Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,37
irrevocably his, Drake had other concerns. “What will you do now?”
“I’ll seek my fortune, perhaps in trade.” Placing his glass on a side table, the earl pushed to his feet and straightened his coat. “I’ll find lodgings elsewhere, too. I ask only for a day or two to clear out my belongings.”
“For Christ’s sake, sit down. I’ve no intention of tossing you out of Pemberton House.”
Gerald stiffened. “My pockets may be at low tide, but I won’t accept your charity.”
“I don’t expect you to do so. There is a way for you to pay me back.” Cursing himself for a softhearted fool, Drake hoped he wouldn’t regret the offer. Alicia certainly wouldn’t approve—not that she had any say in the matter. “Tomorrow, you’ll report to me at my club.”
Chapter Nine
Four days later, Alicia stood in the drawing room of a grand house in Grosvenor Square while a snooty footman went to inquire if Her Grace was at home. Too nervous to sit on one of the many chairs and chaises, she paced the beautifully appointed chamber, her gaze sliding over the colorful tapestries on the walls, the fine porcelain figurines on the tables, the mantel carved of pure white marble. She stopped at a tall window framed by blue brocaded draperies and gazed unseeing into a garden.
Usually she waited in the coach while her footman delivered one of her newly printed calling cards. But that made it too easy for the mistress of the house to be conveniently unavailable.
Since the wedding, she had worked her way down a list of the most venerable hostesses of the ton. She had visited every acquaintance with whom she’d once had a connection. Thus far, everyone had refused to receive her. The reason was bitterly clear. No one wished to associate with the wife of a baseborn gambler. Or the daughter of a madwoman.
But this time she would not be put off. This time she would try an act of desperation. She would wheedle an interview with her former friend—and long-ago rival.
The tap of measured footsteps came from the foyer. She turned from the window, expecting a servant with a message of refusal. Instead, a young woman strolled into the drawing room.
Sarah. The Duchess of Featherstone.
Alicia was immobilized by a confusing flood of affection and resentment and surprise. The liveliness had vanished from that exquisitely beautiful face, and there was a hint of strain around Sarah’s mouth. Faint shadows lent a fragility to her violet eyes. But it was more than her countenance that had changed. A black gown skimmed her slender form, and a widow’s cap crowned her shining sable hair.
Hastening forward, Alicia only just remembered to curtsy. “Pray forgive me for intruding, Your Grace. I didn’t realize you were in mourning.”
“There’s no need to apologize. It’s been nearly a year since Timothy’s passing.”
Her husband was dead. That tall, vigorous nobleman who had always had a droll remark. “Sarah … I’m so sorry. I’ve been away from society and hadn’t heard.”
“I quite understand.” With a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, Sarah waved a slender hand at a grouping of chairs near one of the long windows. “Do sit down. We can have a cozy chat while we await our tea.”
Her aloof manner invited anything but coziness. Seating herself in a straight-backed chair, Alicia pondered how much they had both changed in the past five years. They had been inseparable friends from their first meeting, two starry-eyed girls enjoying the pleasures of their first Season. They’d giggled over silly suitors and exchanged confidences about ardent admirers. Until Alicia had fallen in love with the dashing Duke of Featherstone.
At first, Sarah had been strangely silent whenever Alicia sighed over the handsome duke. Then, one fateful evening, Alicia caught Sarah kissing him in a darkened garden, and a bitter rivalry ensued. Harsh words were spoken. On learning of their betrothal, Alicia had wept angry tears. She had stubbornly refused to receive Sarah, even departing town before the wedding.
Her youthful anguish now struck her as uncomfortably like sulking. She hadn’t really loved the duke; she’d been enraptured with the idea of love. Her behavior seemed especially petty in light of Sarah’s bereavement.
Looking far too young to be a dowager, the Duchess of Featherstone arranged her skirts on the chaise. The black silk made a striking contrast to her pale skin. “So,” she said, her voice politely frosty, “this is most unexpected—you calling on me after all these years.”
“I’ve been out of touch with everyone,” Alicia murmured.