She remained there, in the gold and cream striped chair, for a long while. The sun broke the hold of darkness and slowly brightened the heavy drapes. The pretty room came into a sharper focus—the mahogany bedroom suite, the gilt-framed floral paintings. But still she sat there, contemplating the weeks and months to come.
Perhaps she should speak to Lady Westcott about taking another house for the duration of their stay in town. For one thing, she did not think she could survive living under the same roof as the violently attractive and unpredictable Lord Westcott. In addition, placing young Lady Valerie in constant proximity to the very man she was most expressly not to become linked with, was not very wise.
Unless what the dowager countess wanted and what she said she wanted were two different things entirely.
Was the old woman wily enough to believe that her wayward grandson would seriously pursue only that which he was denied—or rather she whom he was denied?
Lucy sat in the chair a while longer contemplating that thought until she heard an upstairs maid moving about in the hall, and a street sweeper whistling somewhere in the street below her window. She stood up then, feeling more exhausted than she had when she'd first laid herself down. For now she would simply observe her employer and her young charge. Perhaps she'd be better able to deduce the countess's true purpose.
She would also keep a watch on Ivan, Lord Westcott. In the space of less than twelve hours she'd already had two dismaying confrontations with the man. She'd slapped him last night for his impertinence, and should have slapped him again this morning for so boldly rapping at her door.
But it was not those two incidents which most unsettled her. The sad fact was, the man had too much appeal by half. What's more, he'd practiced these many years just how to frustrate and stymie his grandmother. At the least Lucy owed herself time to observe him and figure out how best to deal with him.
But as she poured water from an exquisite porcelain pitcher into its matching bowl to begin her morning ablutions, she knew dealing with him would not be easy. He was smart and clearly bent on making his grandmother's life miserable. And because of her association with the old woman, he seemed set on making her own life miserable too.
Just think of him as an overgrown version of Derek or Stanley, she told herself. Or Derek and Stanley, all rolled into one. Don't try to thwart him; merely steer him in a slightly different direction. Funnel all that ferocious energy someplace else.
But what was she to do about her completely inappropriate attraction to him?
Ignore it, was the only answer she could find. Ignore it. Bury it. Think about Sir James Mawbey instead.
Yes, Sir James. She seized on the thought of her idol with relief. Ivan Thornton might exude the powerful animal magnetism that any normal, healthy woman would respond to. But he was no Sir James Mawbey, possessed of such deep insights and intellectual gifts. She would ignore Ivan Thornton and think only of Sir James. His first lecture was less than a week away. Surely between now and then she could put a damper on her silly, girlish emotions.
Or so she prayed.
She did not see the earl again that day. Nor the next. Nor the next.
Lady Valerie arrived on Wednesday and they all spent that evening at home, getting the easily startled Valerie settled in. She'd traveled with her maid, a young girl so awed by London and Westcott House and the presence of a real countess that Lucy wanted to groan. Two complete babies, they were. She would have no help whatsoever from the maid Tilly.
A day and a half later the maid's attitude was not much improved. "You will not be required to attend tomorrow's dance, Tilly," Lucy told her. "Lady Westcott and I shall accompany Lady Valerie."
Relief flooded the girl's mousy face. Valerie's exquisite features, however, clouded over. "But... but I need her. Tilly has been with me since first I was given a maid of my own. Oh, please. Do not make me go there without her—"
"Don't behave so ridiculously," Lady Westcott interrupted, giving Valerie a sharp look. "A maid in the ballroom? Would you have her hold your hand and prop you up?"
Lucy had determined from the first that Valerie was petrified of the dowager countess. As it turned out, it was a blessing, for the girl clung instinctively to Lucy for comfort. Now Lucy put a reassuring arm around the petite young woman.
"You will have me, Valerie. I will be at your side every minute save when you are dancing." She could feel the girl tremble, and she knew what her next words would be.
"Must I dance?"
Lady Westcott snorted, but Lucy cut her off before she could make another ascerbic remark and frighten Valerie further. "This is an ordinary dance, not actually a ball. There will be dancing, and if you're asked to dance you must accept. It would be considered a great insult to the hapless fellow if you turned him down. You will do fine," she added, giving her a little squeeze.
"Come, let's practice," she continued. "I'll dance the man's part. Just call me Lord Fumblefoot. Will you play?" she asked the countess as she led Valerie into position in the middle of the floor. "Or shall I be forced to hum?"
Ivan followed the unlikely sounds of a discordant piano melody mingled with the singing of a woman of better than decent voice. He'd spent the last few days with Elliot on Regent Street, drinking and whoring within an inch of his life. To his immense disgust, he'd discovered it did no good to behave abominably if the crotchety old bitch did not hear of his actions. Why he'd not thrown her out on her ear was hard to say. His only explanation was that he was bored. If nothing else she and her new companions would be diverting. So he'd come back tonight to torment her in what ever way seemed most appropriate. And to see if he could torment the strikingly lovely Miss Lucy Drysdale.
The last thing he'd expected to hear was music coming from the second parlor.
The scene that met his eyes was equally unexpected. The old grande dame sat at the pianoforte, like a raven perched over the ivory keys, playing a creaky version of one of society's favorite melodies of the moment. Meanwhile, Miss Drysdale danced with an exquisite young blonde, taking the male part to the younger woman's hesitant role.
He stood in the half-opened door, sheltered by the shadows, and watched their antics, fascinated and annoyed all at the same time.
It was Miss Drysdale who was singing. Her voice was throaty and low, not the shrill warble that was currently so fashionable. Likewise she was too tall for the current mode, and her hair too dark. But she was not too tall for him. And dark though her hair was, it seemed nevertheless to catch every light in the room. Her tresses fairly gleamed with streaks of lustrous gold and fiery red.
As he stared at her, he felt the unexpected rise of desire. But it was the younger girl he was interested in, he told himself. Not the chaperone. He forced himself to focus on her instead—his cousin, of course. The girl Miss Drysdale was to protect from him.
What a sparkling little diamond she was, he now saw. With her blond hair she glittered like a silvery jewel. She was small and fair, with blue eyes, he would guess. Only blue would suit that soft, pink complexion.
He grinned at the thought of the game that awaited him. Women had never been much of a problem for him. Even those who'd thought him merely a penniless navy man or an amoral smuggler had not been very hard to seduce. They'd wanted to be seduced and the fact that he'd been a totally inappropriate man had not deterred them in the least. It was even worse now that he was so eminently marriageable—or so able to afford a very expensive mistress, depending on the sort of woman he was dealing with.
This innocent, fresh from the countryside, would present no problem at all—except perhaps to generate some genuine show of enthusiasm on his part. Then again, perhaps this one had a brain in her head. Perhaps this one could speak on subjects beyond the latest French dress patterns and the number of pairs of gloves stacked in her bulging armoire.
Then the song ended. The dowager countess looked up, their gazes locked, and Ivan wouldn't have cared if his cousin was an ugly, tongue-tied imbecile.
She was forbidden to the likes of him? By damn, but he would have her.
But not to wed. Never that. No, he would woo her. He would steal her heart. She would cry copious tears on his account and turn down every suitable fellow who offered for her. She would vow to become a Catholic and retire to a nunnery if she could not have her one true love. In short, he would see to it that she made her entire family frantic with her obsession with the man denied to her. Especially her great-aunt, the high-and-mighty Dowager Countess of Westcott. But marry her? Not bloody likely. He would never marry any woman of the ton.
He clenched his jaw and his nostrils flared in anticipation of the battle to come. As for Miss Lucy Drysdale, she'd been lured into the middle of a war she did not begin to understand. If she were wise, she would run straight back to whatever country hamlet she'd come from. If she were not wise, then she would soon learn a bitter lesson. For Ivan Thornton did not abide by her society's rules. He was not of her society nor did he intend ever to be. For now it pleased him to play the role given him as the only offspring of the late unlamented earl. But it was merely a role, donned for a purpose, to be abandoned once that purpose was achieved.
Meanwhile, he had the strangest urge to go dancing.
Lucy saw the dowager countess stiffen, and at once she knew why. Blast, blast, and double blast! she swore to herself. He'd returned!
She swung Valerie around so that she could see her adversary. Valerie had been staring down at her feet, counting her steps under her breath. Lucy's move caught her unawares and after stumbling a bit she raised a frowning face to Lucy. "Was that the place we were supposed to turn? I thought you said..."
She trailed off when Lucy did not respond with so much as a glance. That was because Lucy was working so hard to maintain her own composure. Ivan Thornton was here and her battle for Valerie was about to begin. Heaven help her if the girl found him half so attractive as she herself did!
"Good evening, madam." He bowed smartly to the old woman and gave her a beautiful, if utterly false, smile. "Had I known you were entertaining this evening, I would have sent word ahead that I was returning."
He turned that dark, seductive smile on Lucy and Valerie, who still stood in their dancers' embrace. "How nice to see you again, Miss Drysdale." He paused, then went on when she did not respond. "Will you introduce me to your charming dance partner?"
Lucy gritted her teeth. If she was to teach Valerie how to behave in society, she could not very well do so by responding rudely to the man. Especially when he seemed set on behaving politely—for a change. He'd not behaved so well the night they'd met, she fumed. But she could not very well bring that up now.
With an effort she released Valerie and forced herself to give him the barest smile. "Good evening, my lord. I had not realized you'd never before met your cousin. Lady Valerie, this is Ivan Thornton, Earl of Westcott."
Lucy could see from Valerie's widening eyes that though she'd never met Ivan before, she most assuredly knew all about him. And she could see in Ivan's face that he was not pleased with the lackluster introduction he'd been given. Good, Lucy thought. She continued. "My Lord Westcott, may I introduce the Lady Valerie Stanwich. Lady Valerie is from Arundel in Sussex. Her father is Carl Stanwich, Earl of Hareten."
"He knows all that," Lady Westcott interrupted. She'd risen from the piano bench, and now she approached the trio of young people. "He knows who you are, Lady Valerie. And be forewarned, child, that he is very likely the most charming and insincere fellow you are likely to meet the entire duration of your stay in town." Though the countess kept her words light, she was not as successful with her expression.
Following Lady Westcott's lead, Lucy hooked Valerie's arm with her own and forced herself to smile. "Listen to your godmother, Lady Valerie, for she knows whereof she speaks. Your cousin has far too successful a reputation with the ladies to be deemed suitable for so young a person as you," she finished, trying to maintain a lighthearted tone.
Ivan gave her a potent smile. "Why, Miss Drysdale. What an un-Christian attitude toward someone you've only just met. And here I thought I'd been more than charitable, offering to answer any questions you might have about life in town."
He was deliberately taunting her about what she'd seen that night, and about his insulting offer to answer her questions about the goings-on between him and that... that hussy.
"Thank you for your offer," she replied through gritted teeth. "Nonetheless, I believe Valerie will be more at ease in... in a less worldly sort of company than your own. Isn't that right, Lady Westcott?" ,
When she glanced at the countesss for confirmation, however, the older woman did not appear in the least perturbed. Poor Valerie was trembling in Lucy's arms at so frank a discussion, but Lady Westcott seemed to care nothing at all for the girl's reaction. Could it benhat she wasn't really worried about sparing Valerie a broken heart? Lucy suppressed a grimace. Could it be that the entire matter of her employment was a fraud, a deceit devised by the wily Lady Westcott to heighten Ivan's interest in the lovely and innocent Valerie? And Lucy was set most uncomfortably right in the middle of it.
When Lady Westcott finally responded it was with an airy wave of her hand. "Ivan is only flirting with her, Miss Drysdale. It behooves the child to learn to deflect such pleasant, but insincere, attentions."
Yes* it certainly did, Lucy wanted to reply. But she wisely kept that opinion to herself. And the fact was, she could not find it in her heart to blame the old woman. Lady Westcott only wanted her grandson well settled before she passed on. All in all, a reasonable enough desire. But Lucy knew instinctively that young Valerie was not at all the right sort of woman for Ivan. No, Valerie would be devoured whole by the likes of Ivan Thornton, and Lucy could not in good conscience allow that, no matter the un* pleasantness that lay between Lady Westcott and her grand son.
She'd been given this position ostensibly to help Valerie make an appropriate match. Despite Lady Westcott's deception, Lucy decided she would put all her effort into doing just that. For no matter his title and fortune—and his ferocious good looks—Ivan Thornton was not the right man for Valerie.
Staunch in her convictions, Lucy faced the earl. "It would be terribly un-Christian of me not to hope for the best for both you and Lady Valerie. I pray she will find the right sort of man for herself, just as I pray you will find the right sort of woman for yourself."
And they both knew what sort of woman that was!
She stared straight at him, daring him with her eyes to say anything that would reveal the terrible depths of his depravity, to reveal the wicked behavior he had participated in during his last night at Westcott House. He could not, she knew, not if he meant to impress Valerie. Nor was he likely to declare his piousness, not with any degree of sincerity. So how would he answer her?
What he did was smile at her, a slow, easy smile that managed to make of him the very image of male beauty. For a long breathless moment he forced her to see his raw virility, the essence of his masculinity that was both attractive and threatening to the feminine psyche, both fascinating and yet a terrible danger too.
He unnerved her quite to the core.
"You are a devout Christian, Miss Drysdale?"
"Why . . . Why, of course. Of course I am. Aren't you?" she added, hoping to turn the subject away from herself.
That dark, seductive smile remained in place. "Not so devout as you, I'm certain." Then he somehow seemed to draw back into himself and in the blink of an eye his focus shifted to Lady Valerie. "If I might be of some assistance?"
He strode up to the two women and without so much as a by-your-leave, he freed Valerie's hand from Lucy's and drew the girl toward him. "Now, Lady Valerie, if it's dancing you wish to practice, you'll be better served dancing with someone who knows the male portion of the dance— no offense meant, Miss Drysdale. The same tune will suffice," he added over his shoulder to his grandmother. Then without waiting for a response from either woman, he faced the still silent young girl, ma
de her a very correct bow, and readied himself for the dance.
Lucy glared at him, then turned expectantly to Lady Westcott. Surely she would put an end to this ... this hooliganism.
But the countess had her own agenda. That was plain from the speculative glint in her sharp old eyes. "You are very jolly tonight, Ivan. I don't believe I've ever seen you so completely at ease."
He did not rise to her goading—for that's what it was, Lucy suspected. The countess was goading him, trying to make him react so she could pull Valerie from his grasp— both literally and figuratively. Of course, that would only make Ivan pursue the girl all the more vigorously, which she now could see had been Lady Westcott's plan all along. What a tortured relationship the two of them shared!
"How can I not be at ease in my own home, surrounded by what little family I still retain?"
Lucy heard the faint edge of sarcasm in his voice, and despite her better judgment, she felt the tiniest bit of compassion for him. He'd been deprived of family all his life. Even though her own family could be excruciatingly trying, they did love her and want only the best for her. Ivan had never enjoyed that luxury.
Still, that did not justify his reckless behavior. Most especially it did not give him free rein to terrify a young girl. And Valerie was most definitely terrified. Her blue eyes had widened to huge proportions. Her soft pink complexion had gone pale, and she stood rooted to her spot, her dancing lessons utterly forgotten.
"If you will not play," Ivan continued, speaking to his grandmother, "then perhaps Miss Drysdale will do so." He turned his glittering sapphire gaze expectantly on Lucy and once more she was unnerved, shaken to the core, as if his masculine will fought to overpower hers—and was succeeding.
She blinked, then glanced over at the pianoforte. Once free of his mesmerizing eyes, her mind clicked finally into gear. "Yes, I think I will play," she agreed, as a devious plan took root. "Do you know the galop?" She looked up at him, a challenging expression on her face. "We haven't practiced that yet,"
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