by Olivia Drake
An impossible yearning lured her. She could go to him, forgive him his monumental faults, tell him that she would stay even if he couldn’t give her his heart. He would take her upstairs and love her with his body at least.
But he was with his brother. Lord Hailstock’s son. That was enough of a reminder of his perfidy.
“I shall inform the master that you’re here,” Mrs. Yates said.
She turned to go, but Alicia spoke sharply to stop her. “Please don’t. I won’t have him interrupted.”
“But he wished to be told at once if you returned. He was quite insistent on that point.” Mrs. Yates eyed her with blatant curiosity. “To that purpose, he ordered me to tarry here all evening to watch for you.”
Alicia tightened her fists at her sides. He wanted to ply his charm on her again. She was nothing more to him than a body, nothing but the woman his father had wanted. “You are not to say a word,” she said, her voice taut. “Is that understood?”
She feared the housekeeper would refuse. Mrs. Yates had an unswerving loyalty to Drake, a loyalty based on gratitude toward her savior.
But she gave a slow, considering nod. “As you wish, m’lady.”
Did she no longer regard her mistress as an interloper? Or had she guessed the truth and would seize the chance to bar a reconciliation? Alicia no longer cared to know.
By way of dismissal, she started up the grand staircase.
Mrs. Yates called after her, “I must say, the master has been stomping around here like an angry bull. If something is amiss between you two, perhaps I could relay a message to him.”
She wanted gossip, that was all. Alicia forced a nonchalant smile. “I’ll have a word with him myself … later.”
Unwilling to think beyond her quest, she lifted her skirts and hastened upstairs. When she reached the second floor, she walked down the elegant passageway with its familiar gold wallpaper, the framed landscapes, the gilding on the woodwork. She must order her belongings packed and sent to Pemberton House. Mama’s, too.
But not now. Not yet.
Stepping into her mother’s room, she closed the door. On the bed, the embroidered coverlet had been turned down to show the feather pillows. The yellow draperies shut out the darkness, and a lamp burned on the small writing desk.
Alicia hurried there, her shoes making no sound on the leaf-green carpet with its pattern of yellow ribbons. Stifling her misgivings at invading her mother’s privacy, she opened each desk drawer in turn. A pile of blank stationery. A few extra quills. A collection of buttons in a shallow dish. And in the bottom drawer, a sketch of hearts and flowers with labored lettering: To my deer mama, with love, Alicia.
Smiling in spite of herself, she picked up the sheet. Mama had amassed a veritable fortune in old papers. Alicia sorted through the stack, glancing at compositions, arithmetic exams, history essays, half in Alicia’s progressively neater handwriting and an equal number in Gerald’s scrawling penmanship.
But she didn’t discover what she sought.
Going to the bedside table, she examined the contents: an embroidered handkerchief, the stub of a candle, a prayer book. Nothing of significance. Then she carried the lamp into the dressing room to explore the clothespresses and armoires, methodically moving aside the many costumes Drake had given to her mother.
Her heart clenched anew with the pain of his treachery. How could a man capable of kindnesses allow himself to be ruled by hatred and vengeance? And how could she still long for him?
But she did. Deep within herself, love still burned, a flame too stubborn to be extinguished. She had known Drake could be ruthless, and she had allowed herself to become vulnerable to him, anyway. She should never have convinced herself that he could return her love, that his carnal passion for her might grow into true affection.
Blasted gambler. She should have realized that a scoundrel like him was never to be trusted.
Blinking back angry tears, she shoved aside gown after gown, determined not to overlook any nook or cranny. She focused her mind on reaching into drawers, checking on top of cabinets, her fingers probing in the deepest corners.
At last, dejected, she plopped down on a stool and tried to think of where she hadn’t looked, where Mama might have concealed something she considered to be a treasure. There was no other possible hiding place—
Then her gaze alighted on the cask of fake gold coins, the ones Mama used when playing pirate.
Hardly daring to hope, she rushed to it and dug into the pile of painted tin circles. The metal made a tinkling noise, some of the coins spilling onto the floor. Near the bottom of the cask, her fingers brushed a small bundle.
Alicia pulled it out. Letters, a dozen or so, the paper yellowed and tied with a bedraggled pink satin ribbon. She had known Mama had saved these letters. She’d stumbled across them before, hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the bedroom they’d shared at Pemberton House. Attributing Mama’s secretiveness to eccentricity, Alicia had replaced the letters unread. She had believed them to be a sentimental keepsake of no significance to anyone but her mother.
Until today.
Closing her eyes, Alicia held the packet to her breast. Heaven help her, she shouldn’t look. She didn’t want to read the letters Mama had saved all these years. The letters that she now knew Lord Hailstock had been anxious to find.
For if her suspicions proved correct, she would be giving Drake the means for a far more enduring revenge.
* * *
Having busied himself for the past hour directing a bevy of servants, Drake felt an uncustomary awkwardness when he was finally alone with his brother.
A team of footmen had brought down a mahogany four-poster bed and reassembled it here in the morning room. Several maids had fixed the linens, made a fire in the hearth, and closed the varnished wood shutters. The rug had been rolled up and taken away so that James could roll freely across the pale marble floor. Behind the closed door of a small antechamber, a valet was unpacking several trunks full of James’s clothing.
Watching him pick up a lamp and move it to the bedside table, Drake wondered why he’d agreed to this damned fool arrangement. He should never have allowed his noble younger brother into this house. It was a revenge Drake had never conceived, to steal the marquess’s heir. And he felt no triumph, only a curious sense of unreality.
He’d gained a brother today. And lost a wife.
He tossed back a flavorless swallow of brandy. Though he’d downed half a decanter already, the liquor hadn’t dulled the sharpness of loss. If anything, it had made him maudlin.
Leaving Alicia at Pemberton House had gone against his every instinct. He didn’t know how long he’d stood there in the foyer, staring like a lovesick fool at the closed door to the library. He’d felt the desperate need to bring her back home where she belonged. She would have resisted, but he could have picked her up in his arms and carried her to his coach. She wouldn’t have kicked and screamed; Alicia had too much dignity for that.
But it was that very dignity that had stopped him. He couldn’t forget the look of chilling contempt in her eyes.
His wife despised him. Even more than she had at their forced wedding. And he had the discomfiting fear that this time, he might not succeed in charming her into his bed. He might never again trade witty barbs with her. He might never see her smile at the circus or get tipsy on a few glasses of champagne. He might never hear her soft voice whispering words of love.
His chest tightened with a restless, unfamiliar panic. Why was he dallying here when he ought to be trying to convince her? He had to do something. Having already exhausted his repertoire of excuses, he had no idea of what he’d say to her. Scouring his brain, he started toward the door.
“Hold there,” James said, rolling swiftly forward. “You can’t bring me a brandy and then leave.”
“I’m going to the club,” Drake lied.
“Take the evening off. And sit down, blast it. I’m getting a crick in my neck from looking up at you.”
&nbs
p; He’d probably like Drake to bow and scrape like a damned servant.
Wearing a white shirt and dark breeches, his brother stared at him challengingly. Had James been able to stand, they’d be of a similar height. The muscles in his arms and chest were well developed from exercise. Drake had seen a footman bring in several barbells in various sizes.
For some reason, he had the sudden impression that James was lonely for company. He knew no one in this house, except perhaps Lady Eleanor, who might not recognize him. Even Alicia was gone.
Alicia.
Damn. Why was he letting her turn him into a lapdog who would go sniffing at her heels, whining for her favors?
Angry with himself, he went to fill his glass from the decanter he’d left on a table. After taking a long drink, he sank into a comfortable leather chair by the fireplace. It couldn’t hurt to stay a few more minutes, to lay down some rules.
As James wheeled closer, his glass tucked between his thighs, Drake said without preamble, “I’ll assign a manservant to assist you as necessary. Confine your orders to him alone.”
“I won’t need help,” James said. “I brought along Tilford, my ever-faithful valet.”
“I’ll leave it to you, then, to make sure he doesn’t interfere belowstairs.” Drake wouldn’t allow either of them to harangue the staff, misfits who wouldn’t conform to a nobleman’s exacting standards.
“Tilford is no instigator. He’ll keep to himself.”
“If you’ve any special requests for Cook, give at least half a day’s warning. I won’t have my servants sent off to the market on a moment’s notice.”
James raised his glass in a mock salute. “Strict bugger, aren’t you?”
“Tomorrow, the servants will remove the rugs in all the ground-floor rooms,” Drake went on tonelessly. “Then you can roam about as you please. The library is just down the corridor. My housekeeper will take you on a tour tomorrow—”
“I’ll find my own way around,” James said, his mouth tightening. “I’m more interested in you. Who, may I ask, is your mother?”
Drake had been expecting the blunt question. Much as he hated revealing his past to this self-serving aristocrat, James should know the truth of his father’s neglect.
So Drake gave an abbreviated version of the story. All the while he watched James, daring him to cast any slurs on Muira Wilder’s honor. Crippled or not, he’d get a fist in his face.
But James didn’t jeer. He merely shook his head as if amazed. “I can’t imagine Father having an affair. He’s a stickler for convention.”
Drake thought Hailstock capable of any perfidy. He said nothing, though. If James wished to cling to his illusions, let him.
“To the best of my knowledge, he never strayed from his marriage vows,” James went on, lifting his glass to study the amber liquor in the firelight. “I’ve often wondered if he would finally take a mistress after my mother’s death. That was a year ago.…”
“He hasn’t.”
His brother looked up sharply. “How the devil would you know?”
“I’ve had the both of you watched.”
James gave a low whistle. “You really do despise us.”
Drake took a long swallow from his glass. Though the fine French brandy slid like silk down his throat, he grimaced. What the devil had possessed him to come in here, to sit down, to converse as if they could one day know the true camaraderie of brothers? They shared the same blood, but little else.
“He’s rigid-minded and controlling, but he really isn’t as awful as you think,” James said, leaning back, his face earnest. “We’d play chess of an evening or argue politics. He’s as well read as any lecturer at Oxford, and he has an amazing grasp of numbers. He’s published treatises on mathematics.”
Drake had read those papers. He’d never admit to anyone—least of all this pampered nobleman—that he’d felt a sharp craving to debate those complex theories with the genius who had written them. But James had been the sole recipient of their father’s attentions.
Searching himself for resentment, he found a hollow longing, a sentiment that annoyed him. “So if you two get along so well,” he asked in a brusque tone, “why the hell did you leave?”
James fixed him with a lordly stare. “As I said, I wish to know my brother. And I shall.”
“We’re too different to be friends,” Drake said, finishing off his drink. “Let’s leave it at that.”
James gave a taunting laugh. “Don’t get your back up, Wilder. And I shan’t impose on you for very long. It’s past time I set up my own household.”
Seizing the chance to change the subject, Drake asked, “Have you asked her to marry you?”
A faint flush mottled James’s cheeks. “The duchess?”
“Who the hell else?” Reaching for the decanter, Drake refilled his glass. “Surely you’ll want her in your house.”
In one quick swallow, James emptied his glass. His voice mocking, he said, “She deserves better than to be shackled to a cripple for the rest of her life.”
“I’ve a suspicion she doesn’t look at it that way.”
“We’ll have our affair and nothing more,” James muttered, wheeling forward to pour himself another drink. “Then she can walk away whenever she likes.”
Drake couldn’t let Alicia walk away. Fool! Why did she have such a stranglehold on his heart?
“Don’t be an arrogant ass,” he snapped, with the uncanny suspicion that he meant himself. “You shouldn’t make that decision for her.”
“And you’re the expert on women? If you had half as much brains as conceit, you’d have gone on your knees to Alicia, begging for her forgiveness.”
“I don’t kneel before any woman.”
Snorting, James pointed to the doorway. “Then you should tell her so yourself.”
Drake turned in his chair to see Alicia standing on the threshhold. Damn. Had she heard him?
The lamplight from the corridor limned her slender form and haloed her golden hair. One of her hands clutched the doorframe as if she needed support. She wore the same rose-pink dress, though now it was rumpled as if she’d slept in it. Her face was too pale, her breathing too fast, her expression too anguished.
She had heard him.
Cursing himself, he sprang up and strode across the room to take her arm. Her skin felt chilled and her body trembled. “You look as if you’re about to swoon,” he said.
To his surprise, instead of recoiling or lashing out in anger, she merely stared at him as if trying to see into his soul. In a low voice, she said, “Drake, I must talk to you.”
“We’ll go upstairs.” This might be his chance. If he could get her alone, he could soften her, charm her, convince her that besting his father no longer mattered to him. She mattered.
“No.” Pulling away from him, Alicia walked into the chamber. “This involves James, too.”
James?
In baffled anger, he strode after her. What had James to do with that stupid remark about not kneeling before any woman? Unless something else had upset her.…
She glided to his brother and touched his hand. His brow furrowing in concern, James took her hand in his. “Alicia? What is it?”
“I must read something to both of you. This.”
For the first time, Drake noticed the paper she clutched in her other hand. He craned his neck to view it—a letter, the ink faded, the handwriting feminine with fancy curliques. Burning to know what had put her in such a state, he reached for the letter, but she held it to her breast.
“I must ask you to listen while I explain certain matters,” she said. “Ever since this afternoon, I’ve been thinking, remembering. And one of the things that came to my mind was a packet of old letters that Mama has always kept hidden. They were written by her childhood friend, Claire.”
Alicia paused, gazing at him with that strange seriousness. Drake hardened his jaw to subdue his impatience. “And?”
She walked slowly back and forth. “Cla
ire Donnelly was a poor Irish orphan, a maidservant in the country house where Mama grew up. When the girls became fast friends, Mama convinced her parents to relieve Claire of her duties and raise her as their own daughter. And so the two girls studied together, learned etiquette and the ways of a lady. Then when they were sixteen, Claire fell in love with Lord Hailstock. They eloped to Scotland to be wed.”
James blew out a breath. “Father’s first wife. He certainly never told me she was a commoner.”
“So much for his exacting standards,” Drake muttered.
His brother flashed him an annoyed glance. “Save your comments. Alicia is distraught enough as it is.”
She was, and Drake couldn’t understand why. He couldn’t see how reciting family history had any benefit to either James or himself.
“Lord Hailstock and his wife remained in Scotland for a time,” she went on. “They lived there for nearly a year—until her death.” Stopping in front of Drake, she let her fingertips brush his lapel, the brief touch having all the substance of a butterfly’s wing. “It was the same year that you were born.”
Something in her purposeful tone caused a stirring of disquiet in him. He glanced at James, who leaned forward in his chair, his gaze intent on Alicia.
“So the wretch cheated on his bride,” Drake said, forcing a laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“It does me,” James said, his face serious. “I tell you, it isn’t like him.”
“Well, clearly he did so at least once,” Drake said flatly. He took hold of Alicia’s elbow. “This is all very interesting, but you needn’t distress yourself over a tragedy that happened a long time ago. You should lie down and rest.”
She pulled away. “Will you cease your patronizing remarks and listen?” she said sharply. “What I’m trying to tell you … what this letter confirms … is that you are not Lord Hailstock’s bastard.”
Her words struck Drake like a blow. Did she trust his word so little? Through gritted teeth, he said, “We’ve already discussed this point. He is my father.”
She glanced worriedly at James, then back at Drake. “I know,” she said in an urgent tone. “What I’m saying is … you are his lordship’s legitimate son.”