Dangerous to Love Read online

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  Prologue

  Burford Hall, Yorkshire, November 1807

  The headmistress, Mrs. Drinkwell, stared at the boy and wrinkled her nose. "He's awfully dark."

  The child's governess kept a tight hold of the boy's bony shoulder. "Gypsy blood. His mother," she added, not bothering to disguise her disgust.

  Hardly a shocking revelation. As Mrs. Drinkwell well knew, Burford Hall housed a number of boys of unpleasant ancestry. The school's considerable distance from London and their isolated location made them ideal for boarding the illegitimate offspring of the quality. Still, they'd never before had a Gypsy bastard in their midst.

  Mrs. Drinkwell pursed her lips in distaste. It never ceased to revolt her the lowly sort of women men of good breeding were wont to cavort with.

  "Have you the first year's fees with you?" she asked. "We make absolutely no allowances for credit—not even with the royal bastard."

  The governess's eyes brightened at that. "You have a royal bastard here? Oh, but her ladyship will be very pleased to hear that. Very pleased, indeed."

  Mrs. Drinkwell gave an arch smile. "So. The wife knows of her husband's shame."

  The governess stiffened and her grip on the boy tightened. "She does not! Nor shall she ever learn of it, not if you expect the Dowager Countess to pay your outrageous— Ow!"

  She broke off with a jerk and a sharp cry. "Oh! Oh! The nasty little beggar bit me. He bit me!" she shrieked, shaking the violated limb as if to throw off the pain.

  While she wailed, the dark-haired child, freed of her grasp, darted for the door. But Mrs. Drinkwell had been handling troublesome boys for many years, and she knew all their tricks. She reached the door first, and when he bared his teeth to bite her, she smacked him fully across the face.

  She was a large woman and she did not make any allowances for the fact that he was a small child. His head popped around and he hit the wall with a crash that seemed to echo the crack of her blow. Like a broken doll, he crumpled to the floor and did not move.

  The governess glared at the slight, still form. "Godless heathen!" Then she stopped and peered more closely at the unmoving child. "He ain't dead, is he? You didn't kill him? For if you did ..."

  By way of answer, Mrs. Drinkwell nudged the boy with her toe. When that drew no reaction, she kicked him in the leg. He let out a whimper and she sent the governess a gloating look. "I'll thank you not to advise me how to run my own school. Discipline is my area of expertise. I make you this promise. The next time your mistress sees her grandson, he'll have much better manners. Now, why don't you hand over those term fees?"

  The governess opened her reticule and handed over the purse. "I'm to say that you're to keep him between terms too. There's money enough here and more will be forwarded from milady's solicitor."

  "Doesn't want to be bothered with him, does she?"

  "D'you blame her?" The governess edged toward the door. "How'd you like it if your only grandson were a Gypsy heathen? He's blessed fortunate his grandmother cares enough to provide for him at all."

  **************

  "My name is Ivan!"

  "'Tis John."

  "Johnny boy."

  Ivan stared at the three toughs who'd cornered him, and struggled not to reveal his fear. But it was hard. He wanted to go home. Instead he was trapped in this awful place, stolen away from everything he'd ever known. And now they wanted him to change his name. He couldn't explain why, but he knew he couldn't do it. He was Ivan, not John. They'd changed everything else in his life, but he wouldn't let them change his name.

  "I told you, my name is Ivan."

  The taller of the three boys smirked. "Ivan? That's a foreign name, a Gypsy name. You a Gypsy, Ivan?" He dragged out the name.

  Ivan lifted his chin and balled his fists. They wanted to fight? Well, then, he would fight. He tried to remember everything Peta had taught him, and all the moves Guerdon had used in his wrestling matches.

  The tall boy stepped nearer. His two cohorts did the same. "So? Are you John, or are you Ivan, the Gypsy bastard?" he sneered.

  Like an explosion, something inside Ivan erupted and without warning he tackled the grinning youth. Though much the smaller, he caught the older boy by surprise and they went down in a tangle of flailing fists and feet. The other lad fought back, however, and he swiftly gained the upper hand.

  But Ivan would not back down. He'd been rudely stolen from his mother and the rest of their band. He'd been locked up in the attic of a monstrous house, then transported to this grim prison. Now he was subject to the attack of boys like these. It was too much to accept and so he rejected it. He bit and clawed, despite the brutal beating he received.

  One blow split his lip and he tasted blood. With another stars exploded behind his eyes. But it only fueled his resolve. Intimidate your opponent. Go for his weakness. Peta's words of advice to Guerdon rang in Ivan's ears. Without thinking he roared out his rage. Then he brought one knee up and miraculously he found his target. With a shriek the other boy collapsed, curling into a ball as he clutched his private parts.

  "Get him!" the boy sobbed to his stunned friends. "Get him!"

  The other two hesitated only an instant before tackling Ivan. His defeat was inevitable, but still he would not give in. Only when the headmistress and her hired man waded into the fray did the battle end.

  Mrs. Drinkwell scowled at the bloodied boys, and her colorless eyes narrowed in malicious delight. "Take Mr. Dameron to the woodshed," she ordered. "'Tis only fittin' that a tradesman's son learns a trade," she sneered. "Whip him with the strap, then put him to chopping wood.

  "Mr. Pierce shall have the task of cleaning out the privy house—after his whipping, o' course. Fitting, isn't it, that scum should deal with scum?" Her nostrils flared with distaste.

  Then she turned to the tall boy who'd started the fight. To Ivan's amazement, her face composed itself into a calmer expression. "Alexander, Alexander. What am I to do with you? Don't you see that it is beneath you to brawl with so ... so lowly a creature as this Gypsy bastard? Still, you must be punished. So. You will be confined to the schoolroom with extra lessons until Sunday next. I hope your father will appreciate that even when I punish you, it works to further your education."

  Her face hardened when she turned at last to Ivan. "As for you, you will have an equally appropriate punishment." She smiled, only it was the sort of smile meant to terrify a small boy. And it did.

  "See he gets the worst strapping of them all, Lester. Then up the chimneys with him. With his dark skin, a little soot will never be noticed."

  Though bleeding and dazed, Ivan fought the hulking manservant. He even tried to strike the man in his private parts, as he'd done with the boy named Alexander. But all he received for his trouble was a sharp cuff to the back of his head and a bone-crunching grip on his shoulder.

  The whipping was fierce. Ten blows with a wickedly long paddle. But Ivan was numb to any pain. He neither cried out nor wept, but only grunted at the blows. They would have knocked him down had the man not held him in place with one beefy hand. Then he was taken straightaway to the parlor and forced up into the chimney, scrabbling and crawling up the filthy flue, leaving skin and blood on the rough stones with every move he made.

  "Clean it well, lad. And don't be slow, else I'll light a fire 'neath you," the grinning servant cackled from some where below.

  But a fire had already been lit, a fire deep in Ivan's heart that burned hotter with each cruel word, painful blow, and hateful punishment. It started that day and it built with every injustice done him in the months and years that followed. It burned with an intensity that defied description and demanded revenge.

  But though he did not know then how to exact
that revenge, or even upon whom it should be wreaked, as time passed he would come to know very well.

  * * *

  Chapter One

  London, March 1829

  Ivan Thornton paused before descending the steps, waiting for it to begin. Sure enough, a murmur rippled through the crowded ballroom. A lull in conversation first, followed by an even more earnest buzz of whispers.

  "It's Lord Westcott."

  "The new Earl of Westcott."

  "Westcott's bastard Gypsy boy."

  Ivan didn't have to hear the words to know what was being said of him. He'd lived the last twenty years and more hearing far worse than that. From the moment he'd been torn from his mother's arms at the tender age of seven, he'd learned how to fight his tormentors. He'd been fighting them ever since.

  But there were better ways to fight them than with fisticuffs, swords, or even dueling pistols. He'd learned that too. And now he was poised to punish them all for what they'd done to him—all these arrogant asses who dared refer to themselves as the quality.

  He surveyed the room with the carelessly bored gaze of a very wealthy young lord, a gaze that did not prevent him, however, from noting every detail of this evening's assemblage. The old men had already begun to edge toward the gaming room and its ever-ready supply of brandy and cigars. The matrons and chaperones gathered in clumps around the perimeter of the ballroom, keeping an eye on their young charges but ready to share a bit of gossip with the other self-appointed guardians of good society.

  The objects of their watchfulness, this season's crop of white-clad innocents, also stood in small groups. They'd been giggling and using their fans to flirt with the young men of the ton. Now, however, they were staring round-eyed at him.

  He fought down the urge to snarl at them, to send the entire pack of ninnies squealing in fear for the safety of their mother's bosoms.

  Get a hold of yourself. At last revenge was within his reach. He would not ruin everything on account of a few overdressed, undereducated young chits. Before this season was done he would have every one of them competing for his attention. He would have their mothers fawning over him and their fathers eager to have the Westcott line joined with their own.

  And he would have his harridan of a grandmother precisely where he wanted her.

  "So, Westcott. Did you ever expect to be the most eligible bachelor in London?" Elliot Pierce gave him a not so subtle nudge. "Go on, man. Let the majordomo announce you. I, for one, plan to drink heavily, gamble furiously, and tumble at least two of the housemaids before this night is done. Unless, of course, I can find two willing ladies."

  Not responding to his friend, Ivan stepped forward.

  "Ivan Thornton. Earl of Westcott, Viscount Seaforth, and Baron Turner," the haughty servant intoned.

  Even the servants disdained him, Ivan thought. But that didn't matter to him any more. It had ceased to matter years ago. The only difference was that now he had the titles and the money to make them dance to his tune.

  He tugged on his sleeves then marched down the five broad carpeted steps and into battle. Behind him his three closest friends were announced. His only friends.

  Mister Elliot Pierce and Mister Giles Dameron earned no particular notice from the curious throng already arrived at the Stennis's off-season soiree. When Mister Alexander Blackburn was announced, however, another buzz began.

  A bastard earl and a bastard prince—the former acknowledged and wealthy beyond all bounds, the latter unacknowledged and poor as a church mouse. Still, everyone knew that might change when the king died.

  By association, the two unknowns were assumed also to be bastards, and all from Burford Hall—Bastard Hall, as was the school's more familiar name.

  Whether horrified or intrigued, repelled by their improper parentage or drawn by the new earl's fabulous fortune, everyone who witnessed the four young men's entrance agreed on one fact: this year's season would not be dull. No, not dull at all.

  And of all those who subscribed to that theory, none was so certain of it as Lady Antonia Thornton, Dowager Countess of Westcott, grandmother to the new earl, and author of this entire mess.

  Yet she was not prepared so swiftly to write it off as a disaster. Not quite. After all, he had attended the investiture three months earlier. As a young man, finished with Burford Hall and sent straightaway to the Continent to extend his education, he'd stoutly denied that he would accept his father's titles when the man died. But he'd come around, as she'd known he would. Who could possibly resist the titles and the fortune that went with them? She'd won that battle when he'd attended the investiture. She was convinced now that she would win the second battle too, for wasn't he here tonight, meeting this season's crop of eligible young ladies? She would see him wed, and soon. Then she'd see the birth of her first great-grandchild. Only then would she consider this war between them won. "So that is the boy," said a voice from just behind her.

  Antonia kept her eyes on her grandson. "You've seen him before, Laurence."

  "Yes, but he was younger then. And angrier. I must say, Toni, I truly believed him when he said he'd rather be a street sweeper than accept the mantle of his family birthright."

  "That was ten years ago. He's older now and wiser. And his father is dead. But don't be fooled by his respectable demeanor. That is merely testament to the talents of his tailor and his barber—to whom he pays an ungodly sum, I'm told. Beneath that handsome fagade beats the heart of a savage. An angry savage."

  Laurence Caldridge, the Earl of Dunleith, who'd outlived four wives and six children, stared at her unforgiving profile, not understanding any of this. "If you believe him a savage, why did you acknowledge him as Jerome's son? Why hand him the title? Why not let it go to your nephew—"

  "Because I'd rather the title pass to a street sweeper than to any of those idiot children of Harold's," she snapped. "And you know it. Now, if it's your intention to stand here and hand me advice I do not appreciate, you had better alter your plans. Fetch me a glass of punch. Wait, I've a better idea. Go to him and introduce him around. In particular be certain to introduce him to the Countess Grayer, the Duchess of Whetham, and Viscountess Talbert. Between them they have seven daughters, granddaughters, and nieces who are eminently suitable."

  She waved her hand in dismissal. "Go on, Laurence. See he is introduced to anyone he has not already met. Meanwhile, I shall contemplate my headstrong grandson and determine how best I am to proceed with him."

  Laurence went off, grumbling and shaking his head. But she knew he would do as he was told. If only she could be as certain of her grandson. She stared at him, at the striking man he'd become, his hair Gypsy black, his skin Gypsy dark. And wearing that outrageous earring. The gall of him!

  She had to admire that gall, however. One thing was certain: he possessed the arrogance of an earl. Unfortunately he also possessed the blatantly seductive allure of his mother's damnable race.

  Would he approach her? she wondered. Would he greet his only living relative, the woman who'd rescued him from the life of a heathen and given him a birthright comparable to any in the kingdom? Or would he strike back at her by snubbing her?

  She watched as he greeted Laurence. Not effusively, but not rudely either. She studied every nuance of his behavior as he was introduced to Lady Fordham: how he bowed, how long he held her gloved hand, his expression as they conversed. When he smiled at something Laurence said, she frowned. He was more than merely handsome, she realized. Much more. Just now he'd reminded her of his grandfather.

  She'd never seen any family resemblance in the boy before, save for his ice-blue eyes which were identical to her own. Beyond that, however, he'd always been a damnable Gypsy, no more, no less. But in that smile, in the slant of his mouth and the even flash of his teeth, she'd had a glimpse of her Gerald. Thirty years gone, he was, leaving her to manage the vast holdings that went with the Westcott family name. How she missed him! Their only child, Jerome, had been useless at business. Worse, he'd left no
heir but this bastard son of his. She could only pray now that the education she'd given the boy at Burford Hall had prepared him for his responsibilities.

  By the time Laurence returned, she was exhausted from the strain. Ivan was dancing with the Feltons' youngest daughter. She was a busty redhead, but far too silly to make a countess.

  "Well? Will he greet me?"

  Laurence cleared his throat, patted his pockets for his snuffbox, then thought better of it. He tugged on his luxuriant whiskers. "He didn't say. But I think he will, Toni. I think he will. After all, he hasn't seen you since the investiture in January."

  It was long past midnight before the insufferable cad approached her. Long past when she would normally have repaired home. But she refused to do so until he greeted her. She could not go to him. That would not do at all. That meant she must wait for him—or else give everyone in attendance the satisfaction of knowing he'd snubbed her.

  When he finally made his way to where she sat, flanked by Laurence and Lady Fordham, she was ready to give him a good dressing-down. How dare he treat her this way!

  One look in his frosty eyes, however, and she swiftly squelched that idea. He was angling for a fight, a very public fight with her. She could see it in the frigid depths of his glare, in the tense set of his wide shoulders.

  Just like Gerald, the wayward thought came once again. She'd loved her husband to distraction, but they'd fought like cats and dogs. Still, they'd got on well enough. Perhaps she and the boy—No, he was a man. Perhaps they could somehow find their way to a similar sort of volatile peace.

  "Madam." He gave her a curt nod. "May I introduce my companions to you?" He indicated the three men arrayed alongside him. "Mr. Elliot Pierce. Mr. Giles Dameron. Mr. Alexander Blackburn."

  To their credit, each of the other young men displayed very correct manners. She stared closely at Blackburn, looking for something of his royal heritage in him. No one saw much of the king these days. But in his younger days he'd spent much time in the social whirl.