Seduced by a Scoundrel (3 page)

His response to her had surprised him. He’d thought her too frigid and aristocratic for his tastes. He preferred a warm, earthy woman without inhibitions. A woman who knew how to give as much as she took. Not a nose-in-the-air blueblood who believed herself superior to him.

He was a man who controlled his physical urges. Though he savored sensuality in many forms, he must not allow lust to distract him. Not until he had achieved his purpose in marrying Lady Alicia.

She had refused him, of course, though not without a momentary pause. He had waited, anticipating her rejection, until a trace of alarm had clouded those clear blue eyes. She did not want a husband, and he knew why. His informants had done a thorough job of investigation.

And he, too, had observed her from afar. Several times, he’d waited in a closed carriage while she headed out on her early morning errands to the fish market or the greengrocer. He took care to use a different vehicle each time so that she wouldn’t grow suspicious. Watching her wasn’t vital to his plan, yet he’d felt the burning need to learn all he could about the woman who was being courted by his sworn enemy—the Marquess of Hailstock.

Drake’s fingers clenched around the drapery. With narrowed eyes, he stared down at his quarry. Lady Alicia had reached the corner and paused as a coalman’s dray approached. One of the wheels struck a puddle and splashed her with filthy water. She didn’t leap back or shake her fist; she merely waited on the curbstone until the vehicle passed by and she could cross the busy street. Her unruffled, ladylike demeanor intrigued him.

More than he could have imagined, he had enjoyed baiting her, testing that genteel composure. He could admit to a grudging admiration at the way she’d stood up to him. And he’d been stunned by her willingness to do almost anything to protect her family, even relinquish her chastity to a scoundrel.

How he would relish telling Hailstock of her offer.

With cool satisfaction, Drake knew he had read the nobleman’s character well. Lady Alicia must have gone to Hailstock first, and despite his wealth, the marquess had refused to lend her the twenty thousand unless she married him. She had refused him, too. Because Hailstock wouldn’t tolerate her mother.

But Drake could. It was a vulnerability he intended to exploit to ruthless advantage.

“I ken what ye’re up to,” said a gravelly voice behind him. “Dinna think ye can pull the wool over these auld eyes.”

Drake released the drapery, letting it fall across the window as he turned to face Fergus MacAllister. The hulking man stood with his hands planted at his lanky waist and a grimace lowering his white brows.

Though Drake had reached his thirtieth year, that stern gaze could still stir a flicker of guilt in him. “I’ve nothing to hide,” he stated. “The girl won’t be hurt.”

“Not hurt?” Fergus shook his head in disgust. “When ye sent me to spy on the lady, ye dinna say ye intended to milk her puir brother of all his money. Nor to use her as yer whore.”

“I’m not intending to make her my mistress.”

Fergus snorted. “Ye canna expect me to believe
that.
”

Annoyed, Drake walked to the desk and seated himself in the leather chair. He looked down at the ledger, ran his finger down a column, and just as swiftly totaled the figures in his head. Affecting a detached tone, he said, “Then believe this—I mean to marry her.”

The older man’s jaw dropped. “Of all the dastardly schemes…” he sputtered. “Ye’re set on revenge. Ye intend to steal her away from Lord Hailstock.”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Hah. Is the lass to have a say in the matter?”

“No.”

Fergus stomped to the desk and shook his gnarled finger in Drake’s face. “Yer mither raised ye to treat folks fairly, to be a braw man. And this is how ye repay her. By maneuvering that sweet angel to yer own wicked purpose.”

“As my wife, that
sweet angel
will want for naught.”

“Naught but love. Naught but respect and honor.” The branch of candles cast shadows on Fergus’s familiar, craggy face with the black eyepatch. “Ye’ll have yer vengeance at last. But how will ye live with yerself, I wonder?”

Drake refused to lower his gaze. He remembered the flash of horror in her eyes when he’d taunted her with the prospect of sending her brother to prison. But he wouldn’t let himself feel sorry for her. After years of poverty, she would adjust quickly to being mistress of a rich household. In time, she would probably thank him.

“I’ll live as I’ve always done,” he said. “However I choose.” In a dismissive move, he picked up the quill pen and dipped it into the silver inkpot. “Go now. You’ve duties to attend to. Check the invoice from the wine merchant and see that he didn’t cheat us.”

Fergus straightened himself. “Gettin’ toplofty on me, are ye? Actin’ like the laird of the castle.”

“I havena forgotten my roots,” Drake said, deliberately resorting to the rough burr of his youth. “Now go awa’ wi’ ye’, Fergus MacAllister. I’ll hear no more of yer bletherin’.”

Fergus glared for another long moment, his meaty fists clenching and unclenching. Then, muttering Gaelic curses beneath his breath, he stalked out into the antechamber. The door slammed shut, and a current of air set the candle flames dancing and sputtering.

Drake jabbed the quill back into its holder. Thrusting his head into his hands, he rubbed his brow. He despised himself for speaking so sharply to Fergus, for treating him with the disdain the nobility reserved for lesser beings. But Drake would brook no interference to his plan, not now, when he was so close to success.

He would give Lady Alicia Pemberton a day to reflect on his offer. Then he would return her call. And if she still refused his offer, he had in his possession the means to persuade her.

Wealth will never make you a gentleman.

Her aristocratic coldness still infuriated him. On the brink of ruin, she had stood there like a queen addressing a gutter rat. Until today, he had viewed her only as a pawn, his means of revenge. But now he looked forward to their nuptials for another reason. He wanted to shatter that cool reserve.

He wanted to show the proud Lady Alicia that she was no better than he.

*   *   *

“Gerald! Why are you up so early?”

Alicia paused in the doorway of the basement kitchen. Her brother sat at the long wooden trestle table, his scrawny shoulders hunched as he wolfed down a meat pasty. At the hearth, Mrs. Molesworth sliced onions into the stewpot. The stout battleax of a woman wore a mobcap over her iron-gray hair, and she gave a crisp nod to Alicia.

Seeing his sister, Gerald launched into a fit of coughing. Alicia hastened to his side and pressed a mug of tea into his hands. That deep hacking always made her tense and worried, though she strove not to reveal it to him.

He took a long gulp. “Thanks,” he said in a raspy voice.

“’Ere’s a dose of ’is tonic.” Mrs. Molesworth appeared with a spoonful of something that smelled of licorice.

Alicia took the spoon and passed it to Gerald, who grimaced at the thick, dark liquid. “I hate the taste.”

“Drink it down quickly, then.” How many times had she spoken those words to him? Since boyhood, the chest ailment had plagued him through the damp months of autumn, winter, and early spring. The physician could do no more than recommend the tonic, and a poultice for more severe episodes.

A ray of sunlight through the high casement window cast a halo on his honey-brown hair. With trembling fingers, she touched those gold-kissed strands, remembering him as a mischievous lad who would dispose of his medicine in the nearest vase if she didn’t keep a close watch on him.

And now Gerald could be locked in a dank prison cell with no one to care for him.…

Sliding a glance upward, he thrust the empty spoon at her. “You needn’t fuss, Ali. I’m perfectly fine.”

There was something wary about that glance. Suspicion drilled past her worry, past the weariness of another sleepless night. Alicia set the spoon in the scullery, then went to the hearth and poured herself a cup of tea from the kettle on the hob. Her faded brown skirt swishing, she walked toward him. “Why are you dressed to go out?”

“Business,” Gerald muttered around a bite of his pasty.

“What sort of business?”

He brushed a crumb from his smart blue riding coat. “’Tis nothing to concern you.”

“Tell me,” she said in the stern governess voice she’d once used while teaching him his lessons. “If you’re gambling again—”

“No, I am not.” Elevating his jaw, he stared down his nose at her. At times, he could look as imperious as the earl he was. “Do you think me a complete ninny-hammer?”

She thought him too naïve, too achingly young. Sliding into a ladder-back chair opposite him, she cradled the hot cup in her chilly hands. “I should hope you’ve more sense than that. And if you wish me to cease badgering you, then tell me where you’re off to at this early hour.”

The lordly arrogance vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He sat silent and sullen, a stubborn boy with his lower lip jutted out.

From across the kitchen, Mrs. Molesworth banged a tin pot into the dry sink. “Go on, m’lord. Your sister’ll find out soon enough, any’ow.”

Pouting, he reached for another pasty and took a big bite. For all that he ate, he remained poker-thin, his ribs almost concave. He chewed a moment, then mumbled defiantly, “I’m taking Pet to Tattersall’s.”

Alicia gasped. “You’re selling the mare?”

He gave a jerky nod. “There’s an auction today. She’s in prime condition and should fetch a high price.”

Alicia’s heart swelled and her eyes filled with tears. Gerald had raised the fine gray mare from a filly at their estate in Northumberland, before their father had gambled away their unentailed lands. Her brother’s love for the horse was reflected in its name and in his devotion. For the past five years, since they’d sold the other horses, the barouche, and the traveling coach, and dismissed their stable help, Gerald had groomed and curried the animal himself. With great enjoyment, he rode Pet through the streets of London and along the bridle paths in Hyde Park. The mare was a source of pride to him, a final vestige of their former wealth.

“Oh, Ger,” she said, leaning across the table to place her hand over his bony fingers. “How dreadful for you.”

A telltale brilliance in his green eyes, he swallowed convulsively and looked away. Then he thrust back his chair, the wooden legs scraping the flagstones. “I’d best get on with it,” he said with wobbly cheer. “Can’t send off the old girl without a proper brushing.” Trudging across the kitchen, he headed up the short flight of stairs to the tiny garden and the mews beyond.

Alicia sipped the scalding hot tea to ease the lump in her throat. At the edge of her awareness, she heard the tap-tap of Mrs. Molesworth chopping vegetables for the soup at luncheon. The fire whispered on the stone hearth and the clock ticked on the mantelpiece. But the familiar cozy sounds of the kitchen held no comfort today.

Blast Drake Wilder! He had lured a gullible youth to the gaming tables, milked him of money he didn’t possess, and forced Gerald to relinquish his most prized possession. She couldn’t excuse her brother’s part in the matter, yet she blamed Wilder for trapping an unwary young man.

And after all that, he had expected her to marry him. The shock of it sent chills over her skin. She was ashamed to admit that for a fleeting instant, she’d been tempted by his offer. It would mean an end to their debts. To the effort of putting food on the table. She might even enjoy the luxury of having new, pretty garments to wear.…

Then she had remembered Mama. She could never, ever let Drake Wilder practice his cruelties on her mother.

To her chagrin, Drake Wilder had witnessed her brief indecision. She pictured him as he’d made his proposal: smug, overconfident, superior. With cool conceit, he had explained that he wished to be the equal of the noblemen who frequented his club. Her blue blood and impeccable lineage would grant him entrée to society.

Alicia no longer considered herself superior to any other human being, though at one time she had been concerned unduly with appearances. She had been vain and self-centered, reveling in her position as one of the leading debutantes of the Season. All that had changed in a flick of the cards when her father had lost everything but this town house and a modest annuity. His death still haunted her. And now, after five humbling years of toil and grind, she had formed an appreciation and respect for the hardworking lower classes.

But Drake Wilder was a breed apart. She felt a deep resentment that he aspired to be a gentleman. An ill-gained fortune did not entitle him to mingle in aristocratic circles.

How gratifying it had been to refuse the scoundrel. He belonged in the rookeries with the coiners and thieves.

Someone touched her back and she started. She looked up to see the familiar, care-worn face of the cook. “Mrs. Molesworth. I’m sorry, I was woolgathering.”

“There, now, dearie. Don’t be frettin’ about ’is lordship. The lad wishes to make amends for ’is foolishness.” Shaking her head, Mrs. Molesworth pursed her lips. “Though ’e won’t get near twenty thousand for the mare.”

“I know.” Alicia despaired of obtaining the remainder of the money. God help them if they were forced to sell the house. In its dilapidated state, it wouldn’t fetch much, and they needed a place to live anyway, where no one would heckle her mother. For the cook’s sake, she put on a brighter face. “At least we have a roof over our heads. Mama’s happy here, so we should count our blessings.”

“Humph,” Mrs. Molesworth snorted, and lifted her thick arm to brandish a butcher knife. “I’d sooner take this blade and carve out the innards of that Drake Wilder.”

So would I.

Disturbed by her own savagery, Alicia said, “We mustn’t talk like that. I shan’t lower myself to his level.”

“May’ap a lady like you wouldn’t, but by jings, I will. Let the bastard so much as sneeze in my ’earing, and I’ll spit ’im and roast ’im for dinner.”

Alicia wondered what Mrs. Molesworth would do if she found out about Alicia’s visit to Wilder’s Club. That Alicia had offered to be his mistress. That he had laughed in her face and proposed his devil’s scheme instead.