Seduced by a Scoundrel

by Olivia Drake

  “You could have rigged the game in favor of the house,” she said, unwilling to let go of the notion.

  “There is no cheating permitted in my club. These”—he dropped the ivory cubes back into the box—“were taken from a gentleman who disobeyed that rule.”

  “Then what is your point?”

  “That things are not always as they appear to be.” His eyes sharp and piercing, he lowered his voice to a silken growl. “And I am no fool.”

  Again, she had the discomfiting urge to step backward, to put a safe distance between them. But that would be tantamount to admitting he held the upper hand. “I never said you were.”

  “Yet you expect me to forgive a marker of twenty thousand guineas in exchange for a romp in bed. Either you think me a fool—or you vastly overrate yourself.”

  His scorn struck a blow at her confidence. Did he not find her attractive?

  He must.

  Drawing on the charm that had once made her a sought-after beauty, Alicia managed a throaty laugh. “Why, you mistake me, Mr. Wilder. I certainly don’t expect to discharge the debt in one night. I’d hoped we could agree upon a mutually satisfactory length of time.”

  “Indeed.”

  Encouraged that he hadn’t refused outright, she fluttered her lashes like a coquette. “I should think you’d appreciate a woman who would never beg you for trinkets or favors. A lady who knows how to behave discreetly.”

  “I might get you with child.”

  Alicia controlled a shudder. There was shame in bearing a bastard, yet long ago she had set aside the dream of marriage and family, the tender yearning for children of her own. She had resigned herself to spinsterhood for a reason he couldn’t know.…

  Having no other choice, she pushed away that dread. “Then I would care for the child. You need fear no obligation.”

  “How considerate of you.”

  His face was inscrutable. Her palms damp, she slowly unbuttoned her spencer, slid the short jacket off her shoulders, and let it drop to the chair. “You’ll find me pleasant company,” she murmured. “I’m able to visit you each evening at nine—or later, if you prefer. You have only to agree to the arrangement.”

  He glanced coolly at her low-cut bodice. “I can have any woman I want,” he stated. “And there might be value in making a lesson of Lord Brockway. To show others what can happen when their markers are not repaid.”

  Alicia bit back a horrified gasp. “No, please. It would be a mistake to condemn my brother to prison. He’s prone to lung complaints, and you’ll never get your money if he dies. Besides, I can offer what few women of your acquaintance possess. You see, I—” Aware of a burning in her cheeks, she swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “I am untouched.”

  He scanned her shoulders and breasts in a way that made the color rise in her cheeks. “The virgin sacrifice,” he said sardonically. “You would ruin yourself for the sake of your wastrel brother.”

  And Mama. Dear sweet Mama. “Yes,” she whispered.

  He sat silent on the edge of the desk, unmoving, and she sensed a moody darkness in him, likely because he felt cheated of his ill-gotten gains. Then his arms lashed out and pulled her closer, trapping her within the prison of his legs. He tunneled his fingers into her blond hair and dislodged a few tortoiseshell pins.

  His touch was an invasion that sent chills down her spine. Only by force of will did she manage to stand quietly, aware of the fear and revulsion inside herself, along with an undeniable, shameful attraction.

  Though her heart thumped madly, she lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Have we a bargain, then?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how well you please me.” His fingers commenced a slow assault on her senses, rubbing her scalp ever so lightly. “Show me you’re worth twenty thousand.”

  Dear God, he expected her to seduce him.

  Aware of a little catch in her throat, Alicia took a steadying breath. The challenge in his eyes mocked her limited experience. How many women had known his caresses? How many had straddled him, naked, in the throes of wantonness?

  No. She didn’t want to think about that. Instead, she would entice him with a kiss. At one time, men had fought for the chance to claim that rare token of her affections.

  She placed her trembling hands on his shoulders, aware of the solid muscles beneath his coat. Ever so slowly, she leaned toward him. Never before had she seen eyes that distinctive shade of dark blue. He was so close she could discern each spiky black lash. In the moment before her lips touched his, she felt the tickling warmth of his breath. Then the taste and scent of him enveloped her, and the firmness of his mouth sent a melting quiver through her limbs.

  But he made no move to return the kiss. His hands rested heavily on her shoulders, his thighs exerting a subtle pressure against her legs. She was aware of the impression of strength in him … and jaded indifference.

  Determined to make him want her, she slid her hands over his starched cravat and into his hair. The strands sifted through her gloved fingers like thickly spun silken threads. She touched him in light strokes as he had done to her, all the while brushing her closed lips over his. Men liked teasing caresses and quick stolen kisses that made them wild with longing. In her youth, she had lured more than one gentleman into a darkened corner for a few moments of flirtatious kissing. She would torment him until he groveled before her in adoration.

  That sense of power flooded her now, though the excitement of it was somehow different, hotter, more intense than with her former suitors. Of course, they had been gentlemen. Drake Wilder was a rogue.

  His lips moved slightly and her pulse leapt. He was not so impassive; he must be fighting his need to respond. Now was the time to charm him. To make him commit to a brief affair in exchange for canceling the debt.

  Lifting her head, Alicia opened her eyes. And blinked.

  A grin deepened the dimples on either side of his mouth. Sardonic humor danced in his eyes. “If that’s your best effort,” he said, “my money would be ill spent.”

  He was laughing at her! She stiffened. But fear overshadowed all else. “Teach me, then,” she forced out. “I’m willing to learn.”

  “No. I prefer an experienced woman in my bed.”

  So that was that. He would let her brother be sent to prison. He would condemn her mother to an even more hideous fate. Alicia felt ill from the terror of failure. She could plead with him, but his contemptuous expression told her it would be useless. She could appeal to his humanity, but he was a cold, cruel man who knew nothing of kindness. She could rage at him, but all she had left was her dignity.

  A bitter taste in her mouth, she took a step backward. “You have proven one fact, Mr. Wilder. That wealth will never make you a gentleman.”

  She turned to leave, but his fingers closed as tightly as manacles around her wrist. His expression was rigid, his cheekbones prominent in his despicably handsome face. “Now, there you’re wrong,” he said with soft-spoken menace. “Wealth will enable me to take a place in your exalted circle.”

  “If this is another attempt to mock me—”

  “I’ve decided to forgive your brother’s debt, after all.” He silenced her with an intense, calculating stare. “On one condition.”

  She hated him for resurrecting her hopes. “What? What is it?”

  “The condition, my lady, is that you marry me.”

  Chapter Two

  He watched her as he had done for weeks.

  Standing at the window of his office, Drake held back the heavy velvet drapery and peered down at the sunny street below. He paid no heed to the fine carriages that rattled over the cobblestones, the elegant buildings made of Portland stone, the columned facade of White’s Club at the top of St. James’s Street. His attention was fixed on one pedestrian.

  Her head held high, Lady Alicia Pemberton left through the front gate and walked at a stately pace past the wrought-iron fence in front of his club. The
spring breeze fluttered the white feathers on her bonnet and molded her gown to her curves. He knew the softness of those curves pressed against him, the warm silken skin of her neck and shoulders, her subtle scent of roses. Even now, the memory of her untutored kiss aroused him.

  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.