Dangerous to Love

by Rexanne Becnel

  "And what is it you think he needs?"

  Antonia met Miss Drysdale's skeptical gaze with a sincere expression firmly in place. Inside, however, she was congratulating herself. Really, but she could have made a glorious career on the stage. While Miss Drysdale did not agree with what she'd said, she did believe her motives. Time for the coup de grace.

  "What my grandson needs is someone to love him. Someone he can love in return." Though she said the words to move the girl's emotions, Antonia realized, even as she spoke them, that they were true. "He does not believe that, of course. I doubt he believes in love at all. But it's what he needs."

  Miss Drysdale's skepticism had faded. She leaned forward with an earnest expression. "Don't you think he's better able to find the right person for himself than you are?"

  "But he's not looking for her," Antonia scoffed. "Don't you see? It's only by denying him access to Valerie that he will ever take the time to do more than dance with her, flatter her, and steal a kiss or two from her. That's his pattern with women. If I can just slow him down a bit, make him work harder to charm her, I believe she can sink her hooks in him."

  "But she doesn't want to sink her hooks in him."

  Antonia waved one hand dismissively. "She is a pliable child. I told you that before. In time she will come to love him. For now it is sufficient that she be terrified of him."

  They stared at one another over the silver tray with its pitcher of hot milk and melted chocolate, its twin bowls of strawberry preserves and creamy butter, and its delicate plate of muffins. Then Miss Drysdale stood up and Lady Westcott's heart nearly stopped.

  "Under the circumstances I do not believe I can continue to act as Lady Valerie's chaperone. As soon as you can find a suitable replacement for me, I will depart the premises."

  "You cannot!" Antonia surprised both herself and the stubborn Miss Drysdale with the vehemence of her response. She had lurched to her feet. She forced herself now to sit down.

  "I cannot believe you would prefer to rot in Somerset the whole summer through, and all because we do not agree on the right woman for my grandson."

  "You have it quite wrong, Lady Westcott. I have no opinion or interest in the right woman for your grandson. You hired me to help Lady Valerie secure a good marriage. 'Tis her well-being I care for. If you wanted me to find a suitable mate, for your grandson, you should have informed me of that fact long ago."

  "Perhaps I should have," Antonia snapped, impatient with the direction this conversation was taking. Damn the girl for being too smart, too forward, and too cheeky by half. "Is there anyone you would recommend for the position of his wife?"

  It was a facetious question, of course. But the fact that the troublesome young woman across from her hesitated, as if giving it serious thought, heartened Antonia. Miss Drysdale wanted that role, she silently gloated. Oh, the chit might not be ready to admit it, even to herself. But Antonia knew it was so.

  "All right. All right, Miss Drysdale," she said, waving one hand as if in defeat. "Have it your way. Keep Ivan away from her, if you must. Find my godchild a more suitable fellow—suitable to her temperament. But allow me this much. Should Ivan come around a bit, and should Valerie display any interest in him, you will not discourage her. Agreed?"

  "I don't believe she will," Miss Drysdale warned.

  "Perhaps not. But I'll want your word that you will not try to unduly influence her should she warm up to him."

  For a long, nerve-wracking moment the girl did not respond and Antonia fought back the urge to give her a good shake. Finally the chit nodded. "Very well. I'll try to keep an open mind."

  "One other thing," Antonia said, hiding her relief. "Since you have ruined my plans for Ivan, you must make up for it."

  "Make up for it?" The younger woman's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "And how, precisely, am I to do that?"

  Antonia shrugged. "Keep your eyes open. Tell me if he shows any particular interest in one of this year's crop of young misses."

  "You want me to find a wife for him?" Miss Drysdale stared at her in disbelief.

  "I wouldn't put it that way. You needn't find him a wife. As you said, he will probably find one far better than I can. I only wish to speed up the process a bit. Are we agreed?"

  The hardheaded creature wanted to say no. Antonia could see that plain enough. Though the chit tried to hide the struggle going on inside her, she was not entirely successful. Thank heaven she was so loath to return to the country. In the end, however, Miss Drysdale sighed.

  "We are agreed," she answered in a tight voice.

  They were agreed also on who that future wife was to be, Antonia thought. Miss Drysdale just didn't know it yet.

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  The modiste and her several assistants came at eleven. Lucy made a brief appearance in the morning room to exclaim appropriately over the vast array of fabric bolts. Silks, muslins, sateens. Feathers and netting; buttons and braids. After narrowing the colors for Valerie's wardrobe to blues, whites, pinks, and a stunning silvery-gray, Lucy made her excuses, then made her escape.

  Lady Westcott was footing the bill for Valerie's extravagant wardrobe; Lucy thought it only appropriate that she select the patterns and decide on the dresses themselves. She was just thankful the dowager countess had allowed her this reprieve.

  She'd just narrowly missed being sent back to the drowning tedium of Somerset, and though she still didn't entirely trust her erstwhile employer, she'd been reminded rather pointedly just how precarious her position here was. She needed to take every advantage of her time in town—including searching for another position once this one ended in the fall.

  At the moment, however, she needed to think about this evening's lecture, about how she should approach Sir James after his talk was finished, and what she should say to him. She prayed she would be less addlepated in his presence than she'd been in Ivan Thornton's.

  Now why was she thinking about him? The last thing she needed was to think about Ivan Thornton and everything that had happened last night—and this morning.

  Hurrying up the stairs, she slipped into her bedchamber to fetch her bonnet and don her spencer before she went out. She meant to take a walk in Berkeley Square to compose her thoughts. When she spied the neatly wrapped box lying on her bed, however, she came to a quick halt.

  A box. On her bed.

  Her heart began to race. Ivan. She was sure of it.

  It made no sense, this certainty she felt. It was completely illogical. But logical and Ivan didn't belong in the same sentence, she feared. Not where she was concerned, anyway.

  She approached the box slowly. He's not going to pop out of it, she chastised herself when she reached a trembling hand toward it. It was no doubt her shawl, returned to her, albeit in a rather grandiose manner.

  But it was not the shawl, at least not the old one she'd worn for more than ten years. This shawl was an exquisite piece of work, heavy silk with the luster of sunlight in its luxuriant depths.

  She ran her hand over it, over the cool sleek fabric and the rich silken fringe that edged it. It was absolutely beautiful—and it must have come very dear. Even the color, a deep teal-green shot through with threads of gold and silver, was perfect.

  Unable to prevent herself, Lucy drew it out of the box and held it before her. There was no note, but it was from Ivan. Who else could it be from?

  Lucy sighed and rubbed the incredibly soft fabric against her cheek. Why had he done this? He must know an un married woman could not accept such a personal gift from a man. Yet how was she to return it? To send it back to him through one of the servants would be to alert everyone in the household about what he'd done. But for her to return it privately would be too dangerous. The last thing she wished to do was go anywhere near his suite of rooms.

  So what was she to do?

  Against her better judgment Lucy swirled the exquisite garment around her shoulders, then arranged it just so and stared at herself in the dressing
mirror in the corner. It brought out the gold highlights in her dark hair, and intensified her eyes to the same teal color. How could he have selected so perfect an item for her? When had he found the time to do so?

  No, the better question was, why had he done it? Why hadn't he simply returned her old shawl? Why had he taken it in the first place?

  Because he was perverse.

  She whipped the gorgeous shawl off and flung it onto the bed. She would have to return it to him. He had to see that he could not continue to toy with her, as he did with all the other women of the ton. He could not manipulate her as if she were some impressionable young miss.

  Indeed, she should intimate to him that he was being manipulated by his grandmother. Wouldn't that infuriate him! Unfortunately, it would also infuriate Lady Westcott, and Lucy was not willing to risk her stay in town merely for the satisfaction of enraging Ivan Thornton.

  Gnawing the inside of one cheek, she stared at the shawl. She'd have to hide it somewhere, just until she could return it. If one of the maids saw the box, there would be talk.

  Picking up a corner of the shawl between her thumb and forefinger, she laid it back in its box, replaced the top, and shoved the whole thing under the bed. She was not going to think about Ivan Thornton today. Absolutely not, she vowed as she shoved her arms into her hunter-green spencer, snatched up a bonnet of Dunstable straw, and tied the strings beneath her chin. She'd waited a long time to meet Sir James. She refused to let an arrogant Gypsy earl ruin this day for her.

  Rummaging in one of her hatboxes, she retrieved the thin packet of letters she'd received from Sir James. She would go out into Berkeley Square Park, find a quiet bench, and reread all her idol's letters. She would reflect on her true purpose for being in London, and she would relegate the Earl of Westcott to his rightful place in her life. He was a charming rake, a practiced seducer, and it behooved every young woman to learn how to deal with that sort. But to put any stock in his attentions was to play the utter fool-no matter how much one might sympathize with his awful childhood.

  Ivan watched Miss Lucy Drysdale stride across the smoothly paved street and into the park that took up the center of the square. She wasn't wearing the shawl he'd sent her, not that he'd expected her to. Any other unattached female of his acquaintance would have worn it. Any other unattached female would have flaunted it before all of society and made sure everyone knew who'd given it to her.

  But not Miss Lucy Drysdale.

  Not Miss Lucy Drysdale who never minced but rather strode purposefully down the street. Who dressed like a spinster but kissed like a courtesan. Who could be the belle of any ball, but who would rather attend a musty old lecture.

  He let the curtain fall then stared down at his nearly naked body. He was hard. Just watching the stubborn wench walk across the road and disappear into the shrubbery across the way had made him as hard as a green lad in the throes of his first love.

  Only it wasn't love. Not for the green lad nor for himself. It was lust he felt for the bluestocking Miss Drysdale. Plain, uncomplicated lust.

  "Your bath is ready," the manservant behind him intoned.

  "Thank you. You may go," Ivan added. The last thing he needed was to remove the robe wrapped loosely around him and reveal his uncomfortable condition to the man acting as his valet. Not that the man would suspect the source of his arousal. Nonetheless, he preferred to keep his feelings private.

  Too bad Lucy wasn't here to see what she had wrought.

  The door clicked behind the servant and Ivan let out a harsh breath. Damn the wench!

  He threw off the robe and stepped into the tub, then sank down into the steaming water. It was so hot it burned, but that didn't distract his wayward male member from its focus.

  He should have called for a cold bath; maybe that would have diverted him from the prurient thoughts circulating in his head. But he doubted it. In the several days he'd spent whoring with Elliot, he'd not once been nearly so aroused as he was right now—and all on account of a woman not even in the same room with him; a woman most of society would think not a very good match for so wealthy a young lord as himself; a woman who was on the shelf, reduced to chaperoning more eligible young women.

  Of all the women he'd met in town, she was by far the most interesting. Were he serious about marrying, she would head his list.

  But he wasn't looking for marriage, not to her or anyone else. What he wanted—what he needed—was a more satisfying bed partner than his most recent company.

  He closed his eyes, resting his head on the rolled edge of the tub. What he wouldn't give to have Lucy's slender hands soaping him down right now.

  Of its own accord his right hand found his engorged member. The hot soapy water let his fingers slide erotically up and down. His fevered thoughts let him pretend the hand was smaller, and the stroke less urgent. He pictured her in the shawl he'd sent to her—and not a stitch on beneath the heavy silk. Her hair would be wild and loose about her shoulders, as it was this morning. Her legs would be long and bare below the rich silk fringe.

  He let out a low groan and his hand moved faster. This was insanity, to lust after a damned bluestocking spinster when he could have any woman he wanted!

  But lust he did, and as the water sloshed over the edges of the tub he succumbed to the frustration he felt.

  Afterward he sat in the cooling water, sated and yet not truly satisfied. It had been a poor second to what he truly wanted. But perhaps it would take the edge off his need for a while. The last thing he wanted to do was alert her to his desperate feelings.

  But he would have to do something about this, he knew. Flirting with her was only making it worse. He needed to seduce the stubborn woman and be done with it. Once he'd had her he'd get over her. It had always been that way for him.

  He took a slow breath then let it out. Time to be up and about. Time to get on with the day.

  Time to take a brisk turn in Berkeley Square Park.

  ... their minds are like sponges, soaking up both the intentional and unintentional lessons we would teach them. They learn their alphabet and also how long they must scream in order to attract their parents' attention. They learn to count and do complicated mathematical computations, and how to compliment or threaten or otherwise manipulate the people around them. In short, there is far more to the whole education of the child than what is presented to him in the schoolroom.

  Lucy stared at the words in the letter. What was that about mathematical computations? She reread the passage, concentrating this time. She'd had the same problem all morning. No matter how she tried to focus on Sir James's letters, her thoughts kept slipping away in other directions.

  No, not directions, plural. Direction, singular. One direction only: to Ivan Thornton. Ivan the terrible. Ivan the troublesome. Ivan who tortured her thoughts and tortured her body.

  With a frustrated sigh Lucy shifted on the hard park bench. Rhododendrons bloomed directly across the path from her, a brilliant mix of pink and white. The tall linden trees that marched single file around the edges of the park were in full leaf, green and vibrantly alive this brisk spring day. Cheeky sparrows and tiny finches quarreled in the oak tree just to her left, and a gray squirrel scampered by, pausing to stare hopefully in her direction.

  But Lucy's mind was not on squirrels or birds, nor on flowers and trees. Ivan Thornton had placed a claim on every thought in her head, and he simply would not let her go. Why was she allowing him to affect her so? She, who was usually so logical and in control, seemed ever to behave like a fool where he was concerned.

  Logic. That was the key, she decided. Straightening up, she folded Sir James's letter and set the whole bundle of them aside. Instead of succumbing to emotion, she needed to remind herself of all the perfectly sound reasons Ivan was so unsuitable, as much for herself as for Valerie.

  He was insincere. That was the main reason.

  He was outrageous. From his outrageous earring to the outrageous gift he'd sent her.


  He was far too rich for the likes of her, and far too good-looking as well. And he was eaten up with anger from his unhappy past.

  She'd been doing very well with her logical assessments of his drawbacks, up until that last one. He was eaten up with anger, and justifiably so, for he'd apparently endured the most wretched and lonely childhood.

  But then, had his earlier life in one of England's nomadic Gypsy bands been any better?

  Lucy stared at the rhododendrons across the way without really seeing them. She'd never considered what sort of life Gypsies lived, especially Gypsy children. She suspected, however, that Gypsy parents must love their children every bit as much as did regular British citizens. Assuming that was so, it followed that no matter the circumstances of a child's upbringing, growing up loved was the most essential factor of all. Language, clothing, culture—even religion— were of lesser moment than the security of a family's love.

  It was a bitter revelation to admit how much she took for granted her own family, and how critical and impatient she could be toward them. She vowed never to be so un-appreciative again.

  But that did not alter by a jot her confusing feelings for Ivan. If he had been loved those first few years in his mother's care, how much cruder must the ensuing years have been for him.

  "What I wouldn't give to decipher that frown between your eyes."

  Lucy gasped. Her gaze shot to the tall man standing just before her. Ivan! Her face went immediately scarlet.

  Why must she blush so readily? She did it in no one's presence but his. And why was he here?

  "What were you thinking about?" he continued when she did not answer, but only stared stupidly at him. "Dare I hope your thoughts were of me?"

  "No. No, I wasn't thinking of you. Anything but," she lied. Then thankfully, her muddled brains managed to right themselves and she drew herself up. "Are you following me?"