Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,41
upon row of bound volumes. There was an amazing variety of literature and scientific studies, plays and mathematical texts. She already had made a habit in the evenings, after Mama was abed and the house was silent, of curling in one of the comfortable chairs here, warmed by the fire and reading to her heart’s content. It was the single most glorious advantage to being Mrs. Drake Wilder.
And the most baffling. Did he own these books for the sake of appearances, because he believed all gentlemen possessed a fine library? Or because he truly had a keen interest in many divergent topics? He professed to know Latin. That meant he must have pursued academic studies at some point in his life.…
She ventured farther into the long chamber. “Drake?”
Beyond the door stood his desk, broad and shining with polish. The empty chair was pushed back as if he’d only just left. A tidy pile of papers lay on the blotter. Beside an inkpot, a silver cup held a collection of quills.
Disappointment needled her. She had so wanted to tell him of her success. That she had procured the sponsorship of the esteemed Duchess of Featherstone.
“What a pity you missed the master,” someone said behind her.
Startled, she pivoted to see Mrs. Yates standing in the back corner, half hidden by the spreading green fronds of a fern. A white servant’s cap was perched jauntily on her red curls. She held a closed book in one hand and a feather duster in the other.
The smirk on those cosmetic-enhanced features raised a prickle over Alicia’s skin. “What are you doing in here?”
The housekeeper gave the volume two swipes, then returned it to the shelf. “Tending to my duties, of course.”
“Housemaids should do the dusting. You must have more important tasks to see to.”
“By the master’s order, I am the only servant allowed in here, and I must do my cleaning in his absence.” With the wrong end of the feather duster, Yates flicked a speck off her low-cut bosom as if to draw attention to its generous proportions. “He trusts me, you see.”
Her implication of intimacy left Alicia cold with shock. Was Drake carrying on an affair with this hussy? Was that why Yates felt free to show such insolence? Alicia wanted to believe that even a scoundrel like him would show more discretion. Yet she could not be certain.…
“Finish your work, then. Henceforth, you will also have to answer to me.”
Ignoring the housekeeper’s scowl, Alicia turned to go. How she did miss Mrs. Molesworth, who had remained at Pemberton House. They had been like a close-knit family, she and the cook and Mama and Gerald. Mrs. Molesworth had shown them respect, and so would this impertinent housekeeper, if Alicia had her way. But she hadn’t walked three steps when she heard Yates mutter something under her breath.
“Too high and mighty to share the master’s bed.”
Alicia spun back around. Although she’d heard the brazen words clearly enough, she snapped, “What did you say?”
Yates widened her long-lashed brown eyes, then lowered them. “Nothing, m’lady.”
“Really?” Alicia said in her haughtiest tone. “Do bear in mind, it would be no trouble to run an advertisement for a new housekeeper.”
To her surprise, the boldness vanished and the housekeeper appeared genuinely alarmed. She dipped a curtsy, the feather duster hiding her bosom like a penitential scourge. “Please don’t tell the master. He’s been so good to me.”
It was on the tip of Alicia’s tongue to ask precisely how he’d been good. But she wouldn’t reveal her secret uncertainties to this upstart. “Because I am feeling charitable, I will give you a second chance—this time.”
Yates fixed her gaze on the red and blue pattern of the Turkish carpet. “Bless you, m’lady.”
Walking to the door, Alicia looked back to see her diligently dusting the shelves again. She couldn’t dismiss a lingering suspicion about the housekeeper, that her sudden meekness was merely an act.
Too high and mighty to share the master’s bed.
Alicia’s cheeks burned. How did Yates know that she and Drake had a chaste marriage? Had he gone tale-telling to his doxy? The thought seared her with renewed fury.
Her first impulse was to go storming to his club. But she forced herself to stop outside the library and take several deep breaths. There would be gentlemen congregated there, gambling and drinking. It wouldn’t do to make a scene in public. She would behave like the lady she was, not lower herself to his level.