Seduced by a Scoundrel (27 page)

He squinted against the invading sunshine. “There’s nothing else to do,” he grumbled. Then he aimed a scowl at the doorway. “The duchess didn’t follow you, did she?”

“She’s waiting downstairs, in accordance with your request. But I must say, she would like to visit with you.”

“No. I don’t care to entertain strangers.”

Alicia had expected such an answer. She had warned Sarah, but her friend had insisted on accompanying her, anyway. Not that Sarah was a complete stranger to him.

Their first Season, Alicia had introduced her two friends. Though he was a year their junior, allowed to join society at seventeen by his indulgent father, James had wooed Sarah with the impudent arrogance of a privileged only son. They’d spent most of their time sparring, and for a time, Alicia had thought their teasing might develop into something deeper. As heir to the Marquess of Hailstock, James would have made a fine match for the daughter of a viscount. But then Sarah had set her sights on the Duke of Featherstone.

And soon thereafter, James had suffered his fateful fall. It had happened that summer at Hailstock’s country estate. James had been riding a horse his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday, charging recklessly over the moors when the stallion stumbled, throwing him to the hard ground. The fall had caused permanent damage to his spine—and an even more tragic injury to his spirit. His legs useless, the once-cheeky boy had grown sullen and irritable, angry at the world.

That same summer, Alicia had lost Sarah’s friendship and then her father had died. Perhaps because they’d both endured tragedies, Alicia had always felt an affinity with James, a bond as strong as if they were brother and sister.

Lost in memories, Alicia sat down near him. An odd thing happened then. For a fleeting second, as she met his narrowed blue gaze, it was like looking into Drake’s angry eyes. The impression vanished when she blinked, taking in the younger man’s rumpled tawny hair, the sour slant of his mouth, the cheeks pale from too little sunshine.

She gave herself a mental shake. She mustn’t allow thoughts of Drake to preoccupy her. James deserved her undivided attention.

“It’s good to see you again,” she said, flashing him a bright smile. “It must be nearly a month since last I visited.”

One arm propped on the back of the chaise, James reclined like a fallen archangel. His face bore a petulant handsomeness, and his shoulders were broad beneath his dark blue coat. A fine cashmere blanket hid his withered legs. “
More
than a month,” he complained. “And don’t bother to comment on how well I’m looking. My aunts and cousins feel compelled to fabricate compliments whenever they visit. As if I’m blind as well as crippled.”

“You
are
a handsome man,” she protested. “And I’ve missed your company—”

“Now, there’s another lie,” he broke in, his gaze more watchful than reproachful. “I understand you’ve been busy. And that felicitations are in order. You now have that bastard gambler to occupy your time.”

She dug her fingers into the arms of the chair. Not even from James would she tolerate disrespect. “My husband’s name is Drake Wilder,” she said icily. “And he is as much a gentleman in his manners as you are not.”

James did a mock wince. “I do beg your pardon, my lady.”

“You are forgiven. Only if you will judge Drake for himself, not for what you may have heard about him.”

James narrowed his eyes. “So tell me, where does he hail from? Who are his parents?”

“He’s from Scotland originally, though he came to London after his mother died when he was ten. I know nothing of his father.” She frowned at James. “And if you dare to make any more snide remarks about his low birth, I shall never come to visit again.”

“Ah, how prettily you defend him. Could it be a love match, then? Not the forced marriage that has so enraged my father?”

She felt a flush climb to her cheeks. “I’m content with Drake, and we shall leave it at that. I would have brought him here to meet you, but—”

“But the old man would have aimed the wrong end of a dueling pistol at him.” James leveled his finger at her and pretended to pull the trigger.

“Don’t exaggerate,” Alicia said, though she felt uneasy. “I know the marquess doesn’t approve of my husband, but I can’t imagine him reacting in violence.”

“Yet wouldn’t it be interesting to find out for certain?” James eyed her with a sly, almost secretive smile. Then he shrugged, picking at the fringe on his blanket. “Ah, well, it’s a pity you didn’t bring Wilder, after all. Father had an appointment with his tailor this afternoon.”

“Be sure to give him my greetings when he returns.”

“He’ll be sorry to have missed you. He hasn’t been very happy about losing you to a man like Wilder. As for me … I’ve been disconsolate over losing you as my stepmama.”

Was he teasing? He must be. “Well,” she said lightly, “the only person I brought with me, you don’t wish to see.”

His brief playfulness vanished and his mouth settled into a sullen line. “Poor duchess,” he said with biting sarcasm. “It must be trying for her, having to wait downstairs when she wanted to glean a few juicy tidbits of gossip.”

“Nonsense,” Alicia said, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “Sarah came with me because we’re going to Bond Street.”

“Ah, shopping. That bubble-brained ninny will be in her favorite milieu.”

“Sarah is an intelligent woman. She’d probably enjoy our literary discussions.” Unwilling to tolerate another nasty comment, Alicia changed the subject. “Tell me, have you read any more of Carter’s
Epictetus?
”

His wide shoulders lifted in a moody shrug. “What’s the use of studying the opinions of dead philosophers?”

“It’s a challenge that will exercise your mind.”

“It’s a waste of time and energy.”

“But it’s better than brooding in the dark.” Rising, she went to a circular bookstand near the chaise longue and plucked out a leather-bound volume. “I’ll read to you for a while if you like. There’s a passage here about the free will of man—”

Before she could find the page, he grabbed the book. “Everyone is always wanting to read to me. As if I’m a bloody idiot.”

Heedlessly, he tossed the volume over his shoulder and hit a vase behind him. The porcelain shattered against the wall. Purple irises flew in all directions, and water dripped onto the opened book.

Alicia gasped. “James!” As she hastened to pick up the book, she caught a flash of movement through the doorway.

“You
are
a bloody idiot,” Sarah said. “In addition to being an ill-natured boor.”

She glided into the sitting room, looking very inch the duchess, with her upswept sable hair and gown of primrose muslin, the deep scooped décolletage revealing her creamy bosom and swanlike neck. James sat utterly still. His upper body was rigid with shock, his legs lying useless on the gold-striped cushions.

Sarah stopped at the end of the chaise and regarded him. “Are you over your tantrum yet?” she said, languidly removing her gloves. “Or shall I fetch your nursemaid?”

“How dare you presume to come in here,” he snapped. “And to insult me in my own house.”

“Oh, is that privilege reserved for you, then? Am I to stand here meekly and let you take your shots? Well, I am no
bubble-brained ninny
to do so.”

Setting down the book, Alicia hastened to her side. Though privately she agreed with Sarah, she also understood that James’s anger rose partly from embarrassment. “Please, let’s go. I’ll return tomorrow—alone.”

“Oh, but I should like to visit with my dear friend,” the duchess said, sitting on a gilt chair and serenely arranging her skirt. “I must say, James, you’ve changed. You never used to be so rude and unmannerly.”

“Nor did you, Sarah,” Alicia chided.

But neither of them were listening.

James glowered at the duchess. “Of course, I’m no longer the man I was,” he bit out. “Look at me. I’m crippled.”

“Look at me,” Sarah retorted. “I’m widowed. We all have our tragedies in life.”

“At least you can go about as you please. Rather than lie here all day with nothing to do.”

She lifted an elegant shoulder in a shrug. “Then find something to do.”

His mouth twisting with fury and frustration, he leaned forward and growled, “Blast you, there’s nothing. Nothing but reading and thinking and remembering.”

Sarah looked unmoved. “Tell me, when was the last time you left this house?”

“I go for a drive now and then. But it’s a trial to be carted around like an invalid with servants and hangers-on. So don’t be suggesting I get out more.”

The duchess tilted her head. “Do you know what I think?” she asked softly. “I think you’re afraid.”

His compressed lips blanched with rage. Anxious to avert disaster, Alicia stepped between James and Sarah, giving voice to the idea that had just sprung into her mind.

“James, will you go somewhere with us right now?” Alicia asked.

He made an impatient gesture. “I can’t get around the shops. You know that.”

“Please,” she said. “It isn’t shopping. I’ve somewhere else in mind.”

A cautious interest lit his blue eyes. “Where?”

Anticipation flashed through her. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Knowing Drake wouldn’t leave the house until midafternoon at the earliest, she took a deep breath. “We’re going to Wilder’s Club.”

*   *   *

Drake headed down a pathway through Green Park, his steps brisk and energetic. Sunlight dappled the grass, and the afternoon air held the rare promise of summer. He felt relaxed and sated, invigorated after making love to Alicia at dawn. He had slept deeply and awakened refreshed after only four hours. Rejuvenated, he’d decided to walk to the club rather than take his carriage.

He hadn’t expected to find satisfaction in marriage to a noblewoman. He had believed Alicia to be cold through and through. He’d wed her solely for revenge, and their compatibility in bed was a bonus. He smiled to himself, anticipating the long sessions of sex in the weeks to come. It would take quite a while to purge so strong a need from his blood. And by her eagerness, Alicia would be willing for whatever pleasures he had in store. She had even claimed to love him.

Aware of a gathering tension inside himself, he filled his lungs with a deep breath of fresh air. She was mistaken, of course. Having a lady’s delicate sensibilities, Alicia needed to justify the raw nature of her passion. So she had swathed her lust in the pretty illusion of romance.

So be it. If it kept her hot for him, he’d let her enjoy her fantasies.

Leaving the park, he strode down a footpath between two mansions and emerged in the mews at the rear of his club. He relished the tall edifice of Portland stone before entering through a plain green door. In the kitchen, several maids were at work, two polishing the silver, another cleaning the big Bodley range. They curtsied to him, even Molly, the pregnant girl, whom he ordered to sit down and rest. Their obeisance made him uncomfortable, but he had long ago given up trying to forbid it. They viewed him as their lord and master. And he supposed it was true; the club
was
his castle.

As he went into the corridor, his sense of satisfaction grew. Until he saw Fergus MacAllister hovering outside the door leading into a suite of small offices. The Scotsman spied Drake and froze for a moment, his bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise.

Then he came loping like a giraffe down the passageway. “By jings,” he said a shade too heartily, “I dinna ken ye’d arrive here so early.”

“I’d had enough sleep. So I thought I’d go over last month’s accounts.” He stepped toward the door. “Is Lazarus in?”

Fergus surged past him and planted himself like a tall oak in front of the door. “Cheever’s feelin’ puirly. Go on up to yer office, and I’ll bring the books to ye.”

Something in his manner roused Drake’s suspicions. “I’ll get them myself.”

As he reached for the door handle, Fergus thrust out his arm to block him. “Ye mind yer manners, now. Else ye’ll have me to answer to.”

Even now, that stern gaze could reduce Drake to a scrappy lad of ten. Refusing to quail, he gave the old man a challenging look. “Move aside.”

Fergus scowled at him for another long moment, then stepped out of the way. Leaving him standing in the outer passage, Drake pushed open the door. A long corridor stretched out with several doorways leading to the club offices. Here, no carpet softened the stone floor, so the bookkeeper could negotiate his wheeled chair more easily.

The hum of voices eddied from the farthest room.

Wondering what—or who—Fergus was trying to hide, Drake walked quietly toward the back office. The door was cracked open, and he could see only a slice of blue-painted wall and a low filing cabinet. He raised his hand to knock when the conversation inside stopped him.

“How do you get around in that contraption?” A stranger’s voice, a man, his question spoken with cultured disdain.

“The upstairs is unquestionably a problem,” said Lazarus in his mellifluous tone. “But Wilder installed a ramp at the rear of the building. I can maneuver in and around the ground floor quite on my own.”

“There, you could move your chambers to the ground floor.” That cool female voice sounded familiar.
The duchess?
“At least you wouldn’t have to rely upon footmen to carry you about like a baby.”

“And I could get away from the likes of you,” the stranger snapped. “That is the greatest advantage to such a chair.”

“Please, no quarreling. You two are worse than children.”

Alicia.
Drake’s heart surged against his rib cage. What the devil was she doing here? And why was Fergus protecting her?

Thrusting open the door, he stepped into the office. All conversation halted. Four heads turned to stare at him. Behind the desk, Lazarus Cheever leaned back in his wheeled chair, his hands folded over his stout belly. Across from him, Sarah, the Duchess of Featherstone, perched on a plain wooden chair as if it were a throne. Beside her, Alicia sat slim and pretty in bronze silk, her fair hair soft around her pale features, a familiar stubborn firmness to her shapely lips.