Seduced by a Scoundrel (8 page)

Richard, the Marquess of Hailstock.

Right on cue.

Drake gave his mistress a gentle shove in the opposite direction. “Go now.”

Glancing curiously over her shoulder, the actress sauntered to the back staircase that led down to the butler’s pantry and the kitchen. At the doorway, she blew him a kiss. Then she vanished into the stairwell.

“Well, well,” Fergus growled. “’Tis a braw night for callers. And not a sweet angel among them.” He gave Drake another piercing look, then jerked his thumb at the marquess. “I told this one to wait downstairs, but he’d have naught to do with takin’ orders.”

“Cheeky minion,” Hailstock snapped. “You forget your place—”

“No,
you
forget,” Drake cut in. “You’re in my domain now.”

Before the marquess could do more than scowl, Drake sent Fergus away with a silent motion and then ushered Hailstock through the antechamber and into the office.

Drake’s anger transformed into dark elation as he strolled to a side table and picked up a cut-glass tumbler. Into it he splashed a golden brown liquid from a decanter. Then he pivoted toward Hailstock, who stood stiffly in the center of the Aubusson rug.

“Brandy?” Drake said, holding up his glass. “It’s the finest French stock—the same as in Bonaparte’s private cellar.”

“Devil take your smuggled contraband. This isn’t a social call, and well you know it.”

“Suit yourself.” Taking a long swallow, Drake sauntered to the desk and settled himself on the edge. For all his nonchalance, he could barely taste the mellow liquor. He savored only the secret pleasure of revenge.

Twenty years had passed since he had last seen Lord Hailstock at close quarters. Those years had strung silver threads through Hailstock’s black hair, etched lines on his patrician features, added a slight paunch to his trim form. Yet he had not changed, not really. Superiority still frosted his gray eyes. Disdain still curled his noble lip. Arrogance still radiated from his square-shouldered form. He wore a dark blue coat and fawn breeches, tailored at the most exclusive shop on Bond Street. His gold watch fob had come from Locke & Co., his diamond sleeve links from Gray’s, his leather shoes from Wilson’s.

Drake knew because all these years he had watched Hailstock. He had watched and waited and planned for this moment.

“Name your price,” Hailstock bit out. “I’ll make it well worth your while to cry off your betrothal to Lady Alicia.”

“No.”

The marquess took a step toward him. “Knave! You coerced her by setting up her brother for a loss. But she isn’t a prize to be won in a wager. You’ll only drag her down into your filth.”

The cold knot tightened inside Drake. He drained his glass and carefully set it on the mahogany surface of the desk. “Perhaps so,” he drawled, his gaze boring into the marquess. “Nevertheless, she will be mine, not yours … Father.”

The fire on the hearth seethed into the silence. Even the music downstairs had lulled. A strange deadness descended over Hailstock’s elegant features. His body went utterly still, the breath hissing out through his teeth. “You are not my son,” he said in a brusque tone. “I have but one son. My heir.”

Drake had expected that answer. He had heard it before. On one notable occasion that was burned into his memory.

The old pain broke past his self-control and twisted in his gut. He countered it by remembering another moment, the morning when he had knelt by his dying mother’s bedside in Edinburgh, a ten-year-old lad faced with the prospect of losing the only parent he had ever known. He would never forget the fear that had strangled his heart.…

Muira Wilder had coughed, wiping her lips with the blood-speckled handkerchief. With shaking hands, Drake poured her a cup of water. He had sensed something was wrong, though he’d tried so hard not to believe it. Her once rosy cheeks looked pale as if daubed by white greasepaint. For days, she had been too weak to play any roles with the troupe of actors.

After choking down a sip, she lay back against the pillow and regarded him with haunted hazel eyes. “’Tis time ye ken I’m dyin’.”

“Dinna speak so, Mither. We’ll be together always.”

She lovingly stroked his hair. “Nay, my son, it canna be. I nivver could carry a bairn, lost so many till ye came along. Ye were my blessin’, my gift from heaven. But now ye must go to yer sire.”

“I’d rather stay with Fergus!”

“Fergus will go wi’ ye, but he is not yer father. Hailstock is a powerful lord whose noble blood will serve ye well.” Groping for his fingers, Muira pressed a diamond stickpin into his hands. “Here’s the proof. I was to use this fer yer keep, but we scraped by without sellin’ it.”

“But I wish to stay by ye.”

“Och, ye canna. And a lad needs his father. His lordship will love ye when he sees what a braw lad ye’ve grown up to be. Say ye’ll go to him when I’m gone.…”

He’d been too stricken to refuse. Only a few weeks later, after burying his mother on a bitter cold autumn day, he and Fergus had set south for England. Drake had spent the long days on the mail coach grieving for his mother and dreaming of the warm embrace of a father. Yet when he found the fine mansion in Mayfair, the butler had refused him entry.

In desperation, he had pushed his way inside, leaving Fergus behind. Pursued by servants, he’d run from room to magnificent room, until he’d dashed into a grand parlor and found the Marquess of Hailstock down on the floor, playing tin soldiers with a handsome, tawny-haired boy, his two-year-old son, James.…

Drake’s half-brother. The legitimate heir.

Even now, Drake felt a welter of emotions he didn’t care to examine. For one prolonged moment, he had fiercely yearned to be a part of that family. He had hurled himself at Hailstock’s well-shod feet, blubbered out his naïve hopes. And the marquess had coldly denied him. When Drake had showed him the stickpin, Hailstock’s face had turned ugly. He’d called for his servants to haul the scruffy urchin off to the magistrate for thievery.…

Gazing again at that haughty face, Drake now focused on the anger that had long ruled his life. “Deny me all you like,” he said. “The fact remains that after seeing her perform in Edinburgh, you took a fancy to my mother and seduced her.”

“Is that what she told you?” Hailstock let out a contemptuous laugh. “I never even met the bitch.”

Consumed by a burst of rage, Drake only just stopped himself from balling his fingers into fists. It would serve no purpose to strike the marquess. There was a better way to rub his noble nose in the dirt.

Drake stalked around the desk and yanked open a drawer. Reaching inside, he pulled out the diamond stickpin in the design of a stylized
H.
“You gave this to her to buy her silence.”

Hailstock grimaced. “That only proves her a thief.”

“Or you a liar.” Drake tossed the stickpin back into the drawer, where it clattered into a corner. “Life hasn’t turned out quite as you planned, has it? Your bastard son is a rich man now. And your legitimate heir is a cripple—because of you.”

Hailstock turned pale. His hand gripped the back of a chair, and his gold signet glinted in the candlelight. “Riffraff! Should you dare to involve James in our quarrel, by God, I’ll ruin you.”

Drake couldn’t begrudge Hailstock’s doting protection of the bedridden twenty-two-year-old. Hailstock had purchased a racehorse for James on his eighteenth birthday, and on that same afternoon, the reckless youth had taken his fateful tumble.

Casually sitting on the edge of the desk, Drake regarded his father. “Luckily for you, my lord, James doesn’t concern me in the slightest. I’m far more interested in Lady Alicia Pemberton.”

“You aren’t worthy of her,” Hailstock said. “Your marriage will be a travesty.”

“Ah, but she’ll be my stepping-stone into society. Henceforth, your by-blow will be invited to the same parties as you.”

Those aristocratic nostrils flared. “So that is your plan,” Hailstock said scathingly. “Give it up. If you claim a relation to me, no one will accept your word over mine.”

“I have no intention of revealing the truth of my parentage … yet.” First, he would enjoy watching his father squirm.

“The Pembertons aren’t even accepted anymore. Lady Brockway is a lunatic, a pariah. She belongs in Bedlam Hospital.”

“Are you afraid of one little madwoman?” Privately, Drake admitted he’d enjoyed meeting the dowager. She had a certain elfin sparkle in her eyes that made him wonder if Alicia had possessed such charm before duty and debts had weighed upon her.

Hailstock gave a huff of disdain. “Any association with Lady Brockway will make you even more of a laughingstock.”

“That remains to be seen.”

Fury glittered in the marquess’s eyes, along with something else. Something dark and desperate. His fists clenched, he took another step toward Drake. “For pity’s sake, man, choose another wife. A mature widow who won’t be hurt by your intrigues. Don’t destroy an innocent girl just to indulge this petty delusion of yours.”

Was Hailstock truly concerned for Alicia’s welfare? Could he, in his twisted way, value her for more than her lofty ancestry? Could he actually love her? As swiftly as the questions struck, Drake saw the advantage in them.

If Hailstock adored her, so much the better.

Chapter Six

“M’lady!” Mrs. Molesworth yodeled up the attic stairs. “Yoo-hoo, m’lady, you’ve visitors!”

Alicia frowned, her arms full of a billowing blue gown that smelled musty from being shut away for more than half a century. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that came through the windows at either end of the chilly attic. Humming to herself, Lady Eleanor knelt on the bare plank floor and rummaged through a trunk of outmoded accessories. The moleskin cape lay beside her, near the piles of curled wigs, buckled shoes, and tricorne hats.

Alicia had no time to spare for visitors. Until she arrayed herself properly, she intended to postpone the loathesome task of facing the
ton.

The engagement notice had appeared that morning in the
Post;
Drake Wilder had lost no time in trumpeting their nuptials to the fashionable world. Though most of the nobility would be too haughty to pay their respects to the fiancée of a notorious gambler, there were always those who could overcome their scruples if it meant gleaning a bit of titillating gossip.

Brushing a sticky cobweb off her apron, she picked a path through the jumble of broken furniture and other discards. At the stairway landing, she peered down the steep steps.

Mrs. Molesworth stood at the base of the stairs, a mobcap perched on her iron-gray hair. She beckoned impatiently to Alicia. “Come quick, m’lady. You mustn’t keep these visitors waitin’.”

“Send them away. I’m helping Queen Anne find a gown to wear.” Alicia also hoped to renovate her own meager wardrobe—not that she’d found many promising prospects yet.

“I won’t be sent away.” A tall man stepped into view behind the servant, and his familiar deep voice echoed up the narrow shaft. “You should know that by now.”

Alicia’s heart stumbled over a beat. Drake Wilder wore a grin that deepened the dimples bracketing his mouth. His teeth shone white against his swarthily handsome face. A lock of black hair lay on his brow, creating the rakish illusion of a buccaneer.

He
was
a buccaneer, she thought disparagingly, though not in any romantic sense. He was a robber, a marauder, an exploiter of the weak.

And
she
was no cringing milksop.

“Go back to your club, Mr. Wilder. I’m busy.”

Like the uncivilized rogue he was, he ignored her wishes and mounted the stairs two at a stride. “Come, now, that’s hardly the proper way to greet your fiancé.”

Conscious of her mother at the other end of the attic, Alicia stood guard at the top of the steps. She clasped the antique gown like a shield to her bosom. “Nor is it proper to push your way in, unannounced.”

“Then it’s good that Mrs. Molesworth invited me.” A devilish glint in his eyes, he cleared the last riser and halted before Alicia. “Allow me to teach you how to receive your beloved.”

Cupping her head in his hands, he brushed a lingering kiss over her cheek. The freshness of the outdoors swept over her, along with his uniquely male scent. The touch of his mouth conveyed a bone-melting tenderness that sent sparkles of sensation radiating downward; tingling through her breasts and descending to a place so private, she arched backward in alarm.

“Take your vile hands off me.”

“As you wish.” His fiendish smile still glowed at her. “In matters of intimacy, I am yours to command.”

“Then I command you to leave.”

“Ah,” he said, lowering his voice to a murmur, “but I don’t intend to seduce you—yet. Today I’m merely abducting you.”

“Abducting?”

“I’ve come to take you to the shops on Regent Street.”

For the barest instant, she felt a yearning so intense that her knees nearly buckled. How wonderful to spend an idle afternoon trying on stylish bonnets and new shoes, inspecting the fine fabrics at the linen draper’s, sampling ices at the confectioner’s. It was a yearning she ruthlessly squelched. “I’ve neither the time nor the funds for frivolities.”

“That is about to change.” Wilder scanned her faded gown with its neatly mended places. “I intend to purchase a new wardrobe for you. My wife must be at the pinnacle of fashion.”

His wife.
A wave of nausea swept through her. In a matter of days, he would have the right to dictate to her. He would expect her to be his pretty ornament. Reminding herself of the lives he’d ruined, she said firmly, “I won’t spend a farthing of your ill-gained fortune.”

“You agreed to establish a place for me in society. You cannot entertain the nobility while dressed in tatters.”

“I’m clever with a needle. I’ll make over some old gowns.”

“Like this one?” His eyes laughing at her, he fingered the ancient frock she held to her bosom. “The style must be fifty years out of fashion. And the damn thing reeks.”

Alicia allowed he was right about the musty odor. Yet surely the silk could be cleaned and altered, the stiffly boned bodice reworked, the quarter-length sleeves cut to a fashionably short length. Even the lavish, yellowed lace could be bleached and reused on petticoats and chemises—providing it didn’t fall apart in the doing.