Authors: Rexanne Becnel

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Regency

Dangerous to Love (19 page)

BOOK: Dangerous to Love

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As if on cue, Ivan stepped nearer the hopeless couple. “If you would like the chance to meet Valerie’s estimable godmother, the Dowager Countess of Westcott, I urge you to join us at dinner, Mawbey.” He handed Sir James a card. “Wednesday evening. Should we expect you?”

The play of emotions that ran across Sir James’s face was almost comical. Surprise. Suspicion. Disbelief. Then finally, delight. “I am most flattered, Lord Westcott. I shall mark it on my calendar.” He turned the card over, studying it, then looked up at Valerie. “I especially look forward to seeing you there, Lady Valerie.” He gave her a shy smile.

It was going to be a fiasco, was all Lucy could think. Ivan was engineering a fiasco and everyone in attendance would come out the worse for it. Everyone except for him, of course.

They said their good-byes to Sir James. But when Lucy would have taken Valerie’s arm, she was usurped by Mr. Dameron and Mr. Blackburn. Mr. Pierce offered Lucy his arm, but she only glared at him.

Ivan, however, did not offer her a choice. He took her hand and tucked it under her arm. “My dear Miss Drysdale, if you will take advice from one who wishes you only the best, you should try harder to curb that temper of yours.”

“Really? The same might be said for you, though not of your temper. It’s your unreasonable need for vengeance that does you so little credit.” Then she dropped all pretense of .civility. “Exactly what is it you hope to accomplish at this dinner party you plan?” “What makes you think I hope to accomplish anything?” “Because I know you. You would not do this merely out of the goodness of your heart.” “You wound me, Miss Drysdale.” He laughed. “Then again, perhaps all I want to do is goad you, to prod that prickly temper of yours.”

They had reached the foyer of the lecture hall and through the open doors Lucy spied the Westcott carriage. Behind it was Ivan’s curricle. She pulled her hand from Ivan’s hold, trying hard to ignore the feel of his muscular arm beneath her palm. “If you and your friends prefer the larger carriage, Lady Valerie and I can take the curricle.”

“I wouldn’t think of sending you ladies home without a proper escort.”

“I’m her chaperone. I
am
the proper escort,” Lucy reminded him.

“Nevertheless, I insist on seeing you both safely home.”

“You mean you insist on making certain your grandmother knows how you have tricked her.”

“If anything, she will be pleased that I take so avid an interest in my very marriageable cousin.”

Lucy glared at him. “Aren’t you worried your grandmother and Valerie might trick you? That they might trap you in a compromising position—say, you sneaking Valerie out of the house for a secret rendezvous?”

“What a devious mind you have,” he scolded. “That’s why I brought my friends along. Come now, Miss Drysdale. Lucy,” he added more softly. “Let’s not debate this matter any further.”

Lucy searched his face. He was the most baffling man she’d ever met. “I thought you wanted to goad me. To prod my prickly temper, to quote you.”

Their eyes met and held, and in the brief silence the tenor of their conversation changed. He was the first to speak. “Your temper is volatile. You dance with sensuous grace. It makes a man curious to know what other passions lie hidden beneath that carefully restrained façade of yours. I happen to be a very curious man.”

There was no mistaking his meaning. While Lucy knew such boldness deserved a sharp setdown, she was not up to it. Shock had turned her mind to mush.

Fortunately, it did not deprive her completely of her senses. She turned awkwardly away from Ivan. Spying Valerie, she made directly for the girl, like a pigeon homing in on its roost.

How she endured the ride to Westcott House, with Ivan’s gaze constantly on her, as vivid as a caress, she did not know. Once home, however, she did not linger belowstairs. She sent Valerie to bed, then escaped at last to the solitude of her own bedchamber.

Solitude, however, was no bosom friend. Not this night. For without the distraction of her responsibility for Valerie, she could not hide from her thoughts.

Ivan was curious about her hidden passions? If he only knew!

For most of the night she dreamed of her passions being well met by his own.

And for the rest of the night she lay awake imagining the bitter aftermath should she ever be so unwise as to let that happen.

Twelve

L
ady Westcott handed the guest list to Lucy. “Look at this,” she snapped. “How am I to work with a list that includes nothing but bachelors? And such bachelors!”

Lucy took the list. It was written in a bold, slashing script. She’d never seen a secretary with such an aggressive writing style. That meant it must be Ivan’s.

An unwelcome knot began to coil in her stomach, a twisty, turny knot of heat. She hastily thrust the sheet of parchment back at Lady Westcott. Was everything the man did bold and forceful? Must even the paper and ink he touched churn her emotions until she became a blithering idiot?

“Well? Who is this Sir James Mawbey? Another of Ivan’s natural-born companions?”

Lucy focused on the letter she was writing to her brother and his family.
Trying
to write. “Sir James is the scholar whose lectures I have been attending.”

There was a short silence, but Lucy could fairly hear the wheels turning in the older woman’s brain. “The one Valerie has formed an unwise attachment to?”

Lucy put down her pen and looked over at the dowager countess. “The very same.”

To her surprise, however, Lady Westcott did not seem terribly upset by that bit of news, only a little thoughtful—and perhaps marginally amused.

“Could it be that Ivan is playing the matchmaker? Knowing, of course, that I must disapprove of a poor scholar for Valerie?”

“Something like that,” Lucy muttered. He also didn’t mind rubbing Lucy’s nose in the fact that Sir James was not interested in her. Lady Westcott did not need to know that, however.

Unfortunately the old woman seemed to have a sixth sense for affairs of the heart, for she studied Lucy shrewdly. “I still believe you have a
tendre
for this man, this penniless lecturer. You know,” she continued, forestalling Lucy’s denial with a raised hand. “You know, you haven’t the wherewithal to marry a man with no income to speak of.”

“I am well aware of the limitations of my situation,” Lucy retorted. “However, you are quite mistaken in your assessment of my interest in Sir James.”
Once I might have had such a silly idea, but no more.

Other than one arched eyebrow, Lady Westcott did not comment on Lucy’s sharp words. Instead she shook Ivan’s note in front of her. “Well, what are we to do about this ill-advised guest list?”

Without comment Lucy reached for the paper again, and despite the butterflies in her stomach, reread Ivan’s list. Four bachelors, a couple of younger married couples, and Laurence Caldridge, Lord Dunleith. “Are there any other young ladies and their parents we might include?”

“Not any from the higher levels of society. They would be scandalized to think I meant to pair their darling daughters with the penniless bastards of the ton. Even a royal one.”

“They’re not all penniless,” Lucy said, unaccountably angered by the dowager countess’s haughty attitude. “In fact, Mr. Dameron and Mr. Pierce are wealthy in their own right. It’s only Mr. Blackburn who is without a reliable income, and he, presumably, the son of the king.”

“Wealth is nothing without family connections, and you well know it.”

“Unless, of course, you have a title and are drowning in debt.”

“Drowning in debt.” Lady Westcott considered a moment. Then her blue eyes narrowed. “Perhaps we should invite that Riddingham girl and her parents. He has gambled away everything but the family seat in Essex. Viscountess Latner is likewise without two pence to rub together, and three daughters to wed. Well done, Miss Drysdale. We may yet make a success of this dinner party.”

That was highly debatable, but Lucy wisely kept such thoughts to herself. Still, there was the matter of Sir James. “I don’t think we can leave Sir James off the list. Ivan has already issued him a personal invitation.”

Lady Westcott shrugged. “He cannot do much harm at one dinner party, especially if you attach yourself to his side. We shall be very careful in our seating arrangement. Now, if you would be good enough to call for my secretary?”

The night of the dinner party Lucy dressed with special care.

She had not gone to Sir James’s third lecture. She and Valerie had accompanied Lady Westcott to the theater that night. Lucy had not been sorry to miss the lecture, though. Nor did she particularly look forward to the long evening she must spend at Sir James’s side tonight. But at least she had some basis for conversation with him. A few questions about the lecture she’d missed, and he would be off on his favorite topic. She would have only to nod now and again in order to get through the long, tense hours to come.

So why had she spent the better part of the afternoon washing and drying her hair, brushing it while sitting in a sunny spot in the garden?

She’d always been a little vain of her hair and how it gleamed like the polished mahogany of her mother’s pianoforte. But what was the point tonight? Her hair was twisted up in a simple fashion, as befitted her role as a chaperone. Except for several soft, curling wisps along her neck, the style was strictly severe.

But even were her hair loose and streaming about her shoulders, it would not matter. There was no one attending tonight’s dinner whom she wished to impress. Sir James would never notice—not that she cared any more whether he did or not.

Of course, Ivan could always be counted on to make some leading remark. But she was too wise to credit anything he said.

Still, for all her mental self-flagellation, once dressed she gave herself a critical examination. Her shoes gleamed with a fresh polish. Her teal-green dress of India muslin had been brushed, then ironed with rose-scented water. She wore her favorite gold and aquamarine ear bobs, and a very feminine pair of lace mitts with cutaway fingers. Her outfit wanted only the addition of that magnificent silk shawl to complete it—

She groaned out loud. Where had that idiotic thought come from? The last thing she ever meant to do was wear that shawl. It was lovely, of course, but it had been given to her under decidedly improper conditions. She had to get it back to him, and soon.

Still, the shawl was not her most pressing problem. Her appearance was, for even her face, though devoid of any powder or other contrivance, nonetheless held a heightened color, as if she’d rouged her cheeks with carmine and tinted her lips as well.

Lucy sighed. She looked like a blushing girl—not a particularly desirable effect in a woman of her age and station in life. With a last frown at her image she left the room and headed for the stairs.

Half the way down them she stopped.

Ivan was already in the foyer. Lady Westcott had decreed they must have a receiving line, and though Lucy had doubted that Ivan would participate, it appeared she’d been wrong.

With her heart lodged high in her throat, she forced herself to resume her descent, step by slow step, and all under the disturbingly dark gaze of Ivan Thornton, Lord Westcott.

He approached the stairs, forcing her to halt one step up, and bringing them eye to eye. It had a most disconcerting effect on her, for instead of making her feel more his equal, it somehow made her feel small and fragile. Vulnerable.

But only to him.

“You’re looking lovely tonight, Lucy.”

As if a hot wind had blown suddenly over her, Lucy began to perspire. “Thank you. You look quite … quite handsome yourself.”
Quite disturbingly, heartbreakingly, unbelievably handsome.

The moment stretched out. He didn’t move. She seemed unable to sidestep him.

Not until Lady Westcott’s cane made sharp contact with the marble threshold between the parlor and the foyer did either of them look away.

“Harrumph.” The old woman gave an inelegant snort. Her sharp bird’s gaze flitted from Lucy to Ivan, then back. “Where’s Valerie? Why are you down here without her?”

Grateful for a reason to leave, Lucy picked up her skirts and made a hasty return to the upper story.

Downstairs Ivan watched her disappear into the brightly lit upper hall before turning to face his grandmother. She was watching him closely.

“If you would seduce the hired help, I recommend you confine yourself to those of lower birth.”

Ivan didn’t smile. “Be content that I am here, madam. Do not presume to tell me what to do or how to behave.”

The old woman’s mouth pursed in outrage. “Miss Drysdale i’s under my care, and if you had an ounce of honor in you, you would respect that. I will send her home before I’ll allow you to ruin her.”

“You throw Valerie at me, and yet would protect Miss Drysdale from my dishonorable intentions. It would seem that you are rather disorganized in your thinking. Regardless, I intend to make my own decisions without regard to your wishes. Or your threats.”

But that was not entirely true, he admitted as Lucy and Valerie made their appearance together. He had resolved neither to pursue or abandon any woman because of his grandmother’s wishes or interferences. That didn’t alter the fact, however, that her efforts to control him invariably left him in a vile mood. Though he meant to diminish her negative effect on him, it would not always be easy. Like now.

He turned to the two young women. Valerie was a vision in a white gown trimmed with pale blue rosettes and streaming ribbons. With her blond hair in a soft style of upswept curls, here and there cascading loosely down, she was the picture of ethereal beauty. An angel come down to earth to charm a hapless male populace.

By contrast Lucy was darkly garbed with her rich hair restrained—much as her emotions were restrained.

But those emotions were as primed for release as was her glorious hair, and Ivan felt the profoundest need to be the one to release both her hair and her emotions. To let those dark locks down and tangle his fingers in the silky thickness. To kiss her until her defenses crumbled and her natural passions flared out of control. And his with them.

He stifled an oath as his own passions began to rouse. Damned if the woman wasn’t turning him into a randy young lad, newly introduced to the tortures of the heart.

No. Not of the heart. This emotion was rooted much lower in his anatomy.

Knowing that, unfortunately, didn’t lessen the power of it.

“Good evening, Lord Westcott,” Lady Valerie said, giving him a shy smile.

“Lady Valerie.” He bowed. “You’re looking more beautiful than ever. I fear you shall start a riot among the male guests tonight.”

She rewarded him with a grateful smile as dazzling as it was unaffecting. Ever since he’d come to her aid in the matter of Sir James, she’d cast him in the role of beneficent older brother—an odd role for him, but not entirely unpleasant. Besides, it confounded his grandmother, judging by her watchfulness.

He shifted his gaze to Lucy. “Your charge does you credit, Miss Drysdale. Might I add that you look particularly fetching in that shade of green. It lends a sparkle to your eyes.”

He let the rest of what he wanted to say trail off. That he’d like to peel that green fabric away. That he’d like to put a different sort of sparkle in her eyes—

The heavy door knocker put a merciful end to his inappropriate reverie. Lucy murmured a brief acknowledgment of his compliment. Then they formed their receiving line, him at the beginning, to greet the first of their guests.

It came as no real surprise to Ivan that the first to arrive was Sir James.

“Lord Westcott. Lady Westcott.” He made a creditable bow when he was introduced to the dowager countess. “I am honored to be a guest in your home.”

“You are quite welcome,” the old woman said. “I believe you have previously met my godchild, Lady Valerie Stanwich.”

Ivan was not in the least interested in Sir James’s besotted greeting to Valerie. But Lucy’s reaction to it—
that
concerned him. As he watched, her expression went from pleasant, to determinedly pleasant, to grimly pleasant.

Like a temperature rising, he felt the hot burn of resentment, something akin to the sick jealousy he’d felt when other boys’ parents had sent for them to come home from Burford Hall.

Damnation! How could she prefer this bumbling scholar over him!

For her part, Lucy watched and worried as Sir James greeted Valerie. He had eyes only for the blushing young girl, and she eyes only for him. What a disaster! This would only lead to heartbreak, she feared. How could Ivan use his blameless cousin so cruelly?

She shifted her gaze past the still conversing couple to Ivan. To her dismay, he was watching her with that dark shuttered gaze of his. He was not smiling.

Only when Sir James finally turned to her was she able to break the hold of Ivan’s eyes.

“Miss Drysdale. How nice to see you again.”

“It’s my pleasure, Sir James. I’m sorry I was not able to attend your last lecture. How is the series going?”

BOOK: Dangerous to Love

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