Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,82

was ridiculous. She belonged to Drake, and that was that. But men were possessive, territorial creatures who seemed to thrive on competition. Perhaps in time Drake would mellow.

And perhaps in time she would feel easier about loving him.

Chapter Nineteen

A footman led Alicia upstairs, although from previous visits she already knew her way around Lord Hailstock’s house. As she entered the sitting room, she frowned in dismay. Though it was early afternoon, the blinds were down, the lamps unlit, the air stuffy. James must be in one of his more melancholy moods today.

By the meager light from the hearth fire, she could see him reclining on his favorite chaise longue, watching her as she picked her way past the lumps of French gilt furniture to the window, where she drew up the blinds and threw open the casement window, letting the balmy spring air eddy into the chamber. “Good afternoon, James,” she said in her cheeriest voice. “For heaven’s sake, why were you sitting here in the dark?”

He squinted against the invading sunshine. “There’s nothing else to do,” he grumbled. Then he aimed a scowl at the doorway. “The duchess didn’t follow you, did she?”

“She’s waiting downstairs, in accordance with your request. But I must say, she would like to visit with you.”

“No. I don’t care to entertain strangers.”

Alicia had expected such an answer. She had warned Sarah, but her friend had insisted on accompanying her, anyway. Not that Sarah was a complete stranger to him.

Their first Season, Alicia had introduced her two friends. Though he was a year their junior, allowed to join society at seventeen by his indulgent father, James had wooed Sarah with the impudent arrogance of a privileged only son. They’d spent most of their time sparring, and for a time, Alicia had thought their teasing might develop into something deeper. As heir to the Marquess of Hailstock, James would have made a fine match for the daughter of a viscount. But then Sarah had set her sights on the Duke of Featherstone.

And soon thereafter, James had suffered his fateful fall. It had happened that summer at Hailstock’s country estate. James had been riding a horse his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday, charging recklessly over the moors when the stallion stumbled, throwing him to the hard ground. The fall had caused permanent damage to his spine—and an even more tragic injury to his spirit. His legs useless, the once-cheeky boy had grown sullen and irritable, angry at the world.

That same summer, Alicia had lost Sarah’s friendship and then her father had died. Perhaps because they’d both endured tragedies, Alicia had always felt an affinity with James, a bond as strong as if they were brother and sister.

Lost in memories, Alicia sat down near him. An odd thing happened then. For a fleeting second, as she met his narrowed blue gaze, it was like looking into Drake’s angry eyes. The impression vanished when she blinked, taking in the younger man’s rumpled tawny hair, the sour slant of his mouth, the cheeks pale from too little sunshine.

She gave herself a mental shake. She mustn’t allow thoughts of Drake to preoccupy her. James deserved her undivided attention.

“It’s good to see you again,” she said, flashing him a bright smile. “It must be nearly a month since last I visited.”

One arm propped on the back of the chaise, James reclined like a fallen archangel. His face bore a petulant handsomeness, and his shoulders were broad beneath his dark blue coat. A fine cashmere blanket hid his withered legs. “More than a month,” he complained. “And don’t bother to comment on how well I’m looking. My aunts and cousins feel compelled to fabricate compliments whenever they visit. As if I’m blind as well as crippled.”

“You are a handsome man,” she protested. “And I’ve missed your company—”

“Now, there’s another lie,” he broke in, his gaze more watchful than reproachful. “I understand you’ve been busy. And that felicitations are in order. You now have that bastard gambler to occupy your time.”

She dug her fingers into the arms of the chair. Not even from James would she tolerate disrespect. “My husband’s name is Drake Wilder,” she said icily. “And he is as much a gentleman in his manners as you are not.”

James did a mock wince. “I do beg your pardon, my lady.”

“You are forgiven. Only if you will judge Drake for himself, not for what you may have heard about him.”

James narrowed his eyes. “So tell me, where does he hail