Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,107
able to stand, they’d be of a similar height. The muscles in his arms and chest were well developed from exercise. Drake had seen a footman bring in several barbells in various sizes.
For some reason, he had the sudden impression that James was lonely for company. He knew no one in this house, except perhaps Lady Eleanor, who might not recognize him. Even Alicia was gone.
Alicia.
Damn. Why was he letting her turn him into a lapdog who would go sniffing at her heels, whining for her favors?
Angry with himself, he went to fill his glass from the decanter he’d left on a table. After taking a long drink, he sank into a comfortable leather chair by the fireplace. It couldn’t hurt to stay a few more minutes, to lay down some rules.
As James wheeled closer, his glass tucked between his thighs, Drake said without preamble, “I’ll assign a manservant to assist you as necessary. Confine your orders to him alone.”
“I won’t need help,” James said. “I brought along Tilford, my ever-faithful valet.”
“I’ll leave it to you, then, to make sure he doesn’t interfere belowstairs.” Drake wouldn’t allow either of them to harangue the staff, misfits who wouldn’t conform to a nobleman’s exacting standards.
“Tilford is no instigator. He’ll keep to himself.”
“If you’ve any special requests for Cook, give at least half a day’s warning. I won’t have my servants sent off to the market on a moment’s notice.”
James raised his glass in a mock salute. “Strict bugger, aren’t you?”
“Tomorrow, the servants will remove the rugs in all the ground-floor rooms,” Drake went on tonelessly. “Then you can roam about as you please. The library is just down the corridor. My housekeeper will take you on a tour tomorrow—”
“I’ll find my own way around,” James said, his mouth tightening. “I’m more interested in you. Who, may I ask, is your mother?”
Drake had been expecting the blunt question. Much as he hated revealing his past to this self-serving aristocrat, James should know the truth of his father’s neglect.
So Drake gave an abbreviated version of the story. All the while he watched James, daring him to cast any slurs on Muira Wilder’s honor. Crippled or not, he’d get a fist in his face.
But James didn’t jeer. He merely shook his head as if amazed. “I can’t imagine Father having an affair. He’s a stickler for convention.”
Drake thought Hailstock capable of any perfidy. He said nothing, though. If James wished to cling to his illusions, let him.
“To the best of my knowledge, he never strayed from his marriage vows,” James went on, lifting his glass to study the amber liquor in the firelight. “I’ve often wondered if he would finally take a mistress after my mother’s death. That was a year ago.…”
“He hasn’t.”
His brother looked up sharply. “How the devil would you know?”
“I’ve had the both of you watched.”
James gave a low whistle. “You really do despise us.”
Drake took a long swallow from his glass. Though the fine French brandy slid like silk down his throat, he grimaced. What the devil had possessed him to come in here, to sit down, to converse as if they could one day know the true camaraderie of brothers? They shared the same blood, but little else.
“He’s rigid-minded and controlling, but he really isn’t as awful as you think,” James said, leaning back, his face earnest. “We’d play chess of an evening or argue politics. He’s as well read as any lecturer at Oxford, and he has an amazing grasp of numbers. He’s published treatises on mathematics.”
Drake had read those papers. He’d never admit to anyone—least of all this pampered nobleman—that he’d felt a sharp craving to debate those complex theories with the genius who had written them. But James had been the sole recipient of their father’s attentions.
Searching himself for resentment, he found a hollow longing, a sentiment that annoyed him. “So if you two get along so well,” he asked in a brusque tone, “why the hell did you leave?”
James fixed him with a lordly stare. “As I said, I wish to know my brother. And I shall.”
“We’re too different to be friends,” Drake said, finishing off his drink. “Let’s leave it at that.”
James gave a taunting laugh. “Don’t get your back up, Wilder. And I shan’t impose on you for very long. It’s past time I set up my own household.”
Seizing the chance to change the subject, Drake asked, “Have you asked her to marry you?”
A faint flush mottled James’s cheeks. “The duchess?”