Seduced by a Scoundrel (20 page)

The marquess glowered balefully as Drake steered her out of the room and into the corridor.

“Why were you rude to him?” Alicia said in a chiding whisper. “I didn’t realize you even knew his lordship. Has he been to your club?”

“Yes.” But only once. To warn Drake away from her.

“Is he indebted to you, then? Is that why you two were snapping at each other like dogs?”

Seized by a dark humor, he ran his fingertip down the dainty slant of her nose. “Money is irrelevant. You see, we both want the same bone.”

She stared uncomprehendingly. Then she pursed her lips and tried to twist away. “How flattering to be compared to a bone.”

He kept a firm hold on her, securing her lithe form to his side. With lingering anger, he stated, “You’re damn beautiful, and well you know it. The crux of the matter is, my wife will not go calling on other men.”

Her steps slowed. Her glare pierced him. “Are you forbidding me to visit a friend of my family? A helpless invalid who cannot walk?”

Her logic made him feel uncomfortably like a cur. Still, he despised the notion of her straying into Hailstock’s territory. Befriending Hailstock’s legitimate son—the half-brother Drake had never known. Without thinking, he said, “You may visit James, but only in my company.”

Alicia released a huff of displeasure. “And when will that be?”

Never.
“Soon. When I’m not busy at the club.”

“I’ll remember you said that.”

She gave him a hard look of concentration. A look so intent that her heel caught on the long carpet runner in the corridor, and she stumbled. As he tightened his arm to steady her, he savored the inward bend of her waist, the ripe curve of her hip. He was struck by the fantasy of following those contours to hidden places, to moist womanly heat and soft inner flesh. To a place that belonged to him alone, though Alicia didn’t accept that fact.

Yet.

The sounds of conversation and music drifted from the reception rooms. Spying a doorway beneath the staircase, Drake steered her into a small, darkened chamber. The cloakroom, he knew by the scents of wool and leather, the brush of fabrics against his coat sleeve.

Alicia’s face formed a perfect oval in the gloom. He could just see the innocent blue of her eyes. “Why are we in here?” she asked.

“Because I prefer privacy when I kiss my woman.”

He dipped his head and claimed her mouth. She was warm and velvety, sweet and feminine. Her lips parted in surprise, and he took swift advantage, tasting the tang of champagne on her tongue as he caressed her with his mouth. Her fingers caught at the front of his coat. He expected resistance. But instead of pushing him away, she leaned into him, releasing a little sigh. Heat surged hard in him, spreading fast, igniting the need to delve deeper into her mysteries.

Cupping her bottom, he lifted her against him, and she quivered, her arms wreathed around his neck. Her eagerness enflamed him.
His wife.
He wanted to plunge into her, to brand her as his once and for all.

The barrier of clothing frustrated him. He grasped her skirt, intending to draw it to her waist, but the trill of female voices intruded through the fog of passion. Out in the corridor, two women passed by, chattering.

Hell.
What madness to take her here. In the midst of a party.

She would enjoy it, of course. But she would never forgive him.

Raising his head, he gazed down into her dreamy eyes. She clung to his shoulders, her breasts crushed to him, her submissiveness utterly unlike the prickly puritan he’d married. Though he knew his effect on women, he had the sudden suspicion that something more had caused that dazed look.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not!”

“The truth, now. How many glasses of champagne have you had tonight?”

Her brows drew together as she considered. “Only two. No, three. Oh, bother … perhaps four at the outside.”

His mind leapt to a nefarious plan. He fought—and won—a brief tussle with his conscience. Bargain or not, she was his wife. His by the laws of God and man.

Inhaling her heady scent, he caressed her cheek. “Find the duchess and see if she can’t ride home with someone else. I’ll fetch our carriage.”

“We’re leaving?”

“You’re in no condition to remain here.”

“But … we should mingle. There’s still the supper dance—and hours of dancing afterwards.” She tilted her head as if confused. “You do wish to be accepted by the
ton,
don’t you?”

He couldn’t admit he had already accomplished his purpose here. Brushing a kiss over her moist lips, he told her a version of the truth. “I’ve had my fill of the aristocracy for one night. I’m taking you home.”

*   *   *

As the coach pulled away from the Cuthberts’ mansion, Alicia watched the torches slide past in a blur of brilliance. Then there was only the light from the colza oil lantern mounted on the inside wall of the coach, the enclosed flame flickering with the motion of the vehicle. The intimacy of the setting made her heart beat faster. She felt giddy, and from more than a few glasses of wine.

You’re damn beautiful, and well you know it.

Drake sat beside her on the plush velvet seat. His leg brushed hers. She should be offended by his vulgar cursing, by his aggressive behavior, by his high-handed insistence on leaving the ball. Yet his mastery fed fuel to the banked fire within her.

That kiss. It had been even more wonderful than the first time, at their wedding. He had tasted her deeply, and she had done the same to him. Taking shocking license, he’d pressed their bodies together, and she had
liked
it. His touch had aroused an almost frantic ache deep within her. The memory made her breathless—but not with indignation. She yearned to feel his hands on her again.

Was this love?

As quickly as the intolerable thought flitted into her mind, she rejected it. She couldn’t possibly love a gambler, a man so disreputable he’d forced her into marriage. He was a cad, a knave, a scapegrace. Though, granted, he wasn’t
entirely
wicked. He had done a few worthy acts.…

Baffled by the contradictions in him, she turned her head to study her husband. He lounged against the cushions like a debaucher in his lair … no, like an aristocrat confident of his place in the world. The lamplight etched shadows beneath the slash of high cheekbones. He looked sinister … and as seductive as sin.

Who was the real Drake Wilder?

His hand descended over hers. Intense and caressing, his gaze burned into her. “Are you dizzy?”

Only from you.
She should freeze him with an icy remark. Instead, a question tumbled out. “How can you be an unprincipled rogue if you do good deeds?”

His eyes widened ever so slightly. Then he smiled that oh-so-charming smile. “I always have a contemptible reason for everything I do. You should know that by now.”

“So what was your reason for purchasing cartloads of theatrical costumes for Mama?”

He shrugged. “They keep her occupied so that you may go out in society with me.”

Alicia conceded the logic in that. “Then why were you kind to William? Why would you bother entertaining a little boy with magic tricks?”

“I wanted to win the approval of the duchess, of course.”

Of course, “And what about Kitty? Any person of rank would have discharged her. In fact, a deaf maid would never have been hired at all.”

“And because she values her post, she works twice as hard as anyone else,” he countered. “So you see, I benefit from increased productivity. It is merely good business practice.”

He made it all sound so tidy and reasonable. Yet Alicia suspected a flaw in his smooth explanations. A flaw that touched a tender place inside her. “I wonder,” she mused, “if you
want
me to think badly of you.”

For a heartbeat, something flashed in his eyes. Something that came and went so quickly, she couldn’t be sure if it was surprise or annoyance. Or something else entirely.

“And I believe you’re being far too serious,” he said. “Better we should celebrate our success tonight.” So saying, he leaned down and pulled out a long drawer from beneath the opposite seat. He straightened up, brandishing a tall green bottle and two glasses. “Behold, the bubbly.”

“Champagne?” Alicia glanced down in shock at the array of decanters and glassware tucked into the padded lining of the drawer. “You carry spirits in your coach?”

He shoved the drawer shut with the toe of his leather shoe. “No maidenly swoons, please. And this”—he brandished the bottle—“I snitched from the butler’s pantry. Don’t tell the Cuthberts.”

He winked at her, and an involuntary smile demolished her attempt at disapproval. “You can’t really mean to open that here.”

“I do, indeed.” He handed her both glasses. “Hold these, if you will.”

Turning his attention to the bottle, he tugged off the metal closure. With an explosive whoosh, the cork popped out and champagne sprayed the interior of the coach.

Gasping, Alicia ducked from the mist that prickled her face and arms. “Drake! You shouldn’t have—”

“The glasses,” he urged.

She thrust them forward, and he diverted the foaming stream into them, ending the shower. Laughter bubbled in her like the champagne in her glass. She shouldn’t find humor in his lack of restraint. A puddle soaked into the expensive velvet covering the opposite seat. Damp spots marred her expensive gown. A droplet trickled down her cheek.

Catching it with her gloved fingertip, she fought against an appalled, incredulous delight. “For heaven’s sake! You’ve stained the upholstery.”

“It can be cleaned.”

“And my dress. The silk is
ruined.
”

“I’ll buy you another.”

“You are utterly uncivilized.”

“I beg to differ.” His grin incorrigible, he lifted his glass and toasted her. “There is nothing more civilized than fine wine in the company of a lovely woman.”

Pleasure curled deeply within her. She felt dazzled by his gallantry, dizzied by the admiration in his eyes.
Caution,
she told herself.
You’re only a game to him. Take care to resist his charm.

Summoning a semblance of calm, she sipped her champagne, relishing the tingling sensation over her tongue and down her throat. “You are a decadent man.”

“Decadent? I’m depraved.” Holding the bottle between his knees, he unknotted his cravat and yanked it free, exposing his strong male throat. Then he did something else shocking. He touched the strip of linen to the bare skin above her bosom.

Her hand shot up to grip his wrist. “Drake…” His name sounded more like a plea than an admonition. “Don’t.”

“I’m merely tidying up.” He flashed her a bland smile, his white teeth gleaming. “Champagne leaves a sticky residue.”

Imprudently, she let her hand drop to her lap. The gently rocking coach enclosed them in a bower apart from the world. His gaze lowering, he dabbed at her, starting at her shoulders and moving methodically downward, taking care around her necklace. The starched linen felt strange and masculine, oddly alluring. Her breasts felt taut and heavy. With every breath, she inhaled the warm, distinctive scent of him. Her fingers curled around her champagne glass, but she lacked the strength to lift it to her lips.

She told herself to be outraged by his boldness. Any other man would have offered her the use of his handkerchief while he discreetly looked in the other direction. Any other lady would have slapped Drake’s face.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps this sort of intimacy was nothing unusual between husband and wife. What exactly did wedded couples
do
in the privacy of the bedchamber?

Remembering that lewd statue in his office, she squeezed her eyes shut. She mustn’t think about straddling him, their naked limbs pressed together. She mustn’t wonder how he would touch her, and where. For her, marriage could never follow a conventional path. And she’d known that long before she’d met Drake Wilder.

A sudden stimulating pressure at her bosom snapped Alicia to attention. She looked down at his dark head. He was kissing her. On her
breasts.

A thrill of almost frightening intensity coursed through her. She threaded her fingers into the rough silk of his hair. “Please … you can’t do this … you
mustn’t.
”

“Tell me you don’t like it and I’ll stop.” He flicked his tongue into the valley between her breasts. “My God. You taste of champagne and roses.”

His frank pleasure robbed her of breath. Surely he must detect the quickened beat of her heart. She pushed her hand beneath his jaw and turned his head to the side. “I don’t like it. Don’t you understand? I
loathe
you.”

Drake scowled at her. She wanted to retract her cruel harshness, to explain the fears that strangled her. But she said nothing.

Slowly he straightened, the silence filled by the muffled clop-clop of hooves and the rattling of the wheels. His midnight-blue eyes seemed to penetrate her innermost secrets. She wanted to look away, but feared that any concession would weaken her resolve.

“This reluctance of yours,” he bit out. “It isn’t just that ridiculous agreement. Or your distaste for my character.”

“I don’t—” She bit down on her lip, unable to fully understand why her feelings toward him had undergone a subtle softening. Then, with cool deliberation, she lifted her glass and took a swallow of champagne. “I don’t wish to discuss it,” she said loftily. “Suffice to say, it’s best you find your pleasure elsewhere.”

“Best for whom? You?” He leaned closer, crowding her into the corner, a brooding harshness in his features. His fingers pressed almost painfully into her shoulder. “Tell me, my lady. Are you in love with Hailstock?”

“Certainly not!” she blurted out. “Why would you imagine
he
has anything to do with
us?
”

“He was your fiancé.”

“He was never my fiancé. Granted, he’d asked me to marry him, but I couldn’t because…” She stopped, her throat constricting.

“Because of your mother. The wretch wanted to lock her away.” His taut expression growing more thoughtful, Drake continued to regard her, his grip easing, his fingers gently massaging her collarbone. “But you’re not telling me everything.”