Dangerous to Love (23 page)

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Authors: Rexanne Becnel

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

BOOK: Dangerous to Love
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The mounted figure in the shadows across the street was not so reassured. Enraged by what he’d seen. Crushed. But reassured? Never.
Ivan stared after the departing carriage, hardly able to breathe. Like a vicious sucker punch to his gut, she’d caught him unawares. Damn the conniving little bitch!
Then his bleak gaze swung back to the house and his pain hardened into a rage so violent the horse began to dance in a nervous circle. He kicked it forward, and before the door had even closed behind Elliot, he was off the horse and bounding up the steps. He burst in to find Elliot sitting on the stairs, his elbows propped on his knees and a letter dangling between his thumb and forefinger.
“Looking for me?”
Ivan checked his urge to plant his fist in Elliot’s grinning face. After twenty years he should know that Elliot never did anything without a purpose. Those purposes were most often perverse, for the man feared nothing and would try anything. But in his own twisted way he’d always remained loyal to his friends. They’d never fought over a woman before, Ivan reminded himself. But then, neither of them had ever known a woman like Lucy,
He advanced on the seated Elliot until he towered over him. “What the hell is going on here?”
Elliot gave him a taunting grin. He offered Ivan the letter in his hand. “I believe this may explain things. It’s for you. From the delightful Miss Drysdale,” he added knowingly.
Ivan glared at him, then snatched the letter out of his hands. He turned away, broke the rough seal, then stood beneath one of the wall lamps to read.
 
… We should not wed … a terrible mistake …
Three pages of weak excuses that avoided the truth. His rage increased with every one.
… I will make a terrible countess. You deserve someone who would do the title. honor, and give credit to the role of your wife. You should marry someone you can care for.
 
Ivan crushed the parchment in his fist. Someone he could care for? What drivel. She was speaking of herself, not him. She wished to marry someone she cared for. Someone she could love. And he was not that person.
The fact that this foolish particularity of hers was probably the source of her spinster status gave him no satisfaction. The fact that he probably joined a long line of dismissed suitors gave him no comfort.
The indisputable fact was, she would rather be a pariah in society than the wife of the Earl of Westcott, wealthy, respected, and fussed over. She would rather be ruined than be forced to marry him.
“So. Is the wedding off?” Elliot drawled. “Has she turned you down or prevailed upon you to withdraw your offer? Faced with such a desperately reluctant bride, I wonder what a true gentleman is supposed to do?” He paused a moment. “If you were to withdraw your offer, she would appear the wronged party, while you, of course, would appear the scoundrel. Public sentiment would rest with her and perhaps help assuage the damage to her reputation. Then again, she would still be publically humiliated. You, of course, would be no worse off than you already are: the bastard earl who doesn’t give a damn about anyone or anything. That is the reputation you court, isn’t it?”
Ivan lifted his head slowly and gave him an icy stare. Initially jealousy had gotten the best of him, but he had it under control now. “What’s your interest in this, Pierce?”
Elliot shrugged, then leaned back on the stairs, propping himself up on his elbows. “I’m bored. Business is good—no challenge there. Playing entourage for you and shocking all the well-bred young ladies of the ton has lost its value for entertainment. But this new twist, you lusting after a bluestocking spinster and she turning you down.” Again he shrugged. “This is by far the best entertainment I’ve found since we’ve been back in town.”
“Are you giving odds yet on who will win, me or Lucy?”
Elliot grinned. “Giles is naive enough to believe the chit cannot be forced into doing anything she does not want. Alex says a title and money will always win. Naturally. His advice is that you make a nice marriage settlement upon her, enough to make her reconsider her position. Money will bring her around, so long as you let the independent Miss Drysdale know that she can support whatever little causes she likes.” His grin grew crafty. “Perhaps she’ll wish to come to the aid of misunderstood scholars.”
Ivan’s fingers tightened around Lucy’s letter. He’d be damned if his wife chased after idiot scholars like Sir James Mawbey. “How do you bet?”
Elliot pushed to his feet. “My money is on Miss Drysdale. I have great faith in her, for she is sensible in her behavior and passionate in her convictions.”
Ivan bristled to hear that word applied to Lucy by anyone but himself. He knew Elliot was baiting him, but it was hard not to bite.
“It’s those very passions of hers that ultimately will drive her to the altar,” Ivan stated.
“With you?”
“With me.”
“Would you like to lay a friendly wager on that?”
Ivan considered the man a moment. Elliot had an odd interest in Lucy, and while Ivan meant to marry the woman and thus lay his claim to her, it wouldn’t hurt to get Elliot away from her. “Immediately after I marry her on Thursday, you shall leave town—leave the country, in fact. For at least a year,” he added.
Elliot rubbed his chin. “And if you do not marry her on Thursday, you shall step aside and let someone else court her.”
Ivan’s fists knotted and his jaw clenched. “You?”
“Would you rather she remain a spinster forever?”
Lucy Drysdale would not remain a spinster for long, Ivan vowed minutes later as he rode through the midnight streets of London. The moon was a dim and distant company through the lamplit lanes and avenues that led him to Berkeley Square. A dog howled and was answered from afar. The shadow of a cat darted across the street. But otherwise he was alone with his thoughts.
He’d taken the bet with Elliot, and he meant to answer Lucy’s letter tonight, in person, and resolve once and for all the matter of her reluctance. No matter what her letter said, she could not possibly prefer ruination over becoming a countess.
Could she?
 
Lucy sat in the window brushing her hair. It was late and the lights in the various bedchambers had all been turned down by the time she’d sneaked up the servants’ stairwell and crept down the hall to her own room. She’d changed swiftly into her bed clothes, but her nerves were far too overwrought for her to sleep.
 
Would Elliot deliver her letter to Ivan? Would Ivan read it—
really
read it—and understand what a dreadful mistake it would be for them to wed?
She stared out at the street, mindlessly forcing the brush through her long hair. She looked, but did not really see a carriage go by. A hunting cat crept along the fence and leapt silently down into the shadows of a bush.
Then a rider turned into the square and her focus sharpened.
It was the deliberateness of his approach that struck her. As he made straightaway toward Westcott House her hand paused with the brush in midair. Her breathing ceased and her heart began to pound.
Was it Ivan? Could it be?
It was.
He pulled up at the front door, vaulted from the saddle, then stared straight up at her.
Lucy fell away from the window. The brush clattered forgotten to the floor as she scurried for her bed, then stared aghast at the window. He was coming up here. She knew it. He’d read her letter and he was furious that she would choose ruin over marriage to him.
She should have anticipated this, she realized. As a child he’d been rejected by his own family. As a man he refused to let anyone reject him and to his mind she had just rejected him. It wasn’t rejection, though. She would love to be his wife, if she thought he’d let her truly play that role.
But how was she to explain? I love you but you don’t love me, and I can’t marry you unless you do?
No. She couldn’t tell him that. But she would have to tell him something.
Lucy shifted her panicked eyes from the window to the door. He wouldn’t come up here, would he?
Of course he would.
She started for the door, intent on locking it against him. Then she sat down on the bed again.
Get a hold on yourself.
She’d wanted to talk this thing out with him. Now was her chance. Only not in here, with her in her nightgown.
She snatched her wrapper from the chair, and again started for the door. But a knock halted her. Not an angry pounding, nor a sharp, demanding one. Just three soft, restrained raps. There was danger in that softness, however, and warning in that restraint.
“I’m coming,” she said as she fought the twisted arm of her wrapper.
“No. I’m coming in.” In a moment Ivan was inside the room.
Lucy froze, one arm in the wrapper, the other caught halfway down the inverted sleeve. She stared at him in a state of total shock. He should not be in her bedroom. They should not be here together. He must leave or else she must. But when the door closed with a decisive thud—when he turned the key and locked them in together—she knew that neither of them was going anywhere.
You wanted to talk to him. So talk.
“Now see here, my lord—”
“Ivan.” He advanced on her without the least indication of embarrassment. “Let me help you with that.” He reached for the bunched fabric of the uncooperative wrapper.
“Thank you—No! I want it
on
!” she exclaimed, when he deftly peeled it off her. She grabbed for it, but he flung it in a corner.
“Now, Ivan,” she began in a warning tone. “You cannot come storming in here—”
“Too late, Lucy. I’ve already done it.” He stared at her with those burning blue eyes of his.
Lucy gulped and folded her arms nervously across her chest. “If you wish to speak to me we can go down to the library.”
“The library.” He smiled and let that hot gaze run over her. “What I have in mind is better suited to the bedroom than the library. Then again, I’m nothing if not flexible.”
“Stop that! You’re being deliberately obtuse and … and you’re not in the least bit flexible,” she added. She was treading in deep water here. The only way not to drown was to provoke a fight with him.
But Ivan was not in a fighting mood, and she feared he had only one purpose in mind. She decided to be direct. “If you think you’re going to seduce me and thereby put an end to my opposition to our marriage, you are quite mistaken. Not unless your intentions lean toward … toward rape,” she finished, throwing the ugly word out between them.
For a moment his eyes narrowed. Then he smiled, a slow, confident smile that made her heart do a quick flip-flop that she was certain could not be healthy.
“I would never force you to do something you did not wish, Lucy. I think you know that. But I am not averse to reminding you how much you like it when I kiss you. And touch you,” he added in a voice that vibrated inside her very bones.
Lucy began to back up. “Don’t do this, Ivan. Please. We need … We need to talk, not to … to …”
“Not to make love?” He shook his head as he followed her, devouring her with his eyes, melting her with their fiery touch. “I need to make love to you right now. More than I need to breathe. And you need to make love to me. Don’t you?”
Lucy had come up against the bed. Now he stopped just inches from her.
You need to make love to me
. The words reverberated in the air between them.
You need to make love to me.
Oh, God, but she did!
She stared helplessly up at him, trapped as much by the power of her unwise feelings for him as by his superior physical strength.
“Kiss me,” he commanded her, even as his eyes traced the contours of her mouth.
Lucy struggled to control her breathing, to control the awful impulse to throw herself into his arms. He wanted her to. She wanted to. So why not just do it?
Because he did not love her. She was merely a challenge to overcome.
“Kiss me,” he repeated.
Without thinking, she curled her fingers in the fabric of his opened coat. She bowed her head against his chest, still resisting. “Go away. Please, go away,” she begged him, even as her hands tightened on his lapels.
“I can’t.” With his thumb and one finger beneath her chin, he tilted her face up to his. “I can’t.”
Then his face descended until they were so close their breath mingled. “Kiss me, Lucy.”
And this time she did. She rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to his, and felt an immeasurable joy in the doing of it. She was so tired of fighting him. Of fighting her need for him.
That it was unwise, she would not argue. That she would be sorry on the morrow, she did not dispute. But she needed this—this wonderful, terrifying rush of emotions that went through her every time they touched.

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