“I quite agree,” said Frances, with a sly glance at Portia.
“What do you think, Miss Crompton? You know him better than the rest of
us.”
Portia let her teacup clatter down on the nearest table. She had heard
quite enough of their small-minded censure. Despite her mother’s warnings to
stay silent, it was time to state her opinion in no uncertain terms.
She
looked at each woman in turn. “Ratcliffe deserves to be commended, rather than
criticized. For too long he’s been denigrated by those of you who know nothing
of his admirable character. After having met every bachelor in the ton, I can
say without doubt he is the finest gentleman of my acquaintance.”
Her mother
gasped. Lady Grantham’s jaw dropped. The Beardsleys stared agog.
The Duchess
of Milbourne thumped her cane on the fine carpet. “Well said, my girl! I myself
must confess to a new admiration for the fellow. It is the mark of a true
gentleman to protect his family from harm. Why, he harkens back to my day, when
men were not so slavishly devoted to such silly matters as tying the perfect
cravat!”
“Ahem.”
The sound of a clearing throat drew Portia’s attention to
the doorway of the drawing room. Her father stood there. But that wasn’t why her
heart took flight. Beside him, dressed to perfection in a topaz-brown coat and
buckskin breeches, was Ratcliffe.
Colin followed Portia down the
corridor. Gazing at the sway of her hips, he was hard-pressed to remember the
source of his grievance with her. The gauzy blue gown
skimmed the curves of her perfect, womanly form. By damn, he wanted to sweep her
into his arms and carry her upstairs to the nearest bedchamber. Maybe in
lovemaking they could forget all their differences. And he could do his best to
ensure that she devoted herself to him for the rest of their lives.
Not, of
course, that he would dare any such brazen act right here under the noses of her
parents. He needed their approval, which was why he had sought out her father
rather than go straight to Portia. But that didn’t stop Colin from
fantasizing.
He burned to know why she had offered to go with him on his
flight to the Continent. Was it lust—or love?
He had caught only a few words
spoken by that old crone Duchess Milbourne. Something about men nowadays being
slavishly devoted to tying the perfect cravat. Now he wished he’d had the
opportunity to eavesdrop outside the doorway, because those biddies had to have
come here to gossip about his discharge from prison. He desperately wanted to
know what—if anything—Portia had said in response to them. Had she informed them
of her own role in securing his release?
The reminder of her interference
irked him.
At the end of the ornate passageway, they entered a cozy sitting
room. Portia waved him past her and closed the door. When she turned to face
him, her gaze was guarded. Rather than throw herself into his arms, she primly
clasped her hands at her waist.
God help him, he could drown in those blue
eyes of hers.
He expected her to ask why he’d been speaking to her father.
Instead, she merely said, “You’re looking well. I must say, I’m happy your name
has been cleared at last.”
Her polite manner made him want to shake her. No,
he wanted to haul her close and kiss her senseless.
But first he had to set her straight. “My name was cleared at the expense of my
mother. You deliberately interfered against my express wishes.”
“Your
wishes
allowed Lady Ratcliffe to escape all responsibility for her
actions. It was completely unfair to you—to both of you.”
Colin negated the
judgment with a slash of his hand. “That’s for me to decide, not you or anyone
else. And because of you, she might have been thrown into prison.”
Portia set
her hands on her hips. “Well, she wasn’t. Once I persuaded her to do right by
you, we went to speak to each of the seconds and the doctor, too. It was a
simple matter to convince them all to tell the truth to the
authorities.”
“And little wonder!” he snapped. “
They
haven’t sworn a
vow to protect her.”
Frowning, Portia took a step toward him. “A vow?” “To my
father as he lay dying.”
Ridden with guilt, Colin raked his fingers through
his hair, already regretting the admission. It was something he had never told
anyone else. That moment was seared into his memory—his father, lying on the
floor in a pool of blood, barely able to talk, using his final breaths to beg
the promise from Colin . . . to guard his mother from all blame.
A hint of
compassion softening her face, Portia stood watching him. “So that’s why you’ve
been so tenacious in your protection of her. This isn’t the first time you’ve
covered for your mother.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t pretend
ignorance. I know about her gambling. You’ve let people believe
you
are
the profligate. But in reality,
she
is the reason you haven’t any
money.”
“A lady’s reputation is more easily ruined than a man’s.”
“And there’s also the fact that
she
killed your
father—not you. It was a tragic accident.”
The words hit Colin like a punch
to the jaw. A plethora of emotions threatened to overwhelm him. To keep himself
from raging like a lunatic, he strode away, then pivoted to face her. “My God!
Have you exposed all that to the public, as well?”
“Certainly not. I’ve no
vendetta against her. In truth, your sense of honor is to be applauded.” She
took another step toward him. “But surely you can see that I had to set you
free. Or perhaps you would have preferred to hang?”
Her tart tone gave no
clue to her real feelings. By God, why had she taken up his defense? Because she
truly cared for him? Or merely in a quest for justice?
He took a deep breath.
“You didn’t need to sully her name in the process. I would have found a way to
escape the gallows.”
“I couldn’t take that chance.” Portia regarded him a
moment, then lifted her chin. “After all, you owe me a wedding ring. We could
hardly marry if you were behind bars.”
His heart lurched. Good God, was
she
proposing to
him
? “What?”
“Everyone in society thinks we
ran off together. They believe that’s the only reason you and Albright dueled.
Now, they’re sure to be speculating over why you were speaking to Papa just
now.”
It was hardly the tender admission of love that he had hoped for.
Portia wouldn’t be marrying him out of heartfelt affection, but for protection
against gossip.
That knowledge stuck in his gullet like a bitter pill. Yet he
had no more pride left where she was concerned. Moonstruck calf that he was,
he’d take her under any circumstances she offered.
He bowed stiffly. “Your father has left the decision up
to you. Since you’re in agreement, I shall apply for the special license at
once.”
Watching him stride out of the sitting room, Portia sagged down
onto the nearest chair. She and Ratcliffe were going to be married. But he was
acting out of a sense of duty rather than love. And she mustn’t forget that he
still needed her dowry, too, to pay off his mother’s debts. How cold he had
been, how angry at Portia for interfering in his life!
For a moment, when
their eyes had first met in the drawing room, she’d had reason to hope for an
ardent reunion. His keen gaze had been concentrated on her, as if he were aware
of no one else but her in the room. But after his formal greeting to the ladies,
he had treated Portia with a cool remoteness that left her more discouraged than
ever.
Why had he not taken her into his arms? What had happened to the
passion they had shared on that one wonderful night?
Portia forced herself up
from the chair. She refused to wallow in self-pity. Somehow, she must find a way
to win his heart.
And he
did
have a heart. One had only to look at the
way he helped those in his employ and his willingness to protect his own mother.
Duchess Milbourne was right; very few gentlemen would suffer jail and possible
execution in order to hide the guilt of a loved one. Once they were wed, Portia
would have the chance to make herself indispensable to Ratcliffe. Perhaps love
given would encourage love returned.
Yes.
She had to keep faith in
that possibility.
Heading down the passageway, she decided to slip upstairs
rather than return to their guests. It was too
daunting to think of facing all those nosy ladies who
would poke and prod, trying to find out what she and Ratcliffe had discussed.
Besides, she burned to tell her sisters about the imminent marriage. Lindsey and
Blythe could always be counted on to bolster her spirits. They would say that
given half a chance, he was bound to fall madly in love with her.
Turning the
corner near the staircase, she glanced down the corridor. And
frowned.
Ratcliffe hadn’t departed, after all. He stood talking to a
cinnamon-skinned man in flowing white trousers and a turquoise surcoat, a turban
on his head. The visitor’s fingers winked with multicolored jewels.
Portia
stared. Her heart lurched.
Impossible.
Without conscious thought, she
found herself running down the corridor. Stopping in front of him, she drank in
his familiar features. Her lips parted in a disbelieving
gasp.
“Arun?”
CHAPTER 28
The
English ladies—with the exception of her glowering mother—were positively
slavering over the appearance of an exotic prince in their midst. Or rather, a
maharajah, for Arun’s father had died months ago in the cholera epidemic.
“If
I may be so bold,” Mrs. Beardsley said, “what sort of title is
maharajah?”
“It means king,” Arun explained in his modest way. “It is a great
honor for me to bear.”
“Oooh,” Frances Beardsley twittered. “Then your wife
would be a queen!”
He gave Portia an unreadable look. “Yes, the
maharani.”
Arun was alive.
The shock of it hadn’t quite settled into
her heart and mind. Instead of writing any more letters, he had traveled halfway
around the globe to surprise her. Quite probably to tell her there was no longer
any impediment to their marriage, at least from his family.
Portia didn’t
know whether to laugh or cry. Watching Arun chat with the ladies, entertaining
them with stories about his private zoo of tigers and elephants in his white
marble palace, filled her with an unimaginable joy. She loved listening to his
musical voice; it brought back nostalgic memories of her childhood.
Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about Ratcliffe.
His
face had been stony, unsmiling. He had been standing right there as a witness
while she had thrown her arms around Arun and wept with thanksgiving over his
survival. Then, a few minutes later, when she had turned around to introduce
him, Ratcliffe had vanished.
Just like that, he’d left without saying
good-bye. Dear God, what must he have thought? It was easy to imagine. He would
believe mistakenly that she preferred to wed Arun.
The thought was so
wrenching that she rose abruptly to her feet. Arun stood up as well, his
quizzical gaze on her.
Frances Beardsley batted her lashes at him. “Please
don’t leave just yet, Your Majesty. You haven’t finished telling us about your
pet monkey.”
Arun flashed her his beautiful smile, all dazzling white teeth
and warm brown eyes. Pressing his palms together, he bowed. “It is time I speak
to Miss Crompton. Perhaps later we talk?”
Frances gave him a sappy smile.
“You simply must come to visit me tomorrow. May he, Mama? Please?”
“Why, we
would be honored to entertain royalty such as yourself,” Mrs. Beardsley said,
avidly eyeing his jewels, from the huge oval sapphire on his turban to the
diamond and ruby brooch at his throat. “Perhaps dinner with a few select members
of society?”
Arun bowed his acquiescence, then Portia escorted him across the
corridor to the blue sitting room. She was torn between wanting to catch up on
all the news with her old friend, and her pressing need to find Ratcliffe. Had
he gone to apply for the special license? Surely he must have. To contemplate
anything else was too alarming.
Arun sat down beside her on a chaise. “You
are worried,
” he said, taking her hand in his. “I see
it in your face.”
What was she to say? She laced her fingers through his,
reveling in his warmth. “I’m so glad you’re alive, Arun. It’s absolutely
wonderful to see you again. You cannot imagine how much.”
When she paused, he
added gently, “Yet you love another man now. Lord Ratcliffe.”
Portia bit her
lip. Had she been so obvious? “Oh, Arun, I thought you were dead. I was
heartbroken. And the more I came to know Ratcliffe, the more I fell in love with
him. I don’t know quite how it happened, but it did.”
The corners of Arun’s
mouth turned downward, then he gave a slow nod. “The distance between us was too
great. I should have defied my father’s wishes and come after you. But I did
not.”
“Yet you
did
come to see me. So it is all
my
fault, not
yours.”
He gave a little laugh, smiling at her. “We will not blame ourselves,
dear Portia. It is karma that has decided the direction of our lives. You have
found a man who loves you deeply, and as your friend I am happy for you.”