Seduced by a Scoundrel (11 page)

Now Lady Alicia Pemberton might thwart him at the altar.

The notion filled him with unholy rage. Before God, he would never again permit any member of the aristocracy to humiliate him.

Never again.

The clergyman cleared his throat, and Drake cast an aggravated glance at the Reverend Lord Raymond Jeffries, who leaned on the ivory knob of his cane. While arranging the nuptials, the haughty cleric had made it clear he was the brother of a marquess.

If only the snob knew how much they had in common.

But Drake wasn’t yet ready to proclaim his parentage. First, he must secure a position in Hailstock’s world. If Alicia dared to play him for a fool by canceling their wedding …

A brown curl dipping onto his brow, the cleric leaned closer and whispered, “Your bride, Mr. Wilder.”

Drake snapped his gaze down the aisle. Mrs. Philpot assisted Lady Eleanor into a pew near the front, Mrs. Molesworth trotting behind them. Then his attention flashed to the couple who waited at the rear of the church.

Holding her brother’s arm, Lady Alicia Pemberton stood half hidden in the shadows of the double doorway. Drake’s anxiety dissipated in a surge of unmanly relief. In his mind, he muttered a prayer of triumphant thanksgiving.

As if by divine answer, the clouds parted and a ray of sunlight gilded her in splendor. A halo of white rosebuds crowned her golden hair, and the pale blue gown skimmed the form of an angel. Her hands were folded around a bouquet of white flowers. He spared only a glance at those outer trappings; her purity and beauty struck him breathless. He could hardly believe her chaste perfection soon would be his.

At Gerald’s side, she glided down the aisle. Her eyes were cool and steady, her face pale and composed. She might have been a martyr on her way to the scaffold. Instead of pleasing him, her passivity scorched a path to his gut. He didn’t want her to be resigned to her fate, as if he were her executioner. Damn it, he wanted her to fight him, to show her spirit.

Cold sweat broke out on his palms; he resisted the urge to rub them on his dark blue frock coat. What the devil was wrong with him? She was no more to him than an instrument of revenge.

Brother and sister reached the altar railing. Lord Brockway paused, his gaze fierce on Drake. Despite his boyish features and scrawny physique, he looked every inch the earl in his finely tailored coat and buff knee breeches. The aggressive tilt of his jaw said that he would defend his sister if the need arose. Drake nodded sardonically. A pity the tadpole hadn’t been more protective when he’d risked all at the gaming table.

Then Gerald gave Alicia to him, and Drake drew her close, tucking her gloved fingers in the crook of his arm. With her other hand, she held the bouquet of lilies at her slender waist. Her subtle feminine scent cast a veil of bewitchment over him, and even here in church, he felt himself tighten with lust. Keeping his hand firmly over hers, he drew her a few steps closer to the altar.

The clergyman opened his leather-bound prayer book. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…”

The commencement of the marriage service barely penetrated Drake’s keen awareness of his bride. He felt a grudging admiration that this small and dainty woman could possess such flawless self-control. Her fine, alabaster profile displayed no trace of emotion. She gazed straight ahead as if pledging her life to a bastard gambler were nothing out of the ordinary.

He’d half expected her to shun his gifts, the gown and the necklace. The diamonds matched the luster of her skin, the teardrop sapphire nestling in the shadowed valley between her breasts. He wanted to put his mouth there … and elsewhere. He wanted to peel off her gown and lay seige to her composure.

The explicit fantasy seared straight to his groin.

“If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”

The Reverend Lord Raymond Jeffries paused. His squirrelly eyes darted left and right as if he fully expected someone to step forth and stop this scandalous wedding. On the altar, the candle flames danced in the silence. A gust of wind rattled the windows. Fergus noisily shuffled his feet, and for one uneasy moment, Drake feared the old man meant to voice an objection.

He clenched his teeth to keep from snapping at Jeffries,
For Christ’s sake, get on with it!

At last the clergyman began to read again, droning on for several more interminable minutes before indicating they should join their right hands. Drake spoke his vows quickly and felt no tremor in her slim fingers, no hint of agitation as Alicia murmured her vows. Even then, she did not lift her eyes to his, and her voice was smooth, her movements mechanical. She might have been a marionette worked by invisible strings.

It was done. He’d sealed his fate. And hers.

At his prior request, there was no blessing of the rings, for Drake saw no need to bother with such romantic indulgences. While the cleric spoke the final prayers, Alicia’s ladylike reserve continued to rub on Drake. It was as if he didn’t truly own her—she kept a part of herself inviolate. The primitive desire to put his brand on her swept through him.

She was
his
wife. His to use as he willed.

He crushed her to him and claimed her mouth. Her soft lips parted in startlement. He seized the advantage, capturing the back of her head in one hand to hold her steady while his tongue plundered her in a deep, demanding kiss. She tasted of innocence, of a sweetness he had never before known. As if from a distance, he heard a gasp from the clergyman, a muttered protest from her brother.

The onlookers made no difference to Drake. Only a lightning bolt from the heavens could have stopped him.

He kissed her long and hard and deep. She clung to his shoulders, and her quickened heartbeats fluttered against his chest. The scent of crushed lilies blended with her light feminine fragrance. With skillful strokes of his tongue, he caressed her sensitive inner flesh until the woodenness left her body and she gave a little sigh and melted in his arms.

The victory left him only marginally satisfied. He wanted more than a kiss. He craved her complete surrender.

And he would have it. By God, he would.

Later.

He forced himself to draw back. Alicia stood looking at him, her breasts rising and falling, her breath coming in little panting gasps. Wisps of fair hair framed the soft beauty of a well-pleasured woman. Her eyes were dazed blue pools of desire—but only for a moment.

Then a mask of cool disdain once again smoothed her noble features.

Fumbling with his prayer book, the clergyman concluded the service. No doubt he was accustomed to witnessing more sedate kisses. The civilized kisses of aristocratic couples.

To hell with the aristocracy.

Drake grasped her slender waist. He and Alicia would have no civilized courtship. Their bedsport would be wild, uninhibited, lusty. He was not at all discouraged by her coldness. Whether she would acknowledge so or not, a strong current of passion flowed beneath her serene surface.

We will have a chaste marriage.…

He smiled. How wrong she was. He would have his pleasure of Alicia. He would charm her into his bed and make his claim on her complete and irrevocable. She was his now.

His wife.

Chapter Eight

Her husband.

Descending from the coach with the aid of Drake’s hand, Alicia struggled to assimilate the reality of their marriage. His firm grip threatened her hard-won control. They had ridden together from the church, just the two of them. Determined to appear calm, she’d filled the silence with polite comments on the weather, her mother, the delay in their arrival, anything but the ceremony and that earthshaking kiss. While she’d chatted away, he’d watched her, his eyes a dark, disconcerting blue in the gloomy daylight.

She hadn’t known a kiss could be so private, so intimate. He had invaded her with his tongue.
His tongue.
And she had
enjoyed
it.

The daring embraces she’d experienced during her first Season now seemed tame and lackluster, those gentlemen mere schoolboys. Drake Wilder, however, had seen the depths of depravity. He had done acts so wicked she could not even imagine them. In that kiss, he had shown her a glimpse of his erotic skills, subjecting her to an intimacy that stirred a shockingly carnal desire inside her.

No wonder he’d been amused by her naïve attempt at seduction that day at his club. Unknowingly, she had made a fool of herself. Worse, she had underestimated his power over her.

She wouldn’t do so again.

She stepped down onto the wet drive. A freckle-faced footman held an umbrella to keep off the rain. As they walked, Drake’s arm circled her back and his fingers splayed over her hip, as if to claim ownership of her. She would not cause a scene by flinching from him.

His mouth curved into that smile of lethal charm. “Welcome home … Mrs. Wilder.”

Mrs. Wilder.

His keen gaze unnerved her as much as her new status, and she turned away to view Number Ten, Swansdowne Crescent. Her new home was not the vulgar monstrosity she had expected of an upstart gambler. The magnificent four-story house had the fluid grace of a Greek temple. Tall white columns supported the carved pediment of the portico. The many windows shone with a warm golden light, and Alicia seized on the distraction. “Do you always burn so many candles in the middle of the day?”

“It’s a paltry expense.”

“If you’re a spendthrift.”

“Better a spendthrift than a skinflint.” He arched an amused eyebrow. “Besides, if ever I run low, there are always vast funds to be won from aristocratic gentlemen.”

On that outrageous remark, he drew her up the broad marble stairs to the porch. Once they reached the shelter of the overhang, the footman sprang ahead to open the large front door. Alicia slowed her steps, glancing down the drive and past the dark green iron fence with its opened gate. A few pedestrians hurried along the quiet, curved street, their heads bent against the drizzle.

“Mama and Gerald should be arriving soon,” she said.

“Afraid to be alone with me?”

She wouldn’t admit to the grain of truth in that. “I am concerned about their coachman. He seemed a trifle … slow-witted.”

The massive man with the battered face had had an almost vacant look in his beady eyes. He had made several wrong turns on his way to the church, and Gerald had been forced to redirect him.

“Big Bill was once a pugilist, so perchance his brain is rattled.” Under his breath, Drake added, “He should never have taken the reins today.”

“What’s wrong?” she cried out. “If he causes an accident—”

“He won’t,” Drake said, though he flashed a frown at the street. Then his expression smoothed. “Ah, there they are now.”

Moving at a sedate pace, the fine black coach trundled around the far curve of the crescent, with Big Bill hunched on the coachman’s box. Relieved, but still perturbed, Alicia wrinkled her nose. “A prizefighter. Why would you employ such a brute?”

“Ask my steward. He handles the outside staff.” Drake applied pressure to the base of her spine. “Come, they’ll be a few minutes yet. There’s no sense standing out here in the damp.”

The chilly air made her shiver—there could be no other reason for her sudden tremor—and she glided past the liveried footman who held open the door. The soaring beauty of the entrance hall took her breath away. A chandelier sparkled from the high-domed ceiling. The rich brown pillars against the buff-colored walls gave the vast room an understated elegance, while the mahogany chairs and side tables lent an air of comfortable grace.

Hard-pressed not to gawk like a bumpkin, Alicia lowered her gaze and noticed the long line of servants who awaited the customary introduction to their new mistress, the grooms and footmen in dark blue livery with silver buttons, the maids in matching blue gowns with white aprons. The sight brought a measure of calm to her. Before Papa had lost his wealth, she had been trained to oversee a large household. Though her marriage was not the love match she’d once dreamed about, she would make a place for herself here. She would forget her despair in the performance of her duties.…

Realizing that Drake was leading her to the grand staircase, she murmured, “The staff has assembled to meet me.”

His handhold restrained her from veering toward the servants. “That won’t be necessary,” he said in a low-pitched voice.

“Not necessary?”

“You heard me. Wait here.” He strolled toward the group; Alicia ignored his edict and followed him.

At the head of the line stood a stoop-shouldered, elderly man in the garb of a butler, and beside him, a voluptuous, red-haired woman who wore a ring of keys at her waist. In her daringly cut bodice, she looked more like a female of ill repute than a housekeeper.

“You disobeyed my order,” Drake said.

“I tole her you shed not to gather here,” the old man slurred. He blinked his rheumy eyes at the housekeeper. “Din’t I, Yates?”

“Oh, hush up, Chalkers. Everyone will know you’ve been tippling in the cellar again.” Yates smiled coyly at Drake. “We merely thought to offer our congratulations, sir, on your marriage.”

The butler was
drunk?
Alicia wondered in outraged surprise. And why would Drake permit such a wayward manner in his housekeeper?

She stepped out from behind him. “I should be pleased to meet each and every one of you—”

“No,” Drake said. Raising his voice to address all the servants, he added, “Mrs. Wilder and I thank you very much. You may return to your duties now.”

While Alicia stood rigid with shock, the staff dispersed toward the rear of the house, though a plump, dark-eyed girl continued to gape at the master’s bride until a skinny footman tugged at her arm. Uttering a gasp, she darted away with him, disappearing through a doorway at the end of the corridor.

Alicia rounded on Drake. “For heaven’s sake, I need to learn their names. And to establish my authority here.”

“You’re not to bother with the servants. Mrs. Yates will handle them.”