Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,76

hear him whisper words of love?

She must not soften toward him again. Yet if she could believe MacAllister, Drake had offered her brother a worthy role. He had given Gerald the chance to redeem himself. And she couldn’t overlook the fact that Drake directed at least a portion of his illicit profits to aiding those in need. It pained her to admit that her husband did far more to help the indigent than she did.

So who was she to think herself better than him?

Yet who was he to reorder her life? To risk her brother’s life?

Back and forth, her thoughts tumbled until she wanted to scream with frustration. Granted, Drake did have a core of decency. But he wielded too much influence over Gerald. She shuddered to think of her brother anywhere near a betting table. If he were to end up like Papa …

The freckle-faced footman trotted in with a tea tray, setting it on the table before scurrying out again. MacAllister closed his massive paw around the delicate porcelain pot and poured the steaming liquid into a cup. “Here’s a wee cuppy fer ye, m’lady.”

“A cuppy,” she said faintly. “So that’s what you meant.”

Taking the cup from him, she attempted a mannerly smile, but a sob choked out instead. To her chagrin, tears blurred her eyes again.

MacAllister groped in his pocket for a folded handkerchief. “Dinna weep, lass. I didna mean to distress ye.”

He looked so alarmed, Alicia couldn’t help laughing through her tears. “You’ve been more than kind,” she told him. “It’s just that … I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

But she did know. And his name was Drake Wilder.

* * *

Women were barred from the exclusive rooms of the club, where gentlemen dined and wagered and drank in an atmosphere of opulent splendor. So when Alicia finished her tea, Fergus MacAllister sent Gerald back to the servants’ hall. Her brother sheepishly apologized for misleading her.

“I’ve touched neither dice nor cards, I swear it.” He drew himself upright, his thin shoulders squared beneath his peacock-green coat. “I’m far too busy prowling the floor, watching so that no one plays deeper than his means. Already I’ve kept Lord Witherspoon from wagering away his sister’s marriage portion. And Captain Lord Rogers would’ve been done up if he’d lost at hazard.”

“That is all fine and good, but let someone else do the job. I cannot approve of you being here.” Her throat tight, she touched his sleeve. “You know why.”

He glanced away, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the white cravat. Then he returned his determined gaze to her. “I am not like Papa. And I have to stay, Ali. Don’t you see? I must keep other coves from ruining their families as I did.”

His altruistic purpose filled her with unexpected pride. She ached to protect her brother as she’d always done. Yet she was forced to concede that perhaps the responsibility would be good for him. Perhaps Drake was right; perhaps Gerald should make his own decisions.

But why, oh, why could he not assert his independence anywhere but in this gaming hell?

* * *

More confused than ever, she returned home to spend the evening pacing her bedchamber. Sarah had left her calling card that afternoon, but Alicia couldn’t bring herself to see anyone. The turbulence of emotion she felt for Drake was something she had to sort through alone.

He wasn’t the well-bred aristocrat she had been raised to marry. Orphaned at ten, he had grown up under the dour guidance of Fergus MacAllister. Times had been wretched, MacAllister had said. Drake had led a rough-and-tumble life on the streets, a hard existence she could only imagine. Though she herself had faced poverty, at least she’d had Mama and Gerald and Mrs. Molesworth as her family. She’d had a roof over her head and food on the table. She’d had love.

Had she wed a nobleman, she would have led a more genteel life with a husband who knew how to treat a lady. But would such a marriage have guaranteed her happiness? She had to admit it would not. Sarah had made a brilliant match, yet she had been miserable, tormented by the duke’s devotion to his mistress.

Papa had been flawed, too. Though he had adored Mama, he had indulged his weakness for wagering. In the end, the cards had destroyed him.

Sinking onto a chaise, Alicia propped her chin on her cupped hands. Her long-ago dreams of a fairy-tale prince had been just that … dreams. For better or