That drew an interested look from both of his friends. Alex's bored expression evaporated and a sly grin lifted one side of his mouth. "Out with it, man. Is she worth pursuing, or do you mean only to aggravate the countess?"
Ivan studied his two friends. Bastards all, they'd bonded during the grim years at Burford Hall. Without them and Elliot, he sometimes thought he might not have survived those hellish years. They were closer than brothers—from what he'd seen of brothers. They'd been in and out of any number of scrapes together. They always looked out for one another, and even had shared women from time to time.
But this was not one of those times.
"I can handle my grandmother and her plotting myself. All I ask of you is that you keep Lady Valerie's dance card filled."
"And what of this Miss Drysdale?" Alex persisted, his clear eyes lit with curiosity. "Shall we keep her dance card filled also? Or shall you tend to that task yourself?"
"Do chaperones have dance cards?" Giles asked. Of them all, he was the least familiar with proper society and its maze of rules.
"No," Ivan answered. "But that doesn't mean she can not dance."
Nor that she, smart and outspoken though she was, could not be made to dance to his tune.
It was almost noon when the Earl of Westcott had a carriage brought around. That was morning by town standards, for breakfast was not served until after ten and morning calls were not actually made until early afternoon.
Lucy had forgotten how silly it all was, for she had learned to enjoy the early morning hours these recent years in the country. Nevertheless, the carriage was here now and they were going out. She could hardly wait.
If only the disconcerting Earl of Westcott weren't accompanying them. To make things even worse, he had ordered the open phaeton brought around for them, a fancy bit of work which necessitated that the three of them crowd in together on the single seat. In order to maintain proper decorum, Lucy settled herself squarely between his lordship and Lady Valerie.
She and Valerie had discussed Ivan Thornton at length before breakfast, and Lucy was quite relieved that the girl was not in the least enamored of the dark, dashing earl. To be more accurate, the girl was positively petrified of the man. He was far too dangerous for the likes of timid Valerie. Far too roguish.
"But he has twenty thousand a year in rents, and even more than that from the funds," Lucy had reminded the girl. "Your family would consider him a brilliant match for you. Aren't you at all tempted?"
Valerie's chin had trembled and her lovely blue eyes had sparkled with the hint of tears. "Oh, please, Miss Drysdale, do not throw me at him. I beg you, do not. He is far too ... too ..." She had finished with a helpless little shudder. "He terrifies me. I fear he will make mincemeat of me, if that makes any sense at all."
Indeed, it made perfect sense to Lucy. After reassuring Valerie that she would thwart any possible match between the two of them, Lucy had prepared herself for the trying hours ahead.
"This vehicle is rather small," she began when he seated himself beside her and took up the reins. "Surely you have something larger in your stables."
"I thought the open phaeton a better choice than the closed carriage," he answered as he chirruped to the pair of handsome bays. He swung his head around and met her gaze, and her heart began to thud. Then holding her eyes captive with his, he shifted his leg so that his knee touched hers.
Lucy's heart managed somehow to lodge in her throat.
But then, that was what he wanted, she reminded herself. To unsettle her. To disconcert her.
She refused to let him succeed.
"If you insist on crowding, us this way," she muttered, "then at least be good enough to keep your ... your limbs to yourself."
"My limbs?" He gave a wicked laugh, displaying a flash of white teeth against his dark skin. "That's right. How could I forget? The word 'legs' is far too coarse for ladies of refinement." He leaned forward just a little, and in the process brushed his arm against Lucy's. "Tell me, Lady Valerie. You grew up with several brothers. Do you refer to your lower appendages as 'legs' or 'limbs'?"
Lucy could feel Valerie trembling. Or was it herself? She caught the girl's hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. Though she was glad Valerie's timidity would ultimately be her best protection from the earl's devilish charms, there was a part of her that wanted Valerie to stiffen her spine. She should put Ivan Thornton in his place with a short, pithy reply.
But that was not going to happen, and Lucy knew it. When the silence from Valerie's side of the seat lengthened, when the girl's cheeks grew hot with color and her hold on Lucy's hand turned positively painful, Lucy knew it was up to her.
"Lord Westcott, if you insist on bringing up subjects inappropriate to a young woman of Lady Valerie's sensibilities, then perhaps it would be better if you turn this vehicle right around and return us home."
They hadn't quite reached the end of the square. When they did, however, Ivan proceeded down Berkeley Street, then turned into Picadilly Street, as if he hadn't heard her at all. But he'd heard, all right, and his next words con firmed it.
"You must allow me the opportunity to ascertain my cousin's sensibilities, Miss Drysdale. Athough we are family, we have only just met. If she is not as prone to frankness and candor as you are, you cannot hold me accountable for not being knowledgeable of that fact. I'd be willing to wager that you, notwithstanding your current role as her chaperone, are more likely to call your lower appendage a leg. But if you and Lady Valerie prefer I call it a limb, then very well. I admit it. My limb is encroaching on your space."
He pressed his leg very deliberately against hers and grinned. Then he pulled it away. "There. Is that better? My limb is no longer touching your limb."
If Lucy hadn't been so flustered by the unsettling feel of the strong muscular thigh lying beside hers, she would have dismissed his behavior as merely the teasing antics of a young man. Unfortunately there was a deeper, darker side to his teasing. A threateningly masculine side that she was less sure how to handle.
Praying he was finished with such antics, she resolved to concentrate on getting through the drive as best she could.
Despite her earlier objections, Lucy had to admit that the day was perfect for an open vehicle. The sky was a high, clear blue, decorated with occasional clouds of brilliant white. A light breeze kept the weather mild and she found herself enjoying the ride very much. This was London at its best, free of either fog or smoke.
He handled the pair of bays with a masterful touch. She'd always heard that Gypsies were especially good with horses. His hands were light on the reins, but strong too. She watched them with rapt fascination until she realized what she was doing. Then she tore her eyes away and cleared her throat.
They drove down Piccadilly Street to Park Lane with only the most desultory of conversation. "That's the King's Palace there, across Green Park," she pointed out to Valerie. "And there, at that fountain up ahead, that's Hyde Park Corner," she added, trying to keep her attention any where but on Ivan Thornton.
As they neared Stanhope Gate, which led into the park, the busy traffic grew heavier still. Once they turned in at the gate, however, it became little more than a queue lined up through the park, phaetons and curricles and landaus— even a hack or two. And whoever wasn't in a carriage was mounted on a spirited steed.
Valerie was all eyes, staring about like the green girl she was. During her own first season Lucy had been just as impressed by the dazzling display of high society, of the silks and muslins, braid and ribbons, feathers and jewels. Her second season she'd affected a more blase attitude. Now, however, she found a certain amusement in it. Like children, the ton had come to the park to show off their newest toys. One elegant woman remarked on another's cunning bonnet. One top lofty fellow complimented another's fine mount. And everyone kept a close watch on everyone else, all the while trying to display themselves in the best and most flattering light.
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 roue 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 car riage 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 suitæors.
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-sto
ry 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 I 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 bysuch 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.
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