Dangerous to Love

by Rexanne Becnel

  Lucy gaped at him, unable to believe what he'd just told her. The woman one row up and three seats over was Valerie.

  "The only chance of salvaging her reputation," he contained, "was to find you, her erstwhile chaperone."

  Lucy continued to stare at him, still unable to speak. In the next row Valerie turned a fearful gaze toward her. But there was no apology in the girl's expression, Lucy noted. None at all.

  So much for the malleable child Lady Westcott thought her to be. When it came to what the girl truly wanted—Sir James, it seemed—Valerie obviously possessed a will of iron.

  Embarrassment, disappointment, and absolute fury hit Lucy all at one time. She glared at Ivan, the author of this latest outrage. "You are truly despicable," she hissed. "Even worse than I imagined. You care for nothing at all, only the amusement you might have at the expense of others."

  She jerked to her feet, set on leaving and taking Valerie with her. But with a grip like steel he caught her arm and forced her down into her seat. "We're staying for the lecture. All of us," he stated in no uncertain terms.

  "Cheer up, Miss Drysdale," said Alexander Blackburn, turning to face her from the seat directly in front of hers. "We'll do our very best to be entertaining company."

  "It's not your company I object to, Mr. Blackburn. It's his," she said, glaring again at Ivan. "No doubt he duped you into this hateful scheme just as he has duped Valerie."

  She tried to pull her arm free of Ivan's hold, but to no avail. Indeed, it only caused him to lean nearer her.

  "Are you angry because I am here, or because Valerie is?"

  "That's an idiotic question."

  "I don't think so. It's a question that cuts right to the heart of the matter. The fact is, you don't want Valerie here because you have your own designs on the good scholar." He gestured toward the stage just as a polite applause rippled through the audience. Sir James crossed the stage and took his place behind the podium. He was the same gaunt young man he'd been two days before when she'd first laid eyes on him. But the impact on Lucy wasn't the same this time.

  From Sir James, Lucy's gaze shot over to Valerie. Even in profile the girl's fascination for Sir James was evident. Lucy's spirits sank even further. Still, she was not about to admit anything to Ivan Thornton. With jaw set she stared straight ahead at Sir James, though not a word he said registered with her.

  "Would you please let go of my arm," she muttered from the corner of her mouth.

  "Promise you won't bolt?" he whispered, very near her ear. Too near. She felt his warm breath upon her neck and swallowed hard.

  "I came here to listen to Sir James. I have no intention of leaving on your account."

  When she glanced at him she saw he was smiling. That wicked, satisfied, one-sided smile of his. What little light there was in the lecture hall seemed to glitter in his eyes. He released her wrist then, and she looked away. But though he gave her no further cause for distraction during the balance of Sir James's lecture, not a word of the earnest scholar's pronouncements registered in her head.

  In the row in front of her Alexander Blackburn fell asleep. Giles Dameron stared about, up at the water-stained ceiling, and around at the peeling walls. Elliot Pierce was not even that polite. After only ten minutes or so, he stood up, made his excuses, and left for the lobby.

  Valerie's attention, however, remained riveted to the man on the stage. By the time the ushers relit the wall lanterns, Lucy was ready to accept the fact that the girl was serious about her affection for the man. It was totally illogical, of course, but there it was. And when Sir James anxiously scanned the room, then broke into a foolish grin when he spied Valerie sitting in the rear, Lucy unhappily resigned herself to the inevitable.

  One adoring look from an ingenuous young woman had carried far more weight with Sir James Mawbey than had months of correspondence from someone who admired his mind and shared all his interests. When Valerie hurried up the aisle to greet Sir James, Lucy rolled her eyes in disgust.

  "True love. Revolting, isn't it?"

  Lucy glared at Ivan. "You're encouraging her when you know it is sure to lead to heartbreak."

  "Heartbreak for her, or heartbreak for you?"

  Lucy gritted her teeth and stood. She refused to be drawn into this cat and mouse game of his. "You know Lady Westcott will not approve, nor will her family. But then, that's precisely why you're doing it. You wish to wreak havoc on everyone's life, especially your grandmother's. It doesn't matter at all to you if you crush a few innocent people along the way. So long as you make your grandmother miserable."

  His face remained remarkably calm. "Jealous, are we?"

  "I am not!" Lucy was too angry to be rational. She shoved past him and stormed down the aisle to Valerie, who stood in a knot of admirers gathered around Sir James.

  "... and I am a middle child," Valerie was saying.

  "As am I," Sir James replied. They smiled at one an other.

  An elderly matron tittered and nudged her companion. Lucy glared at the woman, then turned her attention back to her young charge.

  "Excuse me, Valerie. But we must be going."

  At Sir James's crestfallen look she felt a twinge of guilt. But resolutely she pressed on. "Lady Westcott will be worried. After all, you have been ill." She gave Valerie a pointed look.

  Valerie had the good grace to look guilty. Before she could respond, however, Ivan spoke. "I assure you, Miss Drysdale, that my cousin is in safe hands with me."

  "Nonetheless, Lady Westcott will not be content until she is returned home."

  He studied her with an impassive gaze. He no longer looked amused; neither did he seem angry. But by that very dearth of emotions he seemed especially threatening. Behind him his gallery of rogues was gathered, and Lucy's heart sank.

  How had she become embroiled in this terrible mess? She'd but wanted to come to London to hear Sir James and meet him. She'd never wanted to become the hapless mediator in a war between Ivan Thornton and his grandmother. No. More like Ivan Thornton and the world. And now she'd lost her hopes for Sir James as well.

  Valerie turned an imploring expression on Ivan and an alarm bell sounded in Lucy's head. What was going on here? Since when had Ivan become Valerie's source of support?

  As if on cue, Ivan stepped nearer the hopeless couple. "If you would like the chance to meet Valerie's estimable godmother, the Dowager Countess of Westcott, I urge you to join us at dinner, Mawbey." He handed Sir James a card. "Wednesday evening. Should we expect you?"

  The play of emotions that ran across Sir James's face was almost comical. Surprise. Suspicion. Disbelief. Then finally, delight. "I am most flattered, Lord Westcott. I shall mark it on my calendar." He turned the card over, studying it, then looked up at Valerie. "I especially look forward to seeing you there, Lady Valerie." He gave her a shy smile.

  It was going to be a fiasco, was all Lucy could think. Ivan was engineering a fiasco and everyone in attendance would come out the worse for it. Everyone except for him, of course.

  They said their good-byes to Sir James. But when Lucy would have taken Valerie's arm, she was usurped by Mr. Dameron and Mr. Blackburn. Mr. Pierce offered Lucy his arm, but she only glared at him.

  Ivan, however, did not offer her a choice. He took her hand and tucked it under her arm. "My dear Miss Drysdale. if you will take advice from one who wishes you only the best, you should try harder to curb that temper of yours."

  "Really? The same might be said for you, though not of your temper. It's your unreasonable need for vengeance that does you so little credit." Then she dropped all pretense of civility. "Exactly what is it you hope to accomplish at this dinner party you plan?"

  "What makes you think I hope to accomplish anything?"

  "Because I know you. You would not do this merely out of the goodness of your heart."

  "You wound me, Miss Drysdale." He laughed. "Then again, perhaps all I want to do is goad you, to prod that prickly temper of yours."

  They had re
ached the foyer of the lecture hall and through the open doors Lucy spied the Westcott carriage. Behind it was Ivan's curricle. She pulled her hand from Ivan's hold, trying hard to ignore the feel of his muscular arm beneath her palm. "If you and your friends prefer the larger carriage, Lady Valerie and I can take the curricle."

  "I wouldn't think of sending you ladies home without a proper escort."

  "I'm her chaperone. I am the proper escort," Lucy reminded him.

  "Nevertheless, I insist on seeing you both safely home."

  "You mean you insist on making certain your grandmother knows how you have tricked her."

  "If anything, she will be pleased that I take so avid an interest in my very marriageable cousin."

  Lucy glared at him. "Aren't you worried your grandmother and Valerie might trick you? That they might trap you in a compromising position—say, you sneaking Valerie out of the house for a secret rendezvous?"

  "What a devious mind you have," he scolded. "That's why I brought my friends along. Come now, Miss Drysdale. Lucy," he added more softly. "Let's not debate this matter any further."

  Lucy searched his face. He was the most baffling man she'd ever met. "I thought you wanted to goad me. To prod my prickly temper, to quote you."

  Their eyes met and held, and in the brief silence the tenor of their conversation changed. He was the first to speak. "Your temper is volatile. You dance with sensuous grace. It makes a man curious to know what other passions lie hidden beneath that carefully restrained facade of yours. I happen to be a very curious man."

  There was no mistaking his meaning. While Lucy knew such boldness deserved a sharp setdown, she was not up to it. Shock had turned her mind to mush.

  Fortunately, it did not deprive her completely of her senses. She turned awkwardly away from Ivan. Spying Valerie, she made directly for the girl, like a pigeon homing in on its roost.

  How she endured the ride to Westcott House, with Ivan's gaze constantly on her, as vivid as a caress, she did not know. Once home, however, she did not linger belowstairs. She sent Valerie to bed, then escaped at last to the solitude of her own bedchamber.

  Solitude, however, was no bosom friend. Not this night. For without the distraction of her responsibility for Valerie, she could not hide from her thoughts.

  Ivan was curious about her hidden passions? If he only knew!

  For most of the night she dreamed of her passions being well met by his own.

  And for the rest of the night she lay awake imagining the bitter aftermath should she ever be so unwise as to let that happen.

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  Lady Westcott handed the guest list to Lucy. "Look at this," she snapped. "How am I to work with a list that includes nothing but bachelors? And such bachelors!"

  Lucy took the list. It was written in a bold, slashing script. She'd never seen a secretary with such an aggressive writing style. That meant it must be Ivan's.

  An unwelcome knot began to coil in her stomach, a twisty, turny knot of heat. She hastily thrust the sheet of parchment back at Lady Westcott. Was everything the man did bold and forceful? Must even the paper and ink he touched churn her emotions until she became a blithering idiot?

  "Well? Who is this Sir James Mawbey? Another of Ivan's natural-born companions?"

  Lucy focused on the letter she was writing toher brother and his family. Trying to write. "Sir James is the scholar whose lectures I have been attending."

  There was a short silence, but Lucy could fairly hear the wheels turning in the older woman's brain. "The one Valerie has formed an unwise attachment to?"

  Lucy put down her pen and looked over at the dowager countess. "The very same."

  To her surprise, however, Lady Westcott did not seem terribly upset by that bit of news, only a little thoughtful— and perhaps marginally amused.

  "Could it be that Ivan is playing the matchmaker? Knowing, of course, that I must disapprove of a poor scholar for Valerie?"

  "Something like that," Lucy muttered. He also didn't mind rubbing Lucy's nose in the fact that Sir James was not interested in her. Lady Westcott did not need to know that, however.

  Unfortunately the old woman seemed to have a sixth sense for affairs of the heart, for she studied Lucy shrewdly. "I still believe you have a tendre for this man, this penniless lecturer. You know," she continued, forestalling Lucy's denial with a raised hand. "You know, you haven't the wherewithal to marry a man with no income to speak of."

  "I am well aware of the limitations of my situation," Lucy retorted. "However, you are quite mistaken in your assessment of my interest in Sir James." Once I might have had such a silly idea, but no more.

  Other than one arched eyebrow, Lady Westcott did not comment on Lucy's sharp words. Instead she shook Ivan's note in front of her. "Well, what are we to do about this ill-advised guest list?"

  Without comment Lucy reached for the paper again, and despite the butterflies in her stomach, reread Ivan's list. Four bachelors, a couple of younger married couples, and Laurence Caldridge, Lord Dunleith. "Are there any other young ladies and their parents we might include?"

  "Not any from the higher levels of society. They would be scandalized to think I meant to pair their darling daughters with the penniless bastards of the ton. Even a royal one."

  "They're not all penniless," Lucy said, unaccountably angered by the dowager countess's haughty attitude. "In fact, Mr. Dameron and Mr. Pierce are wealthy in their own right. It's only Mr. Blackburn who is without a reliable income, and he, presumably, the son of the king."

  "Wealth is nothing without family connections, and you well know it."

  "Unless, of course, you have a title and are drowning in debt."

  "Drowning in debt." Lady Westcott considered a moment. Then her blue eyes narrowed. "Perhaps we should invite that Riddingham girl and her parents. He has gambled away everything but the family seat in Essex. Viscountess Latner is likewise without two pence to rub together, and three daughters to wed. Well done, Miss Drysdale. We may yet make a success of this dinner party."

  That was highly debatable, but Lucy wisely vkept such thoughts to herself. Still, there was the matter of Sir James. "I don't think we can leave Sir James off the list. Ivan has already issued him a personal invitation."

  Lady Westcott shrugged. "He cannot do much harm at one dinner party, especially if you attach yourself to his side. We shall be very careful in our seating arrangement. Now, if you would be good enough to call for my secretary?"

  The night of the dinner party Lucy dressed with special care.

  She had not gone to Sir James's third lecture. She and Valerie had accompanied Lady Westcott to the theater that night. Lucy had not been sorry to miss the lecture, though. Nor did she particularly look forward to the long evening she must spend at Sir James's side tonight. But at least she had some basis for conversation with him. A few questions about the lecture she'd missed, and he would be off on his favorite topic. She would have only to nod now and again in order to get through the long, tense hours to come.

  So why had she spent the better part of the afternoon washing and drying her hair, brushing it while sitting in a sunny spot in the garden?

  She'd always been a little vain of her hair and how it gleamed like the polished mahogany of her mother's pianoforte. But what was the point tonight? Her hair was twisted up in a simple fashion, as befitted her role as a chaperone. Except for several soft, curling wisps along her neck, the style was strictly severe.

  But even were her hair loose and streaming about her shoulders, it would not matter. There was no one attending tonight's dinner whom she wished to impress. Sir James would never notice—not that she cared any more whether he did or not.

  Of course, Ivan could always be counted on to make some leading remark. But she was too wise to credit anything he said.

  Still, for all her mental self-flagellation, once dressed she gave herself a critical examination. Her shoes gleamed with a fresh polish. Her teal-green d
ress of India muslin had been brushed, then ironed with rose-scented water. She wore her favorite gold and aquamarine ear bobs, and a very feminine pair of lace mitts with cutaway fingers. Her outfit wanted only the addition of that magnificent silk shawl to complete it—

  She groaned out loud. Where had that idiotic thought come from? The last thing she ever meant to do was wear that shawl. It was lovely, of course, but it had been given to her under decidedly improper conditions. She had to get it back to him, and soon.

  Still, the shawl was not her most pressing problem. Her appearance was, for even her face, though devoid of any powder or other contrivance, nonetheless held a heightened color, as if she'd rouged her cheeks with carmine and tinted her lips as well.

  Lucy sighed. She looked like a blushing girl—not a particularly desirable effect in a woman of her age and station in life. With a last frown at her image she left the room and headed for the stairs.

  Half the way down them she stopped.

  Ivan was already in the foyer. Lady Westcott had decreed they must have a receiving line, and though Lucy had doubted that Ivan would participate, it appeared she'd been wrong.

  With her heart lodged high in her throat, she forced herself to resume her descent, step by slow step, and all under the disturbingly dark gaze of Ivan Thornton, Lord Westcott.

  He approached the stairs, forcing her to halt one step up, and bringing them eye to eye. It had a most disconcerting effect on her, for instead of making her feel more his equal, it somehow made her feel small and fragile. Vulnerable.

  But only to him.

  "You're looking lovely tonight, Lucy."

  As if a hot wind had blown suddenly over her, Lucy began to perspire. "Thank you. You look quite ... quite handsome yourself." Quite disturbingly, heartbreakingly, unbelievably handsome.

  The moment stretched out. He didn't move. She seemed unable to sidestep him.

  Not until Lady Westcott's cane made sharp contact with the marble threshold between the parlor and the foyer did either of them look away.