Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,30

husky words filled her with warmth. Over the years, he had been both father and friend to her, especially after Papa’s death. That was when the marquess had begun to come around more often, offering his assistance, though her father had appointed the director of his bank as executor of the will and guardian. Now Alicia ached to fling herself into Lord Hailstock’s protective arms, to breathe in his familiar scent of masculine cologne, to place all her troubles into his capable hands. But she could not.

“It is too late to dissuade me,” she whispered.

Though Hailstock gently stroked her hand, his eyes burned with a fervent intensity. “No, it isn’t too late. I beg you, do not go through with this wedding. Wilder will bring you to grief. He’ll flaunt his affairs and taint you with his vices.”

Taking a deep breath, she extracted her hands and willed her voice not to shake. “I know what he is, my lord, and I’m entering this marriage with open eyes.”

“You and Wilder come from utterly different worlds. Better you should wed me, a gentleman who will cherish you as a lady.” He paused, his face grave and his gaze hooded. “As to Eleanor … I am willing to allow her to live with us, so long as she remains confined to her rooms.”

His offer surprised Alicia, and at one time, she might have accepted it. Yet into her memory flashed the image of Drake Wilder, bowing to her mother with courtly regard, playing along with her mad fancies, purchasing all of her flowers.…

Why, oh, why couldn’t Lord Hailstock treat her so well?

She sharply shook her head. “Locking her up won’t do. Mama needs to be a part of her family. She needs me.”

“If you won’t heed your own welfare, then consider your brother’s. Wilder will corrupt Gerald to the ways of a gambler. No doubt the boy will end up in an early grave, the same as your father.”

The knife took another painful turn. Yet Gerald had promised to stay away from Wilder’s Club, and didn’t she owe him her faith? “My mind is made up. There is nothing more to say.”

Hailstock studied her with a tightly drawn intensity, as if gauging the strength of her resolution. “As you wish, then,” he said in a clipped tone. “But you must take this.” He brought forth something from an inner pocket of his coat and pressed it into her hand.

It was a ring, the gold band studded with sapphires and diamonds. A stunned confusion flooded her. “I can’t accept this.”

“You must. It was to be your betrothal ring from me.” On that, he turned and stalked out of the library.

As the raindrops drummed a lament on the windowpanes, Alicia leaned against a barren bookshelf and stared down at the ring in her hand. She shouldn’t accept such a token from another man. And yet how could she refuse Lord Hailstock? She felt as if she’d lost a dear friend.

Heartsore, she eased off her glove and slid the ring onto her finger.

* * *

His bride was late.

Though tension gripped his chest, Drake forced himself to stand calmly by the altar. Rain drizzled down the tall windows. In the loft, a choir of white-robed boys sang a hymn, accompanied by the stoop-shouldered curate on the pipe organ. The damp air smelled of beeswax from the many candles burning in the chandeliers and on the altar. A few of Drake’s most trusted employees occupied the front pews of St. George’s, and someone coughed, the sound echoing through the church.

On one side of him stood the vicar with his mousy wife, who would stand witness to the nuptials. On his other side lurked Fergus MacAllister, clad in his stiff Sunday best. Drake could feel that disapproving glower burning into his back.

Or maybe Fergus was gloating.

The ceremony had been scheduled to begin a quarter of an hour ago. Drake silently cursed his decision to obey custom and arrive separately from his bride. He had sent his coach when he ought to have gone to her house—his house—and brought her here. He wouldn’t have judged Alicia craven, yet her cool blond beauty concealed her thoughts, and for once in his life he distrusted his ability to read a woman.

What if she never appeared?

The galling possibility festered in his stomach. For years, he had schemed for this moment. He had plotted his revenge ever since he’d been a grieving boy, denied by his father. Driven by bitterness, Drake had studied elocution