Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,43
time on his hands to watch people. But never had James imagined anything like this.
What’s the matter? Are you afraid your other son might hear?
A chilly dampness prickled his palms. He felt as if a knife had been thrust into his gut. He had a brother. His father—his priggish, principled father—had sired a bastard.
His father stepped into the salon. Forcing himself not to tense, James detected the faint rasp of his breathing and imagined him standing over the chaise. If he hadn’t been irked with Father for going out after promising him a game of chess, if he hadn’t pretended to be asleep when his father had returned home, he would never have learned the staggering truth.
What’s the matter? Are you afraid your other son might hear?
“James,” his father said very quietly.
James didn’t respond. But he let himself stir a little against the pillows as if the sound had disturbed his slumber.
After a moment, he heard his father walk away. James burned to confront him, but knew bitterly that he would only deny it. The almighty Marquess of Hailstock could never admit to siring a bastard. And so he had denied his legitimate son the knowledge that he had a brother.
What’s the matter? Are you afraid your other son might hear?
James felt betrayed, furious, shaken. He needed time to think, to absorb the shock, to find out more about Drake Wilder.
And he needed time to decide what to do.
Chapter Eleven
A sound lured Alicia to the surface of sleep. Lingering in a limbo of warmth, she snuggled deeper into the nest of pillows and blankets. She longed to drift back to her dream, back to that splendid ballroom, back to the arms of a most fascinating man with midnight-blue eyes.…
The noise came again. A faint scraping. Metal.
She opened her eyes to the pearly shimmer of dawn and the high arch of a canopy overhead. A gilt bird perched atop each bedpost, wings spread, beak trailing a ribbon that twined downward to the cream and gold bedcurtains. Groggy, she wondered where she was, why Mama wasn’t sleeping beside her.
Mama.
Even as Alicia raised herself on one elbow, she remembered. This was Drake Wilder’s house. Mama was safe. She now shared a chamber with Mrs. Philpot across the corridor.
So what had caused that sound?
Though the chilly morning air made her shiver, Alicia sat up and glanced around her richly appointed bedchamber with its gold watered silk on the walls and the magnificent gilt moldings. Night still lurked in the corners. The first fingers of daylight crept over the dainty writing desk with its pens and stationery, caressed the lush Aubusson carpet, touched the blue and cream chaise by the ivory marble mantelpiece … and pointed to a maidservant quietly cleaning the hearth.
The scrape of her shovel had awakened Alicia.
This was the first time she had caught the maid at her work. Always before she would awaken to the cheery whisper of the fire, though once she’d glimpsed the girl as she’d darted out of the chamber, ignoring Alicia’s call to wait. Most of the servants acted just as wary.
As if they’d been instructed to avoid her.
“Good morning,” Alicia said.
The servant made no response. Crouched on her knees, she tilted the last scoop of ashes into her pail, then silently placed the brush in her box and reached for the kindling.
“Good morning,” Alicia called louder.
The maid paid no heed, laying the sticks of wood on the grate. Her every move was noiseless, efficient, almost furtive.
Had Yates told the staff to pretend the mistress of the house didn’t exist? The very thought angered Alicia.
“It’s quite all right to speak,” she said, pushing off the counterpane and sliding out of bed. She shivered as her warm bare feet met the cold rug. She reached for her dressing gown, lying on a chair. “I merely wish to know your name.”
Still the housemaid ignored her.
Gritting her teeth, Alicia donned the robe and knotted the sash. This impertinence could not continue. She stepped quickly to the hearth.
The maidservant was a stout young woman with a mobcap perched on her dark hair. And she looked vaguely familiar. Wasn’t she the one who had lingered in the foyer on the morning of the wedding, staring at her new mistress until a footman had pulled her away?
It was her. And Alicia would tolerate no more disrespect. Leaning down, she placed her hand on that rounded shoulder just as the maid reached for the bucket of coal.