Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,22

his noble lip. Arrogance still radiated from his square-shouldered form. He wore a dark blue coat and fawn breeches, tailored at the most exclusive shop on Bond Street. His gold watch fob had come from Locke & Co., his diamond sleeve links from Gray’s, his leather shoes from Wilson’s.

Drake knew because all these years he had watched Hailstock. He had watched and waited and planned for this moment.

“Name your price,” Hailstock bit out. “I’ll make it well worth your while to cry off your betrothal to Lady Alicia.”

“No.”

The marquess took a step toward him. “Knave! You coerced her by setting up her brother for a loss. But she isn’t a prize to be won in a wager. You’ll only drag her down into your filth.”

The cold knot tightened inside Drake. He drained his glass and carefully set it on the mahogany surface of the desk. “Perhaps so,” he drawled, his gaze boring into the marquess. “Nevertheless, she will be mine, not yours … Father.”

The fire on the hearth seethed into the silence. Even the music downstairs had lulled. A strange deadness descended over Hailstock’s elegant features. His body went utterly still, the breath hissing out through his teeth. “You are not my son,” he said in a brusque tone. “I have but one son. My heir.”

Drake had expected that answer. He had heard it before. On one notable occasion that was burned into his memory.

The old pain broke past his self-control and twisted in his gut. He countered it by remembering another moment, the morning when he had knelt by his dying mother’s bedside in Edinburgh, a ten-year-old lad faced with the prospect of losing the only parent he had ever known. He would never forget the fear that had strangled his heart.…

Muira Wilder had coughed, wiping her lips with the blood-speckled handkerchief. With shaking hands, Drake poured her a cup of water. He had sensed something was wrong, though he’d tried so hard not to believe it. Her once rosy cheeks looked pale as if daubed by white greasepaint. For days, she had been too weak to play any roles with the troupe of actors.

After choking down a sip, she lay back against the pillow and regarded him with haunted hazel eyes. “’Tis time ye ken I’m dyin’.”

“Dinna speak so, Mither. We’ll be together always.”

She lovingly stroked his hair. “Nay, my son, it canna be. I nivver could carry a bairn, lost so many till ye came along. Ye were my blessin’, my gift from heaven. But now ye must go to yer sire.”

“I’d rather stay with Fergus!”

“Fergus will go wi’ ye, but he is not yer father. Hailstock is a powerful lord whose noble blood will serve ye well.” Groping for his fingers, Muira pressed a diamond stickpin into his hands. “Here’s the proof. I was to use this fer yer keep, but we scraped by without sellin’ it.”

“But I wish to stay by ye.”

“Och, ye canna. And a lad needs his father. His lordship will love ye when he sees what a braw lad ye’ve grown up to be. Say ye’ll go to him when I’m gone.…”

He’d been too stricken to refuse. Only a few weeks later, after burying his mother on a bitter cold autumn day, he and Fergus had set south for England. Drake had spent the long days on the mail coach grieving for his mother and dreaming of the warm embrace of a father. Yet when he found the fine mansion in Mayfair, the butler had refused him entry.

In desperation, he had pushed his way inside, leaving Fergus behind. Pursued by servants, he’d run from room to magnificent room, until he’d dashed into a grand parlor and found the Marquess of Hailstock down on the floor, playing tin soldiers with a handsome, tawny-haired boy, his two-year-old son, James.…

Drake’s half-brother. The legitimate heir.

Even now, Drake felt a welter of emotions he didn’t care to examine. For one prolonged moment, he had fiercely yearned to be a part of that family. He had hurled himself at Hailstock’s well-shod feet, blubbered out his naïve hopes. And the marquess had coldly denied him. When Drake had showed him the stickpin, Hailstock’s face had turned ugly. He’d called for his servants to haul the scruffy urchin off to the magistrate for thievery.…

Gazing again at that haughty face, Drake now focused on the anger that had long ruled his life. “Deny me all you like,” he said. “The fact remains that after seeing her perform in Edinburgh, you took