Dangerous to Love (10 page)

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Authors: Rexanne Becnel

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

BOOK: Dangerous to Love
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One rather regal-looking couple driving a royal-blue Berlin coach had two enormous cats settled on their laps and three leashed greyhounds following their vehicle, each one wearing a royal-blue cap with a royal-blue feather curving over it.
Lucy coughed behind one hand, trying to disguise her laughter. Valerie did not notice, but the earl did.
“Amused, Miss Drysdale? And by the elitest of our elite society? I doubt the countess would approve of your attitude.”
Lucy shot him a sidelong glance. He was teasing, wasn’t he? His lips were curved up on one side. Still, she couldn’t be certain. “It was only a tickle in my throat,” she vowed. Unfortunately, at precisely that moment an overaged roué trotted by, clad in a bright yellow jacket cut much too small. To make matters even more ridiculous, he was riding a pure white steed that was clearly not of a mind to appreciate the crowds on Rotten Row. Lucy could not quite hide the laughter that bubbled up.
“Don’t laugh,” the earl whispered in her ear. “He’s a marquess, recently come into his considerable inheritance from an uncle who lived to be eighty. And he’s newly in need of a wife, his three previous ones having died without giving him an heir. No doubt my cousin’s family would be overjoyed should you help her snag a marquess.”
Her distaste must have shown in her face, for it was his turn to laugh—and somehow maneuver his leg back against hers.
She answered that not-so-subtle move with an equally unsubtle jab of her elbow into his side. She heard his faint grunt of surprise. But the leg stayed boldly where it was.
“Oh, look, Miss Drysdale. That purple carriage. Is that the king, or one of his family?”
The earl leaned forward to answer Valerie, causing his hip to press against Lucy’s. Really, but the man was an out-and-out bounder to take advantage this way! So why was she reacting like a green girl with sweaty palms and racing pulse?
“That is the Duke of Cheltham, Lady Valerie. Or rather his wife, Lady Cheltham. And one of her particular friends,” he added in a dry tone when the spectacular carriage drew nearer. “He is rather proud of his familial connections to the royal family. Thus the purple landau.”
An intriguing bit of gossip. Lucy, however, was more interested in removing that hard, muscular thigh from hers lest she lose what little remained of her wits.
“Would you like to walk a while?” she asked Valerie in a strained voice. Once again she jabbed the shameless wretch beside her, only this time even more forcefully.
“I wouldn’t recommend walking,” he answered before Valerie could. But at least he moved over a fraction of an inch. “She hasn’t yet been introduced into society. To the strict arbiters of our strict society, it would be considered coarse and unrefined.”
He had a point, Lucy allowed, although it was clear by his tone what he thought of that particular rule of society. “Perhaps you’ll provide us with an introduction to some among your grandmother’s circle of acquaintances,” she prompted him.
“Is your charge interested in securing a husband from among the aged and infirm, then?”
“Oh, no!” Valerie gasped, then quickly averted her face.
“The earl is only teasing, Valerie. He knows I have no intention of letting you be paired with an old man.”
“Ah, so it’s
young
men she wishes to meet,” he said. “We’re in luck, then, for I believe I see several fine gentlemen of my acquaintance.” He raised a hand to a trio of horsemen who sat their mounts in a grassy area just off the roadway.
He’d planned this, Lucy immediately realized. He’d planned the whole thing, and furthermore, his friends, though young and handsome and dashing, would not be of the acceptable sort—at least not for an earl’s daughter. Lucy wasn’t sure how she knew this, but there was not a doubt in her mind that she was right.
When the three horsemen spied Lord Westcott’s carriage, they disengaged themselves from conversation with a group of women in a slightly worn cabriolet and headed their way.
“Good morning, Westcott,” said the most elegantly dressed of the three, tipping his hat to the ladies. He was a very handsome fellow, Lucy noticed, exquisitely turned out with his neckcloth tied in an elaborate knot, and lace covering half of his hands. A charming and well-practiced rake, she decided.
“Lady Valerie Stanwich, Miss Lucy Drysdale, may I present Mr. Alexander Blackburn—” The rake’s name sounded vaguely familiar. Perhaps she’d read something of him in one of the newspapers her brother took.
“Also, Mr. Giles Dameron—” Tall, dark, and handsome, in a rustic and rather appealing sort of way.
“And finally, Mr. Elliot Pierce.” The rogue, Lucy concluded. For Mr. Pierce was every bit as handsome as Mr. Dameron, equally as languid as Mr. Blackburn, and almost as arrogantly dangerous as Ivan Thornton.
The rake, the rustic, and the rogue. They were clearly long-time accomplices of the Gypsy earl.
“We were all at Burford Hall together,” Ivan said, as if to confirm her thoughts.
Burford Hall. Also known as Bastard Hall. Of course!
Lucy pasted an appropriately restrained smile on her face. “We are pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Mr. Blackburn, the rake, reined his horse nearer to Valerie’s side of the phaeton. “How do you find London, Lady Valerie?” He smiled at her, a smile so disingenuous and sincere that Lucy blinked. Perhaps she’d been too hasty in her judgment. Perhaps he was not a rake at all.
“It … It is very … large,” Valerie stammered, blushing to the roots of her fair hair.
Mr. Blackburn shifted on his saddle. If anything, his expression grew more earnest. “I thought so too when first I arrived. But in time I became accustomed to it. Where have you arrived from?”
“From Sussex. Near to Arundel.”
“Arundel,” he said, nodding. “I’ve visited very near there. Done some fishing in the Arun.”
“My brothers fish there often,” Valerie said, gaining a bit of composure.
Well, maybe this wasn’t too bad, Lucy thought, letting out a slow breath. They might only be misters, but this one, at least, was exceedingly well mannered.
“Are you from there as well, Miss Drysdale?”
Lucy met Mr. Pierce’s gaze. The rogue. He affected a bored sort of grace, yet she detected an avidity hidden somewhere beneath it.
They sat in the early afternoon sunshine another few minutes talking to the three gentlemen about this and that. No, they’d not yet been to Almacks’. Yes, they were invited to the McClendens’ dance.
“I hope you will save me a waltz,” Mr. Blackburn said to Valerie.
“She is not yet waltzing,” Lucy answered before Valerie could. “She has yet to be presented at court.”
“Ah, well. Perhaps another set,” he said, giving the girl a beautiful smile.
“And one for me,” Mr. Pierce said.
“And for me,” the rustic Mr. Dameron echoed.
Oh, dear, this might be trouble, Lucy fretted, when Valerie smiled and accepted their offers, just as she’d taught her to do. Mr. Blackburn was charming and had certainly presented himself in the least threatening light. But he was not for Valerie, nor were any of them. Valerie might be a country girl and one of several sisters, but she was nonetheless the daughter of an earl and very pretty at that. Even with only a moderate dowry attached to her name, her looks and title ensured her a very good match—as Lady Westcott had pointed out in her instructions to Lucy. It seemed that she would have to do something about these unsuitable suitors.
She began to fan herself. “I was wondering, Lord Westcott, if you might point out Fatuielle Hall to us on the drive home.” She sent him a speaking look.
She was mightily relieved when he chose to acquiesce rather than argue. The three other gentlemen tipped their hats and made their farewells.
Ivan deftly threaded the phaeton through the crowds of riders and carriages, and before long they were free of the congested park and moving at a fair pace homeward. To his credit, this time he kept his leg—his limb, rather—contained in its own portion of the box. As they went along he pointed out particular landmarks: Constitution Hall, the clubs along Pall Mall, and the Charing Cross. Then he turned into Williams Street and slowed before a three-story brick building that wanted a good scrubbing-down.
“This is Fatuielle Hall. Why did you wish to see it? There are very few amusements here any more.”
“There are often lectures given here, I understand. I thought J might like to attend one.”
Or a series of them.
“Ah, yes. You mentioned that last night. Tell me, Miss Drysdale. Could it be that you are something of a bluestocking?”
She stiffened a bit. “Not to put too fine a line on it, but there are any number of ladies who would be insulted by such a remark.”
“But not you,” he insisted, studying her with a confident eye. His gaze held hers so long, and at such near quarters, that Lucy had to fight the urge to squirm. When she could bear it no longer, far past the point when his stare had become rude and all the breath had left her body, she averted her eyes and stared instead at the slightly shabby lecture hall, as if its nondescript architecture fascinated her.
He laughed under his breath, then urged the horses on. But not before Lucy spied a handbill announcing Sir James Mawbey’s next lecture on May nineteenth. That was tomorrow! She hugged that knowledge to herself and used it as a shield against her confused feelings toward Ivan Thornton.
Fortunately, for the duration of the journey home he addressed all the conversation toward Valerie. Even more to Lucy’s good fortune, the girl managed to answer pleasantly enough, and by the time they arrived back at the grand house on Berkeley Square, Lucy’s alarm had faded—at least her alarm about Ivan’s friends. Perhaps a bevy of admirers was precisely what Valerie needed to bolster her self-confidence. Perhaps Lord Westcott’s friends would do her more good than harm. After all, it was actually more important that the girl learn how to handle unwelcome admirers than welcome ones, for the fact was, for such a pretty young woman as Lady Valerie, there would be far more of the former than of the latter.
Still, there was that fair-minded portion of Lucy’s brain that thought it more than unfortunate for a man’s title and parents—assuming he
had
parents—to be considered of greater consequence than his moral fiber. That the richness of his purse was considered more important than the richness of his intellect.
Oh, well. She could expound on that subject with Sir James, if she were lucky enough to engage him in private conversation. Meanwhile, she must steer her young charge toward men with sufficient title and fortune to satisfy her family and Lady Westcott. And with any luck, she would find one possessed also of decent character and a fine mind. With luck.
Lucy and Valerie spent the afternoon in Lady Westcott’s company. Or more accurately, in her wake. They called at several fashionable addresses, architectural edifices that bespoke wealth and power and heritages traced back to the Conqueror himself. At most of them they simply left their calling cards. But at three they were greeted and offered refreshments. Their hostesses were all of Lady Westcott’s vintage and clearly among her dearest acquaintances. The Viscountess Talbert was related to Lady Westcott by marriage. The Countess of Grayer, they were cautioned, was a famous arbiter of town society. The Dowager Duchess of Wickham was, simply put, the Dowager Duchess of Wickham.
Formidable women all, they were cut from the same cloth as Lady Westcott who was, of course, perfectly at ease in their company. But young Valerie was petrified of them.
As for Lucy, she was cognizant of the fact that these ladies could be a huge help to Valerie. But beyond that, her primary reaction to them was fascination. The world was dominated by men, and yet these women had each carved her own place of power within it. Powerful women and how they became that way—that was another topic she longed to discuss with Sir James.
Oh, but she could hardly wait until tomorrow.
Once they returned to Westcott House, Lucy broached the subject of the lectures. “Lady Westcott, do you recall that I wished Lady Valerie to attend several lectures with me?”
“Several? I do not recall anything about several.”
Lucy forced herself not to argue. “Tomorrow afternoon the first of the subscription lectures at Fatuielle Hall will be held.”
“We have the modiste to see for fittings.”
“That is at eleven.”
“We’ve been invited to tea at Lady Hinton’s. I particularly wish to see the changes this latest of Robert’s wives has made to his town house. Lady Talbert told me she has changed everything his third wife did to the place, and in the process has made it very like it was under his second wife. I am most interested in determining whether or not the new Lady Hinton did so deliberately or not. For if it was accidental, she will be the joke of the season.” Her lined face creased in silent laughter.
Lucy pursed her lips and tried to hold back her words, but it was useless effort. “Will you inform her of her mistake—if indeed it was unconsciously done?”

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