Dangerous to Love Read online

  "Send Lydia to clean up the mess."

  "Yes, but... but what will Graham say? About the vase, I mean? He's bound to notice. I mean, it's been sitting in this very spot, on this very table for, well, for as long as I've been coming up to Houghton Manor, and that's a long time—since I was a child—and that would be, well, never mind how long that would be—"

  "Please, Hortense." Lucy broke into her sister-in-law's aimless chatter.

  "Oh, yes. Of course." Hortense melted away. She was extremely ineffectual, both as a wife and mother. But she was a good breeder, and after all, that was what Graham had wanted. That was all most men wanted, Lucy thought in irritation. No doubt that was precisely what the two hooligans who now stood nervously before her would someday want in a wife. A good breeder with no ideas or opinions of her own.

  She fixed the pair of them with a stern stare. "I want the complete truth and in the precise sequence in which it happened."

  "It was his fault!"

  "He started it!"

  "The precise sequence," she repeated. "You shall both memorize heraldic orders all afternoon if the truth is not immediately forthcoming."

  The brothers shared a look, one that told her she had bested them, at least for the moment. She usually tried to link the children's punishments to the particular infraction committed. But occasionally she resorted to the time-honored tradition of writing lines. Instead of using biblical quotes, however, she preferred the heraldic orders. It was her own perverse slap at a society so ordered and restrictive as to stifle any creative thought. Though she knew it was unlikely, she hoped that particular punishment would instill in the boys a lifelong dislike for the rigid social orders they'd been born to. Especially Stanley.

  "Derek was feeding Sunny," Stanley accused.

  "Just an apple!"

  "He's my horse, not yours!"

  "So then what happened?" Lucy interjected.

  "He pushed me down," Derek retorted.

  "Well, you threw dirt on me."

  "After you pushed me down!"

  "You deserved it!"

  "Did not!"

  "Did too!"

  "Boys! Boys! How did you end up in here, knocking the vase over?"

  "Stanley chased me."

  "All the way from the stables? Can I assume that neither of you paused to wipe your feet?"

  Derek frowned. "I couldn't stop. He was chasing me."

  "Well, he was getting away," Stanley countered. They both peered up at her guiltily.

  Lucy stared at them. They were not bad boys. Not really. And to be honest, she was glad that if they'd broken anything, it was that hideous old vase. But that was not the point. They were brothers who were growing up to hate one another, just like so many other brothers of the quality. Younger brothers who would inherit nothing always hated their elder siblings, just as the eldest sons always grew to hate their fathers and waited impatiently for them to die. And all on account of the antiquated system of primogeniture.

  "I'll deal with you first, Stanley. I should like to remind you that some day the responsibility for the Houghton stables will fall to you. If you are to rise to your responsibility then you must have a care for every horse there—"

  "I do! Nobody can say I don't love all the horses!"

  "Do not interrupt. It's rude. No one disputes your affection for the horses. What I want to point out, however, is that you will also have responsibility for all those who tend to those horses. You should encourage everyone's affection for the horses, including Derek's. If he would give Sunny an apple, then you should be pleased, not jealous and resentful. Do you understand what I am saying?"

  Stanley gave a reluctant nod, as she expected he would. She'd determined long ago that he took his inheritance very seriously. Though his father saw the rank only in the light of the privileges it provided, Lucy hoped to instill in Stan ley some sense of the responsibilities too.

  "As for you, Derek. Did you choose to be kind only to Sunny, or to the other horses as well?"

  His eyes would not meet hers. "I didn't have enough apples for every bloomin' horse in the stables."

  "No, of course you didn't. So you selected Sunny specifically because you knew it would rile Stanley. Am I right?"

  He shot her a resentful look but didn't answer. Lucy took a deep breath. Were it not for the broken vase this would not be so serious a matter. But she knew her brother would demand someone be punished for the vase. If she did not give them both a fair punishment, Graham would let all the blame fall to Derek.

  When the maid Lydia scurried into the room, Lucy took the broom and dust pan from her. She gave the broom to Stanley and the pan to Derek.

  She gave them a stern look. "First you shall clean up this mess. Together." She raised one hand, forestalling their objections. "Then you shall go down to the stables and give every horse, from hunter to draft animal to pony, some sort of treat, whether an apple, a handful of oats, or just a little affectionate light grooming. You shall do that together also, both of you with each horse. When you have completed those tasks, come find me and together we will then go and tell your father what has occurred and how we have resolved it."

  All in all, a fair resolution, she decided. Derek knew he had been saved a caning from his father. The swift smile of relief he threw her showed that. As for Stanley, he'd had a new facet of his future responsibilities revealed to him, then been sent to the stables, his favorite place in the whole wide world.

  She sighed. As much momentary satisfaction as she received from situations such as this, she nonetheless found it frustrating. She reached in her pocket for the precious letter. There was so much more in life to learn. But she feared she would never have the chance. Rather than experience life, at twenty-eight years old she was already con sidered a spinster and relegated to raising her brother's children, preparing them to experience life.

  But not forever, she vowed. Somehow she would find a way to leave Houghton Manor. She had a very modest income of her own, left to her by her mother's father. But one hundred pounds a year was not enough for her to be entirely independent. If she could only find a way to supplement it, she could afford to leave the stifling circle of her family and move to town.

  She heard a scream—this time a little girl's—and she sighed again. She had to find a way out soon. She simply had to!

  "She's visiting the Fordhams," Hortense informed Lucy the next afternoon. "Graham says we must all call upon her, even the children. It's because she's a countess, you know, and the Westcott fortune is legendary. Graham says it's a great honor—"

  "She's the dowager countess," Lucy reminded her agitated sister-in-law. "I believe I read in the Times that one of her grandchildren has recently been invested as Earl of Westcott."

  "Well, yes. But Graham says the grandson—her only one—is yet unwed. Graham was very clear in his directions to me. Prudence is to wear her best dress and be careful to ingratiate herself with the countess."

  Lucy tried to hide her annoyance but it was awfully hard. Prudence was but twelve and only a child. For heaven's sake, she hadn't even begun her courses. Yet Graham was already hoping to whet the Earl of Westcott's appetite for her? Lucy's stomach clenched in disgust. The new earl was a man fully grown and well traveled, if the Times' s report on his investiture was to be believed. What was her brother thinking?

  Then Lucy's sense of fairness kicked in. Any man in his right mind would want to marry his daughter to such a wealthy and titled young man. Still, she'd always found the idea of such businesslike matchmaking more than a little repugnant.

  "Why is Lady Westcott in Somerset?" she asked, ruthlessly burying her feelings.

  Hortense frowned, all the while plucking nervously at her lace-edged cuff. "What if I say the wrong thing? You know I didn't have a proper season. I never had the opportunity to become accustomed to the ton. What if I do something to embarrass Graham? He will never forgive me!"

  Lucy took Hortense's fluttering hands into her own. "You are making you
rself nervous over nothing, Hortense. Nothing, I say. Just be yourself and you shall be fine."

  Hortense heaved a great sigh. "Easy for you to say. Nothing ever frightens you. But I've heard of Lady Westcott through Lady Babcock—you know, over Symington way? She's cousin to Darcy Harrigan whose sister married Viscount Prufrock. They keep a house in town and so are privy to all the latest gossip."

  "And what have you heard about Lady Westcott?" Lucy prodded her scatterbrained sister-in-law.

  Hortense's eyes grew round. "She is said to be, well, rather severe." She paused. "'Harridan' was the word Lady Babcock used," she added in a whisper.

  "She and Graham shall get along very well, then," Lucy quipped. She regretted her hasty words at once when Hortense gave her a hurt look.

  "That's so unkind of you, Lucy. Graham is nothing but good to you. To everyone."

  Lucy made a face. "I'm sorry. You're absolutely right. I should not have said that." At least not in your presence. "Is Mother going too?" she asked to change the subject.

  "Oh, yes. Graham says she must. We must all go, even you."

  Even you. Lucy forced herself not to react to the reminder of her status as the least important member of the household. She was the spinster sister, too young to deserve the respect rendered one's elders, and too old to be married off. She had no particular fortune, no title of her own, and though she knew she was considered quite handsome, that was not enough to offset her unfortunate predisposition to speak her mind. But she was expected to go to the Fordhams' to call on Lady Westcott.

  She supposed she should be grateful for small favors.

  At least it would be entertaining, Lucy decided as she hurried to round up her nieces and nephews. At least she would have someone new to converse with, someone whose opinions and ideas she'd yet to hear. At least there would be a break in the unrelenting routine of lessons and peace making and trying to make conversation beyond the mun dane.

  Please let Lady Westcott possess even half a brain, Lucy prayed. For if she did and if she stayed a while at the Fordhams' home outside Taunton, Lucy might at last have a companion for the scintillating discussions of books and ideas and politics she so longed for. Someone to provide intellectual sustenance until she figured out a way to get herself to London.

  The Fordham country house was an ancient ramble of rooms, some dating all the way back to Henry II. The Fordhams themselves were not quite that old, though they looked it. So did Lady Westcott, Lucy decided rather irreverently when they were ushered into that grande dame's presence.

  The dowager countess sat in the Fordham seat of honor, a monstrous chair of intricately carved English oak, upholstered with plush Chinese cushions. She wore a gown cut in a severe style, but made of the most luxurious ebony silk Lucy had ever laid eyes on. Heavy as it was, the silk draped as fluidly as the finest gauze.

  The woman's only ornaments were a pair of black jet earrings, a heavy watch chain, and an ebony cane with a crystal head. What impressed Lucy the most, however, was that despite her petite stature and birdlike features, Lady Westcott had a most imposing presence. Any other woman would have been dwarfed by that chair and overwhelmed by the rest of the ostentatious room. But not Lady Westcott. Now, why was that?

  The dowager countess greeted the visitors with regal civility. Lord Fordham introduced Viscount Houghton first, then Graham introduced the rest of his family. Lucy, of course, was last. But for some reason, the old woman seemed to study her much more closely than she had the others.

  When Lucy completed her very correct curtsy, Lady Westcott addressed her directly. "How old are you, Miss Drysdale?"

  Blunt, wasn't she? "Twenty-eight. Why do you ask?" Lucy added, deciding to be every bit as blunt as the old woman.

  The countess's brows arched in faint surprise. Graham cleared his throat and Hortense began to fan herself, while Lucy's mother, Lady Irene, tittered nervously, as if her candid daughter had only been making a joke.

  "No wonder you are yet unwed; you're not the biddable sort, are you?"

  Lucy smiled. "I'm afraid not. Do not hold my mother to blame for that fact, though." She sent her mother a consoling glance. "She has tried mightily to instill in me all the feminine traits. While she had success in most areas, there are a few of her lessons, I confess, that did not altogether take."

  "My sister has had offers, Lady Westcott. Several good offers," Graham emphasized. "But she has not yet found a man who pleases her."

  Lucy sent him a sympathetic look. "Were he to be entirely frank, my lady, he would tell you that I always manage to come up with some excuse or another to decline those offers. He would tell you that he has gone through all his acquaintances quite to the point of pulling his hair out. But I remain as you see me: unmarried and likely to continue so."

  "And content in that state?"

  Lucy stared at the dowager countess. She was small as a sparrow, but with a raven's shiny plumage and a falcon's sharp gaze. For some reason she'd honed in on Lucy as her prey. The question was, why?

  The answer came to Lucy with a start. She must be seeking a wife for her grandson, the new earl. But why on earth would she be interested in a spinster possessed of neither title nor fortune? His wealth alone would buy him almost any bride he wished. Throw in the title and he became irresistible, at least by society's standards.

  Then an awful thought occurred to her. If his grandmother was reduced to considering spinsters like herself, that must mean there was something terribly wrong with the man. And not just that he'd been born a Gypsy bastard before his father adopted him. The whole world already knew that. Likewise, the whole world would forgive him for it, now that he was the Earl of Westcott. No. There must be something else that made him unacceptable. But what on earth could it be?

  "I am quite content," Lucy finally answered the older woman. "I have my books and my correspondents. I fear I am far too set in my own ways to ever accommodate myself to a man's ways."

  Lady Westcott studied her another long moment. Had she been younger, or a woman of lesser consequence, the lengthy perusal would have been deemed rude in the extreme. As it was, it made Lucy decidedly uncomfortable, a condition she was not accustomed to and did not enjoy.

  It took Lucy's mother and her compulsive need to always keep conversations running smoothly to shift the focus away from Lucy. "Lady Westcott," she ventured, no doubt at the urging of Graham. "If I might be so bold as to suggest, my eldest granddaughter, Miss Prudence Drysdale, though still in the schoolroom, is a most accomplished musician. Would you like her to play for you—ah, for us—I mean for this most esteemed company—"

  She broke off when Lady Westcott gave a negligent wave of her hand. "By all means. Have the girl play."

  But as the party settled themselves, Lucy was distinctly aware of Lady Westcott's continued scrutiny.

  Lucy sat down in an armless chair positioned near the children so that she could monitor their behavior while Prudence played. In the end, however, she did far more squirming and shifting than did the four younger Drysdales. By the time Prudence's easy version of a popular air for minuets was finished and the five children were dismissed to take their tea separately from their elders, Lucy decided she had never met so powerful a personality as Antonia Thornton, Dowager Countess of Westcott.

  "Lady Westcott is an old friend," Lady Fordham said by way of resuming the conversation. She signaled the maid to place the tea service before her.

  "Yes, a very old friend," the venerable old dame echoed. "Old enough to be excused a few eccentricities, eh, Gladys?"

  "Why of course, dear—"

  "Then you will not mind if I ask Miss Drysdale to pour. Miss Lucy Drysdale," she clarified when Graham leaned forward expectantly.

  Lucy repressed her annoyance with her pompous brother. As if a matriarch like Lady Westcott would ask a girl from the schoolroom to pour! Poor Prudence would not last two minutes under Lady Westcott's fearsome gaze.

  "Shall I?" Lucy directed this to Lady Fordham.
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  "Why ... Why, of course, my dear. Of course. Please do," she answered. But the confusion on her face was obvious, as it was on Graham's and Hortense's. Lucy's mother, however, had swiftly grasped the import of the dowager countess's request, and her round face beamed with approval. She'd long ago given up matchmaking her only daughter. In one fell swoop, however, the dowager countess had revived all those hopes.

  Lucy did not know what to think. She'd hoped to find a boon companion in Lady Westcott, an intelligent conversationalist with an interest beyond the weather, fashion, gossip, and children. She'd not expected the sort of pointed interest she was receiving.

  She poured the tea, assisted by the maid who handed round the cups and plates of biscuits. Lady Fordham made small talk, about her grandson's trip abroad, and the new variety of Chinese roses that were lately all the rage.

  Graham tried to engage Lord Fordham in conversation about a local court case involving a son stealing his own father's horse, but it was quite a waste of effort. Lord Fordham rarely said a word while in the company of ladies. Between his silence and Lady Westcott's, it became more and more difficult for Lady Fordham to carry the conversation. Hortense, true to form, was so intimidated by Lady Westcott that beyond the required words of greeting, she'd clammed up. Lucy's mother, normally quite verbose, only stared expectantly at Lucy, apparently struck dumb by visions of an earl for a son-in-law dancing in her eyes.

  It fell upon her, Lucy realized, to revive the dragging conversation. Unfortunately she could hardly blurt out her curiosity about Lady Westcott's poor grandson.

  She was saved when the dowager countess sailed back into the conversation. "Have you had a season, Miss Drysdale? I do not seem to recall your presentation at court."

  "Mine was not a particularly notable presence in town that year. It was 1819, just before the old king died."

  "Ah, yes. I was not in town that year."

  "Well, you did not miss much, unless, of course, you are not too friendly with Lady Nullingham. That was the year of her, shall we say, comeuppance."