Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,18

for takin’ me in. ’Tis ever so cold and lonely to sleep in the alleys.”

Alicia concealed a grimace at the irony of her mother’s current delusion. The Countess of Brockway had never spent a single night out on the streets, and never would if Alicia had her way. They shared this bedchamber, partly because it was cheaper to heat one room than two, and partly so that Alicia could keep a close watch on her mother. Before the doctor had prescribed the laudanum, she’d had a habit of wandering around the house during the night, sometimes venturing up to the darkened attic to search through the trunks of antique clothing left from decades of Pemberton ancestors. Alicia feared Mama might knock over a candle and set the house afire, not to mention cast herself into danger in other ways.

Once, after garbing herself in heavy brocaded robes as the Queen of Sheba, Mama had taken a nasty tumble down the steep wooden stairs. A sprained ankle had incapacitated her for a fortnight. Another time, fancying herself to be Joan of Arc, she had found a battered breastplate and an old dueling sword, and Alicia had caught her in the foyer, ready to charge out the front door and into the night.

Heaven knew, she needed a guardian angel. Not a devil of a son-in-law who would dislodge her from these familiar surroundings.

Torn between anger and affection, Alicia reached down and smoothed a stray curl from her mother’s brow. “Drink now,” she murmured. “Every last drop.”

Obediently, the countess drained the cup and handed it back. Then she patted her lips with a lace handkerchief, which she tucked into her voluminous sleeve. Like a child, she snuggled down and let Alicia settle her beneath the embroidered coverlet.

A contented sigh eddied from Lady Eleanor. “I been thinkin’, dearie. There’s somethin’ so familiar about ’im.”

“About who?”

“That polite young man of yers. I wonder if ’e’s bought posies from me before.”

Alicia stiffened, though she was careful not to show her rancor. “I’m sure you’re confusing him with someone else.”

“One don’t forget such a ’andsome gent. He was smitten with ye, buyin’ every last flower. Ah, ’twas so romantic.”

Alicia avoided looking at the vase of bedraggled blooms, which she’d placed on the mantelpiece for her mother’s sake. She resented the oily charm he’d used to win over a vulnerable woman. But like it or not, she would have to endure his presence in her life. She knew her duty. She had taken him on the requested tour of the house—his house now. He had behaved with perfect courtesy, though she trusted him about as far as she could throw the contents of a chamber pot.

“His name is Drake Wilder.” She bit her lower lip and tasted the metallic zest of blood. Earlier, she had forced herself to pen a note to Lord Hailstock, informing him of the news. Now she must tell her mother. “You’ll be seeing more of Mr. Wilder from now on. Today … we became betrothed.”

Those papery eyelids blinked. Like clouds parting to blue sky, Lady Eleanor’s drowsy eyes grew slowly lucid, focusing on her daughter. “Alicia?” she said wonderingly. “Did I hear you right? You are to be wed?”

The elegant, aristocratic voice startled Alicia. Overjoyed by the transformation, she sank to her knees beside the bed. “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, Mama. Mama.”

Her eyes brimming, she smiled at her mother. She never knew when to expect these rare episodes of sanity; they might last mere moments or long, treasured hours. But why now? Why when she didn’t dare pour out her fears and uncertainties?

The countess groped for Alicia’s hand. “My darling girl, that is wonderful news. Who is this Mr. Wilder? Why haven’t I made his acquaintance?”

“It all happened rather quickly,” Alicia said evasively. “I suppose you could say we had a whirlwind courtship.”

Her mother’s brow pleated. Horror flirted with her fragile features, and she raised herself on one elbow. “Oh, dear. I’ve been drifting again, haven’t I?”

“You’ve been … ill. But I’m sure you’ll feel better now.”

“What day is it? What month?”

“April the eleventh.”

“Dear heaven. Last I recall, ’twas Candlemas Day and Gerald brought me the most beautiful bouquet of snowdrops.…” Sinking back onto the pillow, the countess shook her head in despair. “God have mercy. Whatever is happening to me?”

Willing her hand not to tremble, Alicia stroked her mother’s slender forearm. “You’ll be fine,” she soothed. “You’re weary, that’s all, and it’s difficult to focus your mind. Close your eyes now and rest.