Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,9

tempted to ignore the visitor. It was likely another creditor. But she would sooner know now than have a nasty surprise later.

Stiff from kneeling on the bare wood floor, she dropped her cleaning rag into the bucket of soapy water, wiped her hands on her apron, and clambered to her feet. Stonily, she averted her gaze from the altered drawing room as she trudged out into the hall to open the front door.

She blinked in dismay. At the curbstone loomed a fine black carriage, the horses held by a coachman. And on her doorstep stood a tall, debonair gentleman dressed in an impeccable gray coat and matching trousers. He removed his top hat and bowed, displaying a thatch of thickly silvering dark hair. Richard, the Marquess of Hailstock.

“My lord,” she said, dipping a curtsy while brushing ineffectually at her soiled skirt. “This is most unexpected.”

“My dear Alicia, forgive me for intruding.” His gray eyes flickered over her dishevelment, though he was too well-bred to comment. “I was hoping to speak with you, but if another time is more convenient…”

Alicia had put him out of her mind after their angry parting two days ago. Yet his familiar distinguished features brought the spark of impossible hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had reconsidered.

She stepped back. “Please come in, my lord.”

Pretending she wore a glittering ball gown instead of a sadly rumpled work dress, she led him into the drawing room. Their footsteps echoed in the nearly empty chamber.

The marquess stopped abruptly. “Good God,” he exclaimed. “What’s happened here?”

She saw the oblong room through his eyes, the bare wood floor, the forlorn expanse of space, the blank walls with pale squares where paintings had once hung. Tears prickled the backs of her eyelids. She would not weep. She would not. Casually, she said, “I sold everything this morning.”

Not more than an hour ago, the secondhand seller’s dray had hauled off the rosewood furniture and the rolled-up old carpet. Gone was the pianoforte where she had played as a girl, treasuring her father’s smile of pleasure. Gone were the pretty figurines her mother had once delighted in collecting. Gone was the dainty writing desk where Alicia had sat for the past two days, working and reworking the accounts, hoping to find a way to pay off their creditors. The twenty-three gold guineas she had been paid wouldn’t stretch far.

Rather than give vent to despair, she had spent the past hour scrubbing the floors and moldings with a fury.

“Please, sit down.” Penury didn’t mean she couldn’t be gracious. She led Lord Hailstock toward the only remaining pieces: a chaise and two frayed chairs by the hearth so that she and Mama and Gerald could sit here of an evening. She might even persuade Mrs. Molesworth to bring her knitting here.

“How is James?” she asked.

Sorrow flashed in Hailstock’s eyes at the mention of his only son, an invalid. “He’s fine, but I haven’t come here today to talk about him. I need to talk about you.”

He touched Alicia’s elbow and seated her beside him on the chaise. Against her will, she found herself melting at his gallantry, the genuine concern on his aristocratic features. He was a widower who had lost his second wife only the previous year. All her life, Alicia had known him as a friend of her parents, for Mama had grown up with his first wife, Claire. It had seemed awkward at first for Alicia to realize he was courting her. She had enjoyed the small luxuries he’d brought her, the sweets and the flowers and books. She had looked forward to their animated talks on everything from fashion to gardening. But though she was fond of him, she didn’t love him with the wild romantic ardor she had once dreamed of feeling for a man. Yet she was certain she could be happy with him, were it not for their one momentous difference of opinion.

He took her chapped hand, gently pressing it between his sleek, kid-gloved fingers. She was distressingly aware of how reddened her skin was, no longer smooth and soft, the fingernails unbroken. “My dear Alicia,” he said, “it pains me so to see you reduced to living like a pauper. You come from one of the finest and oldest families in England.”

The tiny flame of hope in her flared a little brighter. Had he come here to say he’d been wrong? That he would put no stipulation on their marriage? “I have no other recourse,” she said. “You know