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Authors: Barbara Dawson Smith
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place him in close proximity to a seasoned gamester. If Gerald were to end up like Papa … “Promise you won’t go near Wilder’s Club ever again.”
“But everyone gathers there. ’Tis the very crack. No harm can come of joining my friends for dinner sometimes.”
She caught his sleeve. “Promise me, Gerald.”
“I know my duty to you and Mama,” he mumbled. “I won’t gamble again.”
“I pray not.” Yet she couldn’t feel at ease, not with the future looming like an executioner’s ax. “And you should know that Mr. Wilder won’t accept any down payments. He won’t take anything less than my hand in marriage.”
Gerald opened his mouth as if he would argue. Then he sank down onto the top step and looked up at her, his young features stricken. “It isn’t fair. This is my fault, not yours.”
It was Wilder’s fault. “What’s done is done,” she said, forcing a smile. “Everything will be for the best. You and Mama and I shall have a good home and ample food on the table. That is all that matters.”
Her brother didn’t look comforted. “You’re sacrificing yourself. I can’t let you do that.”
“You must.” Determined to convince him, she managed an airy laugh. “Please, Ger, don’t look so unhappy. Women often marry for monetary advantage. If truth be told, I’ll enjoy going to parties and having a fine wardrobe again.”
“But what about his…”—he cleared his throat—“marital rights?”
Before the Season is out, you’ll come begging to share my bed.
Steeling herself against a shudder, she took a deep breath. “He’s promised me a chaste marriage. So you see, it is to be strictly a business arrangement.”
A cautious hope dawned on his face. “You won’t mind, then? I wouldn’t permit it if I thought him a bad sort. But he is a gentleman, regardless of his low birth.”
He was a hard-hearted wretch. But Gerald needn’t know the depths of Wilder’s depravity.
Hoping God would forgive her the falsehood, Alicia said firmly, “Of course I won’t mind. I should be quite content to be rich again. And to know that all of our troubles are finally over.”
Chapter Five
Through a small iron grate in the wall, the muted strains of the violin and pianoforte drifted into the candlelit office. The music came from the salon downstairs, where gentlemen wagered their fortunes on a roll of the dice. The specially designed system of pipes carried the melody to every chamber in the building. It was Drake’s design, one of the innovations that set his club apart from all the others on St. James’s Street. Noblemen, he knew, could be lulled into taking greater risks in an atmosphere of refined serenity.
On an ordinary evening, Drake would be down there in the thick of the action, strolling from table to table, keeping a discreet eye on the play, offering praise to the winners and consolation to the losers.
But this was the night of his betrothal. The beginning of his revenge. If he’d guessed right, at any time he could receive a certain visitor. And it wasn’t the redhead in his arms.
Ensconced in the leather chair by the hearth, Drake idly smoothed his hand over the clingy green gauze of her gown. Lydia had slipped up the back staircase, as was her habit whenever she had an evening free. The lead actress in a popular play at Covent Garden Theatre, Lydia could have any man she wished, yet she came here to him. Always before, he had taken great pleasure in her earthy sensuality.
But tonight her artifices annoyed him—the coy beauty mark she’d penciled on her generous bosom, the heavy musk of her perfume, her soft mews of pleasure as she strung kisses along his jaw. Letting her stay had been a mistake. Not even her lush figure could distract him from his restless reflections. He could think only of an aristocratic blond beauty too cold and proud for his tastes.
We will have a chaste marriage.… I can’t trust you not to force yourself on me.…
“I’m afraid
“But everyone gathers there. ’Tis the very crack. No harm can come of joining my friends for dinner sometimes.”
She caught his sleeve. “Promise me, Gerald.”
“I know my duty to you and Mama,” he mumbled. “I won’t gamble again.”
“I pray not.” Yet she couldn’t feel at ease, not with the future looming like an executioner’s ax. “And you should know that Mr. Wilder won’t accept any down payments. He won’t take anything less than my hand in marriage.”
Gerald opened his mouth as if he would argue. Then he sank down onto the top step and looked up at her, his young features stricken. “It isn’t fair. This is my fault, not yours.”
It was Wilder’s fault. “What’s done is done,” she said, forcing a smile. “Everything will be for the best. You and Mama and I shall have a good home and ample food on the table. That is all that matters.”
Her brother didn’t look comforted. “You’re sacrificing yourself. I can’t let you do that.”
“You must.” Determined to convince him, she managed an airy laugh. “Please, Ger, don’t look so unhappy. Women often marry for monetary advantage. If truth be told, I’ll enjoy going to parties and having a fine wardrobe again.”
“But what about his…”—he cleared his throat—“marital rights?”
Before the Season is out, you’ll come begging to share my bed.
Steeling herself against a shudder, she took a deep breath. “He’s promised me a chaste marriage. So you see, it is to be strictly a business arrangement.”
A cautious hope dawned on his face. “You won’t mind, then? I wouldn’t permit it if I thought him a bad sort. But he is a gentleman, regardless of his low birth.”
He was a hard-hearted wretch. But Gerald needn’t know the depths of Wilder’s depravity.
Hoping God would forgive her the falsehood, Alicia said firmly, “Of course I won’t mind. I should be quite content to be rich again. And to know that all of our troubles are finally over.”
Chapter Five
Through a small iron grate in the wall, the muted strains of the violin and pianoforte drifted into the candlelit office. The music came from the salon downstairs, where gentlemen wagered their fortunes on a roll of the dice. The specially designed system of pipes carried the melody to every chamber in the building. It was Drake’s design, one of the innovations that set his club apart from all the others on St. James’s Street. Noblemen, he knew, could be lulled into taking greater risks in an atmosphere of refined serenity.
On an ordinary evening, Drake would be down there in the thick of the action, strolling from table to table, keeping a discreet eye on the play, offering praise to the winners and consolation to the losers.
But this was the night of his betrothal. The beginning of his revenge. If he’d guessed right, at any time he could receive a certain visitor. And it wasn’t the redhead in his arms.
Ensconced in the leather chair by the hearth, Drake idly smoothed his hand over the clingy green gauze of her gown. Lydia had slipped up the back staircase, as was her habit whenever she had an evening free. The lead actress in a popular play at Covent Garden Theatre, Lydia could have any man she wished, yet she came here to him. Always before, he had taken great pleasure in her earthy sensuality.
But tonight her artifices annoyed him—the coy beauty mark she’d penciled on her generous bosom, the heavy musk of her perfume, her soft mews of pleasure as she strung kisses along his jaw. Letting her stay had been a mistake. Not even her lush figure could distract him from his restless reflections. He could think only of an aristocratic blond beauty too cold and proud for his tastes.
We will have a chaste marriage.… I can’t trust you not to force yourself on me.…
“I’m afraid
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