by Olivia Drake
For a moment he paused, his big body hovering over hers. She sensed a peculiar tension emanating from him, but the darkness kept her from reading his expression. “Can’t you guess?” he taunted. “Scotsmen are notorious misers. So I came to where the pluckings are richer.”
“You can’t have decided to be a gambler at age ten,” she said logically. “There had to have been another reason to uproot yourself.”
“Fergus and I wanted a grand adventure. So we joined a theatrical troupe here in London.”
“The theater? You were an actor?” How strange to imagine him in the artificial life of the stage. Yet it made sense. He would follow in his mother’s footsteps; he would gravitate to the world he knew.
“I wasn’t an actor,” he said. “I worked behind the scenes, doing odd jobs. I hardly even remember what.”
He spoke dismissingly, as if his rough childhood years were of no consequence. He settled onto her, heavy and hot, his hands gliding up and down her body. But she wasn’t ready to acquiesce. “Is that where you met Lazarus Cheever?” she asked.
“Yes—” Drake bit off his words, and through the gloom, she felt the force of his stare. “How the devil do you know him?”
“We were introduced at your club, of course. Yesterday evening.”
“Fergus,” he said through gritted teeth, “has some explaining to do.”
With her fingertips, she tenderly soothed his clenched jaw. “You truly do dislike for anyone to know of your generosity,” she murmured. “But I’m pleased by it. So tell me, is that how you know Mr. Cheever? From the theater?”
“I used to help him and the other players learn their lines by reading one of the other parts.” The admission sounded pulled from him.
“Is that how you lost your accent?” she prompted. “By reading aloud from plays?”
His exasperated breath gusted warm against her ear. “Och, dinna go on so,” he muttered. “Ye’re too bonny a lass to blether like an auld fusspot.”
His low-pitched brogue made her toes curl, and she couldn’t stop a delighted laugh. “Oh, Drake. I can see you as a mischievous lad, with your black hair and blue eyes … and your beautiful smile.” She traced his mouth with her fingertips, then the slight indentations on either side that deepened when he smiled. Her voice lowered to a yearning whisper. “I hope … that someday we have a son who looks just like you.”
He pulled in a harsh breath, his chest expanding against her bosom. With quick aggression, he pushed his hand between her thighs and stroked her. This time, she let herself respond with all the passion in her heart and body. Their differences ceased to matter in his arms. He made her feel desired, almost cherished, and she would seize every moment of happiness he offered her.
When it was over and they lay sated, their bodies cooling, she could sense his weariness. Gently she stroked back a lock of his hair and kissed his brow. Drake guarded his privacy, but this morning he had let her see a glimpse of himself. She felt as if he had finally become a whole man to her, a man with a past. Could she ever mean more to him than an obsession that would burn itself out?
She ached to know, to coax more answers out of him, but she had slept last night and he had not. Reluctantly she wriggled out from under him, only to feel his fingers curl around her wrist.
“Leaving?” he asked in a voice thick with exhaustion.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’ve things to do today.”
She half wished he would draw her back down, but after a moment he loosened his grip. Rising from the bed, she groped on the floor for her nightgown.
The linens rustled as he shifted position. His voice rumbled out of the darkness. “What things?”
“Well … I’ll spend the morning with Mama.…” Gathering her thoughts, Alicia slid the gown over her head, the silk cool on her sensitized skin. She knew one act she must accomplish today. She would visit Lord Hailstock’s son, James.
But she couldn’t tell Drake. Their accord was too wonderful, too new, to risk destroying it with a squabble. Though he had stated his intention to accompany her, she suspected his loathing for Lord Hailstock would cause him to put her off for days, for weeks, possibly longer. In the meantime, a disabled young man would do without the cheering visit of a friend.
Despising the need for subterfuge, she added lightly, “And Sarah came to call yesterday. Likely she’ll want me accompany her to the shops.”
Drake mumbled incoherently. He sounded halfway to slumber already. She could hear his breathing, slow and deep.
Alicia hesitated in the darkness, wishing she knew how to end his hostility toward the marquess. The rivalry between them was ridiculous. She belonged to Drake, and that was that. But men were possessive, territorial creatures who seemed to thrive on competition. Perhaps in time Drake would mellow.
And perhaps in time she would feel easier about loving him.
Chapter Nineteen
A footman led Alicia upstairs, although from previous visits she already knew her way around Lord Hailstock’s house. As she entered the sitting room, she frowned in dismay. Though it was early afternoon, the blinds were down, the lamps unlit, the air stuffy. James must be in one of his more melancholy moods today.
By the meager light from the hearth fire, she could see him reclining on his favorite chaise longue, watching her as she picked her way past the lumps of French gilt furniture to the window, where she drew up the blinds and threw open the casement window, letting the balmy spring air eddy into the chamber. “Good afternoon, James,” she said in her cheeriest voice. “For heaven’s sake, why were you sitting here in the dark?”
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, a
nd 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.
&n
bsp; 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.”
