Authors: Rexanne Becnel
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Regency
Dangerous to Love (28 page)
She sighed. There was no use wishing for what would never be. She’d learned that lesson long ago, or so she’d thought. It seemed, unfortunately, that she needed to learn it all over again, to accept that fact and get on with her life, such as it was. And first on her list of things she must do was to get through this wretched party she’d planned.
She donned a high-waisted gown with long, close-fitting sleeves. It was teal-blue silk, with an overlay of matching chiffon, shot through with silver and gold threads. The colors of the shawl Ivan had given her. The result was stunning, for she literally shimmered with every step she made.
The bodice was cut square, low, and wide, so as to display a handsome amount of bosom. And what a bosom it was, she thought as she examined herself in her dressing-room mirror. There was no denying to herself that she was pregnant, for if the morning nausea did not confirm it, her enlarged breasts most certainly did. Her figure had become amazingly lush in the last month.
Would Ivan approve?
She turned away from the mirror frowning. It didn’t matter if he approved or not, she told herself as she stepped into the embroidered mules she’d had made. She pulled on her sheer mitts, then took a slow, steadying breath. Time to go downstairs and check everything. The guests would soon begin to arrive and she wanted to be ready, and completely composed, when they did.
The foyer gleamed with golden light. The finest beeswax candles burned in every wall sconce and in the countless silver candle braces that adorned the commodes and tables scattered about. She moved into the drawing room where two huge candelabras holding sixty candles each added to . the sweet honey smell. Crystal candle lamps and cut-glass votives contributed to the glow, and spread among the creamy candles were roses. Everywhere red roses.
Red roses for love, she thought bitterly. Valerie and James’s love, not hers.
She stared at the grandest arrangement of all, a special design Madame Leonardo had called for. Red roses, white baby’s breath, and heart-shaped ivy leaves formed an arch over the pier mirror that filled one huge bay in the paneled end wall.
In the silvered glass she looked rather striking. The roses framed her stark teal image. She actually looked like a countess, she thought as she stared at her unfamiliar reflection. Regal. Confident.
How ironic, she thought, when the truth was, she’d never felt less confident.
She lowered her gaze, unable to bear the sight of this new her, this Countess of Westcott. How could she ever have thought she could pull this off? How would she ever endure this evening? Her stomach clenched and she feared she would be ill.
“Red roses. For love?”
Lucy gasped at that low, mocking voice.
Ivan.
Her startled eyes lifted to see him in the mirror, standing just behind her, slightly to her right. In his hand he held one long-stemmed red rose. He wore exquisitely tailored evening attire. The stark black of his coat and the snowy linen of his shirt showed his dark complexion to advantage. In his ear the diamond stud glittered, and Lucy thought she’d never seen so effective an adornment on a man. Rather than lessen his masculinity, it seemed somehow to emphasize his raw, untamed virility.
He was here, her glad heart cried out. He was here.
Then her joy turned abruptly to outrage. He was here, damn his hard Gypsy heart. And to add insult to injury he did not look pleased to be here.
Their gazes met and held in the watery depths of the silvered glass, his eyes dark and shuttered, hers shooting angry sparks. He advanced and she watched as he extended the rose to the bare spot where her shoulder curved into her neck.
“Tell me about these roses,” he commanded, as he slid the half-furled velvet petals slowly along her skin.
She vowed to remain unmoved. If he wasn’t going to apologize for his lengthy absence, she certainly wasn’t going to act the pathetic little wife by begging for an explanation. She gritted her teeth. “They’re for Valerie and Sir James.”
A thin smile curved his lips. “You celebrate
their
love? What of
your
fascination with the good scholar?”
their
love? What of
your
fascination with the good scholar?”
“He no longer fascinates me. He hasn’t in an age.” She stared at him. Surely he was not still jealous about Sir James. First that little scene with Elliot Pierce. Now Sir James Mawbey?
Ivan did not reply. Instead he stroked the rose along her collarbone, then down, slowly tracing the edge of her revealing neckline.
Lucy’s skin prickled all over with an aching awareness of him. He was touching her and yet he was not. He wanted her but he didn’t want her. He was so perverse!
But she was just as perverse, for as much as she wanted to rage at him—she also wanted to beg his forgiveness. To slap the rose away, and clasp him to her.
Unable to do any of those, she simply stood there, watching him use the rose on her like a wonderful, wicked weapon.
“You play the role of countess very well,” he murmured, reading her mind a second time. “These,” he added, stroking the rose across the upper swells of her breasts, “will gain you many admirers tonight. Male admirers. The females will all despise you.”
She batted the rose away. “I’m not seeking any admirers, most especially not any male admirers.”
He moved closer to her, and where the rose had moved over her skin, one neatly manicured square nail now stroked. “Nevertheless, you shall have them. They shall all desire you.”
“As you desire me?” she scoffed. But her heart had begun to race.
“I’ve never made any secret of my desire for you.”
That simple statement managed somehow to sap her resistance. When his other arm circled her, Lucy leaned back against his solid chest. Their eyes held in the mirror. Then his gaze moved lower, to the reflection of her breasts. Hers did too, and she watched as his thumbs edged beneath the lush teal fabric to stroke over her taut nipples.
A small cry of aching pleasure tore from her lips. He stroked again, using the hard edge of his thumbnails to excite her. Her head fell back against his shoulder, but still she watched the erotic image they made.
Then his hands moved down to her stomach and he pressed her hard against his rigid arousal.
Lucy could scarcely breathe. In the mirror their desire was visible to anyone who cared to look: she with heightened color, parted lips, and ruby-red nipples, and Ivan, a sultry Gypsy, able to seduce the most upright of women with his easy touch and potent allure.
She wanted him. She should not, considering all the pain and anger he’d put her through during the past weeks. But want him she did.
He smiled as if he read her thoughts. “I’ll have you on a bed of roses, Lucy. Sweet and white, splayed open on a bed of red velvet petals.” He lowered his lips to the tender skin of her neck and though the caress was as light as the stroking of the rose had been, it seared like the lick of fire. It lit her from the inside out; it filled her with unbearable heat. Unbearable need.
“Ivan.” His name escaped on a sigh.
Again he thumbed her nipple and she arched into his touch, wanting more. He moved his other hand over her stomach in a hot circle, pressing against her belly, and she ground her derriere against his arousal.
“I’ve thought of nothing but this.” The words were a rough whisper, a hoarse admission in her ear, and they roused her further still. Yet they also managed to bring her back to reality. She pushed his hand away from her breast. “If that is true, then why did you stay away?”
She tried to twist out of his grasp but he wouldn’t let her. Their eyes held in the mirror.
“Business,” he answered after a short hesitation.
“Surely you received my posts.”
“I received them. But you’ve been in town a week.”
“So I have. Perhaps I should have come to you then. But …” She felt his shrug. “I did not. For that I apologize. Now, where were we?”
He raised up her skirts, baring her legs to their view, and despite Lucy’s anger at his unsatisfactory reply, she could not help staring at the erotic picture they made. Her legs were pale against the black of his trousers, naked and vulnerable against the strength of his still garbed form. She shivered with desire at the sight, then immediately cursed her weakness for him.
“You have no right—”
“We are wed. I have every right.”
. One of his hands slid down and his rough palm caressed the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. At the same time he thrust his hips against her, letting her feel the power of his desire for her.
Lucy groaned low in her throat. She was succumbing. She knew it and feared that he knew it too.
Then a voice sounded in the foyer beyond them. A tray rattled, silver on silver, and reality slapped her rudely in the face.
In the mirror before her a rosy wanton leaned into a dark man. In her drawing room, with servants outside and guests arriving momentarily, the mistress of the house was making love with the master.
The mistress of the house wanted to continue making love to the master.
But while much would be forgiven an earl and a countess, fornication in front of the servants was not one of them.
The war between physical need and rational behavior must have shown on her face, for Ivan began to chuckle. “I believe the first of your guests have arrived.”
She jerked away from him in a flash. Her skirts fell in luxurious folds to cover her legs. She tugged her bodice back into place and tried to smooth her coiffure where it had become frayed. But there was no disguising the bloom in her cheeks nor the glitter of full-fledged arousal in her eyes.
Behind her Ivan let out a heavy sigh. “I suppose we will have to wait until afterward,” he said, letting his eyes run over her.
Lucy swallowed hard. The wretch! He had no right returning like this. His explanation for his absence was inadequate. His apology was lacking in sincerity.
But his skills at seduction were as good as ever. Better. She didn’t know who to be angrier at. Him for trying to seduce her, or herself for succumbing so easily. For there was no denying that a part of her could hardly wait until after the party and the heavenly delights he promised with his dark, glittering eyes.
Before she could think of a cutting response, however, she heard Valerie call for her. Then the tall doors to the foyer swung on their heavy hinges and the young woman burst into the room.
“Lucy! Oh, there you are—Ivan! When did you arrive?”
“Just a few minutes ago,” he answered. He took Lucy’s arm and they turned as one to face his smiling cousin.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” Valerie exclaimed. She turned back to the foyer. “James. James! Ivan is here after all.”
Ivan whispered to Lucy. “I am most certainly here, and I want you to keep me in your thoughts all evening.” He handed her the rose he’d teased her with before. “Think about what we’ve done here. Think about what we’ll do later.”
He drew her toward the foyer then, and Lucy followed, her hand on his arm, the perfect image of a countess entertaining with her husband the earl. But inside her emotions careened out of control.
She wanted to slap him in front of everyone for the pain he’d put her through. But more, she wanted to drag him up the stairs to their private bedchamber and explore the sensual promise in his voice, the erotic threat that had turned her legs to rubber and her will to mush.
Think about what we will do later.
At that moment she could not have said if she loved him or hated him.
She clutched the rose as if it were a lifeline. She had to put his deliberately provocative words out of her head, else she knew she’d never get through the evening. Besides, she wanted to hang on to her anger. She wanted to skewer him with it. But she could not.
What we will do later.
Yes, the truth was, they would very likely do any number of wicked, wonderful things during the night to come, for she seemed unable to resist him for long.
But if he thought he could simply waltz in here at the eleventh hour and have everything as he wanted it to be, he severely underestimated her. Two could play at this game.
Two could play very well indeed.
T
hey smiled. They drank. They toasted Valerie and James, and received toasts on their recent nuptials in return. They entertained everyone who was anyone, and if the number of guests still at Westcott House at three in the morning was any indication, the fete was an unqualified success.
hey smiled. They drank. They toasted Valerie and James, and received toasts on their recent nuptials in return. They entertained everyone who was anyone, and if the number of guests still at Westcott House at three in the morning was any indication, the fete was an unqualified success.
Lucy danced with a dizzying number of men. Sir James was not among that number, however. On the few occasions she was anywhere near him, Ivan materialized like magic to monopolize her attentions.
For all those attentions, though, Ivan did not dance with her either. He danced with Valerie. He danced with every unmarried young woman there, and many of their mamas as well. But he did not dance with his own wife.
If she hadn’t felt the touch of his eyes on her whenever she danced with another, Lucy might have been slighted by his perceived inattention. But she knew why he did not dance with her. For the same reason she feared dancing with him. Her physical response to him was too strong. It would be too apparent to anyone looking their way. If he took her in his arms and pulled her body close to his—
She missed a step with her current partner, Alexander Blackburn.
“A penny for your thoughts,” he said, adjusting their step so smoothly her mistake caused no disruption to the group dance.
“My thoughts?” She looked away from his insightful gaze. “I’m sorry if I appear distracted. I was only … only contemplating which of these lovely young ladies is most deserving of your charming company next.”
He laughed, and she knew he was not in the least fooled by her bright chatter. “My dear Lucy—or should I say, my dear Lady Westcott. I assure you that I am your friend, as are Giles and Elliot.”
“My friends? If that’s true, kindly explain to me why I have been nearly two months without my husband. Explain why he now plays the anxious and attentive spouse. Explain why he blows hot and then cold, why he leaves me befuddled and—”
She broke off, appalled at her unexpected outburst. She’d had too much to drink. That must be it. She looked up at Mr. Blackburn. “I should not have said any of that.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“I’m your hostess. You are my guest—and Ivan’s friend.”
“Nonetheless, I am not ignorant of his shortcomings.”
They separated to circle the adjacent couple of dancers. When they came back together Lucy was better composed. “Then can you explain his behavior to me?”
Alex shrugged. “It makes no sense to me. Except …” He studied her. “Except that you scare the hell out of him.”
“I scare
him
?” Lucy shook her head. “That’s ridiculous.”
him
?” Lucy shook her head. “That’s ridiculous.”
“So it would seem if you confine yourself merely to logic. But tell me, are your feelings for him based on logic?”
Lucy stared at him, and when once again he grinned, she knew he’d heard her silent answer. No, her feelings for him were not based on logic. But before she could question him further about Ivan’s feelings for her, she was whirled around, straight into Ivan’s arms.
Alex gave her a mocking grin, and Ivan a nod. Then he backed away and she was dancing with Ivan at last. A few of their guests laughed. Someone joked about the jealous new husband. But Lucy ignored them all. She stared up into Ivan’s midnight-blue eyes and his impassive features, and she had the profoundest urge to wipe that controlled expression off his face.
Jealous? A jealous man did not abandon his wife for almost two months. Scared? Of what? He’d lived through a hellish childhood and survived. Now he had more than most men dared dream of: good looks, fabulous wealth, a title. And any woman he wanted.
And yet none of that counted for anything if you were lonely, Lucy reminded herself. If you were not loved.
The dance drew them apart and in the few moments she had out of his embrace, Lucy’s resolve deepened. She would not let anger divert her from her goal. Nor passion. Indeed, now that she thought about it, it seemed that Ivan deliberately provoked those emotions in her as a way to protect himself from deeper emotions.
Like love.
But not any more.
Lucy vowed to break through the barriers he kept between them. This time she would provoke him, and she would use every weapon at her command, to force him to reveal his feelings to her. One way or another, she would make him admit his intentions, and there was no time like the present.
They came together again and she deliberately pressed closer to him than necessary. Her breasts, even more sensitive than usual, pushed against his chest, and with just the slightest shifting of her weight she rubbed them from side to side.
His fingers tightened on her hand. “Are you trying to seduce me here, in the ballroom?”
“You did as much to me earlier,” she answered, though breathlessly. She had not expected to excite herself so well.
“Perhaps I should encourage our guests to leave.”
“Our
guests?” She stared straight into his eyes.
guests?” She stared straight into his eyes.
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Your guest list. My house.
Our
guests.”
Our
guests.”
“Is that all you expect to bring to our marriage? This house? The Westcott title and all the accouterments that come with it?”
“Is there something else you want?” he asked with a maddening insolence.
“To bring you to your knees,” she snapped, without pausing to think. “To strip away this arrogant façade you’ve perfected.”
She pulled out of his arms just as the music ended. For a moment they faced one another, she hot with quick fury, he ice cold with it. Instead of provoking him to passion, . she’d provoked him to rage.
Then she remembered the rose.
She’d carried it all night, the stem tucked in her bodice, the half-furled bud resting between her breasts. She drew it out now and tucked it between two of the studs of his formal shirt.
“I’ve kept it warm for you, Ivan. Now you keep it warm for me.” Then she turned away, and on shaky legs made a beeline for Valerie and Sir James.
She kept strictly away from Ivan after that. As soon as the breakfast buffet was ready she began steering the guests toward it. They ate and they drank more still. They lingered for another hour and more, and all the while she played her role as the gracious hostess, until finally, she sent them off with smiles and warm wishes and a promise to call on them soon.
But during all that hubbub, she also kept an eye on Ivan and the rose he left in place on his chest. She knew he watched her as well. She could feel that brooding gaze of his on her, that threatening, enticing look he did so well.
But she played her part too. She promised him many things with the gazes she returned to him. She played the courtesan as best she could, staring at him too long. Letting her eyes run over his strong, lean body. Licking her lips as if she hungered for him. Which she did.
When the last knot of guests took their leave, however, occupying Ivan, Valerie, and Sir James, Lucy beat a hasty retreat. Her teasing gazes had brought about one unfortunate side effect: she was far too excited to be rational. She needed a few minutes to compose herself. If she were to break down the barriers between Ivan and her, it would take more than physical desire. They already had that in abundance.
But she wanted more from him, and she would need all her wits to get it.
Ivan was well aware of Lucy’s quiet departure up the stairs, and he wanted desperately to toss his lingering guests out the front door. Instead, he suffered their lengthy good-byes with barely repressed impatience.
Giles stood in conversation with the recently widowed Lady Rowe. As his friend handed her up into her carriage Ivan would have wagered a hundred pounds they planned to meet again, probably within the hour.
Alex had set his sights on younger game this night. He’d been in rare form, charming every unmarried young lady in sight. Now Sir Henry Smythe had an arm around Alex’s shoulder. Smythe was newly come to his title, but he had pots of money—and a mousy little daughter that Alex had danced with several times. If she’d decided she wanted Alex, her father would no doubt try to buy him for her. Whether or not Alex would sell himself to such a dull creature was another matter altogether.
At the moment, however, Ivan didn’t give a damn. He clapped Alex on the back. “Glad you could come. You too, Smythe.” He gave Alex a not-so-subtle nudge toward the door.
Alex grinned, then looked around him in mock surprise. “Dear me. Are we the last to leave? And where is your lovely wife, Thornton?”
Smythe, who’d drunk far more than he could hold, guffawed, then belched. “She’s … She’s pro‘bly naked in bed awaitin’ his pleasure. You know, milord, that wife of yours has got an abs‘lutely magnif’cent pair of—Ow!”
“Oh, dear. Excuse me, Sir Henry,” Alex said, shoving the man toward the door. “I believe your lovely daughter is calling for you.”
Ivan slammed the door so hard the sidelights rattled. It was either that or smash the man’s nose in. The old goat! He had no business looking at Lucy’s breasts—even if they were magnificent. Ivan had hardly been able to keep his eyes off them himself. Was it his imagination or was she even more voluptuous than she’d been before?
No, it was only that he was randy as hell. He had been for weeks. Their earlier escapade in the ballroom had taken a slight edge off it. But it had also whetted his appetite for more.
He locked the door and, with a slight nod to Simms, turned for the stairs. He stopped when he found Valerie and Sir James standing there arm in arm, staring at him. He was not amused.
“I sincerely hope you don’t mean to deny me access to my own wife, and in my own home.”
“You haven’t treated her as if she is your wife,” Sir James stated.
Ivan strode across the foyer. “Step aside,” he ordered, glaring at Mawbey. When the man swallowed hard but did not budge, Ivan stifled a curse. He didn’t want to fight the man, but if that’s what it took …
Valerie placed herself between them. “Ivan. Please. We don’t want to interfere—”
“Then don’t.”
“You don’t realize how unhappy she has been!”
Ivan gritted his teeth. “Actually, I believe I do. I plan to make it up to her tonight.”
She took one of his hands in hers. “You were gone nearly two months. That’s not something that can be made up for in only one night.”
Nearly two months. It had felt like two years to him. How much longer had it seemed to Lucy? Ivan took a slow breath then released it. He stared down at Valerie’s earnest face. “When did you become so wise?”
She smiled, the guileless smile of a child, the knowing smile of a woman. “Falling in love opens your eyes.”
“Falling in love,” Ivan repeated.
“I caution you not to confuse love with lust,” Sir James put in. “While the two may happily coexist, they are not at all the same thing.”
The muscle in Ivan’s jaw began to tic. “I assure you, that’s not a matter I’ve ever been confused about. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Valerie looked hopeful; Mawbey less so. They let him pass without incident, though, and that was all that mattered to Ivan. He made his way up the stairs, no less eager than before. But where he’d been sure of his goals, now he felt a niggling unease. A confusion.
He and Lucy were married, and despite their differences, his rights as her husband were clear. In return she had the right to entertain as she had tonight, to play the role of countess, and to spend the very generous allowance he meant to settle on her. Happiness, whether his or hers, did not enter into it.
She’d had her fun this evening. Now he meant to have his.
She was waiting in the master bedroom. But she was not in the bed. She sat curled up in a heavy upholstered chair in the corner, still wearing her shimmering blue gown. Her shoes and stockings lay abandoned on the rug beside the chair. Although she’d removed a handful of hairpins, her glorious hair was still confined in a coil that lay heavy across her shoulder.
When she met his gaze she was not smiling.
Ivan shrugged out of his coat. “Do you need help with your gown?”
She shook her head. He removed his cummerbund.
“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable in the master bedroom. Where are my things?” he added when he noticed his toiletries were missing from beside the wash bowl.
“In the attic.”
Ivan paused in the act of removing his pleated shirtfront. “The attic. An act of retaliation, I take it?”
“So you admit I have cause for retaliation?”
He resumed his methodical disrobing. “It doesn’t really matter. What’s past is past.”
“Is it?”
Ivan stared at her. He’d caught her off guard earlier today and she’d reacted to him instinctively. She’d been angry, but he’d made short shrift of that anger. Now, though, she’d had time to think—and time to restoke her anger. There was no disguising the fact that once more she was furious with him.
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