Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,28
wise to spend your days learning how to please me.”
Before the Season is out, you’ll come begging to share my bed.
“Pleasing you is not part of our bargain,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “Your comfort means little to me.”
As the coach turned into the bustling traffic of Regent Street, he murmured, “You wound me, darling. Don’t you know when I’m bedeviling you?”
She didn’t know. Nor could she fathom why her heart thrilled to his seductive voice. He was a rake, a scoundrel, a gambler.
And in a mere two days, he would be her husband.
Chapter Seven
When Alicia descended the grand staircase on the morning of her wedding, an icy calm numbed her. She had slept fitfully, disturbed by dark unremembered dreams, but with the dawn came an acceptance of her future. Permitting herself to think of nothing beyond the mundane motions of bathing and dressing, she had readied herself for the ceremony.
The elegant new gown rustled with every step. Fashioned of the palest blue satin, it had a gauze overskirt shot through with silver threads that glimmered in the gloom of the rainy day. She shuddered to imagine the many long hours the seamstresses had toiled over the delicate embroidery.
A heavy strand of diamonds and sapphires circled her neck like a noose. From the necklace hung a teardrop-shaped sapphire larger than her thumb. The exquisite piece had arrived the previous afternoon along with matching sapphire earbobs, delivered by a fawning jeweler who said the jewels were a wedding gift from Mr. Wilder.
She had been tempted to send them back. The gems had, after all, been purchased with profits from his gaming club. But rebelliousness would invite his provoking attentions. She had learned that lesson two days ago, on their shopping expedition.
He had displayed exquisite taste in selecting cloth and trimmings at the linen-draper’s, in choosing styles from the latest fashion books at the dressmaker’s shop. With cunning finesse, he had charmed the modiste, a tall thin Frenchwoman who at first had decried his request to finish this gown and another in less than forty-eight hours. He had smiled and cajoled her, and the prune-faced woman had melted like whipped cream on a hot tart.
While he and the dressmaker carried on a flirtation—there was no other word to describe it—Alicia had felt like a mannequin. She had been measured and assessed and arrayed with lengths of fabric. And despite her disgust for his money, in a hidden shameful part of her, she had reveled in the delight of owning a new wardrobe.
Her conscience demanded that she accept only the minimum of garments, not the dizzying abundance of morning gowns and walking dresses and ball gowns that Drake had selected. To her mortification, he had ordered underclothing, too, corsets and chemises and petticoats of the finest lawn and lace. A bully with a breathtaking smile, he had insisted, and in the end she had acquiesced.
After all, she had a bargain to uphold. A bargain with the devil.
Alicia paused at the bottom of the stairs, her gloved fingers curled around the smooth twists of the newel post. A prickly awareness pierced her stupor. The dull daylight cast a gray haze over the foyer. Rain tapped against the long windows, mingling with the sounds from the drawing room.
The murmur of voices.
She had no wish to converse with anyone, but earlier, Mama had skipped down the stairs, eager as the schoolgirl she imagined herself to be today, and so Alicia curved her lips upward. It was her wedding day, and by heaven, she would show the world a happy appearance.
Her satin slippers made no sound on the marble of the foyer. But as she entered the drawing room, her smile faltered.
Clutching a posy of white lilies against her rose-pink gown, Mama sat small and forlorn on the lone chaise. For once, she didn’t wear the moleskin cape; Mrs. Philpot must have talked her out of it. No longer did Mama chatter in excitement; now she had the demeanor of a chastened child.
Across the empty chamber, Mrs. Philpot stood by the bow window. Her troubled gaze flitted to Alicia before returning to the man who paced before Lady Eleanor.
Lord Hailstock.
Alicia’s stomach lurched. Though a close family friend, he was also her rejected suitor. She hadn’t invited him to the wedding, so why had he come to call? If he had upset Mama …
She hastened toward them. “My lord. This is a surprise.”
He strode forward and met her halfway. His silvering hair was