Seduced by a Scoundrel

by Olivia Drake

  “Ye may consider yerself under my protection,” Lady Eleanor said grandly, settling down on a chair to examine her treasure.

  While her mother was preoccupied, Alicia drew Mrs. Philpot beyond a stack of boxes. “Did Mama order these things?” she whispered. “I fear they will all have to be returned before Mr. Wilder finds out.”

  “Nay, my lady,” Mrs. Philpot said, her green eyes sparkling as she patted Alicia’s hand. “Everything you see here is a gift.”

  “A gift? From whom?”

  “Why, your husband, of course. Mr. Wilder knows how your mama likes to playact, and so he purchased these costumes from a theatrical company. They are your mama’s to keep. Is it not wondrously kind of him?”

  “Oh … yes.”

  Her legs weak, Alicia sank down onto a footstool and regarded her mother. Lady Eleanor had abandoned the coins to explore the contents of another box. She lifted out a gaudy crimson scarf and draped it around her neck. The delight on her gentle face warmed Alicia’s heart.

  Drake had done this. He had brought joy into Mama’s life.

  It was difficult to believe such generosity of a man who cared only for himself and his own pleasures. Yet she could find no selfish reason for his benevolence. The more she learned about her husband, the less she understood him. He was fast becoming an enigma to her. And she resented him for making her question her assessment of his character.

  Alicia lifted her chin a notch. He was the villain who had lured Gerald to the gaming tables. He had used that debt to force her into marriage. He had stolen even the roof over their heads. With cold-blooded intent, he had manipulated their lives to his own purposes.

  So let him have his little secrets. She didn’t care to unravel the mystery. Better she not think of him at all.

  * * *

  The crimson carpet muffling his footsteps, Drake strode down the wide passageway on his way to the staircase. The pale glow of the lamps enhanced his irritable mood. He had overslept. He should have left for the club hours ago.

  Of course, Fergus would handle the bank, and his well-trained staff would cater to the whims of those members who arrived early, primed for a night at hazard or faro. But Drake prided himself on overseeing the play. Keen attention to detail had given Wilder’s a reputation for luxury and refinement.

  After tossing and turning for hours, he had been plagued by restless dreams. He had awakened hard and frustrated, obsessed by his wife. The Lady Alicia. How soft and touchable she’d looked this morning, tousled from sleep. She had been naked beneath her nightdress, her breasts unbound. Though she’d pretended indifference, she’d wanted him; he’d seen the desire in her eyes, heard it in the way her breath caught whenever he touched her. He burned to strip away that cool superiority, to awaken the earthy passion she kept locked inside. He wanted her lying beneath him, moaning in ecstasy.…

  Ah, hell. What he needed was a long, lusty session with his mistress. A pity he had discharged her with the gift of a diamond necklace. He could have been enjoying her eagerness to please instead of suffering the scorn of a woman who regarded him as dirt beneath her aristocratic feet.

  She had accused him of carrying on with Liza Yates. The thought was darkly amusing. Of course, Alicia couldn’t know the real reason why the housekeeper was so possessive of him.

  Rounding a corner, he took a shortcut through the darkened gallery, his heels ringing on the pale marble floor. Here he kept many of his acquisitions, the paintings and statues that proved his wealth. But tonight he took only peripheral notice of his surroundings. He reminded himself he should be reveling in the closeness of success.

  Already Alicia had finagled an invitation to a ball. In a week’s time, he would insinuate himself into the ton. But not for the purpose she believed. He smiled grimly to think of Hailstock’s face when he realized he could no longer bar his bastard son from society.

  “Oh!”

  The quavering gasp came from the shadows. He turned sharply. In an alcove, a pedestal diplayed an alabaster statue of Diana the huntress. Behind the sculpture, a small cloaked form peeked out from the gloom.

  A plumed cavalier’s hat topped the pale oval of a face. He recognized the costume from a production of Blackbeard, or The Captive Princess.

  “My lady,” he said, executing a deep bow. “Forgive me for startling you. Where is Mrs. Philpot this evening?”

  Lady Brockway tiptoed out to regard him quizzically. Through the dimness, those fine-boned features bore a haunting resemblance to Alicia.

  “Mr. Wilder?” Lady Eleanor asked, obviously in one of her saner moments. Ignoring his question about her companion, she stammered, “Oh, dear … for a moment there I thought … I thought you reminded me of someone.…”

  Drake went ice cold. Hailstock.

  He had lulled himself into believing the similarities were too subtle to notice. Certainly Alicia had never seen a resemblance. But Lady Eleanor had known Hailstock for many years; she would remember him in his younger, more vigorous days, when he’d been closer in age to Drake.

  The last thing Drake wanted was for anyone to guess the truth.

  Stepping closer, he took her hands; they nestled like dainty birds in his palms. “Who, my lady?” he asked urgently. “Who do I remind you of?”

  “Someone … years ago…” A quiver stirred the cloak around her small shoulders. “Oh, I’m so afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid … to remember…” Pulling her fingers free, she groped underneath the cloak, and he realized she wore that shabby moleskin cape. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she swayed, weeping as if her heart were broken.

  Drake acted without thought. Sliding his arm around her, he held her close, and she burrowed into him, the cavalier’s hat tumbling to the floor. He drew out a clean handkerchief and pressed it into her fingers. He didn’t know how to soothe her. The crocodile tears of a mistress he could handle, but not the profound anguish of the dowager countess. His mother-in-law. Strange to think that.

  Was she weeping because she feared Hailstock? Did she know that he had threatened to lock her away in Bedlam Hospital?

  His jaw clenched, he said, “I assure you, my lady, you’ve no cause for distress. You’re safe in this house. Safe with me.”

  Huddling her face against his chest, she took a shuddering breath, her sobs slowing. “Oh, but it is not I who needs protection.”

  That jolted him. Who could she mean? Alicia?

  “Look at me,” Drake said. Placing his forefinger beneath her chin, he nudged up her face. Silvering strands of blond hair framed her guileless features. Her eyes, like bruised pansies, blinked slowly, as if she struggled to place him. He sensed her withdrawing into herself, into her secret sorrow. Willing her to remain rational, he went on, “You must tell me who requires protection. It’s the only way I can help.”

  Dabbing at her cheeks with his crumpled handkerchief, she mournfully shook her head. “No one can help. Alas, it is too late.”

  “I don’t understand, then. Why are you still afraid?”

  She gazed blankly at him. Then she patted his hand as if he were the one who needed comforting. “I like you,” she said in a musing tone. “You are a very kind man.”

  He curbed his impatience. “My lady, please try to think. If someone has made a threat to you or to anyone dear to you, I should like to hear of it.”

  Lady Eleanor reached inside her cloak and drew a toy dagger from her sash. “Threaten me? Why, no one would dare, sirrah. I am Anne Bonny, queen of the high seas.”

  Frustration churned in Drake. The dreamy look in her eyes told him he would coax no more out of her. Hissing out a breath, he picked up her hat and presented it to her. “I believe this is yours, Madame Pirate.”

  Lady Brockway donned the too-large hat, unmindful that the tapered ends lay low over her ears or that the white plume drooped over her eye. “Why, bless ye, sir. How do I look?”

  “Fierce enough to terrorize Blackbeard himself.” He held
out his arm. “Allow me to escort you to the lower deck. We’ll see if we can’t locate your shipmates.”

  Giggling, she accepted his assistance, and they strolled out of the gallery and down the grand staircase to the formal rooms. Contentment radiated from her, a peace of mind quite opposite to the alarm that had troubled her only moments ago. He had the uncanny impression that fantasy was her refuge from unhappy memories, that perhaps her madness was the result of an unbearable event she had witnessed.

  Who had frightened her into weeping? Hailstock? And who else did she believe to be in danger? Drake intended to find out.

  They approached the tall, arched doorway of the drawing room. Alicia and her brother had made a custom of taking tea at this hour, and sure enough, the chatter of anxious voices emanated from within.

  Halting outside the door, he saluted Lady Eleanor. “It sounds as if the crew is about to mutiny,” he said in a low voice. “You had better go assume command.”

  “Will ye not accompany me? Ye would make a fine navigator.”

  Smiling, he shook his head. “Regrettably, I have my own seas to navigate tonight.”

  Affording him a crisp nod, she swaggered into the drawing room like a pirate down a gangplank. He heard Alicia’s cry of relief, Mrs. Philpot’s concerned murmurings, Gerald’s fond scolding.

  Drake intended to walk away. Instead, he found himself stepping to the doorway, where he paused in the shadows of the threshhold. The joyful group stood at the far end of the long, lamplit room.

  Slender and graceful in pale blue, Alicia embraced her mother. Mrs. Philpot dabbed at her eyes. The plumed hat once again had toppled to the floor, and Gerald scooped it up, grinning foolishly at his mother in her pirate’s costume.

  None of them noticed Drake.

  Alicia guided Lady Brockway to an intimate grouping of chairs by the mantelpiece. They all gathered around, fussing over the dowager, fetching her tea and cakes from a silver tray. Their excited voices drifted to him.

  “We were organizing a search party,” Gerald said, settling a damask cloth on his mother’s lap. “By gad, Mama, you gave us a fright, wandering off like that.”

  “I wasn’t lost,” Lady Brockway objected. “A captain always knows her directions.”

  “Of course,” Alicia said, touching her mother’s shoulder, smiling tenderly down at her. “We love you, and we were worried, that’s all.”

  Drake felt a pang unpleasantly close to envy. They were a family, close-knit and happy. He was the outsider. An outsider in his own home.

  He stepped back out of sight, his face a grim mask. The course of his life had been set long ago, and he would not rest until he had achieved his purpose. Nothing else mattered.

  Especially not his highborn wife.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the evening of the ball, Alicia was ready nearly an hour before the appointed time for departure. She had intended to visit awhile with her mother, but Mrs. Philpot sat reading Gulliver’s Travels aloud by the fireplace, and Mama was so engrossed in the story that she gave Alicia a vague smile and waved her out of the bedchamber.

  At loose ends, Alicia wandered downstairs to the library in search of a book of her own. A distraction might dampen the restless anticipation that had troubled her all day. Too many times, she’d had to reprimand herself for looking forward to this night. Likely, she would suffer snubs; not even the duchess’s influence could force everyone to accept her. And she reminded herself that she did not reenter society for her own pleasure, but to fulfill a bargain.

  A business arrangement with a heartless gambler.

  Yet not even the bitter purpose behind her marriage could spoil her excitement. She felt a dizzying thrill much like the night of her come-out party long ago, when she had been eighteen and buoyed by dreams.

  She wore a ball gown of embroidered gold-on-white muslin with short, puffed sleeves. A daily regimen of salve had made her hands smooth and white again. No one would guess from looking at her that only a fortnight ago, she had scrubbed floors and washed laundry.

  Her dancing slippers made a whisper of sound in the empty entrance hall. She remembered the swarm of her admirers, the exhilaration of having so many choices. She imagined gliding to the music again, laughing, feeling carefree and joyful. Caught up in fantasy, she performed a little twirl through the doorway of the lamplit library.

  And danced right into the arms of Drake Wilder.

  His hard-muscled form drove the air from her lungs. With her next breath, his alien scent of cologne and masculinity flooded her. His keen blue eyes gazed down at her in faint amusement.

  “Dreaming of me?”

  His taunting voice completed the rude jolt of reality. She stepped back, bumping into a leather chair. “You shouldn’t be here so early,” she accused.

  “Neither should you.” Turning, he slid a book into place on a shelf.

  Against her will, she noticed how tall and magnificent he looked in a form-fitting coat of deep blue with silver buttons, cream-colored breeches, and dazzling white linen at his throat. An uneasy warmth awakened within her, a feeling that was part attraction and part resentment.

  Ever since their disturbing encounter in his chamber, she had seen little of her husband. They each had adhered to their own routines. At dawn, he returned home from his club and slept all morning. Then he left again sometime during the afternoon, while she was out shopping, helping Sarah select a new wardrobe to replace her drab black mourning. The arrangement suited Alicia well. The less she saw of her husband, the better.

  He turned to study her with a brooding intensity, his gaze wandering the length of her body before lingering at her deep, scooped neckline. She resisted the urge to cover the daring display of bosom. He would only chuckle in that irritating way of his.

  She assumed a mask of icy hauteur. “A word of advice,” she said. “If you stare in such an ill-bred manner at any lady tonight, you are certain to brand yourself a profligate.”

  “And if you speak in that waspish manner to any gentleman, you are certain to brand yourself a prig.” With his mouth curled into a sardonic smile, he subjected her to another leisurely survey. “A very lovely prig, nonetheless. Though you do need the crowning touch.”

  He strolled to the desk and picked up a palm-sized leather case, which he opened to display the contents. Against the cream velvet interior lay a glittering suite of diamond and pearl jewelry. The lavish artistry wrested a gasp of pure feminine awe from Alicia.

  Just as swiftly, she jerked her gaze away. “You already gave me jewelry for our wedding. I can’t accept another such expensive gift.”

  “You can, indeed. My wife will be admired by everyone tonight.”

  His steely tone reminded her that she was his pawn, taken as payment for a gambling debt. Tonight she must flaunt the wealth he had gained at the expense of weak, foolish men. She had no choice. And deep inside her, she felt a shameful gladness.

  She stood stiff and silent while he adorned her in diamonds … the exquisite tiara … the dainty earbobs … the extravagant necklace with its network of pearls from which hung a sinfully large solitaire.

  Then he propelled her out of the library and into the corridor, stopping before a gilt-framed mirror. He stood behind her, his hands resting on her bare shoulders. Their eyes met in the mirror. An almost palpable spark flashed in the shadowed air.

  “Look,” he commanded. “See how beautiful you are.”

  The satisfaction in his tone shivered through her, and she rebelled to think that he viewed her as a pretty possession. Rather than admire herself, she was struck by how perfect they looked together, she in her white ball gown with diamonds glinting at her throat and in her blond, upswept hair … and he all lean masculine perfection, his roguishly dark features displaying a dangerous allure.

  “It is merely an illusion,” she whispered, speaking more to her own private thoughts than to him.

  “But you are my illusion.” He bent closer, holding her gaze in the mirr
or, his breath stirring the downy hairs at the nape of her neck. “You are mine alone.”

  * * *

  They arrived early at Sarah’s town house. A balding butler led them down a gilded corridor and through a doorway, where he intoned their arrival. At Drake’s side, Alicia entered a cozy yellow sitting room.

  Sarah stood as if frozen by surprise, her fine dark brows winged upward. The vibrant green silk of her ball gown enhanced her sable hair and long-lashed eyes. An heirloom emerald necklace adorned her throat.

  Alicia hurried forward to place a kiss on that smooth white cheek. “Oh, Sarah, do forgive me. We’ve arrived too soon. I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you.”

  “It’s quite all right.”

  There was a stiff formality to her that belied their friendship of the past week. A thought dismayed Alicia more than she cared to admit. Did Sarah regret her offer? Would she scorn Drake?

  “May I present my husband,” Alicia said, stepping back and watching the two of them. “Mr. Drake Wilder.”

  He raised Sarah’s hand to his lips. “Your Grace. It’s a pleasure to meet so dear a friend of my wife’s.”

  “Mr. Wilder,” Sarah said with cool hauteur. “You’re quite the mystery man. Alicia has divulged little about you.”

  “As she has done with you. I look forward to becoming better acquainted.”

  His mouth slanted into that smile of practiced charm, the one that too often caused a disgraceful weakness in Alicia’s knees. But Sarah seemed impervious to his masculine allure. She cast her gaze toward an arrangement of chairs by the night-shrouded window. Only then did Alicia notice the small boy standing at attention there.

  Her heart turned over. Sarah’s son.

  The duke had his mother’s hair, falling in soft brownish black curls below his ears. But there the resemblance ended. Solemn of face, he looked like a miniature adult in knee breeches and tailored gray coat, lace at his throat and cuffs.

  Her skirt swishing, Sarah went to his side, placing her hand on his shoulder. She glanced rather anxiously at Alicia and Drake. “I was just saying good night to my son, William. Take a bow to our guests, darling.”