It was not supposed to be like this between them.
"Spread your legs for me."
Lucy swallowed hard. "Why are you doing this?"
"Spread your legs."
"I was never a part of your grandmother's plotting, Ivan. You know that! I fought you at every turn."
If anything, his expression grew grimmer. "So you did. But none of that matters. My grandmother's untimely interruption has reminded me of something I had momentarily forgotten: that our marriage is like all other English marriages, a convenient arrangement for both parties. You accused me once of using my title and wealth to get me whatever I wanted, and it seems you were right. In return for my Westcott name and money, I have purchased a wife. You. And now all I want in return is my money's worth. So come. Spread your legs. Show me what my Westcott name and money have purchased for me."
With a cry of pain and rage, Lucy rolled away. She could not bear another moment of this!
But Ivan was faster and stronger and possessed of not one ounce of sympathy for her plight.
In a moment he had her trapped beneath him. With one hand he imprisoned her wrists above her head. With the other he unfastened his robe. Then he used his legs to force hers apart so that she lay helpless and exposed beneath him.
"You have what you and every other English miss wants, Lady Westcott!" he hissed in her ear. "Now give me what every husband wants in return."
He shifted over her, letting her feel the full weight and strength of his virile male body. The muscular chest that pressed against her soft breasts. The lean stomach and hard loins that ground into her belly. The powerful thighs that kept her helpless against the invasion of his arousal.
Lucy was terrified and furious—and sad beyond all telling. Her eyes swam with tears. "I would gladly give you what you want. But I cannot—" She broke off, swallowing a sob. "I cannot bear it if you take it."
Ivan did not want to hear her words. He did not want to see her tears. What he wanted was to take his selfish pleasure of her body—then drink himself into oblivion.
He should have known better than to let his guard down with her. He should have known his grandmother's poison was somehow involved!
But even in his rage and pain, Lucy's words rang in his ears, an echo and an accusation that would not go away. I cannot bear it if you take it.
Damnation! What was he doing?
With a groan he rolled off her and lay there, one hand flung across his face while he fought back the demons that had him in their grip. But hiding his eyes could not blind him to the ugliness of what he'd almost done. Beside him she lay as before. He could feel, however, the soft shaking of the mattress.
She was weeping. He'd done that to her. And why? Because once again that old bitch had set off his temper?
For a short while he'd believed there could be something good between Lucy and him. He hadn't wanted to call it love, but now he knew that was what he'd hoped for. He'd hoped that she had married him for himself. For Ivan Thornton, born of uncertain parentage and uncertain future.
What a fool's dream that was! And though he knew she had not set out to marry him for his title, at the moment that didn't really help. He'd wanted more from her. Unfortunately he'd overlooked the fact that she was a woman— not so weak as his mother, nor as vicious as his grandmother, but a woman nonetheless. He'd vowed long ago never to allow a woman to have control over him again.
And now, by trying to take control of her, by forcing himself on her, he'd killed what little affection she did have for him.
He pushed himself upright and glanced warily at her. On the luxurious silk her long legs appeared paler than ever. Her skin was the alabaster of moonlight, her hair held the luster of mink. Her silent sobs had eased, but she looked cold and vulnerable now.
More than anything he wanted to warm her and protect her. But he couldn't bear the thought of her flinching away from him in fear.
His gaze traveled up the sweetly curved length of her until their eyes met. When he saw her fear, he turned away, disgusted with himself.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'll leave now."
But when he tried to rise, she caught him by the arm. "Ivan..."
He set his jaw and shook his head. "I have to go."
But she would not release him. Instead she knelt on the bed, face to face with him when he stood. "I don't want you to go." Then she wound her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him.
His body responded at once. She was not cold at all but warm as melted wax, and just as pliable. But still he fought the pull of her. He tried to remove her arms. "You don't have to do this."
"I know." She kissed his jaw, his chin, the place where his neck curved into his shoulder.
Ivan shivered. He wanted to make her stop, but he could not. Though her caresses were carnal, and meant to fire his passions, there was something in them that was more than merely physical. She soothed him even as she aroused him. She surrounded him with the sweetness of her heart even as she surrounded him with the sweetness of her body.
But that was an illusion, he reminded himself. The so-called sweetness of a woman's heart was a myth. A fairy tale. Once again he tried to put her from him.
She would not relent though, and when she pulled his head down and captured his mouth with hers, Ivan could fight no longer. With a groan of anguish and of longing, of denial and of need, he wrapped her in his arms and carried them both down onto the bed.
This joining was not as fierce as before. It was tender and silent and almost reverent. But when they were done, when he poured himself into her welcoming body and collapsed into her welcoming embrace, he knew he'd never been so connected to another human being. She'd pierced his armor and burrowed under his skin and found her way unerringly into his heart.
In the aftermath she slept while Ivan lay beside her on his huge bed, staring up into the darkness—and sweating.
This wasn't what he'd bargained for. He'd wanted her to need him. He'd wanted to be the one to control their relationship. He hadn't considered the consequences should he need her—should he actually go so far as to love her.
* * *
Chapter Seventeen
Ivan drained the whiskey bottle, watching as the last amber drop wobbled, stretched, then fell into the glass he held in his other hand. His right hand did not shake as he lowered the bottle to the table. Nor did his left when he raised the glass and took a gulp of its fiery contents.
But inside he was shaking.
He glanced around restlessly. Giles and Alex were hunched over a backgammon board. They'd wagered ten sovereigns on the outcome of the game. Alex was intent on his moves—he needed the money. Chances were he didn't have the wherewithal to settle his debt should Giles win. But Giles was intent too; he always played to win, whether anything of value rested on the outcome or not.
Although Alex and Giles were occupied, however, Elliot was not. When Elliot met his eye, Ivan raised his glass and the two of them drank in silence. But it was an uneasy silence, at least for Ivan.
He swore at himself. Why in hell had he abandoned his bride and made his way here, to the Piss Pot? He set down his glass with a sharp thud.
"Did Mawbey say anything to any of you that might have indicated his plans?"
Giles shrugged. Alex said, "Not to me. You have to applaud the man's boldness, though. He has more balls than I would have given him credit for."
"My money's on the chit."
Everyone's gaze turned to Elliot. "You think Lady Valerie put him up to it? She's so innocent I doubt she's even heard of Gretna Green," Giles said.
Ivan tilted his head, stretching out the kinks in his neck. "Elliot is probably right. My dear, innocent cousin seemed determined to have him. It wouldn't surprise me at all if she pressured him into it."
"So. What are you going to do about it?" Elliot asked.
"Why should I have to do anything about it?"
Elliot smiled and Ivan was reminded of a day more than twenty yea
rs ago when a younger Elliot had bullied him unmercifully. He was no longer that terrified little boy; but Elliot still had a treacherous streak.
"If you're not going after your sweet soon-to-be-deflowered cousin, then why have you abandoned your delicious little wife?"
Ivan's hands tightened into fists. "It seems to me that you display an unnatural amount of interest in my wife."
"Unnatural?" Elliot's grin increased. "It would be unnatural for a man not to be interested in such a—" He broke off, laughing, when Ivan lurched to his feet.
Though Ivan knew he was being baited, he was unable to control his temper when it came to Elliot and his perverse interest in Lucy. "I've had enough of your interference, Pierce."
Elliot threw his hands up in the air, the perfect picture of innocence. "Interference? You show up here while we're having a quiet night still celebrating your nuptials— your unexpectedly sudden nuptials—and I'm interfering?"
Ivan swore. He was acting like a fool—a besotted fool. Unfortunately that was precisely what she'd turned him into. But not any more. Not any more.
He gritted his teeth. "What goes on between me and my wife is not your concern. As I recall, we made a wager a few days ago, a wager I have won. I'll expect you to make good on it by the time I return from the North. I'll expect you to be gone for an extended trip to the Continent."
His eyes met with Elliot's and held until the other man grinned and nodded. Only then did he snatch up his coat. "If none of you has any information to offer, I believe it's time for me to be on my way."
Elliot wisely kept quiet. So did Giles. Alex studied him. "If you think the girl plotted her escape with Mawbey, why are you interfering?"
"Who says I mean to interfere?"
Lucy stared at the bed. She sat curled sideways in a chair across the room from the huge mahogany four-poster.
It was probably a hundred years old. Maybe two hundred. Innumerable generations of Westcotts had slept in it. Made love in it.
But had any other Westcott wives awakened alone in it after only one night of marriage? Had any other of the Westcott women been abandoned by her husband only hours after being wedded to him?
She stifled a rising sob and ruthlessly squashed any hint of tears. He hadn't abandoned her and she was a ninny to think he had. He was gone, yes, but he was off to see about Valerie, and that was good.
Still, there were others who could have tended to that. A father and other male relatives, as he'd pointed out last night. But Lucy knew better. Valerie's elopement with Sir James had just provided Ivan with an excuse to get away from her. The fact was, he'd never wanted to marry her. Not really. And now he felt duped—and trapped. She feared he now lumped her in with the other women who'd used him so poorly. But she hadn't! She hadn't.
Oh, why had Lady Westcott, after achieving her aim to see him securely wed, burst in on their privacy and ruined everything?
Lucy buried her face in the curve of her arm along the stiff padded chair back. Outside a dog began to bark. A woman's voice called out and a man's answered. Lucy looked up, hope leaping in her chest. But it wasn't Ivan. The man outside laughed and it wasn't Ivan's laugh.
Unbidden, a tear leaked out and, though she swiped it away with the back of her hand, another one followed. Then another.
"Don't be a goose," she ordered herself. She pushed up from the chair and stared around her. She'd never been the weepy sort, she reminded herself. She refused to become so now, simply because her husband was inconveniently gone. After all, it was family business. He would be back.
As the days passed, however, she grew less and less sure of that, for the longer Ivan was gone, the less likely it became that he had found Valerie and Sir James, and the more likely that the two of them were already wed. Had he gone to look for them at all?
Her emotions during that time were volatile in the extreme. One moment anger ruled; the next, despair. He had never wanted to marry her. So why had he? Just to make the point that he could? Then again, even though their marriage had not been born of the best circumstances, she believed they could rise above it—if he wanted them to.
On the fourth day of Ivan's absence, Lucy was roused when they received a post from him. He had business to attend to and wished for her to go to Dorset, since he meant to close up the house in town. No mention at all about the escaped lovers, which had infuriated the dowager countess. No mention of his own plans, which had crushed Lucy.
They had also received two posts from Valerie. The first one had apologized for any inconvenience and embarrassment she might have caused her godmother. The second had been a note from Sir James and Lady Mawbey, announcing their recent marriage and requesting permission to call on them in Dorset.
That particular correspondence had set Lucy all aflutter. Valerie, could only know they were going to the Westcott family estate in Dorset if she'd been in contact with Ivan, Lucy had reasoned. Which meant that at some point he'd intercepted them.
Did it also mean he would join them in Dorset?
Lucy had been unable either to sleep or eat, so consumed was she by that unanswerable question.
Now Lucy and Lady Westcott sat opposite one another in the Westcott traveling coach. "You'll need your own maid," Lady Antonia said as the cumbersome vehicle rocked along the macadam road. They'd left Guilford and were en route to Winchester where they would change horses, then cross the river Test at Stockbridge. "I have two girls among the staff who may do."
"Can either of them read or write?" Lucy asked, staring unappreciatively at the passing scenery.
"I do not employ idiots, Miss Drysdale—"
She broke off when Lucy turned a pointed stare on her. Lucy was no longer a miss, but rather the Countess of Westcott. And though that was what the old woman had thought she wanted, it was clear that fact didn't sit too well with her at the moment.
They would probably never get on well, Lucy suspected. That awful scene in the bedroom had ensured that. The dowager countess was not one to relinquish power to anyone. Likewise Lucy had no intention of kowtowing to the difficult old woman. Their eyes met now in frosty acknowledgment.
"I employ only the best," Lady Westcott continued sullenly. "Whether it be maid, milliner, or modiste."
"I shall endeavor to remember that. However, it may take a while for me to adjust from spinster governess to abandoned countess."
Lucy turned away to stare out the window. Now why had she said that? It made her sound so pathetic. But then, she was pathetic, at least in the eyes of the rest of the world.
Across from her Lady Westcott's heavy skirts rustled as she shifted in her seat. "You are not abandoned. Not unless you allow yourself to be perceived so."
The words were brisk, but the old woman's tone was, for wont of a better word, conciliatory. Lucy peered side ways at her. "I go to my new home without my new husband at my side, and no indication of when, if ever, he will join me. Who will not perceive me as abandoned?"
"He went off to find his cousin, as well he should have. Besides, I thought you had more backbone than to wither and die at the least sign of adversity."
"Is that why you picked me for Ivan? Because of my backbone?"
The old woman stared at her belligerently. "It was. I hope I was not mistaken in my judgment."
Lucy looked away. Backbone was something she'd always possessed in abundance. The problem was, falling in love seemed to have sapped it right out of her. That was something, however, that Lady Antonia did not need to know.
She stiffened, gritted her teeth, and tilted her chin up. "Rest assured that I plan to assume my responsibilities as Countess of Westcott with a purpose no one will doubt. Neither my absent husband, nor you," she added. Then Lucy closed her eyes and settled back for the rest of the long, unhappy journey to the Dorset countryside.
They arrived at the Westcott family seat at dusk, when the waning summer sun bathed the house's west-facing facade with gold. It was a handsome residence, built of Portland stone, and it boasted
five stately gables on the facade and enough windows to keep a team of window washers occupied the year round. Ivy clambered up its rusticated walls, giving a comfortable appearance to a house that would otherwise have appeared austere. It sat low to the ground and, as a result, its two and a half stories did not seem so imposing as they might have in a basement house.
All in all, not nearly as ostentatious as she would have expected.
Inside was another matter entirely. The ceilings throughout were high, coffered, and elaborately painted. Whether plastered or paneled, the rooms boasted gold leaf or faux painting or both, and then were heavily covered with works of art. The floors were works of art themselves, inlaid with every type of wood imaginable, then warmed with carpets from every Eastern country she'd ever heard of.
Furnishings ranged from the antique to the most modern, and two bathrooms offered running water—an almost unheard-of luxury by anyone's standards. But for all its luxury, the place lacked something.
Human warmth, Lucy decided as her footsteps echoed hollowly on the ornate stairs that curved up to the second floor.
The dowager coutness had her personal possessions moved to the guest room nearest the east bathroom. Lucy claimed the master's chambers and the western bathroom.
In a moment of anger she ordered Ivan's few belongings moved into a storeroom in the attic. If Lady Westcott did not appreciate Lucy's high-handedness, either then or in the weeks that followed, she kept any dissatisfaction she felt well hidden.
Without actually discussing it, the two of them fell into a comfortable sort of routine. Lucy walked the grounds in the mornings, brooding. Thinking was how she referred to it, but it was really brooding. When she returned around ten they breakfasted together.
Lucy took over the decisions related to the running of the household, but she made those decisions within Lady Westcott's hearing. The dowager countess occasionally offered advice—usually good—which Lucy considered—and usually took. In the early afternoon Lucy learned her way around the well-provided library while Antonia read the several newspapers she subscribed to, then napped.
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