by Olivia Drake
An alabaster vase on the mantelpiece held a tuft of white ostrich feathers. No one but him—and Fergus—knew the feathers were the remnants of a fan his mother had carried long ago, playing the part of an Egyptian princess in some long-forgotten drama. She’d delighted in recounting how he’d made his theatrical debut as baby Moses in the bulrushes, squalling with indignation until she’d picked him up and cuddled him close.
He needed that reminder now. Muira Wilder had raised him with the fierce devotion of two parents. She hadn’t deserved to be used and abandoned by a haughty English lord.
Stalking to the sideboard, he lifted a crystal decanter. “Brandy?”
The Earl of Brockway flexed his puny fists. “I didn’t come here to drink, Wilder. I demand to know your intentions toward my sister.”
“That is a private matter.”
“You promised her a chaste marriage. She told me so herself. If you’ve gulled her, you’ll answer to me.”
“Have a care whom you call a liar.”
Like a foolhardy pup, Gerald took a step closer. “I witnessed that unmannerly embrace at the altar. You mean to use her ill, to force your attentions on her.”
Drake curbed his angry impatience and splashed amber liquor into two glasses. In any other situation, he would put an end to such insolence in no uncertain terms. But Gerald was family now.
Besides, coercion of Alicia would be unnecessary. Drake had only to bide his time—and charm his bride. “I’ve never forced myself on any woman. And I don’t intend to start now.” His footsteps silent on the Turkish rug, he walked over and handed Gerald a brandy. “Sit down.”
The young earl accepted the glass, but didn’t drink—or sit. “I shan’t let you play the devil with my sister.”
“May I remind you, she is my wife now. By the laws of God and man.” Moderating his stern tone, Drake placed a hand on Gerald’s shoulder. “Rest assured, I will not harm her. You have my word on that.”
Gerald blinked uncertainly, and at a slight push from Drake, plopped down into one of the leather chairs. He took a gulp of brandy and coughed deep in his chest, his eyes watering. All the fight seemed to drain out of him. He slumped with his elbows perched on his bony knees, his head bowed over his glass. “’Tis my fault. I’ve been a cork-brain, and Ali’s the one to pay for it.”
Drake settled himself in the opposite chair. Stretching out his legs, he crossed them at his ankles. Against his will, he felt a tug of kinship with the young earl. His brother now.
He had seen his own half-brother James close up on only one occasion, as a cherubic two-year-old toddling toward his father. And he had witnessed the pride on Hailstock’s face. He wondered if Hailstock still felt such pride now that his heir could walk no more.
Taking a tasteless swallow of brandy, Drake regarded Gerald’s glum face. “What’s done is done,” he said. “Don’t flog yourself over that game we played.”
“But only a hen-hearted knave would risk his mother’s home, his sister’s happiness. I was a fool to think I’d win, just because I held two bloody aces.”
Drake had known Gerald’s cards that night. Not by sleight of hand, but by cold calculation. The earl was like most men, relying on luck, hoping for fortune to turn, rather than analyzing the odds.
Nagged by restlessness, Drake rose from the chair and went to the gleaming mahogany desk. From the top drawer he extracted a paper, which he carried to the fire and dropped into the flames. The I.O.U. curled and blackened, turning to ash.
He pivoted on his heel. “There, your vowels are paid in full. Twenty thousand guineas.”
“It might as well have been thirty pieces of silver,” Gerald said morosely.
“Nonsense. Alicia and Lady Eleanor will lead a far more comfortable life here. You haven’t betrayed them.”
“Alicia ought to have had a choice. Women set great store by love.”
“Women have married for monetary reasons since the beginning of time. This is no different.” Gerald didn’t look convinced, and it was pointless to argue. Now that she was irrevocably his, Drake had other concerns. “What will you do now?”
“I’ll seek my fortune, perhaps in trade.” Placing his glass on a side table, the earl pushed to his feet and straightened his coat. “I’ll find lodgings elsewhere, too. I ask only for a day or two to clear out my belongings.”
“For Christ’s sake, sit down. I’ve no intention of tossing you out of Pemberton House.”
Gerald stiffened. “My pockets may be at low tide, but I won’t accept your charity.”
“I don’t expect you to do so. There is a way for you to pay me back.” Cursing himself for a softhearted fool, Drake hoped he wouldn’t regret the offer. Alicia certainly wouldn’t approve—not that she had any say in the matter. “Tomorrow, you’ll report to me at my club.”
Chapter Nine
Four days later, Alicia stood in the drawing room of a grand house in Grosvenor Square while a snooty footman went to inquire if Her Grace was at home. Too nervous to sit on one of the many chairs and chaises, she paced the beautifully appointed chamber, her gaze sliding over the colorful tapestries on the walls, the fine porcelain figurines on the tables, the mantel carved of pure white marble. She stopped at a tall window framed by blue brocaded draperies and gazed unseeing into a garden.
Usually she waited in the coach while her footman delivered one of her newly printed calling cards. But that made it too easy for the mistress of the house to be conveniently unavailable.
Since the wedding, she had worked her way down a list of the most venerable hostesses of the ton. She had visited every acquaintance with whom she’d once had a connection. Thus far, everyone had refused to receive her. The reason was bitterly clear. No one wished to associate with the wife of a baseborn gambler. Or the daughter of a madwoman.
But this time she would not be put off. This time she would try an act of desperation. She would wheedle an interview with her former friend—and long-ago rival.
The tap of measured footsteps came from the foyer. She turned from the window, expecting a servant with a message of refusal. Instead, a young woman strolled into the drawing room.
Sarah. The Duchess of Featherstone.
Alicia was immobilized by a confusing flood of affection and resentment and surprise. The liveliness had vanished from that exquisitely beautiful face, and there was a hint of strain around Sarah’s mouth. Faint shadows lent a fragility to her violet eyes. But it was more than her countenance that had changed. A black gown skimmed her slender form, and a widow’s cap crowned her shining sable hair.
Hastening forward, Alicia only just remembered to curtsy. “Pray forgive me for intruding, Your Grace. I didn’t realize you were in mourning.”
“There’s no need to apologize. It’s been nearly a year since Timothy’s passing.”
Her husband was dead. That tall, vigorous nobleman who had always had a droll remark. “Sarah … I’m so sorry. I’ve been away from society and hadn’t heard.”
“I quite understand.” With a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, Sarah waved a slender hand at a grouping of chairs near one of the long windows. “Do sit down. We can have a cozy chat while we await our tea.”
Her aloof manner invited anything but coziness. Seating herself in a straight-backed chair, Alicia pondered how much they had both changed in the past five years. They had been inseparable friends from their first meeting, two starry-eyed girls enjoying the pleasures of their first Season. They’d giggled over silly suitors and exchanged confidences about ardent admirers. Until Alicia had fallen in love with the dashing Duke of Featherstone.
At first, Sarah had been strangely silent whenever Alicia sighed over the handsome duke. Then, one fateful evening, Alicia caught Sarah kissing him in a darkened garden, and a bitter rivalry ensued. Harsh words were spoken. On learning of their betrothal, Alicia had wept angry tears. She had stubbornly refused to receive Sarah, even departing town before the wedding.
Her youthful anguis
h now struck her as uncomfortably like sulking. She hadn’t really loved the duke; she’d been enraptured with the idea of love. Her behavior seemed especially petty in light of Sarah’s bereavement.
Looking far too young to be a dowager, the Duchess of Featherstone arranged her skirts on the chaise. The black silk made a striking contrast to her pale skin. “So,” she said, her voice politely frosty, “this is most unexpected—you calling on me after all these years.”
“I’ve been out of touch with everyone,” Alicia murmured. “Papa died not long after your wedding, so I never did have another Season. Oh, Sarah. I do regret what happened between us. I behaved badly when I ought to have been more gracious. Can you forgive me?”
Sarah lifted one slim shoulder. “The past is of little consequence anymore. If that is all you have come to say…” Her regal tone clearly stated she would hear no more about it.
Swallowing her regrets, Alicia focused on her purpose. Was there any hope of inveigling herself back into Sarah’s goodwill? She felt ashamed of her plan, knowing Sarah’s loss. But she had no alternative. “I’ve thought about you often,” she said, putting warmth into her smile. “It’s wonderful to see you again. How is your family?”
“My parents are quite well, though they prefer the quiet of Oxfordshire to the bustle of town.”
“And your elder brother?”
“He’s wed now, with a son a year younger than mine.”
“You have a son?” Alicia felt a pang of longing so sharp it hurt. She would never cuddle a baby of her own. It was a fact she hadn’t considered when she had made her pact with Drake. “Please, tell me about him.”
“William is four years of age, a rather solemn child.” Sarah’s mouth formed a brittle smile. “I daresay, it is fortunate I bore Featherstone an heir. I shouldn’t have liked Timothy’s penny-pinching cousin to have inherited the title.”
Her callous manner disturbed Alicia. And yet … hadn’t there been a faint softening in her eyes when she’d spoken of her son? “Is William here?” Alicia asked. “I should very much like to meet him.”
“He’s at his lessons in the schoolroom and cannot be disturbed.” Sarah cast a dispassionate glance at Alicia’s fashionable gown of pale blue muslin. “But enough about me. How is your family?”
“As I said, Papa died a few years ago, and Mama … went into a decline for a while. But she’s happy again, as dear and sweet as ever.”
Keeping her gaze steady, Alicia wondered if Sarah would make a snide remark about Mama’s demented state. If she dared …
The duchess merely said, “And your little nuisance of a brother? I hope he isn’t still peeping through keyholes.”
“No,” Alicia said, relieved at the turn of conversation. “He outgrew such nonsense, thank heavens. He’s eighteen now.”
“Yet I hear you’ve been rather busy of late, tidying up after the earl.”
“Gerald is no different from other young gentlemen who must learn their way in the world.” And Gerald had learned his lesson. Just yesterday, she had called on him at Pemberton House, but he had been absent. Later, he’d sent her a note explaining that he’d found a post at a financial institution and she wasn’t to fret about him anymore. He sounded so sure of himself—yet it was difficult not to fret.
Sarah released a well-bred laugh. “My dear, you really cannot expect me to swallow such a milk-and-water tale. The ton is agog with the scandal.”
“What have you heard?” Alicia said cautiously.
“Why, the truth about your marriage. Everyone knows Brockway’s gaming habit forced you to wed that common scoundrel.”
Alicia caught a sharp breath. Just then, a white-wigged footman entered the drawing room carrying a silver tea tray, which he placed on a wheeled trolley beside the duchess. Sarah dismissed him with a majestic wave. As coolly as if she hadn’t just plunged a knife into Alicia’s pride, she said, “I trust you still take sugar in your tea.”
“Yes.”
While Sarah poured, Alicia fumed. Sarah’s lofty status must have eradicated her finer qualities. At one time, she had wept at the sight of a beggar child and she had taken baskets to the infirm. Now there was a cynicism to her so different from the sweet, spirited debutante. If it weren’t for that loathsome bargain, Alicia thought, she would walk out and end this visit.
Sarah handed her a dainty porcelain cup, then offered a plate filled with an array of pastries. “Would you care for a cake? The poppy seed is quite delicious.”
“No, thank you.” Their politeness seemed ludicrous considering the ugly words that hung between them. That common scoundrel.
Though it was the truth, Alicia bristled at the label for reasons she couldn’t fathom. She must accustom herself to such nasty remarks. She must convince Sarah that Drake was worthy of acceptance. “Odd that you would have such a mistaken notion about my husband,” she said lightly. “He is a fine, respectable man. Someone undoubtedly misled you, perhaps one of those gentlemen who have lost their fortunes at his club.”
Pursing her lips, Sarah lowered her teacup to its saucer. “I am not referring to the nature of his trade, but to his philandering. Mr. Wilder is a notorious rake. He carries on with actresses and ladybirds.”
“That is nothing more than mean-spirited gossip,” Alicia said glibly, her smile fixed, the lies tasting sour on her tongue. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”
“My dear, you’ve been tucked away at home with your mother. I am more experienced in the ways of the world. For your own good, you must realize such men hold women in the lowest regard.”
“Perhaps so, but my husband is a gentleman. He has the utmost respect for me.”
“So it seems now. But once the honeymoon is over, he’ll return to his doxies. I’ve seen it happen in many aristocratic marriages.” Her movements coldly precise, Sarah lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip. “And for you, with a husband of low birth, the shame will be all the worse.”
That superior tone grated on Alicia. She gritted her teeth and counted to ten, reminding herself that Drake’s position would be secured if the ton saw him in the company of the Duchess of Featherstone. “Why don’t you judge his character for yourself?” she said with a brilliant smile. “We could all go for a drive tomorrow afternoon in the park.”
“Quite impossible.”
“Then another day?” Alicia said doggedly. “I would like for us to be friends again, as we once were.”
Sarah gave her that frigid, unfathomable stare. “I’m sorry, but those days are long gone. And might I add, back then, you’d never have married so far beneath yourself.”
That final jab infuriated Alicia. Her cup rattled in its saucer as she rose to her feet. “Not all of us have the leisure to marry for love. You might show a little kindness toward those less fortunate than yourself.”
Sarah turned her head away as if to pretend Alicia wasn’t there. Her beautiful face might have been carved from the purest alabaster, her hair dark and gleaming in the light from the window.
Alicia would not be ignored. She had to speak, to rid herself of the old hurt and the new resentment. “I once envied you your happiness, Sarah, and I’m truly sorry for your loss. But I don’t envy the smug and condescending person you’ve become.”
She set down the teacup. Her throat burned, but at least she could leave with her self-respect intact. She cast one last look at the duchess, and the icy farewell melted on her tongue.
A tear sparkled down that perfect cheek. Then another. Those firmly pressed lips trembled ever so slightly. Sarah made no other move, and an impression of something so private, so unhappy about her reached past Alicia’s anger.
“Sarah? Are you all right?”
Without taking her gaze from the blue brocaded draperies, the duchess spoke in a thready whisper. “Just … go.”
Had she been wrong to think Sarah frigid and unfeeling? Alicia stepped closer. Hesitantly, she touched Sarah’s arm, the black silk sleeve warm beneath her finger
tips. “You must still be grieving for the duke. It was wrong of me to remind you.”
With surprising suddenness, Sarah turned on Alicia, the tears flowing freely now. “Yes, I do grieve. But not for Timothy … never for him.”
The angry agony in those watery violet eyes stunned Alicia. She sank down on the chaise and drew a handkerchief from her pocket, pressing it into that cold hand. “There, now. You needn’t hold back your tears. I’m here for you.”
While Sarah sobbed into the scrap of embroidered linen, Alicia wondered at the source of her pain. Had she endured a troubled marriage? Surely she and the duke had been a fairy-tale couple, young and handsome and blissful. Or had Alicia been mistaken all these years?
At last Sarah’s weeping slowed, and she dashed at her wet cheeks. “I never meant to bawl like a silly child. I haven’t done so in a long, long time.”
“There is nothing childish about sadness. I’ve wept, too, about my mother … and other sorrows.”
“Oh, Ali, how can you bear to sit here with me? I’ve behaved like a shrew. I despise what I’ve become—sour and angry at the world.” Sarah gripped Alicia’s hand. “The truth is, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed confiding in you. So many times I’ve wanted the courage to tell you—to tell someone.…”
“To tell me what?”
“That I grieve … for the happiness I knew before Timothy came into my life.”
Confused, Alicia fumbled for words. “I—I thought yours was a love match.”
“Love.” Saying the word like a curse, Sarah shook her head, her eyes haunted. “I deluded myself.… I didn’t see his true character. All his pretty words … they were lies. Lies.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nor did I … for too long. After getting me with child … after I gave myself to him with all my heart … he would have nothing more to do with me.”
Alicia’s heart wrenched. “But why?”
“I was too highborn, he said, too virtuous and naïve … and he … he preferred his doxies.” A breath shuddered from her. “He died of a heart seizure … in the bed of his mistress.”
