Dangerous to Love Page 5

  Then he opened his mouth and she discovered the reverse side of that considerable appeal.

  "Get the hell out of my house!"

  Lucy gasped—or at least she assumed it was she who'd made that shocked sound. Lady Westcott merely stared at her coldly furious grandson without so much as blinking an eye.

  "I believe we've had this conversation previously. As I told you then, I will not be put out of my own home. You, however, are free to leave, if that is your desire."

  "My desire," he snarled, glaring at the dowager countess with eyes as frigid as the winter sky. "My desire is to never lay eyes on you again."

  Lady Westcott stiffened. It was only the tiniest of gestures, but Lucy saw it, and her heart broke for the frail old woman. She forced her frozen limbs to life.

  "How impossibly rude you are," she snapped, moving to stand beside her hostess. "Lady Westcott has had a long and tiring day. The last thing she requires is to be set upon, and in her own private quarters. Did no one ever teach you to knock?" she finished in her sternest governess tones.

  The unconscionable rogue did not do her the decency of even transferring his glare from his grandmother to her. Nor did he in any other way acknowledge that he'd heard Lucy's indignant words. "I am entertaining guests," he continued in the same insulting tones, "none of whom are of the sort you are wont to mingle with. Nor are you their sort," he added, with a mocking twist to his lips.

  "I have no intention of greeting your guests," Lady Westcott retorted, holding firm to her position. Still, Lucy detected the hurt in her voice and she sprang once more into the fray. How dare he attack an old woman this way, his own grandmother! And how dare he ignore her as if she did not even exist!

  This time she stepped in front of the countess, forcing him to recognize her presence. "I'll thank you to depart these apartments. Now," she added. "Right now!"

  The glacial stare focused on her. The mocking smile thinned. The furious voice turned low and dangerous. "Unless you are here for some useful purpose, it would be better if you remove yourself from this discussion."

  "I am here for a ... for a very useful purpose," she sputtered. If a body could burn with outrage and yet freeze with unreasonable fear, hers did both. "I am a guest of Lady Westcott's and I—"

  "This is my house, not hers. The only guests I will allow are my own." The frosty glare moved over her, head to toe, taking a swift yet alarmingly thorough appraisal of her appearance. Then those bitter blue eyes met hers again. "Dare I hope your purpose here is carnal? And that it involves me?"

  She slapped him.

  It came out of nowhere. Certainly she did not plan it. But in the ringing silence left in its aftermath, she was not sorry. He deserved it. It remained now only to see how he responded. There was no predicting what a man as cruel and hateful as he might do in retaliation.

  He raised a hand to his offended cheek and despite Lucy's intentions to be brave she took an involuntary step backward.

  The room shuddered with the silence. From somewhere far off in another wing of the house she heard the faint echoes of music, of a pianoforte playing and a woman singing. But in this particular chamber there was no sound at all.

  Then the earl took a breath and Lucy braced herself for the worst.

  Instead of lunging at her, however, he bowed—a very correct though abbreviated bow. Lucy blinked in disbelief, then stared warily at him. What was he up to?

  His expression told her nothing, for he'd wiped his face clean of any telltale emotion. His voice, when he spoke, was equally unemotional.

  "My apologies, madam. I more than deserved that. I only hope you will find it in your heart to overlook my unfortunate behavior."

  It took Lucy a moment to collect her wits. An apology was the last thing she'd expected from this man, this Gypsy earl who was as handsome as sin. She was certain, how ever, that it was just about as sincere as Stanley's and Derek's apologies to each other usually were.

  She drew herself up, tugging angrily at the waist of her wrinkled traveling suit. "I have never—never!—been so rudely treated in my entire life!"

  His face remained impassive. But at least he was looking at her now instead of glowering at his exhausted grandmother. It occurred to Lucy that Lady Westcott remained uncharacteristically quiet, but she was not about to give ground by breaking eye contact with the earl. If she was to be dealing with him as often as Lady Westcott had indicated, it was critical that she establish the boundaries of their relationship right now.

  As their locked gazes held, his lips curved up ever so slightly. Or at least she thought they did. "Might I inquire who it is that I have treated so rudely?" he asked, one dark brow arched in question.

  Lucy assumed the countess would introduce her. After all, it was only proper. When she did not, however, Lucy let out ah exasperated breath. "I am Miss Lucy Drysdale of Houghton Hall in Somerset."

  "Miss Lucy Drysdale," he echoed, emphasizing the "miss." Again his eyes flickered over her. But before she could take umbrage at his boldness, he executed another bow. "Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Drysdale. I am Ivan Thornton, Earl of Westcott, among other things." He paused. "You said you had a useful purpose for being here?"

  Once again one black brow raised in question, but this time Lucy could see the arrogant purpose lurking behind the bland expression he'd adopted. He was no more sorry for insulting her than she was sorry for slapping him, the wretched man!

  "I am here to act as chaperone to Lady Valerie Stanwich for the season. Your cousin, I believe? To safeguard her from inappropriate suitors—"

  "Like myself, perhaps?" He grinned then, and in that one isolated moment Lucy had a terrible revelation about herself. For with that easy grin, that tiny movement of flesh over teeth—beautiful, strong, white teeth, as it happened— he deflated all her anger. Like a silly, smitten girl, she reacted to that smile, to the appeal his grandmother had alluded to. Her heart began a maddened pace, her cheeks began to heat. And all on account of a smile.

  With a silent groan she ordered herself to cease such foolishness. She gave him a severe look. "If this is typical of your behavior, then yes, I would say you are entirely inappropriate for a proper young lady."

  This time he laughed, though she'd certainly not meant her statement to amuse him. Before she could muster an indignant response, however, Lady Westcott finally broke her silence.

  "Do not bother to argue with my grandson, Miss Drysdale, for you will get nowhere at all with him. His greatest joy in life is baiting me. Since I refuse to participate in his game, I fear you may become his next target. I advise you to ignore him," she finished.

  Lucy had kept her eyes trained on the earl while his grandmother spoke and saw the quick veil of dislike that covered his face. When he responded to the countess's comments, however, his words were directed at Lucy. "My grandmother may be right, Miss Drysdale. After all, she has known me longer than anyone else. Now, if the two of you will excuse me? I have a house full of guests. If I do not return to them they may come searching for me. I suspect you would not enjoy that."

  Without further excuse he left, and with him, it seemed, went all the vitality in the room. What an absurd idea, Lucy thought. And yet it was true.

  Lady Westcott let out a long sigh, as if she'd been holding her breath. Lucy too exhaled, somewhat unsteadily. She looked over her shoulder at the older woman, who raised a hand, forestalling anything Lucy might have to say.

  "You needn't say a thing, my dear. I can see it in your face. He is not what you expected, is he?"

  Lucy grimaced. "I would not state it quite so... so blandly as that. May I sit down?"

  "By all means. I'll ring for a tray. There's nothing like a glass of cognac to calm the nerves." She gave Lucy a searching look. "Are you up to this, Miss Drysdale? Can you hold your own with my unpleasant grandson? Or would you rather beat a hasty retreat back to your quiet countryside?"

  If Lucy had been reconsidering her reason for being in London, the countess's r
eference to Somerset cured her of it—and she suspected the clever old woman knew it.

  "I would prefer to have been better forewarned that he ... dislikes you so intensely," she said, deciding to be candid. "Also that he has so ... is so... That he has such a presence about him," she finally said.

  "That he is so damnably attractive, you mean." Lady Westcott squinted at her. "I trust you are not so unwise as to be swayed by his manly countenance."

  "Of course not!" Lucy retorted. "But I cannot vouch so easily for your godchild."

  "You will be able to handle Valerie; that does not worry me at all. As for his dislike for me, that is of no moment. No moment whatsoever."

  So she said, Lucy thought as a maid brought in a tray of tea and biscuits, and a decanter of cognac. So she said. But it was obvious that the old woman was as drawn to her brooding grandson as were all the other ladies of the ton. Lucy suspected the old woman wanted his affection. She wanted his familial love.

  Whether she would ever get it was highly debatable, and quite beyond Lucy's sphere of influence. All she could do was make sure that Lady Westcott got what she said she wanted: Lady Valerie Stanwich safely wed to an acceptable gentleman. And safely out of Ivan Thornton's clutches. Beyond that she would not concern herself with the Gypsy earl's personal affairs.

  Later, however, once Lucy was settled in her bed, in a very pretty room across the hall from the countess's suite, she found her mind wrestling with the most inappropriate thoughts.

  He really was a Gypsy, with his coal-black hair waving over his collar and that hedonistic earring. But he was an earl too, and Lucy understood fully the magnetic pull he would have on any young woman's senses. To even think of those enigmatic eyes gazing into hers, of those strong tanned hands touching her—

  She let out a decidedly unladylike oath and turned angrily to her other side. She would not think of such things. She could not allow herself to do so. Her role was simple and easily defined: keep Lady Valerie out of Ivan Thornton's clutches.

  Still, she couldn't help wondering what female would ultimately fall into his clutches. And whether her lot would be awful or wonderful.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Lucy awoke some time before dawn to the sound of horses' hooves ringing upon pavement, and noisy, though muffled, laughter. Where was she?

  The answer came to her immediately, but not before her heart had clutched in unreasoning panic. She was in London, she reminded herself. At Westcott House. Where the notorious Gypsy earl held sway.

  That started her heart thumping all over again, but not in panic—though perhaps, if she were wiser, she would be panicked.

  Exasperated by her perverse reaction to Ivan Thornton, Lord Westcott, Lucy threw back the butter-soft coverlet and arose. Behind the heavy damask curtains, dawn was just beginning to flirt with the night, silhouetting the rooflines of good English slate and the rows of fanciful chimney pots that adorned the other houses fronting Berkeley Square. But dawn in the city was not the focus of Lucy's interest, not this morning anyway. Instead she squinted at the carriage pulled up to the front of the house. Four horses stamped impatiently in their traces.

  Who on earth would be arriving at such an unheard-of hour? she wondered, peering into the gloom. Even with her cheek against the windowpane, however, she could not quite see if anyone had stepped down from the smart vehicle. That only increased her curiosity. Though she knew it was unseemly, she unlatched the window, then carefully inched the sash up.

  Much better, she thought, though she shivered at the rush of cool night air. She leaned out, just far enough to see someone approach the carriage. A woman, with a man escorting her.

  Ivan Thornton! She would recognize his wide shoulders and lean build anywhere!

  Why that should be true she refused to ponder. But it was he, no mistaking it. And right there, in broad view of anyone who cared to look, he took the woman in his arms and kissed her!

  Kissed her? No, when the "kiss" went on and on, until Lucy felt her own cheeks flush, she knew the word "kiss" was wholly inadequate. He was ravishing the woman right there, two stories down and a little to her left. He was ravishing a woman on his own front steps!

  Finally he released the woman and helped her up into the dark carriage amidst several more ardent kisses and indecipherable murmuring. Lucy could not drag her eyes away from the scene being played out before her. What sort of woman stayed the whole night at a man's house?

  "Idiot!" she rebuked herself. Everyone—even rustics from the countryside—knew the answer to that. Fallen women. Scarlet women. Ladies of the night.

  Still, she'd never actually seen such a woman.

  She peered all the harder, trying to pierce the gray predawn gloom. Just as she leaned out, however, the woman drew back into the carriage, the driver's whip snapped, and the vehicle was off. Disappointed not to have the identity of the woman to link with the devilish Lord Westcott, Lucy pulled back and proceeded to crack her head on the bottom windowpane. She must have let out a cry of pain, for to her horror, the earl's face turned up toward her.

  At once she drew back into the room, like a turtle scuttling back into its shell. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Oh, dear! Had he seen her? Did he know who it was? Would he confront her and accuse her of spying on him?

  Abruptly she pulled herself together. What did it matter if he had seen her? She'd done nothing wrong. She'd but heard a noise and arisen to investigate it. It was he who should be ashamed of his behavior, not she.

  She gave an inelegant snort at that foolish idea. She could predict already that he would not be in the least ashamed. No, not him.

  Rubbing the back of her head, she crossed the room and climbed up into the high bed, then sat there crosslegged, contemplating her reluctant host, and trying to root out the source of his considerable discontent.

  He'd probably been a terribly lonely child. From what she'd heard and pieced together, it seemed he'd been removed from his mother's care, ignored by his father, and hidden away for years at Burford Hall. For all intents and purposes, he'd been abandoned by every adult he'd ever known.

  Was it any wonder he hated his grandmother? She'd never shown him any love. One of Lucy's several theories was that a child deprived of love became an adult who either craved love incessantly, or turned away from it entirely. In which direction had Ivan Thornton's unhappy childhood led him?

  Though she told herself it was none of her concern, she nonetheless could not prevent herself from wondering. How had a dark-haired Gypsy child fit into the rigorously structured life of a northern boarding school? What had he done in the years after leaving the school?

  The Times had said he'd traveled abroad prior to his investiture. But was that the complete truth, or merely a way to gloss over a number of years unaccounted for?

  A soft knock at her chamber door sent all her speculations suddenly spinning. She stared aghast across the darkened room at the eight-paneled painted door. A knock, and at this hour. Who could it be?

  But of course she knew, and as quickly as that her throat went completely dry.

  The knock came again.

  She fought a battle between diving under the covers and feigning sleep, and leaping up and bolting the door against him.

  One more time the knock sounded.

  He was not going away! So get up, you fool! Don't give him the pleasure of thinking he has intimidated you.

  Even though he did. Even though he scared the wits out of her, with his brooding eyes and intense manner—

  She bolted from the bed. He would not get the best of her. No indeed. She stopped an arm's length from the door. "Who is it?"

  "You know very well who it is, Miss Drysdale. You need not pretend otherwise."

  It occurred absurdly to Lucy that she needed to light a lamp—several lamps—for Ivan Thornton's voice was far too silky and seductive to be allowed free rein in the dark.

  She stepped nearer the door. "Go away. I am not about to come out there in my wrap
per. Nor am I likely to let you in," she said, clutching her hands and pressing them to her bosom.

  "What if I let myself in?"

  She gasped. "You would not!"

  "You have not known me long enough to know what I will or will not do, Miss Drysdale. Lucy," he added after a brief pause.

  "I haven't given you leave to address me so familiarly," she stated, though not nearly so forcefully as she would have liked. "Go away from here before I... before I call out to your grandmother."

  He laughed, low and husky, and Lucy could picture most disturbingly his face: eyes glittering, teeth flashing, lips curved in a way far too elemental for her comfort.

  "Surely you are aware that she is no threat whatsoever to me."

  "And surely you know I will not come out nor let you in. So why are you at my door?" she demanded in exasperation.

  She heard a movement, as if he'd shifted and now leaned upon the door. "You seemed so interested in my activities outside. I thought I'd answer any questions you might have."

  Questions indeed. Oh, but the man had no shame whatsoever! She sternly overlooked the fact that she was fair to bursting with questions.

  "I awakened to a strange noise in a strange house. If I interrupted your ... your ... whatever it was you were doing, I apologize. Now will you please go away?"

  For long seconds there was no response. Lucy took the final step to the door and laid her ear cautiously against the crack between door and frame.

  "Good night, Lucy," he whispered, right in her ear it seemed. Like a terrified hare, her heart began a maddened thumping, as if his warm breath had caressed her ear and his lips had moved within her hair.

  She did not dare respond. Instead she stumbled backward until her calves came up against a slipper chair and she sat down hard upon it.

  Good night, Lucy.

  He was gone. She knew it though she'd not heard a sound of his departure. She felt it, she decided, in that secret part of her heart that was still a girl's.

  In that secret part of her heart that was still silly and foolish and terribly, terribly naive, she amended.