A mere pastime? The verdant vegetation in the
conservatory belied his offhand statement. For all its wild appearance, the
foliage appeared to be well tended. “You must have a team of
gardeners.”
Ratcliffe shrugged, gazing out at the conservatory, then giving
her a sidelong glance. “Actually . . . I employ only one. I do a fair bit of the
labor myself. On visits here, you see. And . . . in between supervising the
farms on the estate, of course.”
Her eyebrows lifted. He was always such a
smooth talker. She’d never known him to sound so halting, as if the words were
being wrested from him by force. Portia’s mind leaped back to the books on
agriculture that she’d seen in his bedchamber. At the time, she’d thought he was
searching for ways to wring every last bit of revenue from his estate. But the
truth was, Ratcliffe
enjoyed
working with plants.
For the first time,
she noticed the tiny smudges of dirt on his shirt, the clump of mud clinging to
the sole of his boot. The strength of his body, the sun-burnished quality of his
skin, gave further evidence to corroborate his love of outdoor activities. She
wanted to laugh in delight. The profligate rake, whom mothers warned their
daughters to avoid, actually preferred digging in the soil and coaxing seedlings
to grow.
Portia felt as if she’d been granted a
glimpse into the secrets of his soul. It was the precise opposite of the man he
presented to the world, the one whose only interests were selfish amusements. In
the space of one day, she had learned of his generosity toward those less
fortunate than himself. And now of his dedication to nature.
What other
mysteries did he hide?
He was still gazing out at the conservatory, as if to
avoid meeting her eyes. Judging by his rarely seen discomfiture, she suspected
he regretted revealing as much as he had. A tender softness grew in her heart,
radiating outward until it encompassed her entire being.
Without conscious
thought, she placed her hand on his forearm, absorbing the heat and hardness of
his flesh through the sleeve of his shirt. “You’ve accomplished a truly
marvelous feat here. It reminds me so very much of the jungles of India.”
He
looked over, his gaze searching hers. “Do you really think so?”
“Absolutely.
When I first walked in, it was uncanny, almost like stepping into another
world.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I was hoping to achieve.”
His face was
alight with fervor, his eyes very green and animated. Mingling with the earthy
scents all around them, his faint spicy scent lured her. Then his dark lashes
lowered slightly, and she sensed a shift in him to a keen awareness of their
proximity. They sat beside each other on the bench, their bodies touching. He
turned his arm so that their fingers were intertwined, his thumb rubbing idly
across the palm of her hand.
The moment became charged with sensuality. Deep
within her, desire throbbed to vivid life. She could feel the mad rush of blood
in her veins, the melting away of her inhibitions. A beautiful hunger filled
her, the need to
feel his bare flesh pressed to hers.
The yearning grew so great it emerged from her in a beseeching sigh.
His lips
parted slightly. He bent his head closer, so that his warm breath fanned her
face. Lifting his hand, he tenderly brushed the backs of his fingers over her
cheek. “Portia . . . my love . . .”
The sound of someone clearing his throat
made them spring apart. Thurgood shuffled forward with the second cup, beaming
at the two of them like a doting grandfather. “Will you require anything further
of me?” he asked.
A blush suffused Portia from head to toe. She could
scarcely meet the old butler’s eyes, let alone voice a coherent
reply.
Luckily, Ratcliffe had no such trouble. Apparently, he could turn off
his own feelings like a spigot. His face a cool mask, he gave the servant a nod.
“That will be all, thank you.”
As Thurgood left the conservatory, Portia
covered her discomfiture by reaching for the silver teapot. Somehow, she managed
to pour the hot liquid into their cups without spilling a drop. The butler’s
untimely entry had broken the spell, leaving her awash in a sea of
frustration.
Ratcliffe seemed disinclined to romance her again. Stirring milk
into his tea, he began speaking in a casual tone about his plans for the estate.
As if the interlude had never happened, he told her about the crops raised by
his tenants, and his own idea for growing exotic spices in an old disused green
house on the grounds. Portia smiled and nodded at intervals, though her thoughts
remained wrapped up in the wondrous memory of what he’d said to her.
My
love.
By the stars, what had he meant by that? Was it merely an
endearment that he murmured to all of his women? Or had he truly fallen in love
with her?
The second possibility left her
breathless. It was astonishing to contemplate that Ratcliffe might harbor deep
feelings for her beyond physical desire and his wish to claim her dowry. She
warned herself not to make too much of the statement. Despite her inexperience,
she had the sense to know that men spoke sweet nothings in the heat of passion.
Especially a man who had a history of luring women into sin.
And yet the
unguarded tenderness in Ratcliffe’s voice, the ardent look in his eyes, seemed
to preclude any trick designed to entrap her. Now, more than ever, she wanted to
see inside his mind, to view his private thoughts and to learn all of his
secrets. She burned to know the truth—though there was one question she was too
much the coward to ask him.
What exactly had he meant?
CHAPTER 21
Colin
paced the confines of his bedchamber. At the wall of windows, he pushed back the
green brocade draperies to peer out into the night. The moon had not yet risen
above the horizon, but he needed no light to discern the contours of his
property. He knew every hill and valley, every field and hedgerow. His fierce
pride in the land had its roots in his childhood, when he had wandered and
explored at will.
Yet he would give it all away to have Portia in his
bed.
His plan to seduce her had gone seriously awry. By now, they should have
been naked between the sheets, coupling with unbridled passion. He had imagined
it for so long, had been so certain of his persuasive abilities in winning her
over, that her reaction to the abduction had been a slap of cold
reality.
I won’t be bullied into marriage to you or to any other man,
especially one who will squander my dowry at the gaming tables. In fact, you’ve
done me a great service.
Yes, she would travel to India and labor the
rest of her life as a lowly governess rather than wed him. She scorned him that
much. Then she had thanked him—
thanked him
—for releasing her from her
gilded cage.
With a curse, he let go of the draperies and stomped to the
closed door. He stood there glowering at it, as he’d
done several times since eating the evening meal alone in
the formal dining room. Miss Crompton was feeling ill, Thurgood had informed
him. She had requested a tray in her chamber.
Ill, like hell. She was
avoiding him, that’s what. He hadn’t seen her since that interlude in the
conservatory, when he had come within a hairbreadth of revealing just how
besotted he was with her.
My love.
What brainless stupidity had
induced him to utter those words? He wasn’t one to spout sappy sentiments just
to get underneath a woman’s skirts. Thankfully, the butler’s interruption had
saved Colin from making an even bigger fool of himself.
But the damage had
been done. Portia had become quiet and distant, regarding him as she might an
escapee from Bedlam. It was a clear indication that she was appalled by the
prospect of him falling in love with her.
Not, of course, that he
was
in love. Rather, he was suffering from an acute case of unremitting lust. There
could be nothing more to it. Nothing at all.
Turning on his heel, he stalked
to a sideboard and poured himself a brandy. He took a bracing swallow, welcoming
the burn in his throat as a distraction. Her bedchamber lay only a few steps
across the passageway. He ought to go straight over there and demand his due. It
wouldn’t take much effort to awaken her desires since she was an amazingly
sensual woman.
He put the brakes on another feverish fantasy. Seducing her
was out of the question. She had stated in no uncertain terms that she would
never wed a gambler and a reprobate. Which put them at an impasse since he was
not at liberty to disavow her of those notions.
And now she intended to set
out for foreign shores without him.
That
was all his rash ruination of
her had
accomplished. It had ensured he would never
see her again. He took another long drink of brandy. Damn his folly. Surely he
could have found a better way to stop her from marrying Albright—
A hesitant
tapping echoed through the room. His attention jerked to the door.
Portia?
Colin threw down his glass and knocked over a chair in his haste to
get there. Taking half a second to compose himself, he swung open the dark wood
panel. Then his gaze dropped.
Bane hovered in the shadows of the passageway.
Hair tousled, he wore a wrinkled linen nightshirt that trailed down to his bare
feet.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
The boy hung his head,
seemingly fascinated by the sight of his toes digging into the carpet.
“Dunno.”
Colin looked up and down the gloomy corridor. “How did you even know
which room was mine?”
“Mr. Thurgood tole me t’ count six doors from there.”
He pointed toward the darkened staircase used by the servants.
“I see. Well,
then. Was there something you needed?”
By way of answer, Bane lifted his thin
shoulders in a shrug. He sniffled a little, then scrubbed his nose across his
sleeve.
Good God, was the boy crying? Flummoxed, Colin stood there in
something of a fix, wondering what to do.
The door directly across the
corridor opened. Portia emerged in the ivory satin nightdress that he had
purchased for her. The one that clung lovingly to her shapely curves. The one he
had imagined himself stripping off her, inch by slow inch.
And holy God, her
hair was loose. It flowed in a rich, dark brown mass down her back. One lock had
fallen forward to curl around her breasts.
“I heard
voices,” she said, looking from him to Bane. “What’s wrong?”
His mouth was
too dry to form words. Nevertheless, Colin managed to snap, “Nothing. Go back to
bed.”
With me.
Oblivious to him—and his fantasies—she hastened to
Bane and crouched down, the gown pooling around her feet. She placed her hands
on his shoulders, gazing straight into his face. “What’s the matter, darling?
Have you had a nightmare?”
Bane gave a little nod. “ ’Twas pirates,” he
mumbled. “They was goin’ t’ slice me throat, then toss me t’ the
sharks.”
Colin relaxed. “Well, now you’re awake and you know it didn’t
happen.”
Portia flashed a glare up at him, then addressed the boy again. “You
poor dear. I’m sure it all seemed very real. I would hate very much to have an
awful dream like that.”
She gathered him into her arms. Bane stood there
stiffly for a moment, then buried his face in her neck. Cuddling him close, she
cooed and stroked his hair.
Standing forgotten in the doorway, Colin scowled
down at them.
He
wanted to be the one clasped to her lush bosom, damn it.
How pathetic was that, envying a frightened little boy?
“Was your room too
dark?” Portia asked. “Perhaps you’d like to have a candle. I’m sure his lordship
wouldn’t mind.”
Bane gave a quick, wordless nod.
She looked up at Colin,
sending him a warning not to disagree. “Then you shall have one. And his
lordship and I will walk you back upstairs.”
She vanished into her bedchamber
and returned a moment later with a lighted taper in a pewter holder. Meanwhile,
Colin fetched another from his room, for they
would
need illumination to find their way back through the darkened house.
Portia
held Bane’s hand, and Colin found himself doing likewise on the boy’s other
side. As they headed down the corridor, his full awareness was captivated by
her. How had she known what to do to calm Bane’s fears?
Another question
eclipsed that one. Did she have any notion of the torture Colin endured in her
presence? With every breath, he could smell the light feminine fragrance of her
skin. With every glance, he found himself eyeing the fullness of her breasts and
the curve of her hips. He sternly reminded himself that he had no right to take
her virginity. No right to get her with child.
Because she would never marry
him.
The truth of that left him moody and frustrated. Damn it, he needed to
take a plunge in cold water. Maybe after he saw her back to her chamber, he’d
head down to the nearest stream. A brisk swim ought to cool his loins and
restore his equilibrium.
He released Bane’s small hand so they could go
single file up the narrow flight of stairs that led to the servants’ quarters in
the attic. Bane led them to his tiny room under the eaves of the house. He
scrambled into the narrow iron bedstead while Portia put the candle on a nearby
table and then arranged the blankets securely around him. Her hair swinging
loose, she bent down and pressed a kiss to his brow.