Seduced by a Scoundrel (7 page)

A contented sigh eddied from Lady Eleanor. “I been thinkin’, dearie. There’s somethin’ so familiar about ’im.”

“About who?”

“That polite young man of yers. I wonder if ’e’s bought posies from me before.”

Alicia stiffened, though she was careful not to show her rancor. “I’m sure you’re confusing him with someone else.”

“One don’t forget such a ’andsome gent. He was smitten with ye, buyin’ every last flower. Ah, ’twas so romantic.”

Alicia avoided looking at the vase of bedraggled blooms, which she’d placed on the mantelpiece for her mother’s sake. She resented the oily charm he’d used to win over a vulnerable woman. But like it or not, she would have to endure his presence in her life. She knew her duty. She had taken him on the requested tour of the house—his house now. He had behaved with perfect courtesy, though she trusted him about as far as she could throw the contents of a chamber pot.

“His name is Drake Wilder.” She bit her lower lip and tasted the metallic zest of blood. Earlier, she had forced herself to pen a note to Lord Hailstock, informing him of the news. Now she must tell her mother. “You’ll be seeing more of Mr. Wilder from now on. Today … we became betrothed.”

Those papery eyelids blinked. Like clouds parting to blue sky, Lady Eleanor’s drowsy eyes grew slowly lucid, focusing on her daughter. “Alicia?” she said wonderingly. “Did I hear you right? You are to be wed?”

The elegant, aristocratic voice startled Alicia. Overjoyed by the transformation, she sank to her knees beside the bed. “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, Mama.
Mama.
”

Her eyes brimming, she smiled at her mother. She never knew when to expect these rare episodes of sanity; they might last mere moments or long, treasured hours. But why now? Why when she didn’t dare pour out her fears and uncertainties?

The countess groped for Alicia’s hand. “My darling girl, that is wonderful news. Who is this Mr. Wilder? Why haven’t I made his acquaintance?”

“It all happened rather quickly,” Alicia said evasively. “I suppose you could say we had a whirlwind courtship.”

Her mother’s brow pleated. Horror flirted with her fragile features, and she raised herself on one elbow. “Oh, dear. I’ve been drifting again, haven’t I?”

“You’ve been … ill. But I’m sure you’ll feel better now.”

“What day is it? What month?”

“April the eleventh.”

“Dear heaven. Last I recall, ’twas Candlemas Day and Gerald brought me the most beautiful bouquet of snowdrops.…” Sinking back onto the pillow, the countess shook her head in despair. “God have mercy. Whatever is happening to me?”

Willing her hand not to tremble, Alicia stroked her mother’s slender forearm. “You’ll be fine,” she soothed. “You’re weary, that’s all, and it’s difficult to focus your mind. Close your eyes now and rest. I’ll answer all your questions later.”

The countess’s eyelids drooped. “Such a sweet daughter you’ve always been. I don’t mean to be a burden.”

“You’re not! You’re my pride and joy,” Alicia said fiercely, leaning down to kiss her mother’s pale cheek. The faint comforting fragrance of lily of the valley clung to her skin. “How ridiculous to think otherwise.”

“I
am
silly, aren’t I? Your papa always teased me about my fancies.” A dreamy smile smoothed the lines of tension from Lady Eleanor’s face. She shifted onto her side and rested her cheek on her folded hands. “In the morning, we must plan your nuptials. And you must promise to invite your betrothed here to meet me. If you love him, then so shall I.”

“Of course,” Alicia said woodenly.

“It shall be the event of the Season. Gerald will escort you down the aisle at St. George’s. You’ll carry lilies trimmed with white satin ribbons…” Her voice drifted off, and her breathing became quiet and regular with slumber.

A familiar twist of melancholy encircled Alicia’s heart. She couldn’t be certain her mother would even remember the news come morning. The countess’s recollection of the distant past could be sharp and clear, while present events often slipped through her muddled awareness like water through a sieve. Though perhaps in this case, her tendency to forget was a blessing. Heaven forbid Mama should learn the true circumstances behind the marriage. Or the brutal nature of the man Alicia intended to marry.

Before the Season is out, you’ll come begging to share my bed.

Too restless to sleep, she snatched up the candlestick and hastened to the door. The laudanum would ensure that her mother slept deeply for hours, and it was the only time Alicia felt safe leaving her alone. She would make her way down to the kitchen and brew a pot of tea. Then perhaps a tome from the library would provide sufficient distraction from her emotional turmoil. An hour or two of deciphering Latin never failed to exhaust her. Especially a difficult work of essays like Plutarch’s
Moralia.

Drake Wilder had traveled to Rome searching for that particular work. Was book collecting such a lucrative investment? Surely the hard-bitten owner of a gaming club could have no liking for intellectual pursuits. When would the ruffian find time to bilk his customers and seduce his whores?

When would he find time to prey upon mad widows and naive earls? To coerce a desperate woman?

In a fit of ire, Alicia surged out into the darkened corridor. And collided with a solid shape.

A yelp pierced the gloom.

Startled, she lifted the candle and saw her brother. Gerald hopped on one stockinged foot, a small box tucked beneath his arm. His hair was mussed and his cravat untied, baring his prominent Adam’s apple. “Ye-ouch! You trod on my toes.”

“Hush.” She quietly shut the bedroom door. “You’ll waken Mama. She’s just now taken her draught.”

“You almost burned me, too,” he grumbled. “You should watch where you’re going.”

“It’s time you came home. I’ve been wanting to speak to you.” Prodded by anger, Alicia grabbed her brother by the arm and marched him down the passageway and to the grand staircase. “Drake Wilder came here today. On a small matter regarding ownership of this house.”

“Oh … that.” Clutching the box, her brother hunched his shoulders. “I meant to tell you, Ali, truly I did.”

“When? After he had served us an eviction notice?”

His green eyes rounded. “He swore he wouldn’t. By God, I’ll call him out for going back on his word.”

When Gerald would have leapt down the stairs, Alicia stepped in front of him. The candle flame wavered as she pressed her other hand to his scrawny chest. “Mr. Wilder has done no such thing. Instead, he has agreed to absolve the debt.” The disclosure nearly stuck in her throat. “You see, he and I … shall be married.”

“Married—?” Gerald’s jaw dropped. He stared at her as if she’d sprouted whiskers. “You’ll marry
him?
”

“Yes.”

“But … you’re not his sort. He likes wenches who—” Gerald cleared his throat, his cheeks turning ruddy. “That is, he likes common women.”

Bitterness choked Alicia. “Nevertheless, we’ve come to an agreement. We shall be wed as soon as arrangements can be made.”

“No! I’ll find the money somehow.” Her brother plunked the box down onto the floor, and the muffled chink of coins rang out in the shadowed upper landing. Dropping to one knee, he untied the twine and opened the top. The meager candlelight glinted off a small mound of gold inside the box. “This isn’t much, but perhaps he’ll accept a down payment.”

A rush of understanding tempered her anger. “You sold Pet.”

“Quite so,” Gerald said with glum bravado. “Chesterfield paid two hundred guineas for her. The rotter drove a hard bargain, but he’ll be decent to her at least.”

“Oh, Ger.” Her throat taut, Alicia bent down and slid her arms around him. His baby-fine hair glided across her cheek. For a moment, his bony shoulders sagged against her in a hug reminiscent of his youth, after Mama had descended into dementia and Alicia had assumed the role of parent.

Shooting to his feet, Gerald brought his fist down on the rickety wooden railing, and the blow echoed into the vast murky expanse of the hall below. “By damn! If only I had Wilder’s skill, I could turn this two hundred into twenty thousand. The lucky devil could do it in one night’s play.”

“I won’t have you gambling.” That sickening worry overshadowed all else. Her marriage would place him in close proximity to a seasoned gamester. If Gerald were to end up like Papa … “Promise you won’t go near Wilder’s Club ever again.”

“But everyone gathers there. ’Tis the very crack. No harm can come of joining my friends for dinner sometimes.”

She caught his sleeve. “Promise me, Gerald.”

“I know my duty to you and Mama,” he mumbled. “I won’t gamble again.”

“I pray not.” Yet she couldn’t feel at ease, not with the future looming like an executioner’s ax. “And you should know that Mr. Wilder won’t accept any down payments. He won’t take anything less than my hand in marriage.”

Gerald opened his mouth as if he would argue. Then he sank down onto the top step and looked up at her, his young features stricken. “It isn’t fair. This is my fault, not yours.”

It was Wilder’s fault. “What’s done is done,” she said, forcing a smile. “Everything will be for the best. You and Mama and I shall have a good home and ample food on the table. That is all that matters.”

Her brother didn’t look comforted. “You’re sacrificing yourself. I can’t let you do that.”

“You must.” Determined to convince him, she managed an airy laugh. “Please, Ger, don’t look so unhappy. Women often marry for monetary advantage. If truth be told, I’ll enjoy going to parties and having a fine wardrobe again.”

“But what about his…”—he cleared his throat—“marital rights?”

Before the Season is out, you’ll come begging to share my bed.

Steeling herself against a shudder, she took a deep breath. “He’s promised me a chaste marriage. So you see, it is to be strictly a business arrangement.”

A cautious hope dawned on his face. “You won’t mind, then? I wouldn’t permit it if I thought him a bad sort. But he
is
a gentleman, regardless of his low birth.”

He was a hard-hearted wretch. But Gerald needn’t know the depths of Wilder’s depravity.

Hoping God would forgive her the falsehood, Alicia said firmly, “Of course I won’t mind. I should be quite content to be rich again. And to know that all of our troubles are finally over.”

Chapter Five

Through a small iron grate in the wall, the muted strains of the violin and pianoforte drifted into the candlelit office. The music came from the salon downstairs, where gentlemen wagered their fortunes on a roll of the dice. The specially designed system of pipes carried the melody to every chamber in the building. It was Drake’s design, one of the innovations that set his club apart from all the others on St. James’s Street. Noblemen, he knew, could be lulled into taking greater risks in an atmosphere of refined serenity.

On an ordinary evening, Drake would be down there in the thick of the action, strolling from table to table, keeping a discreet eye on the play, offering praise to the winners and consolation to the losers.

But this was the night of his betrothal. The beginning of his revenge. If he’d guessed right, at any time he could receive a certain visitor. And it wasn’t the redhead in his arms.

Ensconced in the leather chair by the hearth, Drake idly smoothed his hand over the clingy green gauze of her gown. Lydia had slipped up the back staircase, as was her habit whenever she had an evening free. The lead actress in a popular play at Covent Garden Theatre, Lydia could have any man she wished, yet she came here to him. Always before, he had taken great pleasure in her earthy sensuality.

But tonight her artifices annoyed him—the coy beauty mark she’d penciled on her generous bosom, the heavy musk of her perfume, her soft mews of pleasure as she strung kisses along his jaw. Letting her stay had been a mistake. Not even her lush figure could distract him from his restless reflections. He could think only of an aristocratic blond beauty too cold and proud for his tastes.

We will have a chaste marriage.… I can’t trust you not to force yourself on me.…

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now,” he said abruptly.

Surprise flashed into her velvety brown eyes. She took his hand and guided it beneath her skirts. “You can’t mean that. We’ve only just begun.”

His fingers curled against her warm, silken thigh.
She
would marry him willingly. He had known many women like her, women who had hinted at a desire for a permanent match. Yet he felt no inclination to do more than take the pleasure they offered him.

Lady Alicia Pemberton was another matter. Toward her, he felt a burning resolve that went beyond revenge, a possessiveness that was fast becoming an obsession. In a mere two encounters, she had managed to startle him and insult him, amuse him and anger him, arouse him and intrigue him. Despite her chilly blue blood, she showed a fierce loyalty to her infirm mother. He felt a grudging respect for that.

At the same time, he resented being distracted from his true purpose. Alicia was forbidden fruit, that was all. As soon as he bedded her, the challenge would lose its appeal. He would feel no further desire for his genteel wife.

He slapped Lydia on her cushiony bottom. “I’m expecting a visitor,” he said. “This isn’t a convenient time.”

“A quick ride, then,” she said, rocking suggestively against him. “Shall we go into the other room or do it right here?”

There was a bed in the adjoining chamber for such liaisons. But Drake felt only a mild stirring, easily mastered. He lifted her to her feet. “Neither,” he said. “I’m sorry, but you cannot stay.”

Her lower lip thrust out. Recognizing an incipient tantrum, he swiftly guided her through the antechamber, where he gave her a conciliatory kiss. “Go without a fuss, and tomorrow you shall have a surprise from the jeweler.”

He did not feel inclined to inform her about his impending marriage. He would continue their affair, and if she became troublesome, he would find another mistress. The world was full of willing women.

As he ushered her out, he spied Fergus MacAllister stomping down the lamplit corridor, a thunderous glare on his craggy features. But it was not that one-eyed glower that struck a vigilant expectation into Drake. It was the man marching after Fergus.