Dangerous to Love (30 page)
Authors: Rexanne Becnel
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Regency
“Does he know that you love him?”
Lucy had halted at the window. Outside it was drizzling. She looked over at Valerie, making no attempt to hide the stricken expression on her face. “Is it so obvious?”
Valerie smiled. “To me. To James. And probably to anyone else who cares to look.”
“But not to Ivan.”
“It sounds as if he’s not too familiar with love. He may very well not be able to recognize it. He might have to be told. Have you tried telling him?”
Lucy remembered last night. She remembered in the midst of their passion that he had called her love. She remembered telling him she loved him. She knew he’d heard her, but it obviously hadn’t mattered. “I told him last night.”
Valerie had no reply to that.
Lucy sighed. “I think I’ll lie down for a while. And … And if you would be so good as to alert Simms that I will want the carriage prepared for a trip to Somerset. As soon as I’m feeling up to travel,” she added, as a latent wave of nausea swept through her.
“You’re not going back to Dorset?”
Lucy could hardly speak for the lump that lodged in her throat. “The Westcott family seat is not my home. I’m going back to Houghton Manor. I want to be with my family. I want to be with my mother.”
Valerie studied her with sad eyes. “You want to be with the people who love you. I understand that. If you think about it, though, that’s all that most of us want.
Even Ivan
.”
Even Ivan
.”
She closed the door when she left. But for Lucy, Valerie’s words lingered in the air.
Even Ivan.
Even Ivan.
He was no different than everyone else. He wanted to be loved. But just as he did not know how to love, he did not know how to
be
loved either. He wouldn’t let her love him. And unlike many other traits, such as good manners and proper diction, love was not something a person could be taught to do. A child could, she knew. But not a man who’d been taught so well not to love.
be
loved either. He wouldn’t let her love him. And unlike many other traits, such as good manners and proper diction, love was not something a person could be taught to do. A child could, she knew. But not a man who’d been taught so well not to love.
A hot tear trickled onto her cheek, but she dashed it away. Instead of lamenting what could never be, she should take joy in all she had.
She curved one hand around her still flat stomach. “I will love you, Ivan. I will love your child and give him—or her—the sort of childhood you should have had, a happy, loving one.”
But though she could be a good mother, she nevertheless knew she could not fill the role of loving father. Only Ivan could do that for his child.
And maybe he would, she thought, still hoping for the best. Though Ivan did not love her, maybe, once his child was born and he saw the innocent babe, he would have a change of heart. Maybe this child of theirs was the only way Ivan
could
be taught to love.
could
be taught to love.
A small sense of renewal lifted Lucy’s heart, restoring at least a portion of her spirits. Ivan might not love her, nor want her love. He might reject her, now that he’d had the one thing he seemed most to want from her. But reject this innocent child of theirs? Not if she had anything to do with it.
I
van arrived home just after four in the morning. Lucy knew that because the tall case clock in the upstairs hall had tolled its somber message just minutes before.
van arrived home just after four in the morning. Lucy knew that because the tall case clock in the upstairs hall had tolled its somber message just minutes before.
Her sleep had been fitful at best. She’d alternately worried about him, then raged at him. Now, as his steps sounded slow and uneven on the stairs, that worry and rage were replaced by uncertainty. He was so unpredictable. She never knew the right thing to say to him.
If he were a child she would shower him with love—with stern discipline too, but always tempered with love—until he gave up his rebellion and loved her right back.
But he was not a child. He was a man with scars upon his heart, a man so deeply wounded that he refused to accept her love. And unlike a child, he had the power to hurt her back. As her husband—as the man she loved—he had the ability to break her heart.
She lay completely still, straining to hear him. The drapes rustled as the cool evening air surged against them. Some night bird called out in the garden. Then a muffled voice sounded in the hall. “ … assistance, my lord?”
“I know where my chambers are.”
“Yes, sir. But—”
“Go back to bed, Simms.”
That last was clearer, from just outside the door. Then the handle turned, a faint streak of candlelight cut across the room, and he was there. The door closed and the room once again went dark. But Lucy was attuned to Ivan’s presence as clearly as if he carried a bright lamp with him.
She also smelled whisky. Had he gone off somewhere drinking with his friends? Was he drunk?
She jumped at the sudden sound of a thud, followed by a crash and a string of oaths. “Son of a bitch! What the bloody hell?”
Her trunk. He’d run into her half-packed trunk, and tumbled over it, from the sound of things. Though it was difficult, she resisted the urge to get up and check on him. He deserved a little pain. Maybe it would knock some sense into him.
.Still, she couldn’t help pushing up onto her elbows and peering through the darkness. The trunk was a nearly invisible shadow. So was Ivan. Only when he cursed again then rolled over and pushed to a sitting position on the floor could she locate him.
He stared toward the bed. “Don’t pretend you’re asleep, Lucy. I know you’re not. What the hell was that, some sort of booby trap or alarm to warn you I was coming?”
His irritated tone chased away any sympathy she might have felt for him. “It’s my trunk,” she snapped. “I’m packing to go home.”
“Home?” He snorted. “Already you call that place home? How swiftly you have adapted to your new role as Countess of Westcott.”
Lucy gritted her teeth. “I
hate
being a countess. And the last place—the very
last
place—I’ll ever call home is your family seat in Dorset. Or this place either. I’m going home to my family. I’m going home to Somerset.”
hate
being a countess. And the last place—the very
last
place—I’ll ever call home is your family seat in Dorset. Or this place either. I’m going home to my family. I’m going home to Somerset.”
His shadow unfurled as he stood. When he approached the bed she drew the coverlet up to her chin. Still, those thin layers of silk and linen did nothing to slow the frantic pounding of her heart. He’d gone from irritated to angry; that was clear. And when he stopped, less than an arm’s length from her, she had to fight the urge to flee—as well as the urge to draw him into her arms and comfort him.
But he didn’t want her comfort, she reminded herself. Or her love. Those were the last things he wanted.
When he spoke, his tone was cold and mocking. “Home? To Somerset? Not bloody likely.”
“Are you saying I may not visit my own family?”
“I’m your family now.”
“You? Hah! We’ve been wed almost two months, and this marks only the third night we’ve spent beneath the same roof. At this rate I shall see you less than two weeks out of the year.”
“So you’ve missed me?” He reached out and fingered the trailing ends of her plaited hair.
“You flatter yourself,” she snapped, scooting to the other side of the bed. “What I miss is having a husband.”
“What am I to make of that? That any husband will do, just so long as you have one handy?”
“Had just any husband been adequate, I would have wed ten years ago. I was holding out for a
good
husband.” She glared at him. “Instead I ended up with you.”
good
husband.” She glared at him. “Instead I ended up with you.”
His jaw tensed. She’d nicked his pride with her angry words, and she was immediately sorry. She sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m tired, and confused. I didn’t really expect you back tonight.”
He stood there a long silent moment. Then he shoved his knotted fists into his pockets. “I suppose you had no reason to expect me. It’s not my intention to abandon you, Lucy, nor the child you carry. I intend to do my duty to you. If you truly wish to visit your family, I’ll accompany you there, though I cannot stay. I’ve ignored too many business matters of late and will have to return to London to attend them,” he added without further explanation. “But once I’m finished in London, I will carry you back to Dorset. This child will be born at Westcott Manor. Unlike its father,” he finished bitterly.
He wasn’t going to abandon her! Lucy’s heart leapt with joy. He meant to order her life around—or try to—and that was sure to cause trouble between them. But she could deal with that. The fact that he referred to their child as an “it,” however, was what commanded her immediate attention.
She placed one hand over her stomach. “I think of this baby as a she. Ivana. Or a he. Little Ivan,” she said with a smile. “She’s a she or a he. But never an it.”
Ivan drew himself up. Lucy could practically see him pull in his bitterness and any other emotions he might be feeling. He pulled them in, hiding them behind a mask of indifference that stabbed at her heart.
“He. She.” He shrugged. “Whatever you wish.”
“What I wish has no bearing on whether our baby will be male or female.” When he stiffened at her use of the word “our,” she felt a spurt of protective anger for her child.
Their
child. She resolved to confront him head-on.
Their
child. She resolved to confront him head-on.
“I know you did not want a child, Ivan. But you seem to enjoy your husbandly rights. Well, those rights carry with them some husbandly responsibilities, one of which is to care for your children.”
He frowned. “I told you I would not abandon you. What more do you want of me?”
Lucy’s hands knotted in the sheets. “I want you to be a better father than your father was—and a better husband too.”
“Don’t compare me to him!”
“Then don’t behave like him.”
He glared at her, but she refused to back down. Then he swore and shook his head. “I must have been mad when I married you.”
He turned on his heel to leave, but before he could stalk from the room, Lucy leapt from the bed and caught his sleeve.
“Your father and his mother thought they’d done right by you when they stuck you at Burford Hall. They didn’t see what they did as neglect, but rather as a rare privilege for a Gypsy bastard such as you. But you didn’t think so.”
He threw her hand off. “I have no intention of emulating their behavior. I don’t want this child. I admit that. I never wanted children. But I won’t shirk my responsibility to it.”
Lucy stood before him in her white embroidered nightgown and bare feet. She knew he didn’t want to think of the tiny life inside her as the beginnings of a living, breathing child that would be half his. He didn’t want this baby and yet she could not give up. “Part of your responsibility is to love your child. Your children,” she added in a soft voice. “I know this is hard for you, Ivan. I know I have ruined all the plans you have nurtured so long for revenge against your grandmother. But the fact remains that in a few months you are going to be a father. And if we continue to share a bed, we will probably continue to have more children.”
She paused, wondering what he would say to that. A muscle began to tic in his jaw, but other than that he did not respond. That rigidity fired her temper as nothing else could. “I hope I am not wrong in thinking you man enough to rise to your responsibilities,” she finished in a sharper tone.
Ivan looked as if he wanted to strangle her. His hands tightened to fists and his arms trembled with the force of his tension. But he didn’t strangle her. He didn’t touch her in any way. Instead he stepped back as if he needed to keep as much distance between them as possible.
“The difference in our outlooks—and our upbringings—has never been more obvious than now,” he began. “You think a person can be commanded to love. To love because it is their responsibility. Believe me when I say it cannot be done. If it could, I would have commanded my mother to love me—and not sell me to another. I would have demanded that my father love me—or at least acknowledge me. I would have forced my grandmother to love me—or if nothing else, visit me once in a while. But I could not do any of those things as a scared and powerless little boy, any more than I can do them now as a wealthy peer of the realm. Nor can you do it. So don’t even try.”
His words were angry; his tone furious. But Ivan’s sarcastic little speech did not enrage Lucy. Rather, it made her want to cry.
“I cannot believe she really sold you,” she said, appalled at the very idea.
His lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Don’t worry. I’m sure she received more from the deal than my grandmother wanted to spend. I console myself that at least I cost a pretty penny.”
Lucy was not fooled by his sarcastic reply. His own mother had sold him. Even if the woman had thought she was doing the best thing for him, how excruciatingly painful that knowledge must be for him to bear.
Without thinking, she crossed to him. But the instant she touched his hand he jerked away.
“We can leave for Somerset tomorrow,” he said, turning for the door.
“Ivan, don’t go. Don’t leave. Please. We need to talk.”
“You need your rest,” he countered. “Especially now.”
“I don’t need to rest. I’m not sick.”
“That’s not how it appeared this morning.”
“That’s a temporary malady. It will soon go away.”
He paused at the door and looked across the dim room at her. “You want this child, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“shy?”
“Why?” Lucy studied his face, and even in the shadows she recognized the wariness in his eyes. His mother hadn’t wanted him, so naturally he doubted Lucy’s sincerity about the child growing inside her now. She knew it was imperative that she say the right thing. “I want this child because I love children. Because like most women, I could never be totally fulfilled unless I raised a child of my own. But not just any man’s child,” she added. “I want
this
child. I love
this
child already because it is
your
child. Our child,” she finished in a hushed voice.
this
child. I love
this
child already because it is
your
child. Our child,” she finished in a hushed voice.
His face revealed nothing. That was disheartening enough. The edge of sarcasm in his voice, however, was devastating. “Two months ago you refused to marry me at all. You expect me to believe now that you treasure this child because it is mine?” He let out a humorless chuckle. “I think, Lucy, that we will get along better if we leave emotion out of our relationship in the future.”
Lucy hid her heartbreak in indignation. What else could she do? “And how, pray tell, shall we accomplish that? Are you saying you will not be returning to our bed?”
He scowled. “And are you saying that now that you’re pregnant you no longer want me there?”
“No! Of course not.” Her face turned pink at that revealing response. “But how can I leave emotion out when you … When we … When we consummate our union? You don’t seem unemotional then. Are you saying that in the future you will be?”
She thought she had him there, for he clenched his jaw. Twice. She saw the muscle jump in his cheek. Then his eyes narrowed. “I believe you are confusing passion with other, more enduring emotions. Lust is not love. Desire is a fleeting thing. Like hunger. I suggest you not make more of it than it is.”
Like a harsh slap, the words found their mark. Lucy gasped and fought the urge to step back, to scurry away from him and his cruel words. He knew how those words hurt her, how they affected her. He’d heard her say she loved him. Now he was using that knowledge as a weapon to torture her.
He was succeeding very well.
She gathered her hurt up and shoved it deep inside her heart, to a place he could not see. “I bow to your greater knowledge of
love
,” she said, adopting the same sarcastic tone he’d used. “Regarding my journey to Somerset, you need not bother to accompany me. I’m sure your business in town is far more pressing.”
love
,” she said, adopting the same sarcastic tone he’d used. “Regarding my journey to Somerset, you need not bother to accompany me. I’m sure your business in town is far more pressing.”
“It’s not a bother. I’ve been a neglectful husband and I mean to rectify that,” he said in a clipped, perfunctory voice.
Lucy turned away. He was so calm, so unaffected by all of this. Meanwhile, her heart was bleeding as if from a mortal wound. “Good night, then,” she murmured as she crawled back into the high bed. She pulled the coverlet up to her chin, fighting back the sting of rising tears. If he didn’t leave soon she was afraid she would embarrass herself completely.
Just leave
, she prayed.
Dear God, make him leave!
Just leave
, she prayed.
Dear God, make him leave!
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