Seduced by a Scoundrel (10 page)

“Yet you continue to harp on my faults.”

“Of course. Gamblers don’t make reliable husbands.”

His face sobered to a watchful expression. “Nor reliable fathers—at least not in your experience.”

His words struck the starch from her spirit. She felt defenseless, her painful past exposed to him. But surely he didn’t know the whole story. Few did. “Papa was a loving, caring man. I will not hear him criticized.”

“He left you and your family near destitute.”

“We had enough to live on. Until
you
took the rest.”

“Then you’ll appreciate having luxuries again,” he said without a hint of remorse. “In truth, you’d be wise to spend your days learning how to please me.”

Before the Season is out, you’ll come begging to share my bed.

“Pleasing you is not part of our bargain,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “Your comfort means little to me.”

As the coach turned into the bustling traffic of Regent Street, he murmured, “You wound me, darling. Don’t you know when I’m bedeviling you?”

She didn’t know. Nor could she fathom why her heart thrilled to his seductive voice. He was a rake, a scoundrel, a
gambler.

And in a mere two days, he would be her husband.

Chapter Seven

When Alicia descended the grand staircase on the morning of her wedding, an icy calm numbed her. She had slept fitfully, disturbed by dark unremembered dreams, but with the dawn came an acceptance of her future. Permitting herself to think of nothing beyond the mundane motions of bathing and dressing, she had readied herself for the ceremony.

The elegant new gown rustled with every step. Fashioned of the palest blue satin, it had a gauze overskirt shot through with silver threads that glimmered in the gloom of the rainy day. She shuddered to imagine the many long hours the seamstresses had toiled over the delicate embroidery.

A heavy strand of diamonds and sapphires circled her neck like a noose. From the necklace hung a teardrop-shaped sapphire larger than her thumb. The exquisite piece had arrived the previous afternoon along with matching sapphire earbobs, delivered by a fawning jeweler who said the jewels were a wedding gift from Mr. Wilder.

She had been tempted to send them back. The gems had, after all, been purchased with profits from his gaming club. But rebelliousness would invite his provoking attentions. She had learned that lesson two days ago, on their shopping expedition.

He had displayed exquisite taste in selecting cloth and trimmings at the linen-draper’s, in choosing styles from the latest fashion books at the dressmaker’s shop. With cunning finesse, he had charmed the modiste, a tall thin Frenchwoman who at first had decried his request to finish this gown and another in less than forty-eight hours. He had smiled and cajoled her, and the prune-faced woman had melted like whipped cream on a hot tart.

While he and the dressmaker carried on a flirtation—there was no other word to describe it—Alicia had felt like a mannequin. She had been measured and assessed and arrayed with lengths of fabric. And despite her disgust for his money, in a hidden shameful part of her, she had reveled in the delight of owning a new wardrobe.

Her conscience demanded that she accept only the minimum of garments, not the dizzying abundance of morning gowns and walking dresses and ball gowns that Drake had selected. To her mortification, he had ordered underclothing, too, corsets and chemises and petticoats of the finest lawn and lace. A bully with a breathtaking smile, he had insisted, and in the end she had acquiesced.

After all, she had a bargain to uphold. A bargain with the devil.

Alicia paused at the bottom of the stairs, her gloved fingers curled around the smooth twists of the newel post. A prickly awareness pierced her stupor. The dull daylight cast a gray haze over the foyer. Rain tapped against the long windows, mingling with the sounds from the drawing room.

The murmur of voices.

She had no wish to converse with anyone, but earlier, Mama had skipped down the stairs, eager as the schoolgirl she imagined herself to be today, and so Alicia curved her lips upward. It was her wedding day, and by heaven, she would show the world a happy appearance.

Her satin slippers made no sound on the marble of the foyer. But as she entered the drawing room, her smile faltered.

Clutching a posy of white lilies against her rose-pink gown, Mama sat small and forlorn on the lone chaise. For once, she didn’t wear the moleskin cape; Mrs. Philpot must have talked her out of it. No longer did Mama chatter in excitement; now she had the demeanor of a chastened child.

Across the empty chamber, Mrs. Philpot stood by the bow window. Her troubled gaze flitted to Alicia before returning to the man who paced before Lady Eleanor.

Lord Hailstock.

Alicia’s stomach lurched. Though a close family friend, he was also her rejected suitor. She hadn’t invited him to the wedding, so why had he come to call? If he had upset Mama …

She hastened toward them. “My lord. This is a surprise.”

He strode forward and met her halfway. His silvering hair was rumpled, his posture tense beneath his formal gray coat. “Your servant informed me you were on your way down,” he said, nodding grimly at Mrs. Philpot. “My God, Alicia, I heard only this morning that the wedding will take place
today.
What is the meaning of such haste?”

She glanced at her mother. “Let us withdraw to the library,” she murmured. “We can speak in private there.”

As they walked to the doorway, Lady Eleanor called out, “Please, wait!” Clearly bewildered, she glanced back and forth at them. In a timid little-girl’s voice, she went on, “Richard, you never told me why Claire didn’t come with you. Is she ill?”

He flinched, his eyes stark. “You know why. She’s gone.”

“Gone where?” the countess asked, mystified.

“For God’s sake, she’s d—”

“She’s departed on a long journey,” Alicia interjected hastily, before Hailstock could reveal the harsh truth of Claire’s death. Many years ago, Mama had been best friends with Hailstock’s first wife. They had grown up together, Claire a penniless orphan, taken in as a companion for Lady Eleanor, the pampered only child of an earl. This morning, Mama had drifted back to that time and believed herself to be a carefree young lady again.

Mama blinked in confusion. “A journey? Oh, dear, Claire didn’t tell me. There is something about her … something I should remember.…”

“You should remember to tell your daughter how foolish she is to marry in haste—” Hailstock began.

“That is quite enough,” Alicia said, giving his arm a sharp tug.

Mrs. Philpot hurried forward to sit with the countess. “There, now, I shall keep you company in Claire’s absence. Oh, won’t we have a grand time at the wedding today?”

A quivering smile touched Lady Eleanor’s lips, and she nodded. Over the past week, Mrs. Philpot had proven herself indispensable. She never lost her patience and always displayed a cheerful humor.

Feeling safe to leave them, Alicia led Lord Hailstock into the vacant library, closed the doors, and swung to face him. “Why must you distress Mama? It serves no purpose. And what did you say to her before I walked into the room?”

“I merely reminded her she is no longer a girl just out of the schoolroom. She is a widow, the mother of grown children.” His gray eyes keen, he shook his head. “If I may be blunt, Alicia, you are not doing her any service by pandering to her fantasies.”

“On the contrary, I’m making her happy. This isn’t a game Mama is playing.”

“That is precisely why she belongs in a place apart from sane people.” He paced with his hands behind his back, his heels clicking on the bare floor. “I’m worried for your sake. Her actions are unpredictable. Remember the time she imagined herself as Joan of Arc? She might have run you through with her sword.”

Alicia discounted any danger. “Mama abhors violence. She would never harm anyone.”

“And if her condition worsens? You don’t always know what she’ll do next.”

“I know her better than anyone, and she will continue to live with me after my marriage.”

Hailstock made a snort of disbelief. “Is that what Wilder told you? You shouldn’t believe his pretty promises. He’s a cardsharp and a swindler. Honesty isn’t his strong suit.”

Privately she agreed, yet she felt a strange compulsion to defend the man who would be her husband. “He gave me more than his promise. He signed an agreement granting me sole guardianship of Mama until Gerald reaches his majority.” Only yesterday, a sober-faced solicitor had delivered the legal papers for her signature. She had scrutinized the brief statement, satisfying herself that it could not be overturned by any court.

“Wilder won’t honor such a contract. He isn’t a gentleman. The scapegrace considers himself above the law.” His face grim, he added, “Mark my words, he’ll find the means to lock Eleanor away.”

The knife of doubt twisted in her heart. Was the marquess right? Was she naïve to trust Drake? To put herself and her family at his mercy?

In a low, firm voice, she said, “I must trust in our agreement. I have no other choice.”

“You do have a choice. You can wed me.”

She shook her head. “I
know
you will lock Mama away forever.”

Hailstock came closer and grasped her gloved hands, as if she were a child to be placated. “My dear, I’ve known you since you were a babe in arms. And I’ve grown to love and respect you as a woman. I cannot allow you to take this disastrous course of action.”

In spite of her resolve, his husky words filled her with warmth. Over the years, he had been both father and friend to her, especially after Papa’s death. That was when the marquess had begun to come around more often, offering his assistance, though her father had appointed the director of his bank as executor of the will and guardian. Now Alicia ached to fling herself into Lord Hailstock’s protective arms, to breathe in his familiar scent of masculine cologne, to place all her troubles into his capable hands. But she could not.

“It is too late to dissuade me,” she whispered.

Though Hailstock gently stroked her hand, his eyes burned with a fervent intensity. “No, it isn’t too late. I beg you, do not go through with this wedding. Wilder will bring you to grief. He’ll flaunt his affairs and taint you with his vices.”

Taking a deep breath, she extracted her hands and willed her voice not to shake. “I know what he is, my lord, and I’m entering this marriage with open eyes.”

“You and Wilder come from utterly different worlds. Better you should wed me, a gentleman who will cherish you as a lady.” He paused, his face grave and his gaze hooded. “As to Eleanor … I am willing to allow her to live with us, so long as she remains confined to her rooms.”

His offer surprised Alicia, and at one time, she might have accepted it. Yet into her memory flashed the image of Drake Wilder, bowing to her mother with courtly regard, playing along with her mad fancies, purchasing all of her flowers.…

Why, oh, why couldn’t Lord Hailstock treat her so well?

She sharply shook her head. “Locking her up won’t do. Mama needs to be a part of her family. She needs
me.
”

“If you won’t heed your own welfare, then consider your brother’s. Wilder will corrupt Gerald to the ways of a gambler. No doubt the boy will end up in an early grave, the same as your father.”

The knife took another painful turn. Yet Gerald had promised to stay away from Wilder’s Club, and didn’t she owe him her faith? “My mind is made up. There is nothing more to say.”

Hailstock studied her with a tightly drawn intensity, as if gauging the strength of her resolution. “As you wish, then,” he said in a clipped tone. “But you must take this.” He brought forth something from an inner pocket of his coat and pressed it into her hand.

It was a ring, the gold band studded with sapphires and diamonds. A stunned confusion flooded her. “I can’t accept this.”

“You must. It was to be your betrothal ring from me.” On that, he turned and stalked out of the library.

As the raindrops drummed a lament on the windowpanes, Alicia leaned against a barren bookshelf and stared down at the ring in her hand. She shouldn’t accept such a token from another man. And yet how could she refuse Lord Hailstock? She felt as if she’d lost a dear friend.

Heartsore, she eased off her glove and slid the ring onto her finger.

*   *   *

His bride was late.

Though tension gripped his chest, Drake forced himself to stand calmly by the altar. Rain drizzled down the tall windows. In the loft, a choir of white-robed boys sang a hymn, accompanied by the stoop-shouldered curate on the pipe organ. The damp air smelled of beeswax from the many candles burning in the chandeliers and on the altar. A few of Drake’s most trusted employees occupied the front pews of St. George’s, and someone coughed, the sound echoing through the church.

On one side of him stood the vicar with his mousy wife, who would stand witness to the nuptials. On his other side lurked Fergus MacAllister, clad in his stiff Sunday best. Drake could feel that disapproving glower burning into his back.

Or maybe Fergus was gloating.

The ceremony had been scheduled to begin a quarter of an hour ago. Drake silently cursed his decision to obey custom and arrive separately from his bride. He had sent his coach when he ought to have gone to her house—
his
house—and brought her here. He wouldn’t have judged Alicia craven, yet her cool blond beauty concealed her thoughts, and for once in his life he distrusted his ability to read a woman.

What if she never appeared?

The galling possibility festered in his stomach. For years, he had schemed for this moment. He had plotted his revenge ever since he’d been a grieving boy, denied by his father. Driven by bitterness, Drake had studied elocution and etiquette, finance and commerce. He had used his talent with numbers to amass a fortune at the gaming tables. Then he had lured Gerald, Lord Brockway, into a game of chance.

All so that Drake could claim the woman Hailstock wanted.