Dangerous to Love

by Rexanne Becnel

  "'Tis said I have his mouth, and his hair." The grinning fellow answered her unsaid question in a whisper meant, nonetheless, to carry to the rest of their small crowd.

  Antonia's eyes narrowed. "Really? And here I thought it only the glint of sophomoric humor in your eyes that proved your kinship."

  Blackburn's grin increased in delight. "At last. A lady who sees the madness in my eyes and does not demurely look away." He fell to one knee, a hand pressed fervently to his heart. "Say you will marry me, my dear Lady Westcott, for clearly 'tis you I've been searching for these many lonely years."

  Before Laurence could struggle angrily to his feet, Lady Antonia caught his arm. She grimaced at mad King George's bastard of a grandson. "Get up, you fool. Get up before I accept your daft proposal," she added.

  That drew a burst of laughter from the other two young men, followed by nervous chuckles from Lady Fordham and then from Laurence. But her grandson did not so much as twitch his lips. Steeling herself against any display of emotion, Antonia addressed his madcap friend. "I regret that my grandson has not a portion of your wit, Mr. Blackburn."

  "We often remark on his lack of wit," Mr. Blackburn answered. But it was Ivan's answer she waited for.

  "Is it my witticisms you want, madam? And here I've been deluded into thinking it was my obedience. My gratitude. My will. Indeed, my very mind. But no, it is only my witticisms. If I endeavor to be witty and amusing, will you then retire to the country content, and leave me in peace?"

  She glared into his vivid blue eyes, so like her own it was disconcerting. "If that wittiness is accompanied by good manners and better intentions, then yes, I will happily retire from your life."

  "Have I not displayed good manners this evening? I've made certain to charm the matrons and dance with their daughters."

  "And is it your intention to marry one of those daughters?" she asked, deciding to be blunt.

  He held her gaze and in his expression there was no mistaking his intense dislike of her as well as a spark of something else. Triumph? No, that could not be it.

  He shrugged. "I plan to marry one of them. If I can find one who suits me."

  "Does that mean you will remain in town for the season?" She held her breath, hoping, praying that he would. The plain truth was that she was running out of time. She wanted him married and with a viable heir before she died.

  This time he smiled at her, though it was not a smile that was in the least reassuring. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

  Not an hour later their conversation was not nearly so civil. They'd returned home separately to Westcott House. He confronted her in the cavernous drawing room.

  "I am still the dowager countess," she was saying. "You will not put me out of my own home!"

  Ivan stared impassively at his grandmother. But inside he was raging. If she thought she was going to live in the same household with him, she was sadly mistaken. If she thought any portion of her life would remain as simple as it formerly had been, she was mad as a hatter.

  He allowed himself a faint smile. "I believe I am the one invested with the title and, therefore, possession of this hideous heap of bricks. Not you. I am the one all of the family property is entailed upon. And I am the one who will make the decisions regarding the ultimate disposition of those properties."

  He knew that would silence her, and it did, for the disposition of the Westcott title and estates meant everything in the world to the coldhearted bitch who had sired his equally coldhearted parent. As much as she despised him, she despised her brother-in-law's side of the family even more. So long as Ivan did not father a son, the chance remained that the property could revert to her dimwitted nephews, or that he would entail it upon one of them. She simply could not abide that idea. Most of all, she could not abide the fact that she was powerless to control Ivan or, as a result, the vast family estates. It was the power he'd waited twenty years to wield over her.

  He gave a grim chuckle at the sight of her choking back her fury. How ironic that his sexual activities should control her life. Despite his father's indiscriminate behavior with everyone but his own wife, he'd apparently sired only one child. Now, however, that bastard son held control of both the titles and the obscene amount of wealth that went with them. In contrast to his father's loose morals, Ivan meant his own behavior to be so discriminating as to be sure no one succeeded him to the same titles and wealth. At least not during her lifetime.

  It was clear, however, that while discussion of the entailment might restrain the autocratic old woman somewhat, it would not silence her entirely. Were she not such a thoroughgoing bitch he might actually have admired her tenacity. She'd outlived her husband and her son. But she was not likely to outlive him. He would triumph over his grandmother if only by attending her funeral.

  "Westcott House is quite large enough for the two of us," she stated in what, for her, was a conciliatory tone. "I keep mostly to my own apartments, which are in an entirely separate wing—"

  "You will be more comfortable at the country house," he interrupted. "While I am in town I do not care to see you at all."

  "And what will you do? Put me out? I should just like to see you attempt that. Yes, indeed. I would." Her bony hands gripped the crystal-topped cane she sometimes used, while her sharp blue eyes glared shards of ice at him.

  But his eyes were just as blue and just as frigid. "I'll maintain a bachelor's household here for the duration of the season. I should think you would approve of that. After all, according to town gossip, I am the newest and most eligible bachelor in town, and sorely in need of a wife."

  She peered at him suspiciously. "You will be actively seeking a wife?"

  He took great pleasure in the answer he gave her. "Yes."

  Yes, he was seeking a wife. But he had no intention of finding one. Let the old crone live on hope. Let her die still hoping.

  She leaned forward, unable to disguise her rising excitement. "I know all the good families and most of the eligible young ladies. I can arrange introductions, perhaps even hold a reception."

  "That will not be necessary."

  "But John, just think—"

  "I am Ivan!" he snapped. "I will always be Ivan no matter how you try to make an English lord of me!"

  He'd been standing nonchalantly at the wide marble mantel. Now he began tensely to pace.

  "All right. All right," she snapped back at him. "I will try to remember that you prefer that Gypsy name. It's just that I've thought of you as John for so long."

  He let loose an ugly laugh. "You thought of me as John," he sneered. "The fact is you never thought of me at all."

  "I thought of you as the future Earl of Westcott," she informed him in cutting tones. "Now that the title is officially yours you should show me the gratitude and respect I deserve."

  "Gratitude!" He exploded. "Respect? Not bloody likely! The only emotion you shall ever have of me is contempt," he swore, forgetting his vow to remain unemotional in her presence.

  Ten years he'd stayed away from her and this godforsaken family seat she so valued. Ten years of wandering the world, never happy, never finding the peace he so desperately sought. His mother and her Gypsy band had long ago faded into the landscape. His identity had faded away with them as well, leaving him only his hated ties to the Thornton family tree.

  He'd lived like a pauper these ten years since leaving Bastard Hall, letting his more than generous allowance accrue into a tidy sum. Meanwhile he'd worked himself to the bone, taking chances other men would never take, risks that saner minds would run screaming from.

  He'd amassed a small fortune of his own along the way, enough to keep him forever independent of his father's family's wealth. So why had he come back? Why had he let himself be invested with those damnable titles?

  To spite her.

  It hadn't been enough simply to let the cousins he'd never met inherit the Westcott estates. No, that had not been sufficient punishment for what she'd done to him. So he'd come back onc
e he'd heard of his father's death just to spite her. He would become the earl, just as she'd planned all those years ago. She thought she was getting what she wanted, but he would see that she lived to regret it. For despite all her plotting, he would provide her with no heir and she would know that her family line would end with him. She would lose everything she valued to the brother-in-law she so despised—just as she'd caused him to lose everything he valued.

  He took a deep breath, fighting for control. "I'm staying with Blackburn until you have vacated these premises."

  She perked up at that name. "Oh, yes. Blackburn, the bastard prince."

  Ivan gave her a cold smile. "We bastards must stick together, given that our families so readily abandon us."

  Her face cooled into a mask of resentment. "If I'd abandoned you, you would be some pathetic Gypsy horse thief, dead or in prison by now."

  Ivan clenched his jaw in frustration. The truth of her words was a bitter pill to swallow, but no less the truth. As miserable as his childhood had been, from what he could tell, the other children in his mother's band had fared even worse. If any of them had survived the past twenty years, he'd not been able to locate them.

  Still, that did not pardon the old woman for her actions. He poured himself a glass of whisky, tossed it back without savoring the warm comfort of its stinging heat, then set the tumbler down with a sharp crack. "I'm leaving. Send word to Blackburn's house on Compton Square when you have departed."

  "I have no intention of leaving my own home," she replied in a frosty tone.

  Ivan paused at the door and stared at her. Twenty years ago she'd ripped him from his home, but even then, he would have welcomed her presence in his life. He would have welcomed anyone's presence in his life. But twenty years ago she'd abandoned him, a terrified child, to the cruelty of Burford Hall. To the cruelty of that drunken headmaster and his sadistic wife. To the cruelty of a community of boys, where the bullies reigned and the weak were crushed.

  He'd learned one important lesson at Burford Hall, however. One lesson that he lived by still. Might made right.

  Now that he had the might—his father's titles and the fortune attached to them—he had the right to do anything he wanted.

  He studied the aging crone before him with a cold, aloof gaze. It was too late for her to worm her way into his life now. Far too late. Besides, what she valued most in life— her esteemed position in society and the continuation of her family line—meant nothing to him. Less than nothing.

  "You cannot win against me, Grandmother," he said in a derisive drawl. "Stay here if you must, but I warn you, it will not make you happy. You'd be better off in the country, welcomed into the bosom of your family. Ah, but you have no family, do you? At least none that you can abide—or who can abide you. Perhaps your servants can comfort you in your decline."

  So saying, he turned on his heel and left, striding purposefully from the elegant drawing room, into the cold marble foyer, and then through the towering doors and down the granite steps. Though Westcott House was as fine a house as could be found in London, he thought of it as an unforgiving heap of stones. It was a magnificent credit to a title handed down for nearly four hundred years. But its only value to Ivan was as a tool of revenge. The ton, the season, the money—it was all a waste of time except insofar as he could use it to strike back at those who had hurt him.

  If it brought him no particular comfort to take that revenge, he refused to admit it. For if his goal was not revenge, if his one focus was not to bring low all those who once had looked down on him, then what in hell was he to do with the rest of his life?

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Houghton Manor, near Wellington, Somerset May 1829

  Lucy Drysdale heard her nephews' angry screams, but she chose to ignore them. Turning her back to the morning-room door, she reread the last paragraph of the letter she'd just received:

  ... will be lecturing at Fatuielle Hall during the season. If you are in London I encourage you to attend the entire series of lectures. You will have a particular interest in my theories on the intellectual and moral development of children. Until then I remain sincerely yours,

  Sir James Mawbey, B. A.

  Lucy clutched the letter to her bosom and sighed. Sincerely yours. Though she knew it was quite beyond foolish for her to read anything special into that simple closing, she could not help herself. If there was ever a man whose sincere feelings she wished to be the recipient of, it was Sir James Mawbey. Since reading the first of his articles she'd felt nothing but admiration for him.

  At long last a man who cared about more than shooting and gambling, and horses and land.

  At long last, a man who wondered about the same things she wondered about, and who had taken the next step by putting his ideas all down in articles. Brilliant articles.

  She'd read everything she could of his writings in the new field of psychology, and was more than impressed by the depth and breadth of his knowledge. More importantly, however, he'd validated so many of her own half-formed theories about why people behaved the way they did.

  When he'd responded to the letter she'd sent him, however, she'd become his most ardent admirer. Since then they'd corresponded several more times, but she had never dared hope to meet him. Until now.

  Unfortunately, her brother would never let her go. She knew how penurious Graham was when it came to money. Not to mention his disdain of her intellectual pursuits. He'd absolutely refused to let her attend university, even though a few women were beginning to do so. No matter how she'd pleaded, he'd remained obdurate, stating that she'd already had more education than a woman needed to have.

  It was foolish of her to even hope he'd finance a trip to London for her now, simply for the purpose of attending a lecture series—especially when the lectures pertained to subject matters he considered silly and trite. He'd often expressed the opinion that her intellectual interests should be sufficiently satisfied by their father's library and by her role now as the governess to his children.

  If anything, Lucy felt more stifled than before. She'd long ago read every book in the library, and as for the children, well, they were children. They could never take the place of well-educated adults with wide-ranging interests.

  They did not begin to compare to the brilliant Sir James Mawbey.

  She stared down at his letter and fingered its creases, daring to dream the impossible. What if she managed somehow to reach London? What if she met Sir James and he were unattached? Was it so unlikely that an attachment might be formed between them? Nothing so frivolous as passion, of course. Not with the serious Sir James. No doubt he did not believe in romantic love, any more than did she. But the love that could grow from respect and admiration ... That sort of affection would not be unlikely between them.

  Lucy stared around her, feeling a sudden guilt for having such thoughts. And yet the fact remained: she was desperate to find a reason to go to London. If she remained trapped in the Somerset countryside much longer, her mind would surely wither and die.

  Another scream broke into her thoughts, but once again she pushed it into the background. Her eldest nephew, Stanley, was an arrogant little monster whenever he wasn't blessedly asleep. As his father's heir, he was treated as the lord and master already. Accordingly, his younger brother, Derek, made it his life's purpose to punish Stanley for being born first. As for her nieces, Prudence, Charity, and Grace, they seemed determined not to live up to their names.

  Though Lucy had made some inroads relative to their manners since taking on the role of governess to Graham's five children, screaming was something she'd not yet been able to banish from their behavior.

  She could hear the voices of the two angry little boys now, and with a resigned sigh she tucked Sir James's letter into her pocket. She would have to go and make peace among them. Never mind that she'd already given the oldest ones lessons this morning, then taken the younger ones out for a nature walk. Surely she was entitled to a qui
et moment every now and again. But not today, it seemed.

  Then something shattered against a marble floor and she flew from the room.

  "Stanley! Derek!" The boys leapt apart, then backed away at Lucy's sharp cry. Though ten and nine respectively, they were similar in size and appearance, and identical in temperament, though no one but she saw the truth in that observation.

  "He called me a fart!"

  "He called me a horse's arse!"

  Appropriate in both cases, she thought, though she wisely kept that opinion to herself.

  Like mice out of the woodwork, the three girls appeared. Prudence, at twelve, was old enough to feel much more mature than her brothers, but still young enough to need to torture them about it. "Oh, dear. Are the children fussing again?"

  "Shut your trap, Pru!"

  "You shut your trap!"

  At that moment their mother, Hortense, hurried into the hall. "What in the world—" She stopped in mid-sentence when she spied the pseudo-Chinese vase shattered across the patterned marble floor of the lengthy hall. "Oh, dear. Oh, dear," she murmured, wringing her hands together. "Your father is going to be very displeased. Very displeased." Then she spied Lucy. "Oh, Lucy. How could you allow this to happen?"

  Lucy chose not to respond to that particular remark. Though she usually tried to be more sympathetic to her whiny sister-in-law—after all, the poor creature was married to Graham, and that was cross enough for anyone to bear—at the moment she had more important matters to deal with.

  "Prudence, take Charity and Grace into the rose garden. Now," she added when the girl seemed inclined to argue. "Hortense, if you will leave this to me?" She gave the woman a taut, pointed smile.

  "Oh, yes. But... but what of the vase?"