He advanced on the seated Elliot until he towered over him. "What the hell is going on here?"
Elliot gave him a taunting grin. He offered Ivan the letter in his hand. "I believe this may explain things. It's for you. From the delightful Miss Drysdale," he added knowingly.
Ivan glared at him, then snatched the letter out of his hands. He turned away, broke the rough seal, then stood beneath one of the wall lamps to read.
... We should not wed... a terrible mistake . . .
Three pages of weak excuses that avoided the truth. His rage increased with every one.
... I will make a terrible countess. You deserve someone who would do the title honor, and give credit to the role of your wife. You should marry someone you can care for.
Ivan crushed the parchment in his fist. Someone he could care for? What drivel. She was speaking of herself, not him. She wished to marry someone she cared for. Someone she could love. And he was not that person.
The fact that this foolish particularity of hers was probably the source of her spinster status gave him no satisfaction. The fact that he probably joined a long line of dismissed suitors gave him no comfort.
The indisputable fact was, she would rather be a pariah in society than the wife of the Earl of Westcott, wealthy, respected, and fussed over. She would rather be ruined than be forced to marry him.
"So. Is the wedding off?" Elliot drawled. "Has she turned you down or prevailed upon you to withdraw your offer? Faced with such a desperately reluctant bride, I wonder what a true gentleman is supposed to do?" He paused a moment. "If you were to withdraw your offer, she would appear the wronged party, while you, of course, would appear the scoundrel. Public sentiment would rest with her and perhaps help assuage the damage to her reputation. Then again, she would still be publically humiliated. You, of course, would be no worse off than you already are: the bastard earl who doesn't give a damn about anyone or anything. That is the reputation you court, isn't it?"
Ivan lifted his head slowly and gave bim an icy stare. Initially jealousy had gotten the best of him, but he had it under control now. "What's your interest in this, Pierce?"
Elliot shrugged, then leaned back on the stairs, propping himself up on his elbows. "I'm bored. Business is good— no challenge there. Playing entourage for you and shocking all the well-bred young ladies of the ton has lost its value for entertainment. But this new twist, you lusting after a bluestocking spinster and she turning you down." Again he shrugged. "This is by far the best entertainment I've found since we've been back in town."
"Are you giving odds yet on who will win, me or Lucy?"
Elliot grinned. "Giles is naive enough to believe the chit cannot be forced into doing anything she does not want. Alex says a title and money will always win. Naturally. His advice is that you make a nice marriage settlement upon her, enough to make her reconsider her position. Money will bring her around, so long as you let the independent Miss Drysdale know that she can support whatever little causes she likes." His grin grew crafty. "Perhaps she'll wish to come to the aid of misunderstood scholars."
Ivan's fingers tightened around Lucy's letter. He'd be damned if his wife chased after idiot scholars like Sir James Mawbey. "How do you bet?"
Elliot pushed to his feet. "My money is on Miss Drysdale. I have great faith in her, for she is sensible in her behavior and passionate in her convictions."
Ivan bristled to hear that word applied to Lucy by anyone but himself. He knew Elliot was baiting him, but it was hard not to bite.
"It's those very passions of hers that ultimately will drive her to the altar," Ivan stated.
"With you?"
"With me."
"Would you like to lay a friendly wager on that?"
Ivan considered the man a moment. Elliot had an odd interest in Lucy, and while Ivan meant to marry the woman and thus lay his claim to her, it wouldn't hurt to get Elliot away from her. "Immediately after I marry her on Thurs day, you shall leave town—leave the country, in fact. For at least a year," he added.
Elliot rubbed his chin. "And if you do not marry her on Thursday, you shall step aside and let someone else court her."
Ivan's fists knotted and his jaw clenched. "You?"
"Would you rather she remain a spinster forever?"
Lucy Drysdale would not remain a spinster for long, Ivan vowed minutes later as he rode through the midnight streets of London. The moon was a dim and distant company through the lamplit lanes and avenues that led him to Berkeley Square. A dog howled and was answered from afar. The shadow of a cat darted across the street. But otherwise he was alone with his thoughts.
He'd taken the bet with Elliot, and he meant to answer Lucy's letter tonight, in person, and resolve once and for all the matter of her reluctance. No matter what her letter said, she could not possibly prefer ruination over becoming a countess. Could she?
Lucy sat in the window brushing her hair. It was late and the lights in the various bedchambers had all been turned down by the time she'd sneaked up the servants' stairwell and crept down the hall to her own room. She'd changed swiftly into her bed clothes, but her nerves were far too overwrought for her to sleep.
Would Elliot deliver her letter to Ivan? Would Ivan read it—really read it—and understand what a dreadful mistake it would be for them to wed?
She stared out at the street, mindlessly forcing the brush through her long hair. She looked, but did not really see a carriage go by. A hunting cat crept along the fence and leapt silently down into the shadows of a bush.
Then a rider turned into the square and her focus sharpened.
It was the deliberateness of his approach that struck her. As he made straightaway toward Westcott House her hand paused with the brush in midair. Her breathing ceased and her heart began to pound.
Was it Ivan? Could it be?
It was.
He pulled up at the front door, vaulted from the saddle, then stared straight up at her.
Lucy fell away from the window. The brush clattered forgotten to the floor as she scurried for her bed, then stared aghast at the window. He was coming up here. She knew it. He'd read her letter and he was furious that she would choose ruin over marriage to him.
She should have anticipated this, she realized. As a child he'd been rejected by his own family. As a man he refused to let anyone reject him and to his mind she had just rejected him. It wasn't rejection, though. She would love to be his wife, if she thought he'd let her truly play that role.
But how was she to explain? I love you but you don't love me, and I can't marry you unless you do?
No. She couldn't tell him that. But she would have to tell him something.
Lucy shifted her panicked eyes from the window to the door. He wouldn't come up here, would he?
Of course he would.
She started for the door, intent on locking it against him. Then she sat down on the bed again. Get a hold on yourself. She'd wanted to talk this thing out with him. Now was her chance. Only not in here, with her in her nightgown.
She snatched her wrapper from the chair, and again started for the door. But a knock halted her. Not an angry pounding, nor a sharp, demanding one. Just three soft, restrained raps. There was danger in that softness, however, and warning in that restraint.
"I'm coming," she said as she fought the twisted arm of her wrapper.
"No. I'm coming in." In a moment Ivan was inside the room.
Lucy froze, one arm in the wrapper, the other caught halfway down the inverted sleeve. She stared at him in a state of total shock. He should not be in her bedroom. They should not be here together. He must leave or else she must.
But when the door closed with a decisive thud—when he turned the key and locked them in together—she knew that neither of them was going anywhere.
You wanted to talk to him. So talk.
"Now see here, my lord—"
"Ivan." He advanced on her without the least indication of embarrassment. "Let me help you with that.
" He reached for the bunched fabric of the uncooperative wrapper.
"Thank you—No! I want it on!" she exclaimed, when he deftly peeled it off her. She grabbed for it, but he flung it in a corner.
"Now, Ivan," she began in a warning tone. "You cannot come storming in here—"
"Too late, Lucy. I've already done it." He stared at her with those burning blue eyes of his.
Lucy gulped and folded her arms nervously across her chest. "If you wish to speak to me we can go down to the library."
"The library." He smiled and let that hot gaze run over her. "What I have in mind is better suited to the bedroom than the library. Then again, I'm nothing if not flexible."
"Stop that! You're being deliberately obtuse and ... and you're not in the least bit flexible," she added. She was treading in deep water here. The only way not to drown was to provoke a fight with him.
But Ivan was not in a fighting mood, and she feared he had only one purpose in mind. She decided to be direct. "If you think you're going to seduce me and thereby put an end to my opposition to our marriage, you are quite mistaken. Not unless your intentions lean toward... toward rape," she finished, throwing the ugly word out between them.
For a moment his eyes narrowed. Then he smiled, a slow, confident smile that made her heart do a quick flip-flop that she was certain could not be healthy.
"I would never force you to do something you did not wish, Lucy. I think you know that. But I am not averse to reminding you how much you like it when I kiss you. And touch you," he added in a voice that vibrated inside her very bones.
Lucy began to back up. "Don't do this, Ivan. Please. We need ... We need to talk, not to ... to ..."
"Not to make love?" He shook his head as he followed her, devouring her with his eyes, melting her with their fiery touch. "I need to make love to you right now. More than I need to breathe. And you need to make love to me. Don't you?"
Lucy had come up against the bed. Now he stopped just inches from her. You need to make love to me. The words reverberated in the air between them. You need to make love to me.
Oh, God, but she did!
She stared helplessly up at him, trapped as much by the power of her unwise feelings for him as by his superior physical strength.
"Kiss me," he commanded her, even as his eyes traced the contours of her mouth.
Lucy struggled to control her breathing, to control the awful impulse to throw herself into his arms. He wanted her to. She wanted to. So why not just do it?
Because he did not love her. She was merely a challenge to overcome.
"Kiss me," he repeated.
Without thinking, she curled her fingers in the fabric of his opened coat. She bowed her head against his chest, still resisting. "Go away. Please, go away," she begged him, even as her hands tightened on his lapels.
"I can't." With his thumb and one finger beneath her chin, he tilted her face up to his. "I can't."
Then his face descended until they were so close their breath mingled. "Kiss me, Lucy."
And this time she did. She rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to his, and felt an immeasurable joy in the doing of it. She was so tired of fighting him. Of fighting her need for him.
That it was unwise, she would not argue. That she would be sorry on the morrow, she did not dispute. But she needed this—this wonderful, terrifying rush of emotions that went through her every time they touched.
So she clutched the wool lapels of his coat, even tighter, and kissed him as if there were no tomorrow.
It was not how she'd imagined coming together with the man she loved would be. There was none of the wooing she'd imagined, the pretty compliments and tentative touches. She was not dressed and perfumed, with hair piled high and pins to undo.
No, she was naked underneath a thin night rail, with her hair streaming down to her waist. His hands roamed her greedily, finding no barriers at all. Indeed, the soft linen only served to heighten the feel of his hard palms and strong fingers as they slid down her back, circled her waist, and curved around her derriere.
His other hand tangled in her hair, tilting her back to accept the onslaught of his mouth.
Not that she meant to fight him. Not that she ever could.
When he pulled her against him, drawing her up into the kiss, it became more than merely a kiss. His lips teased and seduced hers; his tongue deepened the contact. His arms enveloped her and his body swamped hers with his heat.
And his need.
But it was a need that went beyond physical desire, and that need proved to be the most potent of his many allures. For Lucy wanted to assuage that neediness in him. She wanted to satisfy more than the physical hungers that drove him. She wanted to love him and make love to him, until he was sated and at peace. Completely at peace.
The bed was behind her, and with a bold tug, she tumbled them backward onto it. Their lower bodies pressed together in the intimate way they had before, the fateful night of the dinner party. He braced himself on his arms and with her help shed both coat and waistcoat. But Lucy could go no further than that, for she was now in new and foreign territory.
"Pull my shirt up," he told her, kissing her ear, then moving the kiss in hot nibbles down the side of her neck and around to the hollow of her throat. "Now over my head," he added, when she complied.
Somehow they managed, for Lucy soon found herself staring at his broad, naked chest, at the dark mat of hair and the flat male nipples nestled within. Her own nipples tightened at the sight.
As if he knew the direction of her thoughts, one of Ivan's hands moved down to curve around her breast, and his thumb moved languidly over the aching crest.
When she let out a little moan, he replaced the thumb with his mouth. He scraped the peak with his teeth, then drew it fully into his mouth.
A groan of fear and ecstasy escaped her, and unwittingly she thrust her body up against his. He thrust back, pressing her deep into the feather bed, and let out a groan of his own.
"I cannot wait any more," he muttered.
He rolled away from her and for a moment disappointment overwhelmed her. But only for a moment. For he kicked off his boots and stripped off his breeches. Then he turned back to her and, with an impatient gesture, pushed her maidenly gown up, past her thighs and belly. He paused and stared down at her naked form.
Had it not been for her fascination with his naked body, Lucy would have tried to cover herself. But he was so magnificent, so arrogantly masculine, that she could do nothing but stare. He put the classical statues to shame. She had held onto his wide shoulders and felt the press of his muscular chest before. But naked they were so much more im pressive. Smooth olive skin accented with dark, curling hair. Well-defined muscles, that rippled down to a hard, flat stomach. A huge jutting—
She jerked her eyes back up to him, suddenly terrified. What was she doing? This was not possible. There was no way that could fit where ... where she knew it was supposed to fit.
"Are you a virgin?" he asked.
Lucy nodded, unable to speak.
Ivan smiled, drinking her in with his eyes. He bent down to kiss her again. "Good." Then with one hand he slid the gown even higher, exposing her breasts, while he moved his mouth in a hungry trail of kisses. He devoured her neck, nuzzled past the bunched linen, then began to lick and taste the bare flesh of her breasts.
"Ivan ... Ivan, I don't think ..." She trailed off, lost in the wonderful turmoil of sensations he roused in her.
"Don't think," he murmured, as he began to tease one aching, straining nipple. He pulled the gown over her head, leaving her to struggle with her trapped arms. "Don't think. Just feel."
When he drew the nipple between his lips, Lucy could do nothing else but feel. His erotic attention to her nipples caused the most incredible, terrifying feelings to erupt in her belly. She felt as if she were melting from the inside out, getting hotter and hotter, until she turned to liquid and began to boil.
She clutched at his shoulders, trying
to make him stop. Urging him never to stop.
In the midst of this panic of emotions, he slid further down her body, pressing his clever, wicked lips in the depression beneath her breast bone, counting each rib with his tongue. Then he pressed the side of his face against the soft flesh of her belly.
She felt the rasp of his stubbled cheek on her sensitized skin. One of his hands circled her derriere and pressed her all the harder to him as he rubbed his face against her tender flesh. Then he moved his mouth, as if to kiss her lower still.
"Ivan," she gasped, afraid of what he meant to do. "Please, I..." She trailed off when he looked up, forget ting what she'd meant to say. There was such hunger in his eyes, such a fiery passion.
"Please," she begged as she cupped his face with her hands. "Please. Kiss me again."
Slowly he slid up her, letting every portion of his incredibly masculine body rub against hers, forcing her legs apart to accept the full weight of his body. He caught her mouth in a kiss, pinning her to the bed with the crushing force of his desire.
Then, as he filled her mouth with his probing tongue, his hard male member probed the entrance to her femininity. Urging her on with the rhythmic thrust of his tongue, he thrust his hips against hers, going deeper each time.
It was an excruciating pleasure, an exquisite stretching, an indescribable friction that made Lucy want to jump out of her skin. She circled his shoulders with her arms and ran her hands restlessly up and down his back. He possessed her wholly and she let him, circling her legs around his straining hips.
She felt him tense and start to lift his head. But she drew him back into the kiss and she heard his groan of capitulation.
Then without warning he thrust deeper than he had before, and she felt a quick, tearing pain. But he did not allow her time to savor the pain or understand it. For he began a new rhythm, hot and fast, with an unholy urgency. Like a mighty wave it sucked her in until she was meeting him stroke for stroke, crying out her anguish and need, and finally erupting from the inside out.
He'd set her on fire. He'd burned her up. He'd consumed her and now she was his, mere ashes, burned in the fire of his passion.
Dangerous to Love Page 21
