Seducing the Heiress by Olivia Drake Page A

her throat.
     
Everyone was gazing at her
expectantly. “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” she hedged.
     
“You need only
smile and look pretty,” her mother advised. “If you’ll make every effort to be
agreeable, darling, you’ll be a duchess by autumn.”
     
Portia regretted the
coddled eggs that lay sourly in her stomach. She glanced to her sister for
support, but Lindsey merely gave her a wry look of concern. Clearly, she, too,
considered the duke a more suitable husband than the son of a maharajah. Portia
couldn’t be angry at her sister. After all, Lindsey only wanted her to remain in
England with the family.
     
But Portia had never felt more alone, and she
suddenly longed for reassurance that she was doing the right thing. If only she
had received a letter from Arun . . .
     
A footman entered the breakfast room
and approached Portia’s father. “A visitor to see you, sir.”
     
George Crompton
rattled the newspaper impatiently. “I don’t take callers during
breakfast.”
     
“I’m sorry, but he asked specifically for you to be notified of
his presence at once.”
     
Ratcliffe. It has to be Ratcliffe.
     
Alarm
spurred Portia to sit up straight. Gripping the arms of her chair, she watched
as her father picked up a small pasteboard card from the silver salver held by
the footman. Frantic thoughts tumbled through her mind. Ratcliffe had lost no
time in approaching her father to ask for her hand in marriage. Papa would
refuse on her behalf, of course; he and Mama wanted her to wed the Duke of
Albright. Then, out of spite, Ratcliffe would reveal her secret plan to elope
with Arun.
     
Oh, why hadn’t the viscount come to her first? Shehad expected him to threaten exposure in exchange for her
hand in marriage. She had anticipated having the chance to outwit him . .
.
     
Her father rose. “I’ll see him in my study.”
     
“No.”
     
Without
conscious decision, she was pushing back her chair, shooting to her feet,
hurrying to her father’s side. The footman jumped back to give her space. Seeing
everyone looking strangely at her, she gathered her composure. “You really
should finish your coffee, Papa. Whoever it is can wait.”
     
And then Portia
could go and eject Ratcliffe from the house.
     
Her father frowned distractedly.
He was looking at her mother, as if trying to convey a covert message—perhaps
that their daughter had suddenly gone mad. “It’s quite all right,” he told
Portia, patting her on the arm. “I’m through here.”
     
“But you can’t go yet,”
she blurted out. “Because . . .” Her mind went blank of excuses.
     
“Good
morning, everyone.” Blythe’s cheerful voice came from the doorway. “I hope you
don’t mind that I invited someone for breakfast. He was waiting in the foyer for
you, Papa.”
     
Portia spun around to see her sister glide into the room. Blythe
was dressed in pale green, her hair a mass of perfect auburn ringlets. Her hazel
eyes sparkled with mischief, causing Portia’s heart to jump into her throat. Oh,
she was going to murder her sister. It would be just like her to bring
the viscount here . . .
     
But the elderly man who shuffled into the doorway was
no one familiar.
     
Thin and stooped, he wore an ill-fitting brown coat and
old-fashioned knee breeches with buckled shoes. His bushy brows matched the
untidy mass of white hairon his head. He turned a
battered top hat in his gnarled hands. With his deferential manner, he brought
to mind a tutor or perhaps a scholar.
     
The breath left Portia in a long
whoosh. How foolish of her. Of course Ratcliffe wouldn’t have played his hand so
swiftly. He was far more likely to toy with her as a cat teases a mouse.
     
Then
she noticed her mother staring at the visitor with an oddly intense look. The
impression vanished in an instant as Mrs. Crompton addressed her youngest
daughter, who stood at the buffet table, loading a plate with eggs