by Olivia Drake
He wasn’t the well-bred aristocrat she had been raised to marry. Orphaned at ten, he had grown up under the dour guidance of Fergus MacAllister. Times had been wretched, MacAllister had said. Drake had led a rough-and-tumble life on the streets, a hard existence she could only imagine. Though she herself had faced poverty, at least she’d had Mama and Gerald and Mrs. Molesworth as her family. She’d had a roof over her head and food on the table. She’d had love.
Had she wed a nobleman, she would have led a more genteel life with a husband who knew how to treat a lady. But would such a marriage have guaranteed her happiness? She had to admit it would not. Sarah had made a brilliant match, yet she had been miserable, tormented by the duke’s devotion to his mistress.
Papa had been flawed, too. Though he had adored Mama, he had indulged his weakness for wagering. In the end, the cards had destroyed him.
Sinking onto a chaise, Alicia propped her chin on her cupped hands. Her long-ago dreams of a fairy-tale prince had been just that … dreams. For better or for worse, Drake was her husband. Wishing wouldn’t change that fact.
Did she even want to change it?
A ridiculous question. Of course she wouldn’t choose to be wed to a gambler. Especially not a man who owned a gambling club, a man who was aggressive, blunt-spoken, domineering. Yet Drake also had a surprising decency beneath all his masculine swaggering. He could be generous to those in need, kind enough to return Pet to her brother, patient with her befuddled mother.
And he could be seductive. Oh, yes, he could make his wife burn with desire.
A wave of intense longing swept over Alicia, bringing with it a realization that shone brightly in the maelstrom of her emotions. She wanted to feel the warmth of Drake’s arms around her. She wanted to learn the secrets of his past, to share his innermost thoughts. Though her mind rebelled at the notion, her body reveled in anticipation.
Whether it be foolishness or folly, she wanted to make the best of their marriage.
Chapter Eighteen
Stretched out naked between the sheets, Drake pillowed his head on his crossed arms and listened for sounds from the adjoining chamber. He could hear only the hissing of the coal fire. Except for a faint, reddened glow from the hearth, the bedroom was black as night, though beyond the closed shutters, dawn was lighting the sky.
Scowling up at the darkened canopy, he told himself to forget about Alicia. He had no wish to invite her scorn. Although he couldn’t purge her from his mind, he felt reluctant to face her. Now he understood the depths of her hatred of him.
No wonder she had fought against their marriage. She had told him that wealth wouldn’t make him a gentleman, and he had seen it as proof of her snobbery. But her coldness hadn’t arisen from a belief in her own superiority; rather, she’d despised his profession. For good cause.
Damnation! He ought to have investigated her past. He would have discovered the truth about her father.
And had he known, would he have desisted?
Drake had to admit he’d have gone through with his plan regardless. She was the one woman Hailstock wanted. And stealing her for himself made Drake’s revenge all the sweeter.
Remembering her tears, though, he felt a sour distaste for himself. He told himself he shouldn’t care how miserable she felt. He had given her wealth and a comfortable life, when most women had to scrabble to put food on the table. But he did care, and that angered him.
He wanted to hold her close and comfort her. Hell. Soft embraces were for milksops. He wanted her for one purpose, and one purpose alone. If he wasn’t so certain she despised him, he would join her in bed and awaken her for his pleasure. She would be sleepy and warm, her silken blond hair streaming over the pillow. He would push the nightgown to her waist and come down on her. Even as awareness darkened her eyes, he would touch her and tame her—
The connecting door opened.
He lifted his head, his heart jolting, his gaze narrowing. Alicia stood in the doorway. The pale light of dawn outlined her slim figure, and her flimsy nightdress hinted at womanly curves. His desire turned to hard, pulsing arousal. She couldn’t resist him, after all.
“Drake?” she called softly. “Are you awake?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. He wanted her too fiercely for words. Curse this obsession. Alicia was no different from any other woman he’d bedded. He would slake his lust and be done with her.
“Come in,” he said.
She ventured inside and shut the door. The room plunged into darkness again. His eyes still dazzled by the light, he couldn’t see her in the dense black shadows. Yet he was keenly aware of her presence … and the erotic thrill inside himself.
He pushed up against the pillows, raising one knee and resting his arm on it. By the faint glow of the fire, he found her. She stood at the foot of the bed, a ghostly shape in the gloom. He hadn’t even heard her move.
“I need to speak to you,” she said, her voice too firm and too restrained for a seductress.
Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps she had another purpose. She could have a knife in her hand, ready to cut off his ballocks.
He felt an involuntary twinge in that part of his anatomy. Annoyed with himself, he nonetheless felt compelled to say gruffly, “I’m sorry about your father. I didn’t know.”
The rasp of his own breathing answered him. Then she spoke, so low he had to strain to hear. “Not many people did,” she whispered. “You see, he went out to the mews … it was late at night … very dark…” She paused, a little catch in her voice. “His death was … attributed to a thwarted robbery.”
He had to ask, “Who found him?”
“A groom … and by ill fortune Mama awakened … she went out there and saw…”
Hell. He could sense the pain in Alicia. Every fiber of his being urged him to go to her. But she wouldn’t welcome his comfort. She viewed him as a villain who bled men dry. Men like her father.
There was nothing he could say in his own defense. Nothing that would ease her grief and anger. Did she hate him enough to do something rash? Uneasy again, he peered through the darkness, seeking a glint of cold steel. “Why did you come in here?” he asked bluntly.
“I’ve a few questions for you,” she said, her voice brisk and sharp again.
She wanted to talk? He’d humor her. “Ask away.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Mrs. Yates?”
He tensed, sitting up straighter. “What about her?”
“She’s the woman you rescued in Whitechapel. Had I known, I might have been more understanding toward her. So why did you not identify her from the beginning?”
The question made him uneasy, so he dodged it. “How did you find out?”
“From Mr. MacAllister. He was most informative.”
Damn Fergus. What else had he told her?
“Yates doesn’t like people to know the story,” he said glibly. “So naturally I respected her wishes.”
“Naturally.” Her cool, patrician tone, faintly sarcastic, floated through the darkness. “Nor did you wish me to take notice of Kitty or Chalkers or Big Bill—among others in this house. That’s why you denied me any authority over the servants. You feared I would realize the truth.”
“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
“You didn’t wish me to know … that you have a soft heart.”
A cold sweat broke out on his skin. “On the contrary,” he snapped, “I didn’t want you to get any ideas about discharging my servants—you with your haughty ways and highborn standards. It’s a well-known fact that ladies can’t abide the seamier side of life.”
Alicia rounded the bedpost. He tensed, half expecting the flash of a blade toward his groin. But she halted just out of his reach. “Most ladies,” she said mildly. “You forget that for the past five years, I haven’t led the typical life of a lady.”
He could say nothing to that. After her father’s violent death, she had cared for her dotty mother and her profligate brother, all the
while struggling to make ends meet. Drake felt a surge of anger at the elder Lord Brockway. No man should subject his family to such horror and grief.
Yet all too often, wagering was a sickness in some men. He had witnessed it himself many times and exploited the weakness for his own profit. Damn her for making him doubt his actions.
“I will have authority in this house,” Alicia stated.
“What?”
“I promise not to discharge any of the servants, but I am taking over my rightful duties as mistress here. You will agree to that.”
Again, he found himself searching through the darkness for that knife. “Fine,” he muttered. “Do as you please.”
A silence stretched out. Shifting restlessly against the sheets, he braced himself for another slew of questions. Had Fergus mentioned anything about Hailstock? Surely not. By God, if Alicia found out that he had wed her for revenge on the man she regarded so highly—
“I will also take over my rightful duties as your wife.”
Drake’s attention snapped to her. “Duties?”
“I will have you in my bed,” she said, a husky note entering her voice. “Or in yours, if you prefer.”
His mouth went dry. She glided closer, a pale wraith in the shadows. Silk rustled, torturing him with the knowledge of what lay beneath it. She reached up as if to adjust her gown. Then she wriggled her shoulders and the garment slithered down to her feet.
At once he felt a desire so fierce it shook him. She stood naked, and he cursed the darkness that prevented him from seeing more than the glow of creamy flesh, a hint of ripe breasts. God! Despite all that had happened, she still desired him.
“Your duty,” he murmured, “is my pleasure.”
“No,” she corrected, “my pleasure is your duty.”
He chuckled at that, his body reacting with animal readiness. When she slipped into bed, he pulled her atop him so that her soft slim body draped his. He knew she could feel his arousal, thick and hard against her belly. He wanted her so much his fingers trembled as he cradled her head in his hands.
She sighed, lifting herself slightly so that the tips of her breasts brushed tantalizingly close to his mouth. He drew one into his mouth and suckled her until her hips undulated, rubbing his hard length, torturing him with anticipation. The darkness fired his blood and heightened his other senses. The faint rosy scent of her skin. The warm silk of her breasts. The sweet taste of her nipples. He slid his hands down her smooth spine and over her shapely backside, touching her thighs before bringing his hands back up to lace his fingers with hers.
“No knife,” he murmured into her fragrant hair.
“Knife?”
“Darling, I thought you’d come to skewer me.”
“Mmm.” Reaching down, she caressed his throbbing arousal. “I’d far prefer you do the honors—to me.”
He sucked in a sharp breath. Where had she learned her sultry playfulness? He must be corrupting her. And he ought to regret it. But he could only anticipate all the endless depravities he wanted to teach her. Subjecting her to a hungry kiss that roused a demon in him, he slid his hand between them and found the warm, slippery elixir of her passion. Alicia moaned and arched to him, and he needed no further encouragement. Rolling her onto her back, he mounted her, plunging deep enough to touch the mouth of her womb.
A primitive exultation stilled him for a moment. Her wet silken heat surrounded him. No other woman had ever fit him so tightly, so perfectly. He could get no closer to her than this, yet irrationally he wanted more. Rubbing his unshaven cheek against her soft skin, he muttered her name and moved slowly, torturously inside her.
Her lips sought his in little stinging kisses. Like a blind person in the darkness, she touched his face with her fingertips, tracing the contours. “Drake … oh, Drake … I love you.…”
Something strange and powerful gripped his throat. No. She didn’t love him; she loved this. He thrust hard and deep into her sheath, honing the tension with his sword, determined to prove her lust by carrying her to new heights of rapture. He relished her soft sounds of passion, the eagerness of her hands on his body. Panting, she locked her legs around his waist. He felt her begin to convulse around him in delicate inner shivers that pulled him deeper inside her, driving him wild. His woman. His wife.
In the moment before he spilled his seed in a violent rush, he had the illogical sense that they had ceased to be two separate beings. As one, they cried out with the explosion of ecstasy. As one, they held fiercely to each other through the long waves of pleasure. As one, they sank into the peaceful aftermath.
* * *
Grateful for the darkness, Alicia rested her cheek against Drake’s sweat-dampened shoulder. His heavy weight pinned her to the bed, and he lay with his face tucked into the crook of her neck. His breathing was slow and deep, and she wondered if he’d fallen asleep. A terrible tenderness caught at her throat. She was glad of the reprieve, for it gave her a chance to face her newfound feelings.
In the throes of passion, she had voiced words of love. She had spoken ardently, without thought, the disclosure rising from a hidden place in her heart. And she feared it was true. She loved Drake Wilder.
The knowledge left her feeling vulnerable and shaken. Never could she forget what he had done to her, taking merciless advantage of her desperate situation. Never could she overlook who he was, a man who had made his fortune off the weaknesses of others. Those facts shone as clearly in her mind as the admirable charity he bestowed on other people. He was a complex, ruthless autocrat, and she had wed him because she’d had no other choice. But she did have a choice in matters of the heart.
Or did she?
Beset by a helpless yearning, she savored his sheltering closeness. She could not ignore the deep river of emotion that flowed inside her heart. Her long-ago attraction to the Duke of Featherstone had been mere infatuation; her regard for Lord Hailstock, only affection for an old family friend. Then fate had brought Drake into her life. He had wanted a wellborn wife, and he would stop at nothing to have her.
She had been a pawn to his ambitions. He might have lured another nobleman into debt, then taken his sister or his daughter as payment. But by a twist of fate, he had chosen Alicia. And to her shame and chagrin, she could no longer lament what had happened.
She had decided to make the best of her marriage. She had wanted to wring a bit of happiness from a circumstance she could not change, to find some comfort in the physical. She had never meant to fall recklessly in love.
Drake lay over her, dominating her even in sleep, his arm slung beneath her breasts. He didn’t love her; he felt only lust. It served no purpose to delude herself about that. Though she felt cozy and protected in his embrace, it was all an illusion. And she knew she mustn’t lie here all morning, pining for his heart, while he slept.
Easing away, she gasped when his arm tightened, trapping her against the bed. He turned onto his side to face her, though she could barely see him. “Stay,” he mumbled, his voice raspy and deep. “It’s early yet.”
“I thought you were asleep.”
“Almost.” As he idly stroked her breast, a slumberous seductiveness crept into his tone. “This was an unexpected pleasure. I expected you to be angry … about your brother.”
“I…” How could she explain the torment that still lurked inside her? How could she think while he was touching her? “I cannot like Gerald working in such a place. But you were right to say that I shouldn’t make his decisions for him. We must all make our own choices.”
“Except you,” he mused, as if too relaxed to guard his words. “You had no choice but to marry me.”
She swallowed hard. “I’m here now by choice,” she said steadily. He might not love her, but by heaven, she wouldn’t share him. “And you will have no need for any other woman. Should you stray, I might just get that knife.”
He said nothing to her bold assertion, and Alicia wished she could see more than the faint black outline of him against
the shadows. Would he remember her declaration of love? But perhaps he hadn’t even heard it. Perhaps he had been too lost in passion to heed her. Another thought pierced her. Or perhaps he was accustomed to women proclaiming their love in bed.
He seemed suddenly like a stranger. She knew so little about him, and she felt the jealous need to share more than just lovemaking. To make their relationship special compared to the women in his past.
“Will you tell me about your childhood?” she asked, laying her hand on his broad chest. “I understand you were born in Scotland.”
His muscles tensed beneath her fingertips. “Fergus told you.”
“Yes.” She wouldn’t let him keep a wall between them. She would break it down, brick by brick. “He said you were born in Edinburgh, and your mother was an actress. What was her name?”
The dark silence seemed alive. She could feel the strong pulse beating in his throat. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he said, “Muira Wilder.”
“What was she like?”
“Why do you want to know?” he countered.
“You’ve met my mother. Now I’d like to know at least something about yours.”
“It was a long time ago. I’ve forgotten.” Shaping his hand around her breast, he fondled her so that she gasped with involuntary pleasure.
But Alicia wouldn’t be distracted. Seizing his wrist to still his caress, she said firmly, “Then I’ll ask Mr. MacAllister. He’ll tell me.”
She feared Drake wouldn’t answer. But he did finally, his voice flat and emotionless. “She sang like a nightingale. She baked bannocks that would melt in your mouth. And she would give her last pence to the poor.”
“But you were poor.”
“And now I’m not. Thus ends my rags-to-riches tale.”
Bracing himself on his forearms, he slid his body back and forth with slow eroticism so that springy hairs on his chest teased her breasts and his masculine flesh touched her between the legs. She clasped his lean waist and struggled to keep her mind focused. Not even for lovemaking would she relinquish this opportunity. “You were only ten years old when you came to London. Why didn’t you stay in Edinburgh?”
