Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,61
to study her husband. He lounged against the cushions like a debaucher in his lair … no, like an aristocrat confident of his place in the world. The lamplight etched shadows beneath the slash of high cheekbones. He looked sinister … and as seductive as sin.
Who was the real Drake Wilder?
His hand descended over hers. Intense and caressing, his gaze burned into her. “Are you dizzy?”
Only from you. She should freeze him with an icy remark. Instead, a question tumbled out. “How can you be an unprincipled rogue if you do good deeds?”
His eyes widened ever so slightly. Then he smiled that oh-so-charming smile. “I always have a contemptible reason for everything I do. You should know that by now.”
“So what was your reason for purchasing cartloads of theatrical costumes for Mama?”
He shrugged. “They keep her occupied so that you may go out in society with me.”
Alicia conceded the logic in that. “Then why were you kind to William? Why would you bother entertaining a little boy with magic tricks?”
“I wanted to win the approval of the duchess, of course.”
Of course, “And what about Kitty? Any person of rank would have discharged her. In fact, a deaf maid would never have been hired at all.”
“And because she values her post, she works twice as hard as anyone else,” he countered. “So you see, I benefit from increased productivity. It is merely good business practice.”
He made it all sound so tidy and reasonable. Yet Alicia suspected a flaw in his smooth explanations. A flaw that touched a tender place inside her. “I wonder,” she mused, “if you want me to think badly of you.”
For a heartbeat, something flashed in his eyes. Something that came and went so quickly, she couldn’t be sure if it was surprise or annoyance. Or something else entirely.
“And I believe you’re being far too serious,” he said. “Better we should celebrate our success tonight.” So saying, he leaned down and pulled out a long drawer from beneath the opposite seat. He straightened up, brandishing a tall green bottle and two glasses. “Behold, the bubbly.”
“Champagne?” Alicia glanced down in shock at the array of decanters and glassware tucked into the padded lining of the drawer. “You carry spirits in your coach?”
He shoved the drawer shut with the toe of his leather shoe. “No maidenly swoons, please. And this”—he brandished the bottle—“I snitched from the butler’s pantry. Don’t tell the Cuthberts.”
He winked at her, and an involuntary smile demolished her attempt at disapproval. “You can’t really mean to open that here.”
“I do, indeed.” He handed her both glasses. “Hold these, if you will.”
Turning his attention to the bottle, he tugged off the metal closure. With an explosive whoosh, the cork popped out and champagne sprayed the interior of the coach.
Gasping, Alicia ducked from the mist that prickled her face and arms. “Drake! You shouldn’t have—”
“The glasses,” he urged.
She thrust them forward, and he diverted the foaming stream into them, ending the shower. Laughter bubbled in her like the champagne in her glass. She shouldn’t find humor in his lack of restraint. A puddle soaked into the expensive velvet covering the opposite seat. Damp spots marred her expensive gown. A droplet trickled down her cheek.
Catching it with her gloved fingertip, she fought against an appalled, incredulous delight. “For heaven’s sake! You’ve stained the upholstery.”
“It can be cleaned.”
“And my dress. The silk is ruined.”
“I’ll buy you another.”
“You are utterly uncivilized.”
“I beg to differ.” His grin incorrigible, he lifted his glass and toasted her. “There is nothing more civilized than fine wine in the company of a lovely woman.”
Pleasure curled deeply within her. She felt dazzled by his gallantry, dizzied by the admiration in his eyes. Caution, she told herself. You’re only a game to him. Take care to resist his charm.
Summoning a semblance of calm, she sipped her champagne, relishing the tingling sensation over her tongue and down her throat. “You are a decadent man.”
“Decadent? I’m depraved.” Holding the bottle between his knees, he unknotted his cravat and yanked it free, exposing his strong male throat. Then he did something else shocking. He touched the strip of linen to the bare skin above her bosom.
Her hand shot up to grip his wrist. “Drake…” His name sounded more like a plea than an admonition. “Don’t.”
“I’m merely tidying up.” He flashed her a bland smile, his white teeth gleaming. “Champagne leaves a sticky residue.”
Imprudently, she let her hand drop to her lap. The gently rocking coach enclosed them in a bower apart from