Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,47
her attention, as did his stern expression. “You knew him?”
“I make a practice of knowing the character of every man who frequents my club. And Featherstone didn’t know a moral from a mudhole.” Drake paused, his mouth twisted sardonically. “But of course he did have that impeccable pedigree.”
“He was a gentleman.”
“Then why did he live openly with his mistress, even after his marriage? She bore him three children.”
Alicia slowly set down the snuffbox. Sarah had known of his paramour, but was she aware of his second family? That her young son—the present duke—had natural half-siblings? “I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “You must have been misinformed.”
“I heard it from the duke himself. He was proud of his prowess.” Drake strolled closer. “So you see, my lady, you’re better off wed to me. At least I haven’t spawned any bastards.”
“Yet.” On that scathing remark, Alicia headed toward the connecting door and turned the knob.
Drake flattened his palm on the gilded panel. “The keys, my lady.”
He stood mere inches away. She could feel his body heat. How easily he could overpower her. Tightening her fingers around the ring, she refused to show any vulnerability. “I will have the one that fits this door.”
His eyes narrowed, concealing his thoughts. For a moment, she feared he would refuse, and she would be forced into an undignified tussle.
Then he gave a nod. “As you wish, then.” He took the ring, unscrewed the clasp, and extracted a key, which he passed to her. “But you’re a coldhearted woman, Mrs. Wilder.”
“You’re a tiresome devil, Mr. Wilder.”
She considered testing the key, then decided that might be pressing her luck. Entering her chamber, she glanced toward the hearth, where a fire now burned. The maid had gone.
Relieved, Alicia turned to shut the door. “Good day. Or shall I say, good night.”
His smooth expression took on a hard edge. “One more caution, dear wife. I doubt that Kitty fits your exacting standards. But you will not discharge her. That is an order.”
Then he closed the door on Alicia’s startled face.
Chapter Twelve
A short while later, Alicia stepped out of her bedchamber and encountered another surprise.
Intending to spend the day acquainting herself with the household, she had donned a gown of ice-blue muslin that fell in a straight line from her bosom. For the sake of modesty, she had tucked a length of Brussels lace into the bodice. She felt armored and calm again, ready to face the world.
Though she couldn’t forget Drake, presumably asleep next door.
This morning, when he’d entered her bedchamber, he had shattered her sense of security—a false security, she now knew. Though she had hidden the second key beneath the papers in her writing desk, she was uneasily aware that he could procure another if the mood suited him. That meant she must never lower her guard.
Not even his defense of Kitty proved him trustworthy. Granted, he knew the servant was deaf. But compassion hadn’t prompted his protectiveness toward the maid. Like the autocrat he was, he enjoyed exercising his power over his wife.
Let him. She would do as she saw fit—
That was when she noticed the army of footmen trooping in and out of her mother’s bedchamber. They carried towering piles of boxes.
Puzzled, Alicia joined the procession into the bright, yellow and white chamber. The curtains had been drawn back to a view of the green park, and both beds had been tidied. Mama and Mrs. Philpot were nowhere to be seen.
Directed by a short, barrel-chested man in a cherry-red coat and blue pantaloons, the footmen marched into the dressing room. “Have a care, you clumsy oaf,” he proclaimed in a startlingly deep, dramatic tone. “This is no delivery from the ragman.”
Alicia hurried toward him. “Sir? What is going on here?”
“Ah, the lady of the house.” He swept a bow so low she could see the bald circle crowning his skull. When he straightened, he rocked back and forth on his heels and regarded her with an air of self-importance. “Permit me to introduce myself, my lady. I am Signor Renaldo, master of wardrobes for the Royal Theatre.”
“Theater?” Perplexed, she peered into the dressing room, past the footmen depositing the boxes and the maidservants unpacking them. Garments and shoes and gloves littered the green carpet with its pattern of yellow ribbons. The armoires and cupboards and clothespresses stood open like great mouths waiting to consume a feast.
At the far end of the long room stood Mama, a voluminous red cloak enveloping her delicate form and a plumed