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Authors: Rexanne Becnel

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

BOOK: Dangerous to Love
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“And one other thing,” she added. “He is not without a certain appeal. You may theorize that this year’s young misses flock to him because of his title and fortune. But he would attract young, susceptible females were he a nobody—were he merely a gypsy horse-handler, as he very nearly was.”
She gave Lucy a sharp look. “You are no longer young and foolish, else I would not have engaged you as a chaperone. I trust you are also no longer susceptible to the wiles of handsome young men of the ton.”
“If I were susceptible to that sort of gentleman, I would have long ago wed. Rest assured, Lady Westcott, your grandson’s appeal will be wasted upon me. I plan to be more than diligent in the discharge of my duties toward Lady Valerie. If there is one thing I stand firm upon, it is my disdain of insincere, self-important, would-be rakes.”
Lady Westcott nodded her approval, then gave a faint smile. “I am glad to hear it. Very glad to hear it. Now, as we have a long and tiring day ahead of us, I believe I shall attempt to nap a while.”
So saying, Antonia closed her eyes and leaned back against the cushion she’d positioned by her head. But beneath her lowered lashes, she kept a close watch on Miss Lucy Drysdale.
She’d set the trap and baited it. It remained now for someone to get caught. Whether it was Ivan and Valerie, or Ivan and Miss Drysdale, was immaterial to her, so long as the damnable boy was wed to someone, and soon. But she confessed to herself that she would rather it be the almost penniless young woman across from her, than her immature godchild.
Ivan had given her fits these last ten years: disappearing without a word; not even responding when he’d been formally adopted and made his father’s heir. He’d not come to his father’s funeral in the fall. Then he’d waited until the last moment to notify her that he would participate in the investiture this past January. For him to end up with a malleable wife like Valerie would be grossly unfair. He deserved a wife who would give him as much trouble as he would give her.
Antonia felt sure that this Lucy Drysdale was just the woman to do it.
Let him decide upon her
, she prayed, though her prayers tended to come more in the form of commands than humble pleadings.
Let him decide on Miss Lucy Drysdale, and let the girl run as fast and hard as she can in the opposite direction. But in the end, let her catch him.
And let them have her great-grandchild promptly nine months later—if not sooner.
 
No one had warned her that he wore an earring!
That was the first thought that shot through Lucy’s head.
They’d arrived very late at the grand address on Berkeley Square. She’d thought the butler a trifle surprised and perhaps a little worried when he’d bowed them into the foyer. But she’d attributed that more to the fact that Lady Westcott had not sent word ahead that they were coming.
She’d caught the scent of tobacco in the air as she followed Lady Westcott to her suite of rooms, and had suspected, from the lights she’d seen burning, that someone was at home. When the door to the dowager countess’s sitting room crashed open and this unannounced male stalked in, however, she knew at once that something was amiss. And also that he must be the new earl.
He was home all right, and he was not in the least happy to see his grandmother arrive.
Still, of all the things she might have noticed about him—his dark, lean features; his glossy black hair; his tall, broad-shouldered silhouette—it was the earring that transfixed her. A gold, glinting hoop that winked back the oil-fed light, and defiantly proclaimed his Gypsy heritage.
She
was to protect Lady Valerie from
him
?
Her knees went weak and her mouth went dry. How had his grandmother described him? He is not without a certain appeal? Though Lucy would freely admit that her experience with men had been limited in recent years, there was not a doubt in her mind that this man very likely possessed more physical appeal than half the men in London combined.
Then he opened his mouth and she discovered the reverse side of that considerable appeal.
“Get the hell out of my house!”
Lucy gasped—or at least she assumed it was she who’d made that shocked sound. Lady Westcott merely stared at her coldly furious grandson without so much as blinking an eye.
“I believe we’ve had this conversation previously. As I told you then, I will not be put out of my own home. You, however, are free to leave, if that is your desire.”
“My desire,” he snarled, glaring at the dowager countess with eyes as frigid as the winter sky. “My desire is to never lay eyes on you again.”
Lady Westcott stiffened. It was only the tiniest of gestures, but Lucy saw it, and her heart broke for the frail old woman. She forced her frozen limbs to life.
“How impossibly rude you are,” she snapped, moving to stand beside her hostess. “Lady Westcott has had a long and tiring day. The last thing she requires is to be set upon, and in her own private quarters. Did no one ever teach you to knock?” she finished in her sternest governess tones.
The unconscionable rogue did not do her the decency of even transferring his glare from his grandmother to her. Nor did he in any other way acknowledge that he’d heard Lucy’s indignant words. “I am entertaining guests,” he continued in the same insulting tones, “none of whom are of the sort you are wont to mingle with. Nor are you their sort,” he added, with a mocking twist to his lips.
“I have no intention of greeting your guests,” Lady Westcott retorted, holding firm to her position. Still, Lucy detected the hurt in her voice and she sprang once more into the fray. How dare he attack an old woman this way, his own grandmother! And how dare he ignore
her
as if she did not even exist!
This time she stepped in front of the countess, forcing him to recognize her presence. “I’ll thank you to depart these apartments. Now,” she added. “Right now!”
The glacial stare focused on her. The mocking smile thinned. The furious voice turned low and dangerous. “Unless you are here for some useful purpose, it would be better if you remove yourself from this discussion.”
“I am here for a … for a very useful purpose,” she sputtered. If a body could burn with outrage and yet freeze with unreasonable fear, hers did both. “I am a guest of Lady Westcott’s and I—”
“This is my house, not hers. The only guests I will allow are my own.” The frosty glare moved over her, head to toe, taking a swift yet alarmingly thorough appraisal of her appearance. Then those bitter blue eyes met hers again. “Dare I hope your purpose here is carnal? And that it involves me?”
She slapped him.
It came out of nowhere. Certainly she did not plan it. But in the ringing silence left in its aftermath, she was not sorry. He deserved it. It remained now only to see how he responded. There was no predicting what a man as cruel and hateful as he might do in retaliation.
He raised a hand to his offended cheek and despite Lucy’s intentions to be brave she took an involuntary step backward.
The room shuddered with the silence. From somewhere far off in another wing of the house she heard the faint echoes of music, of a pianoforte playing and a woman singing. But in this particular chamber there was no sound at all.
Then the earl took a breath and Lucy braced herself for the worst.
Instead of lunging at her, however, he bowed—a very correct though abbreviated bow. Lucy blinked in disbelief, then stared warily at him. What was he up to?
His expression told her nothing, for he’d wiped his face clean of any telltale emotion. His voice, when he spoke, was equally unemotional.
“My apologies, madam. I more than deserved that. I only hope you will find it in your heart to overlook my unfortunate behavior.”
It took Lucy a moment to collect her wits. An apology was the last thing she’d expected from this man, this Gypsy earl who was as handsome as sin. She was certain, however, that it was just about as sincere as Stanley’s and Derek’s apologies to each other usually were.
She drew herself up, tugging angrily at the waist of her wrinkled traveling suit. “I have never—never!—been so rudely treated in my entire life!”
His face remained impassive. But at least he was looking at her now instead of glowering at his exhausted grandmother. It occurred to Lucy that Lady Westcott remained uncharacteristically quiet, but she was not about to give ground by breaking eye contact with the earl. If she was to be dealing with him as often as Lady Westcott had indicated, it was critical that she establish the boundaries of their relationship right now.
As their locked gazes held, his lips curved up ever so slightly. Or at least she thought they did. “Might I inquire who it is that I have treated so rudely?” he asked, one dark brow arched in question.
Lucy assumed the countess would introduce her. After all, it was only proper. When she did not, however, Lucy let out an exasperated breath. “I am Miss Lucy Drysdale of Houghton Hall in Somerset.”
“Miss Lucy Drysdale,” he echoed, emphasizing the “miss.” Again his eyes flickered over her. But before she could take umbrage at his boldness, he executed another bow. “Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Drysdale. I am Ivan Thornton, Earl of Westcott, among other things.” He paused. “You said you had a useful purpose for being here?”
Once again one black brow raised in question, but this time Lucy could see the arrogant purpose lurking behind the bland expression he’d adopted. He was no more sorry for insulting her than she was sorry for slapping him, the wretched man!
“I am here to act as chaperone to Lady Valerie Stanwich for the season. Your cousin, I believe? To safeguard her from inappropriate suitors—”
“Like myself, perhaps?” He grinned then, and in that one isolated moment Lucy had a terrible revelation about herself. For with that easy grin, that tiny movement of flesh over teeth—beautiful, strong, white teeth, as it happened—he deflated all her anger. Like a silly, smitten girl, she reacted to that smile, to the appeal his grandmother had alluded to. Her heart began a maddened pace, her cheeks began to heat. And all on account of a smile.
With a silent groan she ordered herself to cease such foolishness. She gave him a severe look. “If this is typical of your behavior, then yes, I would say you are entirely inappropriate for a proper young lady.”
This time he laughed, though she’d certainly not meant her statement to amuse him. Before she could muster an indignant response, however, Lady Westcott finally broke her silence.
“Do not bother to argue with my grandson, Miss Drysdale, for you will get nowhere at all with him. His greatest joy in life is baiting me. Since I refuse to participate in his game, I fear you may become his next target. I advise you to ignore him,” she finished.
Lucy had kept her eyes trained on the earl while his grandmother spoke and saw the quick veil of dislike that covered his face. When he responded to the countess’s comments, however, his words were directed at Lucy. “My grandmother may be right, Miss Drysdale. After all, she has known me longer than anyone else. Now, if the two of you will excuse me? I have a house full of guests. If I do not return to them they may come searching for me. I suspect you would not enjoy that.”
Without further excuse he left, and with him, it seemed, went all the vitality in the room. What an absurd idea, Lucy thought. And yet it was true.
Lady Westcott let out a long sigh, as if she’d been holding her breath. Lucy too exhaled, somewhat unsteadily. She looked over her shoulder at the older woman, who raised a hand, forestalling anything Lucy might have to say.
“You needn’t say a thing, my dear. I can see it in your face. He is not what you expected, is he?”
Lucy grimaced. “I would not state it quité so … so blandly as that. May I sit down?”
“By all means. I’ll ring for a tray. There’s nothing like a glass of cognac to calm the nerves.” She gave Lucy a searching look. “Are you up to this, Miss Drysdale? Can you hold your own with my unpleasant grandson? Or would you rather beat a hasty retreat back to your quiet countryside?”
If Lucy
had
been reconsidering her reason for being in London, the countess’s reference to Somerset cured her of it—and she suspected the clever old woman knew it.
“I would prefer to have been better forewarned that he … dislikes you so intensely,” she said, deciding to be candid. “Also that he has so … is so … That he has such a presence about him,” she finally said.
“That he is so damnably attractive, you mean.” Lady Westcott squinted at her. “I trust you are not so unwise as to be swayed by his manly countenance.”
“Of course not!” Lucy retorted. “But I cannot vouch so easily for your godchild.”
“You will be able to handle Valerie; that does not worry me at all. As for his dislike for me, that is of no moment. No moment whatsoever.”
So she said, Lucy thought as a maid brought in a tray of tea and biscuits, and a decanter of cognac. So she said. But it was obvious that the old woman was as drawn to her brooding grandson as were all the other ladies of the ton. Lucy suspected the old woman wanted his affection. She wanted his familial love.

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