by Olivia Drake
Hell. What madness to take her here. In the midst of a party.
She would enjoy it, of course. But she would never forgive him.
Raising his head, he gazed down into her dreamy eyes. She clung to his shoulders, her breasts crushed to him, her submissiveness utterly unlike the prickly puritan he’d married. Though he knew his effect on women, he had the sudden suspicion that something more had caused that dazed look.
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m not!”
“The truth, now. How many glasses of champagne have you had tonight?”
Her brows drew together as she considered. “Only two. No, three. Oh, bother … perhaps four at the outside.”
His mind leapt to a nefarious plan. He fought—and won—a brief tussle with his conscience. Bargain or not, she was his wife. His by the laws of God and man.
Inhaling her heady scent, he caressed her cheek. “Find the duchess and see if she can’t ride home with someone else. I’ll fetch our carriage.”
“We’re leaving?”
“You’re in no condition to remain here.”
“But … we should mingle. There’s still the supper dance—and hours of dancing afterwards.” She tilted her head as if confused. “You do wish to be accepted by the ton, don’t you?”
He couldn’t admit he had already accomplished his purpose here. Brushing a kiss over her moist lips, he told her a version of the truth. “I’ve had my fill of the aristocracy for one night. I’m taking you home.”
* * *
As the coach pulled away from the Cuthberts’ mansion, Alicia watched the torches slide past in a blur of brilliance. Then there was only the light from the colza oil lantern mounted on the inside wall of the coach, the enclosed flame flickering with the motion of the vehicle. The intimacy of the setting made her heart beat faster. She felt giddy, and from more than a few glasses of wine.
You’re damn beautiful, and well you know it.
Drake sat beside her on the plush velvet seat. His leg brushed hers. She should be offended by his vulgar cursing, by his aggressive behavior, by his high-handed insistence on leaving the ball. Yet his mastery fed fuel to the banked fire within her.
That kiss. It had been even more wonderful than the first time, at their wedding. He had tasted her deeply, and she had done the same to him. Taking shocking license, he’d pressed their bodies together, and she had liked it. His touch had aroused an almost frantic ache deep within her. The memory made her breathless—but not with indignation. She yearned to feel his hands on her again.
Was this love?
As quickly as the intolerable thought flitted into her mind, she rejected it. She couldn’t possibly love a gambler, a man so disreputable he’d forced her into marriage. He was a cad, a knave, a scapegrace. Though, granted, he wasn’t entirely wicked. He had done a few worthy acts.…
Baffled by the contradictions in him, she turned her head to study her husband. He lounged against the cushions like a debaucher in his lair … no, like an aristocrat confident of his place in the world. The lamplight etched shadows beneath the slash of high cheekbones. He looked sinister … and as seductive as sin.
Who was the real Drake Wilder?
His hand descended over hers. Intense and caressing, his gaze burned into her. “Are you dizzy?”
Only from you. She should freeze him with an icy remark. Instead, a question tumbled out. “How can you be an unprincipled rogue if you do good deeds?”
His eyes widened ever so slightly. Then he smiled that oh-so-charming smile. “I always have a contemptible reason for everything I do. You should know that by now.”
“So what was your reason for purchasing cartloads of theatrical costumes for Mama?”
He shrugged. “They keep her occupied so that you may go out in society with me.”
Alicia conceded the logic in that. “Then why were you kind to William? Why would you bother entertaining a little boy with magic tricks?”
“I wanted to win the approval of the duchess, of course.”
Of course, “And what about Kitty? Any person of rank would have discharged her. In fact, a deaf maid would never have been hired at all.”
“And because she values her post, she works twice as hard as anyone else,” he countered. “So you see, I benefit from increased productivity. It is merely good business practice.”
He made it all sound so tidy and reasonable. Yet Alicia suspected a flaw in his smooth explanations. A flaw that touched a tender place inside her. “I wonder,” she mused, “if you want me to think badly of you.”
For a heartbeat, something flashed in his eyes. Something that came and went so quickly, she couldn’t be sure if it was surprise or annoyance. Or something else entirely.
“And I believe you’re being far too serious,” he said. “Better we should celebrate our success tonight.” So saying, he leaned down and pulled out a long drawer from beneath the opposite seat. He straightened up, brandishing a tall green bottle and two glasses. “Behold, the bubbly.”
“Champagne?” Alicia glanced down in shock at the array of decanters and glassware tucked into the padded lining of the drawer. “You carry spirits in your coach?”
He shoved the drawer shut with the toe of his leather shoe. “No maidenly swoons, please. And this”—he brandished the bottle—“I snitched from the butler’s pantry. Don’t tell the Cuthberts.”
He winked at her, and an involuntary smile demolished her attempt at disapproval. “You can’t really mean to open that here.”
“I do, indeed.” He handed her both glasses. “Hold these, if you will.”
Turning his attention to the bottle, he tugged off the metal closure. With an explosive whoosh, the cork popped out and champagne sprayed the interior of the coach.
Gasping, Alicia ducked from the mist that prickled her face and arms. “Drake! You shouldn’t have—”
“The glasses,” he urged.
She thrust them forward, and he diverted the foaming stream into them, ending the shower. Laughter bubbled in her like the champagne in her glass. She shouldn’t find humor in his lack of restraint. A puddle soaked into the expensive velvet covering the opposite seat. Damp spots marred her expensive gown. A droplet trickled down her cheek.
Catching it with her gloved fingertip, she fought against an appalled, incredulous delight. “For heaven’s sake! You’ve stained the upholstery.”
“It can be cleaned.”
“And my dress. The silk is ruined.”
“I’ll buy you another.”
“You are utterly uncivilized.”
“I beg to differ.” His grin incorrigible, he lifted his glass and toasted her. “There is nothing more civilized than fine wine in the company of a lovely woman.”
Pleasure curled deeply within her. She felt dazzled by his gallantry, dizzied by the admiration in his eyes. Caution, she told herself. You’re only a game to him. Take care to resist his charm.
Summoning a semblance of calm, she sipped her champagne, relishing the tingling sensation over her tongue and down her throat. “You are a decadent man.”
“Decadent? I’m depraved.” Holding the bottle between his knees, he unknotted his cravat and yanked it free, exposing his strong male throat. Then he did something else shocking. He touched the strip of linen to the bare skin above her bosom.
Her hand shot up to grip his wrist. “Drake…” His name sounded more like a plea than an admonition. “Don’t.”
“I’m merely tidying up.” He flashed her a bland smile, his white teeth gleaming. “Champagne leaves a sticky residue.”
Imprudently, she let her hand drop to her lap. The gently rocking coach enclosed them in a bower apart from the world. His gaze lowering, he dabbed at her, starting at her shoulders and moving methodically downward, taking care around her necklace. The starched linen felt strange and masculine, oddly alluring. Her breasts felt taut and heavy. With every breath, she inhaled the warm, distinctive scent of him. Her fingers curled around h
er champagne glass, but she lacked the strength to lift it to her lips.
She told herself to be outraged by his boldness. Any other man would have offered her the use of his handkerchief while he discreetly looked in the other direction. Any other lady would have slapped Drake’s face.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps this sort of intimacy was nothing unusual between husband and wife. What exactly did wedded couples do in the privacy of the bedchamber?
Remembering that lewd statue in his office, she squeezed her eyes shut. She mustn’t think about straddling him, their naked limbs pressed together. She mustn’t wonder how he would touch her, and where. For her, marriage could never follow a conventional path. And she’d known that long before she’d met Drake Wilder.
A sudden stimulating pressure at her bosom snapped Alicia to attention. She looked down at his dark head. He was kissing her. On her breasts.
A thrill of almost frightening intensity coursed through her. She threaded her fingers into the rough silk of his hair. “Please … you can’t do this … you mustn’t.”
“Tell me you don’t like it and I’ll stop.” He flicked his tongue into the valley between her breasts. “My God. You taste of champagne and roses.”
His frank pleasure robbed her of breath. Surely he must detect the quickened beat of her heart. She pushed her hand beneath his jaw and turned his head to the side. “I don’t like it. Don’t you understand? I loathe you.”
Drake scowled at her. She wanted to retract her cruel harshness, to explain the fears that strangled her. But she said nothing.
Slowly he straightened, the silence filled by the muffled clop-clop of hooves and the rattling of the wheels. His midnight-blue eyes seemed to penetrate her innermost secrets. She wanted to look away, but feared that any concession would weaken her resolve.
“This reluctance of yours,” he bit out. “It isn’t just that ridiculous agreement. Or your distaste for my character.”
“I don’t—” She bit down on her lip, unable to fully understand why her feelings toward him had undergone a subtle softening. Then, with cool deliberation, she lifted her glass and took a swallow of champagne. “I don’t wish to discuss it,” she said loftily. “Suffice to say, it’s best you find your pleasure elsewhere.”
“Best for whom? You?” He leaned closer, crowding her into the corner, a brooding harshness in his features. His fingers pressed almost painfully into her shoulder. “Tell me, my lady. Are you in love with Hailstock?”
“Certainly not!” she blurted out. “Why would you imagine he has anything to do with us?”
“He was your fiancé.”
“He was never my fiancé. Granted, he’d asked me to marry him, but I couldn’t because…” She stopped, her throat constricting.
“Because of your mother. The wretch wanted to lock her away.” His taut expression growing more thoughtful, Drake continued to regard her, his grip easing, his fingers gently massaging her collarbone. “But you’re not telling me everything.”
Could he see the quiet torment in her heart?
Of course not. Men were dense creatures, too caught up in their own selfish pleasures to understand a woman’s deeper emotions.
“There’s nothing to tell. I’ve fulfilled our bargain, and that should suffice.” Glaring at him over the rim of her glass, she drank defiantly and then added, “You must go away and leave me alone.”
His expression took on a faint calculation. “You desire me. But you’re afraid—”
“I’m not.”
“I wonder … if you’re afraid you might bear a child who will inherit your mother’s madness.”
His shrewd perception plumbed the sorrow buried within her. She wanted to deny it, to shield her private thoughts and feelings from him. By exposing her vulnerabilities, she would be placing herself into his power.
But perhaps he should know the truth. Perhaps then he would leave her be.
Concealing the ache inside her, she regarded him with a level gaze. “All right, then, I am afraid. It would be cruel to bring such a child into the world.”
“You were ready to take that risk when first you came to me. You offered to be my mistress.”
“I had no other choice.” Then, her decision had been a matter of life or death. Gerald would have been imprisoned for his debts. She and Mama would have been thrown out on the street to starve.
Drake refilled her glass, his hand steady despite the movement of the coach. “Has your mother always been addled?”
“What has that to do with anything?”
“Has she?”
Regarding him warily, she sipped her champagne. “When I was younger … she had spells where she behaved more like a sister than my mother. She would climb trees with me. And help me dress my dolls.…” A smile wavered and died on Alicia’s mouth. “She also had episodes of melancholy, where she wept for days on end.”
“Did she ever tell you what disturbed her?”
Alicia shook her head. “Papa forbade me to visit her chambers during those times. He said she needed rest and quiet.”
“Her condition worsened after your father’s death.”
“Yes. She became…” —Alicia’s throat constricted with pain and helpless affection—“as she is now.”
Drake leaned toward her. “Did Lady Eleanor suffer a shock in her youth, something so unbearable that it could have overwhelmed her?”
Alicia blinked. “If you’re suggesting that Mama’s illness isn’t inheritable—”
“I am, indeed. Your mother is a gentle, sensitive woman. It is conceivable that her condition was brought on by a trauma of some sort. I saw a similar reaction once—” His voice broke off abruptly.
“What do you mean?” she asked, intrigued in spite of herself.
Turning his gaze to the carriage window, he said, “I once found a woman lying by the roadside in Whitechapel. She’d been beaten by her husband and left for dead.”
“Dear God,” Alicia whispered. “What happened to her?”
“While she recovered from her wounds, she would sit staring for hours, day after day. Then slowly she regained her senses. Some people, you see, are more resilient than others.”
She was touched that he would give aid to a stranger. Then her thoughts went to his theory, and she wanted to reject it. How could he know her situation better than she did?
Yet Alicia found herself wondering. Was it possible her fears were unfounded? That Mama’s condition was the result of unusually distressing events? Certainly, her mind had snapped after she’d witnessed the horrible circumstances of Papa’s death. But even before then, she had been a bit otherworldly.…
Alicia frowned into her glass, watching the bubbles rise to the surface and pop. It was absurd to imagine anyone had ever harmed her mother in her youth. From the tales Mama had once told, she’d enjoyed an idyllic childhood. And yet … Alicia had never known her grandparents; they had died in a cholera epidemic when Mama was sixteen. Shortly thereafter, Mama’s dearest friend Claire had perished as well. Were those losses enough to unbalance an impressionable girl?
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Drake said.
Looking up to see him watching her, the lamp casting shadows on his hard features, she shivered against an impossible rise of optimism. “I’m thinking it’s merely conjecture to suggest that my child wouldn’t be like Mama.”
“You’re perfectly sane—if maddening—and so is your brother. That proves I’m right.” His black lashes lowered slightly, veiling his thoughts. “And should you have any reservations about my suitability as a father, know this: I would never, ever forsake my child.”
Again, she sensed grim secrets in him. Had Drake lost his parents at a young age? His mother had been an actress. He had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, that much Mrs. Molesworth had divined from gossiping with the neighborhood servants. No one knew much about him beyond that he had come from the vast ranks of the London poor before winning his fortune and building his club.
“Alicia—”
The coach swayed and turned. His gaze flashed to the window. “We’re home,” he said, an alluring roughness in his tone. “Finish your champagne.”
What had he meant to say? That he wanted her beyond all reason?
She ought to dash the contents of her glass in his too-handsome face. That would cool his ardor.
Instead, she tilted back her head and recklessly drained every drop.
Chapter Fifteen
It was inevitable that he escort Alicia to her bedchamber. Inevitable that he dismiss her maid, a shy little mouse who bobbed a curtsy and darted from the room. Inevitable that he close the door and turn the key.
A lamp glowed on the bedside table, and a fire burned on the hearth. The muted lighting wrapped the room in cozy intimacy. In the canopied four-poster, the linens had been turned down and the pillows lay plump and white against the gilded headboard.
Alicia felt caught in a strange dream. She watched, helpless with longing, as Drake set the champagne bottle on a rosewood table, then unbuttoned his frock coat and shrugged out of it. All the while, his dark and determined gaze held hers.
Controlling a tremor, she picked up the bottle and poured champagne into a glass. For one night, she wanted to forget all the reasons he was wrong for her. She wanted to forget the past and pretend they had a real marriage, the happiness her parents had known long ago.
Before she could lift the glass to her lips, Drake caught her wrist. “You’ve had enough of that.”
“I thought you wanted me tipsy,” she said, lifting her chin in dignified defiance. “So that I would do as you willed.”
“I did,” he admitted. “But I’ve changed my mind. I want you to be fully aware of who I am.”