by Olivia Drake
The girl’s brown eyes brimmed with tears. Remorsefully, Alicia patted that soot-smudged hand. “Don’t weep,” she said, taking care to form her words slowly. “It was an accident. My fault.”
The maid scrambled to right the bucket. “Nay, m’lady. ’Twas my clumsiness.”
Her voice had a nasal flatness, but by a miracle, she wasn’t mute. Touching the girl’s shoulder to get her attention, Alicia said, “What is your name?”
“Kitty.” Her lower lip trembled. “Don’t put me out on the street, mum, please. I’ll clean up in a jeffy.”
“You won’t lose your post. I promise you that.”
On hands and knees, Alicia gathered the black lumps, dropping them with a tinny bang into the bucket. Kitty scrambled to work faster, glancing cautiously at her mistress, as if unable to believe her reprieve. Alicia vowed to make her believe. In time, Kitty—and the other servants—would realize the lady of the house was no ogress to be feared.
Spying one last piece beneath a gilt chair, she crouched low and stretched out her hand to retrieve it. Her fingers closed around the hard chunk just as a soft rap sounded on the door.
The door connecting her chamber to Drake’s.
Alicia’s heart skittered over a beat. He couldn’t walk in, she reminded herself. The door was locked. Her first night here, she had hidden the key in one of her gloves and tucked it away in the farthest corner of her wardrobe. Every night since, she had tested the bolt before going to bed.
What could Drake Wilder want with her at this hour?
She had a few words to say to him, too. But not until she was fully clothed. If she pretended to be asleep, he would go away in a moment.
The lock rattled. The door swung open. Her husband appeared.
She froze. Like a sultan surveying his harem, he lounged against the gilded frame, his hair mussed and his tall form in an alarming state of undress. He wore no cravat or coat, only dark breeches and a plain white shirt, the tails hanging loose. The unbuttoned front showed a wedge of naked chest. Even his feet were bare.
In his hand he held a ring of keys. She should have guessed he had a spare.
He frowned at the maid, then at Alicia. “Someone cried out,” he said. “What happened here?”
Kitty cowered by the fireplace. Alicia scrambled to her feet, tossed the lump of coal into the bucket, and stepped forward to block his view of the hearth. “Nothing happened,” she said coldly. “And I did not give you permission to unlock that door.”
“I heard sharp words spoken. I won’t have you berating my servants.”
“You misunderstood,” she said quickly, before he could address a question to the maid. “Now give me that key.” She held out her hand.
He twirled the iron ring on his forefinger and caught the keys in his palm with a metallic chink. “I keep the master set.”
“I don’t want the whole ring. Just the key to my door.”
“No,” he said flatly. “Now, I saw Yates this morning. She said you were looking for me.”
Her suspicions about the housekeeper added to her furious tension. Alicia had lain awake half the night, listening for his return, rehearsing the recriminations she would hurl at him. Yet she couldn’t challenge him here, for fear he might perceive Kitty’s affliction. Heaven help her, he’d send the poor girl packing.
Alicia hastened forward and drew him into his chambers. “We’ll talk where there’s more privacy.”
He went quite willingly, closing the door behind them. It was a mistake to touch him, to feel the heat of his flesh through the linen shirt. Stopping a few steps into the room, she snatched back her hand, but she could still feel the hard smoothness of muscle imprinted on her palm.
Feigning indifference, she swung away and surveyed the large chamber. For all its size, it was surprisingly inviting, with books piled on mahogany tables and wild landscapes decorating the walls. The shutters were closed against the dawn. The only light came from a low fire on the hearth and a branch of candles on the bedside table.
Her gaze fixed on that broad bed. The linens were rumpled, and the pillow bore the imprint of his head. He must have been lying there. Odd that he wasn’t clad in nightclothes.
Sauntering to the foot of the bed, he leaned against the post and idly jingled the ring of keys. His mouth slanted into a grin more wicked than that of the devil himself. “Well, well. I did predict you’d come to me in my chamber before the season was out.” He studied her from her sleep-tangled braid down to her small bare toes. “And here you are, all ready for bed.”
Her cheeks went hot. His scrutiny made Alicia aware of herself as a woman—his wife. He could do with her as he willed. He could force her onto the bed, kiss her, subdue her with his superior strength. Uneasiness lurked low in her belly, a feeling she scorned. Irksome man. The high-necked white robe covered her more completely than a ball gown.
“I am here to have a word with you,” she began.
“If you mean to confess your unrequited passion, my darling, then pray proceed.”
Such conceit. She would relish knocking him off his high perch. “It is not I we are here to discuss, but you. Your behavior.”
He slapped a hand to his bare chest. “I’ve been a paragon of propriety. A veritable vision of virtue.”
“Not with Yates.”
“Yates?” A faint annoyance crossed his features. “I told you not to pester her. She’ll do her job, and you do yours.”
Alicia clenched her fingers into the silk of her robe. She would not allow him to rob her of her rights in this house. Nor to pretend ignorance. “The true question is, what will you do with her?”
His black eyebrows lowering, he tossed the ring of keys onto the bed. They landed in his blankets. Right where Alicia was loath to venture. “For pity’s sake,” he said, “stop speaking in riddles. If you’ve something to say, then say it.”
Her gaze snapped from the keys to his face. “All right, then. Yates is your doxy.”
He stood unmoving, his face blank. She could see the peppering of whiskers along his jaw. His untidy state made him appear even more depraved. Abruptly, he burst out laughing, the hearty sound filling the chamber. “So that’s what you imagine while lying in your virgin’s bed.”
“It is no flight of fancy.” Annoyed that he could make purity sound like a fault, Alicia stepped toward him. “The woman has been nothing short of insolent. And there can be only one reason why she feels safe to voice her unbridled opinions to the lady of the house. Because she knows the master will not reprove her.”
“Tell me exactly what she said to you.”
“It is not worth repeating.”
“I will hear what she said. So that I may judge for myself if you are too quick to take offense.”
A flush stung Alicia’s cheeks. “She said … I am too high and mighty to share your bed.”
His dimples deepened, though he didn’t precisely smile. “I see.”
“No, you don’t see.” Prodded by resentment, Alicia edged toward the bed, the carpet soft beneath her bare soles. “The only way she could know that we have a chaste marriage is by your telling her.”
“Bosh. The servants can guess we don’t engage in marital relations. They change the linens, don’t forget.”
Alicia aimed a mystified frown at him. What in the world did that mean? She suspected he would laugh at her again if she asked him to explain.
She inched a little closer to her goal. “Well. I won’t tolerate your philandering in this house—with Yates or anyone else. If you wish to carry on your affairs, then do so elsewhere.”
The wretch smiled, as if she were a child to be humored. It was now or never. Darting to the four-poster, she scooped up the ring of keys. With the cold hard metal clutched to her bosom, she turned to leave.
Only to discover that he’d moved with catlike stealth to block her path. “If the truth disturbs you,” he purred, “then make her a liar. Come to bed with me.”
He extended his hand to
her. She could only gape at him in breathless agitation. One black lock dipped onto his brow, giving him a rakish air. The strong line of his throat widened to the contoured muscles of his chest. Behind her loomed the tousled sheets, the counterpane in a shade of blue as deep and mysterious as his eyes.
“I haven’t slept yet,” he went on in that husky, hypnotic voice. “Lie down with me. Let me hold you, kiss you.”
Defying the dictates of her mind, her body softened. He was her husband. And yet she did not know the intimacy of cuddling in the darkness with him. She could detect his faintly smoky scent, the hint of brandy. He had been at his club all night, gambling, drinking, carousing. She had every reason to despise such a rascal. So why did she feel the bite of temptation?
“You’re violating our agreement,” she snapped, appalled to hear a wobble in her voice.
“Nonsense. We agreed I could charm you. If only you’d let me, I’d show you the sweetest pleasure any woman could know.” Catching her wrist, he brought it to his lips, planting a kiss on her tender inner flesh.
A flurry of gooseflesh raced up her arm and into her bosom. She wanted to succumb, and her weakness horrified her. The keys rattled as she snatched back her hand. “We also agreed you’d stop when I told you so.”
“Which you have yet to do.”
She backed away from the dangerous intent on his face. “Profligate. I’m telling you to stop right now.”
“Puritan,” he murmured. “You can’t deny me forever.”
As if he had all the time in the world, he strolled after her. She retreated until her bottom met the hard edge of a table near the connecting door. She longed to take refuge in her own bedchamber, but Kitty might still be coaxing the coals into flame.
Gripping the keys like a weapon, Alicia glared at him. “Once I’ve fulfilled my end of our bargain, you’ll leave me be.”
“Once I’ve had you, I’ll leave you be.”
Did he mean it? That he would cease tormenting her if she allowed him a husband’s rights just once? If she could believe that …
Alicia wrenched her mind from that appalling path. How could she even consider giving an inch to this scoundrel? “This discussion is absurd,” she said icily. “Especially since our agreement is nearly fulfilled.”
He stopped, all playfulness vanishing. “You’ve found a way for me to enter society.”
She nodded, and her heart slowed its frantic beating. The approval of the ton was what he really wanted, the reason he had wed her. How foolish of her to have forgotten that. “Yes, I have.”
“Tell me how,” he said.
“Sarah, the Duchess of Featherstone, has agreed to give us her nod of approval.”
His eyes narrowed to a secretive expression. Or perhaps it was a trick of the firelight. “When will this event come about?”
“Lord and Lady Cuthbert are giving a ball next Tuesday. Sarah intends to bring us along as her guests.”
They had spent the afternoon making plans, laughing together like old times, though a certain wariness lingered, perhaps because they each knew they were using the other. But that didn’t seem to matter. Alicia could only think of how amazingly wonderful it was that she and Sarah had overcome their animosity. They had chatted for hours, filling each other in on the joys and sorrows of their lives, although, of course, Alicia had confessed little about her marriage. It was enough for Sarah to know of Gerald’s debts and the necessity of accepting Drake Wilder’s offer.
“Who is she to you?” Drake asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The duchess. You had a wistful look on your face.”
Reluctant to share her private thoughts with him, she schooled her features into a cool expression. “We were friends once. A long time ago—during our come-out Season.”
“If she scorned you after your father’s ruin and your mother’s illness, she isn’t much of a friend.”
“That wasn’t the case. We had a disagreement about … something else.”
“What?”
Alicia compressed her lips. From the force of his stare, she knew he would dig until he uncovered the truth. Wasn’t it better to fob him off with a brief explanation? From the table behind her, she picked up an enameled snuffbox, one of a collection on display. “It was silly, really,” she said, pretending to admire the mosaic design. “We both favored the duke.”
“You would admire Featherstone.”
The wealth of disdain in his voice caught her attention, as did his stern expression. “You knew him?”
“I make a practice of knowing the character of every man who frequents my club. And Featherstone didn’t know a moral from a mudhole.” Drake paused, his mouth twisted sardonically. “But of course he did have that impeccable pedigree.”
“He was a gentleman.”
“Then why did he live openly with his mistress, even after his marriage? She bore him three children.”
Alicia slowly set down the snuffbox. Sarah had known of his paramour, but was she aware of his second family? That her young son—the present duke—had natural half-siblings? “I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “You must have been misinformed.”
“I heard it from the duke himself. He was proud of his prowess.” Drake strolled closer. “So you see, my lady, you’re better off wed to me. At least I haven’t spawned any bastards.”
“Yet.” On that scathing remark, Alicia headed toward the connecting door and turned the knob.
Drake flattened his palm on the gilded panel. “The keys, my lady.”
He stood mere inches away. She could feel his body heat. How easily he could overpower her. Tightening her fingers around the ring, she refused to show any vulnerability. “I will have the one that fits this door.”
His eyes narrowed, concealing his thoughts. For a moment, she feared he would refuse, and she would be forced into an undignified tussle.
Then he gave a nod. “As you wish, then.” He took the ring, unscrewed the clasp, and extracted a key, which he passed to her. “But you’re a coldhearted woman, Mrs. Wilder.”
“You’re a tiresome devil, Mr. Wilder.”
She considered testing the key, then decided that might be pressing her luck. Entering her chamber, she glanced toward the hearth, where a fire now burned. The maid had gone.
Relieved, Alicia turned to shut the door. “Good day. Or shall I say, good night.”
His smooth expression took on a hard edge. “One more caution, dear wife. I doubt that Kitty fits your exacting standards. But you will not discharge her. That is an order.”
Then he closed the door on Alicia’s startled face.
Chapter Twelve
A short while later, Alicia stepped out of her bedchamber and encountered another surprise.
Intending to spend the day acquainting herself with the household, she had donned a gown of ice-blue muslin that fell in a straight line from her bosom. For the sake of modesty, she had tucked a length of Brussels lace into the bodice. She felt armored and calm again, ready to face the world.
Though she couldn’t forget Drake, presumably asleep next door.
This morning, when he’d entered her bedchamber, he had shattered her sense of security—a false security, she now knew. Though she had hidden the second key beneath the papers in her writing desk, she was uneasily aware that he could procure another if the mood suited him. That meant she must never lower her guard.
Not even his defense of Kitty proved him trustworthy. Granted, he knew the servant was deaf. But compassion hadn’t prompted his protectiveness toward the maid. Like the autocrat he was, he enjoyed exercising his power over his wife.
Let him. She would do as she saw fit—
That was when she noticed the army of footmen trooping in and out of her mother’s bedchamber. They carried towering piles of boxes.
Puzzled, Alicia joined the procession into the bright, yellow and white chamber. The curtains had been drawn back to a view of the green park, and both beds had been tidied. M
ama and Mrs. Philpot were nowhere to be seen.
Directed by a short, barrel-chested man in a cherry-red coat and blue pantaloons, the footmen marched into the dressing room. “Have a care, you clumsy oaf,” he proclaimed in a startlingly deep, dramatic tone. “This is no delivery from the ragman.”
Alicia hurried toward him. “Sir? What is going on here?”
“Ah, the lady of the house.” He swept a bow so low she could see the bald circle crowning his skull. When he straightened, he rocked back and forth on his heels and regarded her with an air of self-importance. “Permit me to introduce myself, my lady. I am Signor Renaldo, master of wardrobes for the Royal Theatre.”
“Theater?” Perplexed, she peered into the dressing room, past the footmen depositing the boxes and the maidservants unpacking them. Garments and shoes and gloves littered the green carpet with its pattern of yellow ribbons. The armoires and cupboards and clothespresses stood open like great mouths waiting to consume a feast.
At the far end of the long room stood Mama, a voluminous red cloak enveloping her delicate form and a plumed cavalier’s hat perched on her head. Spying Alicia, she waved. “Ahoy, there. Climb aboard my pirate ship. We’re about to give chase to a Spanish galleon.”
“Dear heavens,” Alicia murmured under her breath.
Abandoning Signor Renaldo, she picked her way through the clutter, aghast to see piles of wigs and mounds of costumes, from Roman togas to medieval tunics to witch’s robes. On the dressing table, a chest full of paste jewelry glinted in the sunlight. Had Mama, in a moment of mad indulgence, ordered these theatrical props and charged them to Drake’s account?
Mrs. Philpot straightened up from the trunk she’d been rummaging through. She handed Lady Eleanor a black silk sash. “For you, my captain.”
The countess tied the sash around her slender waist. She tucked a toy dagger into the belt and planted her feet wide as if she were balancing on the deck of a ship. “Beware, ye fainthearted dastards. I am Anne Bonny, queen of the high seas.”
Humoring her, Alicia snatched up a small cask brimming with fake coins, which she presented to her mother. “A tribute of gold doubloons, O Great Pirate Queen.”