Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,50
donned the too-large hat, unmindful that the tapered ends lay low over her ears or that the white plume drooped over her eye. “Why, bless ye, sir. How do I look?”
“Fierce enough to terrorize Blackbeard himself.” He held out his arm. “Allow me to escort you to the lower deck. We’ll see if we can’t locate your shipmates.”
Giggling, she accepted his assistance, and they strolled out of the gallery and down the grand staircase to the formal rooms. Contentment radiated from her, a peace of mind quite opposite to the alarm that had troubled her only moments ago. He had the uncanny impression that fantasy was her refuge from unhappy memories, that perhaps her madness was the result of an unbearable event she had witnessed.
Who had frightened her into weeping? Hailstock? And who else did she believe to be in danger? Drake intended to find out.
They approached the tall, arched doorway of the drawing room. Alicia and her brother had made a custom of taking tea at this hour, and sure enough, the chatter of anxious voices emanated from within.
Halting outside the door, he saluted Lady Eleanor. “It sounds as if the crew is about to mutiny,” he said in a low voice. “You had better go assume command.”
“Will ye not accompany me? Ye would make a fine navigator.”
Smiling, he shook his head. “Regrettably, I have my own seas to navigate tonight.”
Affording him a crisp nod, she swaggered into the drawing room like a pirate down a gangplank. He heard Alicia’s cry of relief, Mrs. Philpot’s concerned murmurings, Gerald’s fond scolding.
Drake intended to walk away. Instead, he found himself stepping to the doorway, where he paused in the shadows of the threshhold. The joyful group stood at the far end of the long, lamplit room.
Slender and graceful in pale blue, Alicia embraced her mother. Mrs. Philpot dabbed at her eyes. The plumed hat once again had toppled to the floor, and Gerald scooped it up, grinning foolishly at his mother in her pirate’s costume.
None of them noticed Drake.
Alicia guided Lady Brockway to an intimate grouping of chairs by the mantelpiece. They all gathered around, fussing over the dowager, fetching her tea and cakes from a silver tray. Their excited voices drifted to him.
“We were organizing a search party,” Gerald said, settling a damask cloth on his mother’s lap. “By gad, Mama, you gave us a fright, wandering off like that.”
“I wasn’t lost,” Lady Brockway objected. “A captain always knows her directions.”
“Of course,” Alicia said, touching her mother’s shoulder, smiling tenderly down at her. “We love you, and we were worried, that’s all.”
Drake felt a pang unpleasantly close to envy. They were a family, close-knit and happy. He was the outsider. An outsider in his own home.
He stepped back out of sight, his face a grim mask. The course of his life had been set long ago, and he would not rest until he had achieved his purpose. Nothing else mattered.
Especially not his highborn wife.
Chapter Thirteen
On the evening of the ball, Alicia was ready nearly an hour before the appointed time for departure. She had intended to visit awhile with her mother, but Mrs. Philpot sat reading Gulliver’s Travels aloud by the fireplace, and Mama was so engrossed in the story that she gave Alicia a vague smile and waved her out of the bedchamber.
At loose ends, Alicia wandered downstairs to the library in search of a book of her own. A distraction might dampen the restless anticipation that had troubled her all day. Too many times, she’d had to reprimand herself for looking forward to this night. Likely, she would suffer snubs; not even the duchess’s influence could force everyone to accept her. And she reminded herself that she did not reenter society for her own pleasure, but to fulfill a bargain.
A business arrangement with a heartless gambler.
Yet not even the bitter purpose behind her marriage could spoil her excitement. She felt a dizzying thrill much like the night of her come-out party long ago, when she had been eighteen and buoyed by dreams.
She wore a ball gown of embroidered gold-on-white muslin with short, puffed sleeves. A daily regimen of salve had made her hands smooth and white again. No one would guess from looking at her that only a fortnight ago, she had scrubbed floors and washed laundry.
Her dancing slippers made a whisper of sound in the empty entrance hall. She remembered the swarm of her admirers, the exhilaration of having so many choices. She imagined gliding to the