Soot streaked his face and shirt. A lock of hair drooped onto his brow. He looked weary and saddened, his eyes shadowed. Clearing his throat, James muttered, “He said I didn’t understand. But he was the one who didn’t.”
Drake could say nothing to that. He knew no adequate words of comfort. The loss was far greater for his brother.
The ballroom was dim, lit only by the remaining lamp. Two footmen would stand guard here tonight, to ensure that no smoldering places caught flame again. They had opened the windows to air out the room, though Drake knew the reek of smoke and charred wood would linger until the damage was repaired.
James wheeled himself to the unscathed end of the dais. “Fetch me that letter,” he said to the footman. “And the dueling pistol.”
The servant brought both to him.
Drake strode to his brother’s side as he examined the long-nosed gun, turning it in his hands. Hailstock must have dropped the pistol when he’d run to push James out of the way. “We’re lucky it didn’t discharge,” Drake said, his throat dry. A wild shot could have struck Alicia.
“Lucky?” James asked. Without warning, he pointed the gun at the shadowed ceiling and pulled the trigger. An empty click sounded. “Just as I’d thought,” he whispered. “Damned thing wasn’t loaded.”
The realization stunned Drake. How much he truly hadn’t understood about his father. That was all the more reason not to want the title.
He put out his hand. “I’ll take those documents now.”
James tucked the letter inside his coat along with the marriage certificate and the affidavit of birth. “No, I’ll keep them until your claim is established.”
“Don’t be a damned noble fool!” Drake flared. “Hailstock wanted them destroyed. You should comply with his last wish.”
“On the contrary, I shall protect these papers with my life.” James afforded him a keen stare. “Resign yourself to it, brother. You are now Lord Hailstock.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Three weeks later, Alicia opened the door at Pemberton House to another floral delivery.
These were wildflowers, purple hyacinth and white hawthorn and yellow buttercups arranged in a Chinese porcelain vase, the bouquet so enormous it hid the deliveryman’s face. He walked jauntily past her, flashing her a familiar grin, his honey-brown hair tousled from the spring breeze.
“Gerald!” she exclaimed. “I thought you’d gone to the club.”
“I did,” he said, carrying the vase through the foyer. “And your husband sent me on this errand.”
Drake.
As she followed her brother into the drawing room, Alicia felt the rise of an involuntary thrill, a sensation she promptly squelched. She mustn’t let Drake charm his way back into her heart. And he had certainly tried during the weeks since she and Mama had returned to their old home.
An extravagance of blooms decorated the drawing room—and every other chamber in the house. Roses in red and white and pink. Delicate hothouse orchids. Pink camellias and yellow marsh marigolds and purple violets. A profusion of lovely scents filled the air.
And there were other gifts, too. Tins of bonbons and other fine confections scattered the tables. Perfumes and jewelry crowded her dressing table upstairs. In the library, there were books in fine leather bindings, poetry and philosophy, histories and novels. Drake seemed to have an unerring instinct for her taste in reading.
But he did not understand her heart.
Beneath a spray of apple blossoms, Mama sat at a pie-crust table on which stood a crystal ball. She wore the garb of a gypsy: a saffron-yellow turban, shiny gold earrings, and a cape of midnight-blue satin sprinkled with crescent moons. The costume was another gift from Drake, of course. Alicia thought it especially diabolical of him to make Mama his ally.
Lady Eleanor clapped her hands, her bracelets jingling. “Ah, more flowers! Didn’t I predict their arrival not ten minutes ago?”
Mrs. Philpot cleared a place on the pianoforte for Gerald to set the new offering. “You certainly did, my lady,” she said, clucking her tongue in amused dismay. “I must say, it is kind of his lordship to send along a vase. We seem to have run out of containers.” She left the room to fetch an ewer of water.
Gerald brushed the golden pollen off his leaf-green coat. “You should know, Ali, your husband went to the country and picked these himself.”
“Now, there’s a Banbury tale,” Alicia scoffed.
“’Tis true,” her brother insisted. “He returned only a short while ago. Indeed, I’ve never seen a man so—” Before he could finish, he whipped out his handkerchief and sneezed.
A man so … what?
Alicia wouldn’t ask. She didn’t care to know.
To distract herself, she patted her brother on the back. “You aren’t catching cold, are you?”
“Blasted bouquet tickled my nose, that’s all.” Then he reached into an inner pocket of his coat and produced a square of ivory vellum, folded and sealed with a wafer. Flashing a grin, he handed it to her. “This goes along with the posy.”
She took the note, surreptitiously gliding her fingertips over the fine paper. Drake hadn’t attempted any communication since that first week, when he had endeavored to convince her to return to his house, alternately cajoling and demanding, subjecting her to the full force of his scoundrel’s allure. He had avowed his regrets over the lies he’d told and claimed that he had resigned himself to being a peer only for the sake of their children.
Their children.
A wistful warmth enveloped Alicia, the ever-present knowledge that their baby nestled safely within her womb. She knew Drake would be a good father. He liked children and children liked him. But he was determined to win her back only because he had too much stubborn pride to admit defeat. She resented him for thinking he could buy her affections with his bounty. She would not allow herself to be swayed by lavish gifts and persuasive letters. That wasn’t what she wanted from him.
She would never forget that night when she had stood outside James’s room, trying to work up the courage to tell Drake that he was legitimate, and overhearing him say, I’ll never kneel before any woman.
That one remark summed up his inability to love. It wasn’t that she wanted him to prostrate himself. But she had always dreamed of a man who would be willing to walk over hot coals for her, a man who regarded her as the center of his existence.
“Open the note,” Gerald urged.
Mama waved her hands, then peered into the crystal ball. “I do believe … yes … it is from one who yearns for you.”
Alicia’s fingers itched to open the missive. Perversely, she resisted the temptation. “Then he shall go on yearning.”
“Ah, have pity on the poor fellow,” Gerald said. “I vow, he’s at his wit’s end.”
Was he? Feeling a moment’s softening, she walked swiftly back and forth, reminding herself of all her grievances. “I cannot pity the man who stole the title from James.”
“’Tis Drake’s by right,” her brother said, with typical male obtuseness. “The courts should confirm that soon.”
Mama looked up from her crystal ball, her eyes clear and blue, her brow puckered. “My dear girl,” she said in faint horror, “are you suggesting that Claire’s son should not be the Marquess of Hailstock?”
More and more these days, Mama seemed to grasp what was going on around her, though she still dressed up in costumes and played out her daydreams. Not wanting to upset her, Alicia demurred, “I simply don’t think it’s fair to deprive James, that’s all.”
“Neither is it fair to deny Claire’s son,” Mama said, a trifle anxiously. “The dear boy was lost all these years. And Claire’s dying wish was to protect him. That is why I hid the documents for so long.”
Repentant, Alica slipped her arm around her mother’s slight form. “I know, Mama. You are to be admired for keeping your vow so faithfully.”
Realizing the truth in that, she took a deep, shaky breath. Perhaps she herself was
the obtuse one, afraid to risk her heart again. Afraid to accept the fact that her husband hadn’t wanted this final revenge. He despised the notion of being the Marquess of Hailstock.
In her mind she saw Drake touching the documents to the flame of the lamp. He had intended to destroy the evidence that would prove his legitimacy. All the while, he had gazed straight at her. As if willing her to believe him an honorable man.
She fingered the folded notepaper, wondering what message it contained. Could Drake have overcome his vengeful nature? If he conquered the hatred inside himself, might he then learn to love? She wanted to believe it. Too much.
Gerald’s green eyes bored into her. “You should also know that Drake gave away the old marquess’s fortune to James—except for the entailment, of course.”
Alicia straightened, scarcely noticing the shower of petals when her shoulder brushed a spray of drooping roses. “James didn’t tell me that.”
“Drake wanted it kept quiet. Doesn’t like to brag, especially about his brother. They’ve become fast friends, you know.”
She had surmised as much. James, too, had nothing but praise for Drake. He’d come here every day to teach at their school, often accompanied by Sarah. The two of them had privately announced their betrothal, though out of respect for his mourning, they would wait until the following spring to marry. Their love stirred a yearning in Alicia, the awareness that a part of herself was missing.
It seemed forever since she’d felt Drake’s embrace, his arms strong and warm, holding her close. Over the past weeks, she had thought about him often, in anger and pain … but also with love. She had reflected on his befriending of James and his generosity to the misfits who had experienced the hardships of life on the streets.
And she had imagined Drake as a little boy, eager to meet his father for the first time and profoundly hurt to be accused of thievery instead. Such cruelty might have defeated many a child. Instead, Drake had fought back, using his wits and his genius to amass a fortune at the gaming tables. In the only way he knew how, he had striven for recognition from his father. Who was she to blame him for that?
Besides, if he hadn’t been bent on revenge, they might never have met and married. She wouldn’t have his child inside her now, the miracle of their lovemaking.
“Open the letter, Ali,” Gerald urged again. Working his boyish features into the severe countenance of an earl, he placed his hand on her shoulder and added, “The fellow’s besotted with you. It’s only fair that you give him a chance to redeem himself.”
Mama tapped the folded letter. Her gaze full of mysterious wisdom, she whispered, “Go ahead, my dear. Do not be afraid. The crystal ball says ’tis time to seek your future.”
Basking in their love, Alicia allowed herself to let go of her doubts. The hurt and confusion of the past weeks floated away like petals on a warm wind. She felt light and free, secure in her decision. She was Drake’s wife, and she wanted to be with him. Even if he kept his emotions locked away, even if he could share only his body and not his heart, she would love him anyway.
And so, with trembling fingers, she broke the seal on his letter.
Chapter Twenty-nine
At precisely three o’clock that same afternoon, Alicia followed Fergus MacAllister up the grand staircase at Wilder’s Club.
Their brisk footsteps echoed in the vastness of the entrance hall, with its elegant white columns rising against the dark green walls. Few members occupied the premises at this early hour: only a pair of gentlemen engrossed in a card game in the salon, and another man by the bow window, his nose stuck in a newspaper.
Alicia remembered the first time she’d come here, desperate and determined, intending to offer herself as mistress to the most notorious gambler in London. Now she would come to him willingly as his wife.
A shiver of yearning prickled her skin. She had bathed and primped and changed her gown at least ten times, finally settling on this soft copper silk that clung to her curves. A gold-braided spencer covered a bodice cut low for a man’s pleasure.
For Drake’s pleasure.
“’Tis time ye put the auld fusspot out of his misery,” Fergus said as they reached the top of the stairs and started down the corridor. “The master’s been moping ’round here like a whipped dog.”
In spite of herself, Alicia appreciated knowing that Drake, too, had suffered. “Has he, now? I should rather enjoy seeing such a sight.”
Fergus peered down at her, his unpatched eye showing a secretive amusement. “There’s an even better sight awaiting ye, m’lady. He’s gone daft fer ye, that’s fer certain.”
Without further ado, he swung open the gilt-trimmed door and motioned her inside. Then he bowed out, leaving her alone.
An even better sight? What did Fergus mean by that?
She would find out in a moment.
Awash in giddy expectation, she hurried through a dim antechamber and into Drake’s office, the carpet muffling her footsteps. Her gaze swept the marine-blue walls, the wine-dark leather chairs, the shelves of books that she now knew to be well-read. The draperies were drawn against the afternoon light, and a branch of candles cast a glow onto the polished surface of the big mahogany desk.
Her smile faltered. Where was Drake?
I have something that is yours.
His note had been brief, just that one sentence, along with a request that she come here at this appointed time. She had assumed he’d be waiting for her. He would be contrite yet seductive, ready to ply his charm and entice her with his touch. And this time she would let him. He would pull her into his arms, and she would succumb to his scoundrel’s seduction.…
Her gaze alighted on the mantelpiece with its statue of naked lovers locked in an eternal embrace. Walking to it, she let her fingers drift over the smooth alabaster. How shocked she had once been to think of behaving so wantonly with a man. But now she knew intimacy to be a fine expression of love. Before Drake had finagled his way into her life, she had been well on her way to becoming a puritanical spinster. Because of him, she had flourished and grown into the fullness of womanhood. Because of him, she would be a mother. How had she ever thought she could live without him?
Behind her, a door opened.
Whirling around, she saw her husband standing in the shadows across the room, where dark blue draperies half concealed a doorway. His brawny form riveted her attention. Her throat went dry and her pulse quickened. He wore an ancient Roman-style garment, a plain linen tunic that ended at his knees. Beneath it, his legs were bare.
No wonder Fergus had been so amused. She couldn’t help smiling, either, though more with interest than humor.
Drake bowed deeply. “I am here to serve you, my exalted mistress.”
A wild excitement coursed through her as she remembered her fantasy. He would play her slave and do her bidding? Drake, who was too arrogant to obey anyone?
“Come closer,” he said in a voice that was deep and stirring. “I live to satisfy your every whim.” Then he gestured at the doorway.
More than willing, she walked past him and into a cozy blue bedchamber with a fire burning on the hearth and candles glowing on the bedside table. Her gaze riveted to the big, canopied bed. The linens were strewn with rose petals, and their scent perfumed the air. Her heart racing, she turned to find Drake standing directly behind her, his eyes dark and compelling, holding the promise of delights to come.
“I am pleased you would come to me,” he said. “I have missed serving you.”
She couldn’t stop staring at his firm, sensual mouth. And thinking how much she craved his kiss. “As I have missed you.”
She would have moved into his arms then, but he caught her hand and led her to a chair by the fire. Mystified but eager to play along, she sat down while he took something from the mantelpiece.
His manner deferential, he bent low, his tunic gaping open to a view of his muscled chest. He extended his hands, a small jeweler’s box cupped within his palms. “For you, my lad
y.”
I have something that is yours.
Was this what he’d meant?
Reaching out, she tentatively touched the leather case. “Oh, Drake, you needn’t purchase gifts to win me back. It truly isn’t necessary.”
“I wish only to give you the courtship you never had.”
Her throat went taut with tenderness, and she understood how she’d misjudged him. He hadn’t been trying to buy her affections these past weeks. He had been wooing her. To make up for their forced marriage.
He opened the case. Against a backdrop of white velvet lay a diamond-studded band of gold. As if in a dream, she looked at him questioningly, afraid to ask what it meant.
Then he did something astonishing. He lowered himself to his knees, and his gaze beseeched her. “Your wedding ring, my lady. Will it please you to wear it?”
He wasn’t telling her. He was asking.
Tears misted her eyes. She couldn’t contain her eagerness. “Yes. Oh, yes!”
Taking her hand, he slid the ring onto her finger, and the gemstones sparkled in the firelight. As he brought her hand to his lips, his eyes glowed with mysterious depths. “I have something that is yours,” he said.
So it wasn’t the ring.
“You,” she murmured, leaning forward to twine her arms around his neck, no longer able to contain her unruly desire. “You are mine. Oh, do make love to me.”
Closing his fingers about her shoulders, he held her back. “Not yet.”
Confused by his suddenly domineering manner, she wanted to play their fantasy. “But you’re my slave. You’re supposed to do as I say.”
He smiled, a brief quirk of his lips that showed his dimples. “Patience, my lady. All will be as you wish.” Then an unguarded longing shone in his eyes. Drawing a harsh breath, he went on, “It’s been hell living without you these past weeks. I want you with me for always, you and our child.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I want that, too. I shouldn’t have been so stubborn and unforgiving—”
Seduced by a Scoundrel Page 30