Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,24
that she’d found many promising prospects yet.
“I won’t be sent away.” A tall man stepped into view behind the servant, and his familiar deep voice echoed up the narrow shaft. “You should know that by now.”
Alicia’s heart stumbled over a beat. Drake Wilder wore a grin that deepened the dimples bracketing his mouth. His teeth shone white against his swarthily handsome face. A lock of black hair lay on his brow, creating the rakish illusion of a buccaneer.
He was a buccaneer, she thought disparagingly, though not in any romantic sense. He was a robber, a marauder, an exploiter of the weak.
And she was no cringing milksop.
“Go back to your club, Mr. Wilder. I’m busy.”
Like the uncivilized rogue he was, he ignored her wishes and mounted the stairs two at a stride. “Come, now, that’s hardly the proper way to greet your fiancé.”
Conscious of her mother at the other end of the attic, Alicia stood guard at the top of the steps. She clasped the antique gown like a shield to her bosom. “Nor is it proper to push your way in, unannounced.”
“Then it’s good that Mrs. Molesworth invited me.” A devilish glint in his eyes, he cleared the last riser and halted before Alicia. “Allow me to teach you how to receive your beloved.”
Cupping her head in his hands, he brushed a lingering kiss over her cheek. The freshness of the outdoors swept over her, along with his uniquely male scent. The touch of his mouth conveyed a bone-melting tenderness that sent sparkles of sensation radiating downward; tingling through her breasts and descending to a place so private, she arched backward in alarm.
“Take your vile hands off me.”
“As you wish.” His fiendish smile still glowed at her. “In matters of intimacy, I am yours to command.”
“Then I command you to leave.”
“Ah,” he said, lowering his voice to a murmur, “but I don’t intend to seduce you—yet. Today I’m merely abducting you.”
“Abducting?”
“I’ve come to take you to the shops on Regent Street.”
For the barest instant, she felt a yearning so intense that her knees nearly buckled. How wonderful to spend an idle afternoon trying on stylish bonnets and new shoes, inspecting the fine fabrics at the linen draper’s, sampling ices at the confectioner’s. It was a yearning she ruthlessly squelched. “I’ve neither the time nor the funds for frivolities.”
“That is about to change.” Wilder scanned her faded gown with its neatly mended places. “I intend to purchase a new wardrobe for you. My wife must be at the pinnacle of fashion.”
His wife. A wave of nausea swept through her. In a matter of days, he would have the right to dictate to her. He would expect her to be his pretty ornament. Reminding herself of the lives he’d ruined, she said firmly, “I won’t spend a farthing of your ill-gained fortune.”
“You agreed to establish a place for me in society. You cannot entertain the nobility while dressed in tatters.”
“I’m clever with a needle. I’ll make over some old gowns.”
“Like this one?” His eyes laughing at her, he fingered the ancient frock she held to her bosom. “The style must be fifty years out of fashion. And the damn thing reeks.”
Alicia allowed he was right about the musty odor. Yet surely the silk could be cleaned and altered, the stiffly boned bodice reworked, the quarter-length sleeves cut to a fashionably short length. Even the lavish, yellowed lace could be bleached and reused on petticoats and chemises—providing it didn’t fall apart in the doing.
People will notice, a voice inside her whispered. They’ll snicker behind their hands at you, the prideful Lady Alicia who would adorn herself in hand-me-downs just to spite her rich husband.
She ought to snatch at the chance to thwart Drake Wilder. Yet somehow, that course of action seemed childish and petty. Would it be so terrible to accept a few gowns? Enough to fulfill her end of their bargain?
“I cannot leave on a moment’s notice,” she demurred. “I’m spending the afternoon with my mother.”
“So I see.” His gaze shifted across the attic to Lady Eleanor, who held a fancy fan and twirled as if with an invisible dance parter. He called downstairs, “Mrs. Philpot. You may come up now.”
A tall, slim woman with upswept silver hair and surprisingly merry green eyes walked into view. She wore a high-necked gown of gray serge, much like that of a governess or a housekeeper. Exuding an air of dignified competence, she ascended the attic stairs.
Alicia stepped back; to bar the woman from entering