Dangerous to Love (22 page)

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Authors: Rexanne Becnel

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

BOOK: Dangerous to Love
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“Alone? Harrumph,” Lady Westcott snorted. “I’ll send for her. You can have five minutes here, in the library. That’s all.”
She stared at him a long moment, then sighed. “Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances of your impending marriage, Ivan, I hope … I wish you the best.” Then she herded the other two men out of the library and Ivan was left alone with that unexpected remark echoing in his ears.
She wished him the best?
He stared blankly at the tip of the cigar. She’d wanted him to marry all along. The fact that she had not handpicked the bride must grate on her pride. But she obviously approved of Lucy Drysdale—albeit grudgingly—else she would not already be wishing him well.
It was enough to make him withdraw his offer.
He stubbed out the cigar and pushed himself out of the chair. Damn the woman! He was handing her just what she wanted.
But it wasn’t just what she wanted. She’d wanted an heiress for him, a silly, brainless twit with more extensive lands than she already held—than
he
already held. What he was getting, however, was a prickly bluestocking with at best a piddling settlement from her brother.
The fact remained, however, that he hadn’t intended to marry at all. He crossed the room to the bar tray and poured himself a healthy glass of whisky. Bloody hell! It was not supposed to have happened this way. He was not supposed to take total leave of his senses, then be caught in the act by his grandmother!
With a nearly silent creak the door opened. With a metallic click it closed. He drank from the whisky tumbler, lowered it and waited a moment, then lifted it once more and quaffed the contents. Only then did he turn to face her.
She stood just inside the doorway, as if she meant to bolt. She’d repaired her hair and her clothes were back in order. But she nonetheless looked changed.
Her lips were red and swollen. The color in her cheeks was high. He suspected that if he stared at her breasts, her nipples would tighten until he could see their hardened silhouettes right through the fabric of her bodice.
God, he wanted her!
But if the look in her eyes was any indication, she did not want him. At least not at the moment. She stared at him with a wary expression.
It would be a challenge to change her mind.
“Why is marriage to me not possible?”
Her chin came up. “We are not well matched. Surely you don’t believe that we are.”
“I have money, land, a title. Isn’t that every woman’s dream?”
“If that was all I wanted, I would be ten years wed by now, with four or five children already of my own.”
“I see. So, what do you want?”
“I might ask as much of you, my lord.”
“My lord? After what very nearly happened between us—and what is about to happen—you would call me my lord?”
She swallowed and he was entranced by the smooth workings of her throat. He wanted to kiss her there.
“Nothing is about to happen between us. For I plan to return to Somerset—”
“Not bloody likely!”
She swallowed again. “I plan to return to Somerset and you … You can continue this unhappy war you wage with your grandmother.”
She looked so brave and so fragile that despite his volatile temper Ivan had to suppress a grin. Life with Lucy would never be dull. “You haven’t answered my question. What is it you want in a husband?”
“I don’t want a husband at all. And you don’t want a wife,” she added. “So why are we doing this?”
“Actually, the more I think about it, the better a wife sounds. At least no one would interrupt me when I wanted to make love to her.”
She blushed, as he’d expected she would. He crossed the room and halted less than an arm’s length from her. “And no one would interrupt you, Lucy. Were we wed, I could lay you down right here on this silk carpet. I could remove every stitch of your clothing,” he said, in a voice gone hoarse from his own erotic thoughts. “And I’d have you remove mine too. Then … Then we’d both be very happy to be married to one another.”
He was hard, fully aroused by the mental picture he’d painted. She was aroused too, for her breathing had grown shallow and her eyes were dark with desire. Her gaze fell away from his and he felt them touch upon his bulging erection.
“You do that to me,” he whispered. She jerked her eyes back up to his. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m not. And I do this to you,” he continued, reaching out to rub one knuckle across the hard pebble of her nipple.
With a small cry of anguish she slid away from him. Ivan faced the door, then leaned stiff-armed against it, struggling to regain his composure. He should have better control than this. But he didn’t. At the moment he felt as if he’d explode from his pent-up desire for this woman.
“Lust is insufficient reason to get married,” she said in a strangled voice.
“Fine. Then you can be my mistress.”
“I will not!”
He turned to face her. “I was being sarcastic, Lucy. And if you think putting that table between us changes anything, you’re wrong.”
“I won’t marry you.”
He stalked toward her. “Why the hell not?”
“Because … Because we would make one another supremely unhappy.”
“Whereas being ruined and a social outcast will make you supremely happy.” He leaned forward on the table and for a long moment their eyes met and held. He could see he’d scored a direct hit with that.
But she rallied gamely. “Eventually the talk will die down.”
“Only if you bury yourself in the country.”
She shook her head. “I will not agree to so unwise a union, no matter what you say.”
Ivan’s patience began to unravel. She meant it. She was refusing to marry him, rejecting an offer she ought to have been ecstatic to get. He drew back and glared at her. She was just like his father—more than ready to fuck a Gypsy. But God forbid she should link her name with his!
Except that he was no powerless Gypsy like his mother had been. He was Ivan Thornton, Earl of Westcott, Viscount Seaforth, and Baron Turner. He could have anything he wanted. And what he wanted now was to show her the full extent of the power he wielded.
“We will be wed within the week. I’ll send a formal request to your brother. I’m sure he’ll be more sensible about this than you.”
“You can’t make me do this, Ivan. We’ll both regret it if you do.”
“I regret it already,” he bit out. He reached across the table and caught her by the arms, then jerked her against the unyielding table between them. “Give in, Lucy. You have no other choice.” Then he kissed her, a hard and brutal kiss, to prove to her that she could deny him nothing. He wanted to punish her for rejecting him.
When she fought him, he held her still. When she tried to twist her face away, he pressed her all the harder. And when her closed lips finally opened to his assault, when his tongue possessed her until she was soft and pliant, he wanted to devour the very essence of her.
How could she prefer that pitiful scholar to him? How could she look at Pierce?
He was as hard as the table between them, and he ground himself against the unfeeling oak. He could not wait a week. He would not!
Then he tasted her tears, warm and salty, and reason raised its unwelcome head.
He pulled back. Her face was flush with desire, and wet with despair. The fact that he could make her body want him, but not her heart, drove him to madness.
“I’ll have you, Lucy. It’s a foregone conclusion. It would be easier if you just resign yourself to that fact.” Then he let go of her, spun around, and stalked out of the room.
The last thing he’d let her see was the pathetic proof of how much he wanted her.
The last thing he’d ever let her know was how close he’d come to confusing the lust she roused in him with love.
 
I
t was the worst week of her life.
Ivan had moved out of the house. She hadn’t seen him once since their dreadful scene in the library. Lady Westcott said it was improper for a bridegroom to live in the same house with his fiancée and apparently Ivan had agreed.
No matter how Lucy protested that she was not his fiancée, she was ignored. No matter how often she insisted that she be allowed to speak to Ivan herself, he was not summoned.
A special license had already been obtained, waiving the usual posting of the marriage banns. Hasty arrangements had been made for a private wedding at the Chapel of St. Mary of the Archangels.
When the modiste was summoned for her dress, Lucy refused to cooperate. But even that did not deter Lady Westcott. “Take the measurements from one of her other dresses. Make the gown a pale aqua silk, trimmed with teal and cream. Something elegant and not too frivolous, as befits a woman of her age.”
“I won’t wear it,” Lucy swore. “And I won’t marry a man who hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you.”
“He hates everyone. You. Me. Even his closest friends.”
But Lucy got nowhere with the dowager countess. Then three days after that awful dinner party, her family arrived. Not just Graham, which would have been bad enough, but also Hortense, all the children, her mother, and four servants.
It was enough to rival Bedlam itself.
“You’ll bring ruination upon us all!” Graham ranted.
“I can’t believe, my only daughter …” Lucy’s mother wailed.
“Poor Prudence,” Hortense sobbed. “Poor Charity and Grace. After this none of them will be able to raise their heads in good society. And they’ll never be able to make good matches of their own!”
“I’ll cut off your allowance,” Graham swore. “You’ll be out on the streets, for you shan’t be allowed near my children.”
“Oh, Graham,” their mother had cried. “Not that!”
Lucy wanted to scream. She wanted to escape them all, just run away somewhere—anywhere—and have a good cry. Yet even with a good cry she would still be in the same predicament: trapped like a rat in a hole.
If only Ivan were not so insistent on this foolish marriage. Graham would not be threatening her so if Ivan were not an earl with a fortune to go with his title. As for Ivan’s motivations …
She’d handled things badly with Ivan. She could see that now. He’d obviously taken her rejection far more personally than he should. His feelings had been too hurt to see the practical reality of her decision. If only she could talk to him under calmer, less emotionally charged circumstances.
“I’ll think about what you said,” she told Graham, cutting him off in mid-sentence. Hortense looked up. Lucy’s mother paused with her handkerchief halfway to her eyes.
“And well you should think about it,” he snapped, tugging indignantly on his waistcoat.
“I believe I shall lie down a while,” Lucy said, biting back a much sharper retort. “I’ll take my supper in my room,” she added to Lady Westcott, as she made her hasty retreat.
But once in her room, with only her own unhappy company, Lucy was more miserable than ever. In two days she and Ivan were to wed. The household had been turned upside down with preparations; announcements had begun to appear in all the appropriate newspapers.
She sat in the window, staring out at the streetscape. Why was she fighting the inevitable? Any other unmarried woman of her advanced years would be giddy with joy to entrap a handsome and wealthy man like the Earl of Westcott. No doubt several young ladies had tried just such a method to obtain an offer from him. He was not fighting it, so why was she?
Because she loved him and he didn’t love her back.
She let out an unhappy sigh. There was no use denying it any longer, at least not to herself. It wasn’t simply lust she felt for him, the physical desire natural to a woman of her age for a man who attracted women wherever he went. No, somehow along the way it had become something much greater than that. He was not as harsh and forbidding as he would pretend, nor as impervious to slights. He was a man who had never known love, nor did he think he needed it. But it was just that fact that made her love him so desperately. She wanted to surround him with her love, to protect him with it. To make him happy with it.
Only it was not her love he wanted. And it was not love he meant to give her in return. A title, beautiful homes, and a generous allowance would be hers. And all he demanded in return was the use of her body. He would never have any deeper feelings for her than that.
The bitter and uncompromising truth brought tears to her eyes.
The inequality in their relationship terrified her. To love him and not be loved in return … She did not believe she could bear it. It was too awful a fate to endure.
She wiped her eyes, then stared out into the twilight. Across the street a carriage pulled off, leaving a man standing there, gazing after it. It reminded her of the night she’d watched Ivan bid farewell to that woman, and it caused her heart to sink even further.
What if after they wed he continued to carry on with women of that sort?
Surely he wouldn’t do such a thing! But then, why should she expect him to change? He might even keep a mistress. Perhaps he already did!
She jumped up and began to pace as her stomach twisted into a sick knot. She was working herself into a lather over mere conjecture, she told herself. She was letting her imagination run away with her. But she couldn’t help it. She had to see Ivan, she decided. She had to try one more time to talk him out of this marriage. Otherwise, she feared they would both live to regret it.
It proved almost too easy to find him. After worrying over getting caught, she had only to bribe one of the stable boys. Ivan was probably staying with Mr. Pierce and Mr. Dameron in Tyne Street, the lad told her. He would take her there himself.
“With Mr. Pierce? Are you certain?”
“He often stays there. So does Mr. Blackburn. It’s a well-known bachelors’ quarters.” The boy hesitated. “Are you certain you want to go there, miss?”
“Yes.” She slipped him another shilling. “Let’s be off.”
The house was quiet with few lights burning. “No one’s to home,” the boy reported. “The butler says they’re often out till late.”
Till late. No telling how long that would be. Lucy debated what to do: wait or return to Berkeley Square. “I should like to leave a note for Lord Westcott. Ask the man if he will show me into the parlor,” she said, climbing down from the curricle unassisted. “Tell him I shall require pen and ink and paper.”
It took Lucy several false starts to get the letter going. Though she prided herself on both her writing and her penmanship, this particular document suffered from numerous scratched-out areas.
She was despairing of ever getting it right when steps in the hall drew her attention. Ivan? She leaped up in a dither of emotions, hope and dread being the most persistent.
But it was Mr. Pierce, not Ivan, and at her deflated expression he gave her a wry smile. “Apparently I am not the person you were hoping for.”
He advanced into the room, removing his gloves and loosening the buttons of his coat. “If you wished to speak to him you had only to send word and he would have come to you.”
“No one would summon him for me. So I decided to come myself.”
“He’ll be very pleased to see you. Shall I show you to his private chambers so you can … prepare yourself for his return?”
Lucy pursed her lips disapprovingly. “I have not come here for
that
.”
He considered her for a moment. “If not
that
, then what?”
“Not that it’s any of your affair, but … but I wanted to speak to him about … about our impending wedding.”
“I see. And since he’s not here you’ve written him a note instead?”
Lucy gripped the three sheets of scribbled parchment tighter. “Yes.”
He held out his hand. “You’d better give it to me, then. He may be out all—For a good while,” he finished. “But I can deliver it to him, if you like. I have an idea or two about where he might be.”
Lucy bit the inside of her cheek. She had an idea or two herself, and it made her heart ache to even think on it. She nodded. “All right. Let me just sign it and seal it up.”
“A wax seal is not likely to prevent me reading it, should I be so inclined.” He chuckled.
Lucy bristled. “I thought you were his friend.”
“I am, though he’s not been too kindly disposed toward me of late. Still, we’ve patched things up the past few days.”
“This is private correspondence.”
“You’ll simply have to take your chances, Miss Drysdale. If you wish Ivan to get your note it will have to go through me.” He drew off his neckcloth and lowered himself into a chair. “I suggest you get on with it.”
Though Lucy glared at him, it did no good. Furious at him, and at all men in general, she plopped down into the chair and once more snatched up the pen.
…
And so, as you can see, this marriage will do neither of us any good, especially you. The embarrassment of our predicament will fade much faster than will the results of an ill-advised union between us.
I wish you the very best in the future and hope sincerely that you will find a woman whom you can love and honor, and who will return the same feelings to you.
I remain your friend,
 
She paused at that. His friend? She would remain always the woman who loved him and wanted nothing from him save his love in return. Sadly, that was the one thing he didn’t have in him to give her.
I remain your friend,
Lucy Drysdale
P.S. Mr. Elliot Pierce may have read this note. I hope that fact will not cause you any additional embarrassment.
-
L
-
 
Then she folded the three sheets, placed them in an envelope, and sealed them with the wax of a burning candle and the crisscross marks of the letter opener.
“Here. Break the seal if you must. But promise me that you will deliver it to him. Tonight,” she added.
“I swear on the blood of my unlamented father.”
Lucy handed Mr. Pierce the lengthy message then stood there, staring at him. “Well. Aren’t you going to look for him?”
He smiled up at her, playing with her missive. “You are not his usual sort, you know.”
Lucy was depressed enough. That unpleasant observation only brought her lower. “I know.”
“Then again, he only toyed with all those other women. Or used them for sex,” he added bluntly. “Maybe they were the ones not his sort, and in fact, you are.”
How Lucy wished that were so. “He thinks there is something between us. You and I,” she clarified with a nervous flutter of one hand.
He smiled. “So he does. But no doubt your letter here will disavow him of that notion.” He stood and showed her to the door. “Unless you wish to heap coals on the fires of gossip already burning about you, you’d better be going, Miss Drysdale. We wouldn’t want to give anyone reason to believe that something is going on between us.”
But with every step Lucy took toward the carriage, she became more and more alarmed. What if Mr. Pierce didn’t give the letter to Ivan? Or what if for reasons unbeknownst to her, he wished to fuel Ivan’s misconception about his interest in her?
“You
will
give my letter to him.”
“Of course.”
“Do you swear it?”
“Now what good will that do? If I am devious enough not to give it to him, I’m certainly devious enough to tell you any lie you need to hear.”
Lucy frowned. “I think I’d like my letter back.”
They stood on the front steps now, and he stared down at her through the darkness. “Go home, Miss Drysdale. Believe me when I say I have Ivan’s best interests at heart.” Then without warning he caught her chin in one hand and pressed a swift kiss to her forehead.
Lucy stumbled back, completely shocked though not by any perception of impropriety. Neither the kiss nor his wry expression indicated anything more than a brotherly sort of affection. But even that seemed unlikely coming from Mr. Pierce. She didn’t know what to say.
“Good night, Lucy. Sweet dreams.”
She got into the curricle, then looked out at him. “Good night,” she answered, confused and yet, for some reason, reassured.

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