Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,25
would be churlish. She frowned a question at Wilder. His answering smile had the power to devastate a lesser woman.
“My dear Lady Alicia,” he said, “may I introduce you to Mrs. Hortense Philpot. She is the widow of one Captain Philpot, a naval hero who died at the Battle of Trafalgar. She will spend the afternoon with Lady Eleanor.”
Mrs. Philpot curtsied to Alicia. “Only if you’ve no objections, my lady.”
“I mean no insult, but” —Alicia sent another sharp stare at Drake Wilder—“such an arrangement is out of the question. I cannot leave Mama in the care of a stranger.”
“Forgive me for being presumptuous,” Mrs. Philpot said in an anxious tone, “but I understand your hesitation. My own beloved mother suffered from dementia for many years, and I cared for her until her death last year.”
The news took Alicia aback. “I’m so sorry.”
“Now you will wish to meet Lady Brockway,” Drake said smoothly, taking Mrs. Philpot by the arm. “Or shall I say, Queen Anne.”
He led the older woman through the cluttered attic before Alicia could retort that nothing was settled. Her fingers tightening around the quaint gown, she had no choice but to trail at his well-shod heels. And to watch as he gallantly kissed Mama’s hand. “Your Majesty, I’ve brought you a new lady-in-waiting.”
“I am honored to serve my queen,” Mrs. Philpot said. She sank into a deep obeisance before Lady Eleanor, who giggled with delight.
“Make haste,” Mama said, clapping her hands. “I am preparing for a state dinner.”
Rising, Mrs. Philpot picked up a magnificent sack gown of brocaded yellow velvet and held it out for the countess’s inspection. “Might I suggest this suitably grand frock?”
They went to an age-speckled cheval glass, where Lady Eleanor held the gown to herself and preened. “Oh, my gracious. I do believe it is perfect for dining with King Louis of France. He is my guest, you know.”
“Indeed! We must pay especial heed to your hair, then.” Mrs. Philpot whispered conspiratorially, “I hear he means to introduce a new style—the white powdered wig. Perhaps Your Majesty could upstage him?”
Lady Eleanor clasped her hands to her bosom. “Oh, that would be magnificent. We English must lead the world in fashion.”
As the two women examined several wigs in the trunk, Alicia felt a clutch of tenderness in her breast that threatened to overpower her doubts. She so loved seeing Mama happy. It more than made up for the occasions when Mama lapsed into melancholy, weeping for Papa or lamenting some inexpressible fear.
But dare she trust an outsider? The caretaker hired by Drake Wilder? The world knew his taste in women.
“Your Majesty,” Alicia called, “I would suggest we go downstairs, where I will help you don your gown.”
Mama lifted her hand in a royal wave. “Your assistance is no longer required. Begone with you now.”
“But ma’am—”
“You heard her,” Wilder muttered, bending close to Alicia. “The queen has made her choice. She won’t even miss you.”
His warm breath tickled her ear. Though he crowded her, she refused to budge. He was too large, too brawny, all muscle and masculinity. And she could hardly evict the man who owned the very roof over her head. While she was distracted, he plucked the antiquated gown from her grasp and tossed it over a tailor’s mannequin. Placing his hand at the small of her back, he propelled her toward the staircase.
She glanced back to see Mrs. Philpot settle an elaborate wig over Lady Eleanor’s golden hair. The trill of Mama’s laughter floated through the attic. Perhaps … just perhaps if she stole away for a few hours Mama would be safe.
Not that she was safe with Drake Wilder.
He held her so close, their hips brushed. His arm encircled her, and she could feel the proprietary pressure of his palm at the base of her spine. His subtle masculine tang enticed her, as did the danger she sensed in him. Whenever he touched her, a melting weakness sapped her strength of will.
Before the Season is out, you’ll come begging to share my bed.
At the stairs, she pulled away, ignoring his complacent grin. Head held high, she preceded him down to the second floor.
A patch of sunlight illuminated a faded square on the wallpaper where a landscape painting had hung once. The long corridor showed a forlorn row of closed doors leading to empty bedchambers. No longer did the house ring with frivolous laughter and music from the reception rooms downstairs. Alicia remembered being a young girl, peeking through the balustrade at