting her usually stern face, she walked into the bedchamber and
clapped her hands. “Come, you must make haste. You’ve a very important visitor
waiting downstairs.”
“I’d rather not see anyone just now.” Portia had come to
treasure the mornings before the hustle and bustle of afternoon visits, and she
guarded her free time jealously. “Anyway, isn’t it too early for
callers?”
“This is a most special personage. His Grace of
Albright.”
Portia frowned, trying to think back to her most recent
conversations with the duke. “Why is he here? I don’t
recall agreeing to go on a drive with him.”
“Pray, don’t be churlish. You’ve
been so cross of late, it’s a wonder you have any suitors left at all.” Miss
Underhill removed the book from Portia’s lap and placed it on a nearby table.
“You should know, the duke has spoken privately with your father in his study
just now. And that can only mean one thing.”
Portia’s mind worked sluggishly.
“What?”
“Silly goose. If you can’t guess, you’ll find out soon enough. Stand
up now so I can tidy your gown.”
It was easier to comply than to resist.
Portia dutifully rose to her feet and allowed the older woman to brush at her
skirts and straighten a bit of lace by her bodice. She patted Portia’s hair,
twisting several curls around her forefinger and then setting them into place.
All the while, she chattered in an untypically exuberant manner.
“It is quite
auspicious that just an hour ago, I received a reply from my mother’s
cousin.”
She paused expectantly, as if Portia should know what she meant.
“And?” Portia prompted.
“If you’ll recall, you asked me to write to her on
your behalf. You wanted to know why there was bad blood between the duke and
Lord Ratcliffe.”
“Oh . . . of course.” That concern seemed ages old, as if it
had happened in another lifetime. Portia had not allowed herself to think of
Ratcliffe these past two weeks. It had seemed disloyal to Arun, especially in
light of her guilt over those passionate encounters. Now, she had a clear memory
of Ratcliffe holding her close, wiping her tears, murmuring words of comfort.
And she felt a sudden aching need to feel his strong arms around her
again.
“It seems,” Miss Underhill went on, as she gave the gown one last tug,
“that the duke was once betrothed to Lord Ratcliffe’s mother. She left him
standing at the altar
in front of all the ton, whilst
she eloped to Gretna Green with the present viscount’s father. As you might well
imagine, it caused quite a scandal back in my mother’s day.”
Portia had heard
the story straight from Lady Ratcliffe. Odd how important it had been to her at
one time. Instead, she found herself wondering what had happened to Ratcliffe.
Why had he ignored her of late? Had he given up on courting her? He must have,
for he had made no attempt to contact her since that day at the docks.
A
sense of loss settled over her, keen yet somehow different from the grief she’d
felt for Arun. She missed Ratcliffe’s wit and charm, the excitement his presence
evoked in her. A part of her yearned to feel alive again, instead of being
trapped in a gray colorless world. Yet she must never again delude herself into
believing he cared for her. The cold hard truth was that he’d only wanted her
dowry.
And Bane . . . she had been so distraught over Arun that she’d gone
off in the hackney cab without assuring herself of the boy’s welfare. The memory
of his dirty little face haunted her. She hoped that Ratcliffe had had the
decency to spare him a coin or two.
Portia continued to brood about Ratcliffe
as she and Miss Underhill headed downstairs to the reception rooms. She only
marginally noticed her sisters peeking out the doorway of the morning room,
whispering and giggling.
Then her mother appeared behind them, shooing the
girls back inside before hurrying out to meet Portia. At a dismissing flick of
Mrs. Crompton’s fingers, Miss Underhill vanished into the morning room,
too.
Mrs. Crompton’s face was flushed with excitement. “Whatever took you so
long?” she whispered, critically examining Portia’s hair and gown. “The duke has
been waiting for more than ten minutes. You must go to him
at once. And remember, under no circumstances are you to
turn down his offer.”
She gave Portia a little push into the drawing room.
Preoccupied, she found herself walking into the cavernous chamber with its tall
gold draperies and its numerous chairs and tables. His offer?
Of
marriage
?
Reality struck her like a splash of cold water. She faltered
to a stop just inside the doorway, seized by the panicked urge to turn around
and flee. But the duke was coming forward to greet her, bowing over her hand and
then leading her to a chaise by the white marble fireplace. He looked as
distinguished as ever in a charcoal-gray coat with a diamond stickpin glinting
in his cravat.
Without releasing her hand, he seated himself right beside
her. The soft kidskin of his glove rubbed soothingly over her stiff, bare
fingers. “My dear Miss Crompton,” he said, gazing deeply into her eyes. “It has
been an honor these past weeks to enjoy the company of such a lovely young lady
as yourself. You must permit me to express how very much I’ve come to hold you
in the highest esteem.”
Silver threaded his well-groomed brown hair. Fine
lines radiated from the corners of his pale blue eyes. He had always reminded
her of a father, not a husband.
Desperate to stave him off, she murmured,
“I’m no different from any other girl. Truly, I’m not.”
He smiled
approvingly. “Modesty becomes you, my dear. It is an admirable quality in a
lady—and a wife.” His voice grew husky, his eyes intense. “I have received the
blessing of your father to ask you a very important question. Pray know that
your answer will most certainly affect my future happiness. Miss
Crompton—Portia—will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
Her mouth went completely dry. She saw a startling image
of him speaking similar words to Lady Ratcliffe so many years ago. What more did
she know of his past? And what did he know of hers? “I—I hardly know what to
say. This is so sudden.”