Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,108

Reaching for the decanter, Drake refilled his glass. “Surely you’ll want her in your house.”

In one quick swallow, James emptied his glass. His voice mocking, he said, “She deserves better than to be shackled to a cripple for the rest of her life.”

“I’ve a suspicion she doesn’t look at it that way.”

“We’ll have our affair and nothing more,” James muttered, wheeling forward to pour himself another drink. “Then she can walk away whenever she likes.”

Drake couldn’t let Alicia walk away. Fool! Why did she have such a stranglehold on his heart?

“Don’t be an arrogant ass,” he snapped, with the uncanny suspicion that he meant himself. “You shouldn’t make that decision for her.”

“And you’re the expert on women? If you had half as much brains as conceit, you’d have gone on your knees to Alicia, begging for her forgiveness.”

“I don’t kneel before any woman.”

Snorting, James pointed to the doorway. “Then you should tell her so yourself.”

Drake turned in his chair to see Alicia standing on the threshhold. Damn. Had she heard him?

The lamplight from the corridor limned her slender form and haloed her golden hair. One of her hands clutched the doorframe as if she needed support. She wore the same rose-pink dress, though now it was rumpled as if she’d slept in it. Her face was too pale, her breathing too fast, her expression too anguished.

She had heard him.

Cursing himself, he sprang up and strode across the room to take her arm. Her skin felt chilled and her body trembled. “You look as if you’re about to swoon,” he said.

To his surprise, instead of recoiling or lashing out in anger, she merely stared at him as if trying to see into his soul. In a low voice, she said, “Drake, I must talk to you.”

“We’ll go upstairs.” This might be his chance. If he could get her alone, he could soften her, charm her, convince her that besting his father no longer mattered to him. She mattered.

“No.” Pulling away from him, Alicia walked into the chamber. “This involves James, too.”

James?

In baffled anger, he strode after her. What had James to do with that stupid remark about not kneeling before any woman? Unless something else had upset her.…

She glided to his brother and touched his hand. His brow furrowing in concern, James took her hand in his. “Alicia? What is it?”

“I must read something to both of you. This.”

For the first time, Drake noticed the paper she clutched in her other hand. He craned his neck to view it—a letter, the ink faded, the handwriting feminine with fancy curliques. Burning to know what had put her in such a state, he reached for the letter, but she held it to her breast.

“I must ask you to listen while I explain certain matters,” she said. “Ever since this afternoon, I’ve been thinking, remembering. And one of the things that came to my mind was a packet of old letters that Mama has always kept hidden. They were written by her childhood friend, Claire.”

Alicia paused, gazing at him with that strange seriousness. Drake hardened his jaw to subdue his impatience. “And?”

She walked slowly back and forth. “Claire Donnelly was a poor Irish orphan, a maidservant in the country house where Mama grew up. When the girls became fast friends, Mama convinced her parents to relieve Claire of her duties and raise her as their own daughter. And so the two girls studied together, learned etiquette and the ways of a lady. Then when they were sixteen, Claire fell in love with Lord Hailstock. They eloped to Scotland to be wed.”

James blew out a breath. “Father’s first wife. He certainly never told me she was a commoner.”

“So much for his exacting standards,” Drake muttered.

His brother flashed him an annoyed glance. “Save your comments. Alicia is distraught enough as it is.”

She was, and Drake couldn’t understand why. He couldn’t see how reciting family history had any benefit to either James or himself.

“Lord Hailstock and his wife remained in Scotland for a time,” she went on. “They lived there for nearly a year—until her death.” Stopping in front of Drake, she let her fingertips brush his lapel, the brief touch having all the substance of a butterfly’s wing. “It was the same year that you were born.”

Something in her purposeful tone caused a stirring of disquiet in him. He glanced at James, who leaned forward in his chair, his gaze intent on Alicia.

“So the wretch cheated on his bride,” Drake said, forcing a laugh. “That doesn’t