Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,12
habit of wandering off if she wasn’t watched every minute.
They skirted around behind the coach, its windows transformed to mirrors by the sunlight. No insignia marked the black lacquered door. A trace of expensive leather underlay the more common smell of horses. The stone-faced coachman did not so much as glance at her.
She had just placed her foot on the first step leading to the porch when she heard the carriage door open behind her. Blast. Moving in front of her mother, Alicia fabricated a polite smile and swung around to ward off the visitor. She would inform him that her brother had not yet returned from Tattersall’s. The dandy would scuttle off posthaste—
Her diplomatic plan died a quick death as a tall man emerged from the coach. A comma of black hair lay on his broad brow, and his keen blue eyes glittered at her in the sunlight. The fine black suit and silver waistcoat might have marked him a gentleman, but Alicia wasn’t fooled by costly trappings.
She saw the devil in Drake Wilder.
Like Lucifer’s gift to womankind, he sauntered toward them. The promise of sin lay in that lean, muscled physique and the sensual slant of his mouth. The sight made her heart beat faster—only because he reminded her of that mortifying kiss. And the horrid fact that she owed him twenty thousand guineas.
Had he come to pressure her for payment? To push his unthinkable proposal on her?
Even that possibility fell secondary to the chance that he might poke fun at Mama. She could hear her mother humming softly behind her, could feel the brush of her skirts as she swayed in time to the imaginary music in her head.
Thankfully, Wilder kept his gaze on Alicia as he took her work-roughened hand in his. Unlike Hailstock, he wore no gloves, and his firm grip encircled her cold fingers with a hellish heat. “My lady. How good to see you again.”
“Mr. Wilder. You are not welcome here.”
“Still fretting over that kiss, I see.”
His eyes laughed at her. Before she could retort, he brought her hand to his lips. The caress of his breath sent a wicked warmth cascading through her insides. It was anger, she told herself. He had toyed with her, letting her make a dolt of herself, and that was not an experience she’d often faced.
She snatched back her hand. “I never fret,” she said in a frosty voice. “And I’m not receiving visitors at the moment. If you will excuse me.”
Intent on getting her mother into the house, she turned her back on him. Lady Eleanor chose that moment to peek past Alicia and chirp, “’Ello, sir. Would ye care to buy a posy fer yer sweet’eart?”
He shifted his attention to her, one of his dark brows lifting as she held forth her basket of bent, bedraggled blooms. Dear God. Alicia prayed he didn’t realize he was gazing at the dowager countess.
Her hopes were dashed in the very next moment. “Lady Brockway, I presume,” he murmured. “I can see where Alicia gets her beauty.”
“Alicia?” She blinked, her fair brows drawing together in a wistful frown. “I once knew a girl named Alicia. A right pretty little girl she was.”
Before he could recoil or make a cutting remark, Alicia slid a sheltering hand around her mother’s back. She urged her up the short flight of steps toward the haven of the house. “Never mind him. He really isn’t interested. Now come, I’ve tuppence for you, remember?”
“Not interested, bosh.” Stopping on the porch, Lady Eleanor smiled innocently at Wilder from beneath her wide-brimmed hat. “Surely such a ’andsome gent ’as a girl to woo. An’ no better way than with flowers.”
“I’m sorry, Mama, he was just leaving. And so are we—”
“Wait. I do indeed wish to make a purchase.” In two quick strides, Drake Wilder cleared the four steps to the porch and blocked their path to the front door. He dipped a courtly bow to Lady Eleanor. “Would you be so good as to show me your wares?”
“Certainly, kind sir.” Giggling, she lifted the basket of flowers for his inspection. “Take all the time ye likes.”
Alicia watched, tense and wary, ready to stop him if he dared to mock her mother. She would feel no qualm about slapping that too-handsome face. Or poking her elbow into that flat stomach. Or shoving those wide, muscled shoulders aside so that she could whisk her mother inside and lock the door. She would not feel safe until then.…