Seduced by a Scoundrel (9 page)

People will notice,
a voice inside her whispered.
They’ll snicker behind their hands at you, the prideful Lady Alicia who would adorn herself in hand-me-downs just to spite her rich husband.

She ought to snatch at the chance to thwart Drake Wilder. Yet somehow, that course of action seemed childish and petty. Would it be so terrible to accept a few gowns? Enough to fulfill her end of their bargain?

“I cannot leave on a moment’s notice,” she demurred. “I’m spending the afternoon with my mother.”

“So I see.” His gaze shifted across the attic to Lady Eleanor, who held a fancy fan and twirled as if with an invisible dance parter. He called downstairs, “Mrs. Philpot. You may come up now.”

A tall, slim woman with upswept silver hair and surprisingly merry green eyes walked into view. She wore a high-necked gown of gray serge, much like that of a governess or a housekeeper. Exuding an air of dignified competence, she ascended the attic stairs.

Alicia stepped back; to bar the woman from entering would be churlish. She frowned a question at Wilder. His answering smile had the power to devastate a lesser woman.

“My dear Lady Alicia,” he said, “may I introduce you to Mrs. Hortense Philpot. She is the widow of one Captain Philpot, a naval hero who died at the Battle of Trafalgar. She will spend the afternoon with Lady Eleanor.”

Mrs. Philpot curtsied to Alicia. “Only if you’ve no objections, my lady.”

“I mean no insult, but” —Alicia sent another sharp stare at Drake Wilder—“such an arrangement is out of the question. I cannot leave Mama in the care of a stranger.”

“Forgive me for being presumptuous,” Mrs. Philpot said in an anxious tone, “but I understand your hesitation. My own beloved mother suffered from dementia for many years, and I cared for her until her death last year.”

The news took Alicia aback. “I’m so sorry.”

“Now you will wish to meet Lady Brockway,” Drake said smoothly, taking Mrs. Philpot by the arm. “Or shall I say, Queen Anne.”

He led the older woman through the cluttered attic before Alicia could retort that
nothing
was settled. Her fingers tightening around the quaint gown, she had no choice but to trail at his well-shod heels. And to watch as he gallantly kissed Mama’s hand. “Your Majesty, I’ve brought you a new lady-in-waiting.”

“I am honored to serve my queen,” Mrs. Philpot said. She sank into a deep obeisance before Lady Eleanor, who giggled with delight.

“Make haste,” Mama said, clapping her hands. “I am preparing for a state dinner.”

Rising, Mrs. Philpot picked up a magnificent sack gown of brocaded yellow velvet and held it out for the countess’s inspection. “Might I suggest this suitably grand frock?”

They went to an age-speckled cheval glass, where Lady Eleanor held the gown to herself and preened. “Oh, my gracious. I do believe it is perfect for dining with King Louis of France. He is my guest, you know.”

“Indeed! We must pay especial heed to your hair, then.” Mrs. Philpot whispered conspiratorially, “I hear he means to introduce a new style—the white powdered wig. Perhaps Your Majesty could upstage him?”

Lady Eleanor clasped her hands to her bosom. “Oh, that would be magnificent. We English must lead the world in fashion.”

As the two women examined several wigs in the trunk, Alicia felt a clutch of tenderness in her breast that threatened to overpower her doubts. She so loved seeing Mama happy. It more than made up for the occasions when Mama lapsed into melancholy, weeping for Papa or lamenting some inexpressible fear.

But dare she trust an outsider? The caretaker hired by Drake Wilder? The world knew
his
taste in women.

“Your Majesty,” Alicia called, “I would suggest we go downstairs, where
I
will help you don your gown.”

Mama lifted her hand in a royal wave. “Your assistance is no longer required. Begone with you now.”

“But ma’am—”

“You heard her,” Wilder muttered, bending close to Alicia. “The queen has made her choice. She won’t even miss you.”

His warm breath tickled her ear. Though he crowded her, she refused to budge. He was too large, too brawny, all muscle and masculinity. And she could hardly evict the man who owned the very roof over her head. While she was distracted, he plucked the antiquated gown from her grasp and tossed it over a tailor’s mannequin. Placing his hand at the small of her back, he propelled her toward the staircase.

She glanced back to see Mrs. Philpot settle an elaborate wig over Lady Eleanor’s golden hair. The trill of Mama’s laughter floated through the attic. Perhaps … just perhaps if she stole away for a few hours Mama would be safe.

Not that
she
was safe with Drake Wilder.

He held her so close, their hips brushed. His arm encircled her, and she could feel the proprietary pressure of his palm at the base of her spine. His subtle masculine tang enticed her, as did the danger she sensed in him. Whenever he touched her, a melting weakness sapped her strength of will.

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

At the stairs, she pulled away, ignoring his complacent grin. Head held high, she preceded him down to the second floor.

A patch of sunlight illuminated a faded square on the wallpaper where a landscape painting had hung once. The long corridor showed a forlorn row of closed doors leading to empty bedchambers. No longer did the house ring with frivolous laughter and music from the reception rooms downstairs. Alicia remembered being a young girl, peeking through the balustrade at the elegant guests milling in the foyer below. But after Papa’s horrible death and Mama’s loss of her senses, the nobility had ceased to visit.

Mrs. Molesworth rushed forward, her hands clasped to her stout bosom. “Mrs. Philpot is a dear,” she said. “I couldn’t’ve chose a better companion for ’er ladyship. We ’ad us a nice little chat, that we did.”

“Thank you, madam,” Wilder said with a flourishing bow. “Your approval will mean a great deal to Lady Alicia.”

Then he winked at the servant.
Winked.

And the stern Mrs. Molesworth blushed!

Alicia stared from one to the other. How had he won over the cook? Just the other day, she had threatened to spit him and roast him for dinner!

“Mrs. Philpot’s competence remains to be proven,” Alicia pointed out. “Where are her references?”

Her sharp tone appeared to amuse Wilder. “M’lady is a strict one, is she not?” he asked the cook. “Likely, she wouldn’t believe me if I said Mrs. Philpot has a glowing recommendation from the Duchess of St. Chaldon. But we know better.”

She nodded vigorously, her chins jiggling. “That we do.”

“And I trust you’ll keep a close eye on Lady Brockway.”

“Right-o, sir. And might I say, ’tis a blustery day, so I took the liberty of fetchin’ m’lady Alicia’s bonnet an’ cape.” The cook gestured at the accessories, which were draped over the newel post.

“Excellent,” Wilder said. “I like efficiency in a woman.”

While Mrs. Molesworth tittered in a most ridiculous fashion, Alicia gritted her molars to keep from retorting that he also liked his women vulgar and immoral. “Speaking of
efficiency,
I’d rather go alone. Men have no patience for shopping.”

“Then you haven’t known the right men.”

Taking the bonnet, he settled it over Alicia’s head. As he tied the frayed ribbons into a bow, his long fingers brushed the underside of her chin, and his touch set off another quake of sensation inside her. A peculiar breathlessness seized Alicia. It could only be frustration at his high-handed behavior.

“There you go,” Mrs. Molesworth said, removing Alicia’s apron and then brushing the wrinkles from her skirt. “We can’t ’ave you dressin’ like a common milkmaid. Besides, you need an outin’. ’Twill put the roses back in your cheeks.”

Alicia opened her mouth to protest, but realized it would be her pride talking. Nor could she truly say he was abducting her. Allowing him to purchase a wardrobe for her was the sensible thing to do. After all, she would be entering society again for
his
sake, to promote
his
ambitions. She would be satisfying their bargain, that was all.

Preoccupied, she stood quietly while Drake fastened the cape at her throat. He escorted her downstairs and out into the chilly sunshine, where a sleek black coach waited at the curbstone.

His arm around her, he ushered her into the luxurious interior. The burgundy velvet seat provided a comfortable support for her back. Brocaded trim framed the doors, and pleated damask lined the ceiling. The ivory silk shades were raised, each with a gold tassel hanging at the top of the window.

Instead of sitting in the opposite seat, Drake settled himself beside her, his knee almost touching hers. He looked far too elegant in his dark blue frock coat and buckskin breeches, the crisp white cravat tied at his throat.

Resenting him for his perfection, she edged closer to the corner and folded her bare, chapped hands in her lap. She’d planned to spend the afternoon picking apart the seams of outmoded garments and determining how to refashion them. As much as she felt relieved to be denied that task, she didn’t like to contemplate where he had obtained the funds that would pay for her new clothes.

Yet to her shame, she tingled with excitement as the coach started off with barely a jolt. It had been so long since she had ridden in a well-sprung coach with a handsome man at her side. So long since she’d set out on a carefree excursion. She could almost imagine her companion to be an attentive suitor, could almost let herself believe he would be as kind and considerate to his wife as he was to her mother.…

“Our wedding will take place on Thursday,” he said.

She turned to stare at him. “Two
days?
From
now?
”

“Yes.”

“But … I will need at least a month to make arrangements, to send out invitations—”

“We’re inviting no one outside the family.”

“I thought you wished the
ton
to attend.”

“And how many would deign to do so?” Wilder aimed an indolent glance at her. “As my wife, you will renew your connections with the nobility and convince them to accept me. That will take time.”

Her stomach clenched. She had counted on having weeks to adjust her mind to the reality of this marriage. “The banns must be announced on three Sundays.”

“There will be no banns. I’ve obtained a special license from the archbishop.”

“How? You couldn’t have bribed the highest official in the church.”

“Rest assured, no money changed hands.” Those keen blue eyes twinkling, he added, “You see, I confessed to him I’d seduced you, and that you might be with child.”

A flush swept hotly from her bosom to her face. “You sullied my reputation? And to a holy man of God, no less.”

“Come now, don’t get your back up. I made it out to be entirely my fault.”

Probing her limited repertoire of curses, she muttered,
“Es barbarus.”

He chuckled. “I
am
a barbarian. So fling your arrows as you like.”

The fact that he understood Latin only fired her resentment. “You can hardly expect society to embrace a woman whose good name has been dragged through the mud.”

“You can hardly expect the archbishop to gossip, either.”

“He won’t need to do so. The very act of marrying by special license will imply that we…” She paused, unwilling to finish the statement.

“Succumbed to carnal lust?” Wilder cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of what people might think. You’re made of sterner stuff than that.”

“You just won’t listen. You’re incorrigible.”

He sent her a lazy grin. “You’re irresistible.”

To her shock, she almost laughed, but caught herself in time. Any mirth she felt could be due only to hysteria. “There is nothing amusing about a scapegrace who makes light of his sins.”

“Nor a spinster who cannot speak a kind word to her betrothed.” His hand encircled her wrist and brought it to his lips, kissing the sensitive inner skin, his breath warm and tickling, enticing her. “Let’s be civil today, shall we?”

She tried—and failed—to tug herself free. “So long as you keep your distance, Mr. Wilder.”

“Call me Drake. All the other women do.”

“Mr. Wilder,” she said with deliberate politeness, “kindly release me.”

“Not until you say my name.”

She could see the steely resolve behind his jesting smile. And she could not bear his disturbing touch a moment longer. “Let me go … Drake.”

His grip remained firm. To her chagrin, he examined her fine-boned hand in the light from the coach window, gently rubbing the pad of his forefinger across the rough patches. She felt vulnerable without gloves, ashamed of her broken nails and sandpaper skin. After visiting his club, she’d been so angry that she’d yanked off her last pair, ruining the delicate kidskin.

He fixed her with an intense stare. “How does a lady come to have the hands of a laundress?”

She yanked again, and this time he let her go. “By doing the laundry.”

“Have you no other servants but the cook?”

“We also employed a maid-of-all-work and a footman, but I was forced to let them go.” Let him think she had done no hard labor before then, that his entrapment of Gerald had caused all her woes.

“One doesn’t develop calluses overnight.”

“How would you know?” She cast a disparaging glance at his perfectly groomed hands, the long fingers with their square-tipped nails. “All you ever do is deal cards and toss dice.”

“And caress women, my other favorite pastime.” With his mouth slanted in that infernal smile, he draped his arm across the back of the cushions, toying with the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.

Alicia stiffened to stop the pleasurable sensations that scampered down her spine. How many other women had he touched? How many had he seduced? And why was she even wondering?

He exuded a relaxed confidence, as if he enjoyed letting her provoke him. He seemed determined today to discomfit her; she was equally determined to ignore his efforts. “How you squander your time matters little to me,” she said.