Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,21
coy beauty mark she’d penciled on her generous bosom, the heavy musk of her perfume, her soft mews of pleasure as she strung kisses along his jaw. Letting her stay had been a mistake. Not even her lush figure could distract him from his restless reflections. He could think only of an aristocratic blond beauty too cold and proud for his tastes.
We will have a chaste marriage.… I can’t trust you not to force yourself on me.…
“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now,” he said abruptly.
Surprise flashed into her velvety brown eyes. She took his hand and guided it beneath her skirts. “You can’t mean that. We’ve only just begun.”
His fingers curled against her warm, silken thigh. She would marry him willingly. He had known many women like her, women who had hinted at a desire for a permanent match. Yet he felt no inclination to do more than take the pleasure they offered him.
Lady Alicia Pemberton was another matter. Toward her, he felt a burning resolve that went beyond revenge, a possessiveness that was fast becoming an obsession. In a mere two encounters, she had managed to startle him and insult him, amuse him and anger him, arouse him and intrigue him. Despite her chilly blue blood, she showed a fierce loyalty to her infirm mother. He felt a grudging respect for that.
At the same time, he resented being distracted from his true purpose. Alicia was forbidden fruit, that was all. As soon as he bedded her, the challenge would lose its appeal. He would feel no further desire for his genteel wife.
He slapped Lydia on her cushiony bottom. “I’m expecting a visitor,” he said. “This isn’t a convenient time.”
“A quick ride, then,” she said, rocking suggestively against him. “Shall we go into the other room or do it right here?”
There was a bed in the adjoining chamber for such liaisons. But Drake felt only a mild stirring, easily mastered. He lifted her to her feet. “Neither,” he said. “I’m sorry, but you cannot stay.”
Her lower lip thrust out. Recognizing an incipient tantrum, he swiftly guided her through the antechamber, where he gave her a conciliatory kiss. “Go without a fuss, and tomorrow you shall have a surprise from the jeweler.”
He did not feel inclined to inform her about his impending marriage. He would continue their affair, and if she became troublesome, he would find another mistress. The world was full of willing women.
As he ushered her out, he spied Fergus MacAllister stomping down the lamplit corridor, a thunderous glare on his craggy features. But it was not that one-eyed glower that struck a vigilant expectation into Drake. It was the man marching after Fergus.
Richard, the Marquess of Hailstock.
Right on cue.
Drake gave his mistress a gentle shove in the opposite direction. “Go now.”
Glancing curiously over her shoulder, the actress sauntered to the back staircase that led down to the butler’s pantry and the kitchen. At the doorway, she blew him a kiss. Then she vanished into the stairwell.
“Well, well,” Fergus growled. “’Tis a braw night for callers. And not a sweet angel among them.” He gave Drake another piercing look, then jerked his thumb at the marquess. “I told this one to wait downstairs, but he’d have naught to do with takin’ orders.”
“Cheeky minion,” Hailstock snapped. “You forget your place—”
“No, you forget,” Drake cut in. “You’re in my domain now.”
Before the marquess could do more than scowl, Drake sent Fergus away with a silent motion and then ushered Hailstock through the antechamber and into the office.
Drake’s anger transformed into dark elation as he strolled to a side table and picked up a cut-glass tumbler. Into it he splashed a golden brown liquid from a decanter. Then he pivoted toward Hailstock, who stood stiffly in the center of the Aubusson rug.
“Brandy?” Drake said, holding up his glass. “It’s the finest French stock—the same as in Bonaparte’s private cellar.”
“Devil take your smuggled contraband. This isn’t a social call, and well you know it.”
“Suit yourself.” Taking a long swallow, Drake sauntered to the desk and settled himself on the edge. For all his nonchalance, he could barely taste the mellow liquor. He savored only the secret pleasure of revenge.
Twenty years had passed since he had last seen Lord Hailstock at close quarters. Those years had strung silver threads through Hailstock’s black hair, etched lines on his patrician features, added a slight paunch to his trim form. Yet he had not changed, not really. Superiority still frosted his gray eyes. Disdain still curled