Dangerous to Love

by Rexanne Becnel

  She heaved again and he felt like a cad for his initial anger at her. He had to do something, but what? He yanked his breeches on then moved nearer to her, frustrated by an unaccustomed feeling of helplessness.

  "Are you all right, Lucy? Can I do something to help you?"

  She shook her head. "Just go away. Go away—" Again her body spasmed as her stomach rebelled. Ivan's heart began to pound. She looked so vulnerable and pale, so weak and frail. Had he used her too harshly?

  Panic overwhelmed him. He tore across the room and jerked the heavy door open. "Help! Somebody help her!"

  By the time the two maids and the butler burst into the room he had covered Lucy with a thin robe. But she still hung over the bowl.

  "Please, Ivan, just... just go ... I'll be fine. Fine ..."

  "My lord. Can we be of service?" Simms asked.

  "My lady, are you all right?" one of the maids asked in a concerned voice.

  "Oh, my," the second maid gasped. "Could it be milady is expecting?" she whispered to the other two servants.

  Though she hadn't meant her voice to carry, Ivan heard her. So did Lucy, for she stiffened. One of Ivan's hands rested on her back and he felt it, and he went cold.

  Expecting? As in, expecting a baby?

  Ivan pulled his hand away from her as if he'd suddenly been burned. He felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. Hard. She couldn't be expecting a baby, could she? Not so soon.

  But when she looked up at him, her eyes huge and watery, and filled with dread, he knew. She was expecting a child. His child.

  He drew away from her, too stunned to think straight. The two maids hurried up to Lucy. The older one pushed him gently away. "We'll see to her, milord. She'll be feelin' better soon enough. You just take yourself off now. We'll take good care of her. You needn't worry over that."

  Ivan was only too happy to comply. Lucy sick was bad enough. Lucy in the family way was inconceivable. He grabbed his shirt and boots and strode from the room, but not before hearing Simms exclaim, "Won't the dowager countess be pleased?"

  The dowager countess. The vicious old harridan who'd manipulated his life from the beginning. Yes, she would be pleased, damn her miserable witch's soul. This was what she'd wanted all along. This was why she'd introduced Lucy into his life in the first place.

  Between the house and the stable Ivan, jerked on his boots. While the surprised groom saddled a horse, he shrugged into his shirt, shoving the tails into his pants. She'd gotten everything she wanted. He'd become the Earl of Westcott, he'd married a suitable woman, and he'd planted the seed for his heir in his wife's very fertile body.

  "Son of a bitch!" He swung up into the saddle, unmindful of the groom's startled expression. Then, unable to stay another minute within the stifling confines of the Westcott family's grand mansion—a place that was his and yet would never truly feel like his—he kicked the horse into a gallop, turned it away from town, and let it run.

  Lucy sat in the window of her bedchamber, staring out at nothing. She should have told him sooner, she berated herself. She should have known this would happen. After all, it had happened every morning for the past two weeks.

  Why she'd thought she could hide it, she didn't know. Why she'd tried to was even harder to understand.

  If he hadn't been absent these past two months she would have told him right away. The fact still remained, however, that she could have told him last night. She'd planned to. But somehow when he came upstairs after the ball, she'd been too distracted to tell him about the baby she carried. His baby and hers.

  But he knew now, and considering that he'd been gone nearly four hours, Lucy could only assume that he was not thrilled with the idea.

  The selfish wretch! Had he ever considered that she wasn't precisely overjoyed with the idea either?

  She turned away from the window, immediately ashamed of her thoughts. She twisted the scrap that had been her handkerchief into knots. She did love the idea of having a baby—Ivan's baby. But the thought of raising it alone was too terrible to contemplate. Every child needed a father. Ivan should know that better than anyone. And every wife wanted to share both the joys and the sorrows of being a parent with her husband.

  She wanted to share them with Ivan.

  But he didn't want to share them with her. He'd left as fast as he possibly could. Did he plan to go off for another two months, pretending it was on account of business when it was really on account of her?

  Lucy stifled a sob. She'd never been so lonely in her entire life. She pressed her hands to her abdomen. "Poor baby," she whispered. "No father to love you and a hateful great-grandmother—"

  But there was a grandmother who was not so hateful, her own mother. And an uncle and aunt, and cousins too.

  Though her heart was heavy, Lucy tried to take comfort from the fact that her child would be loved, if not by its father, then by its mother and the rest of her family. Unlike Ivan, this child would be surrounded by love every day— every minute—of its life. And once grown, he or she would know how to love in return, something she feared Ivan would never know how to do.

  A knock sounded at the door—too soft to be Ivan, she knew. Besides, he wasn't likely to knock at the master bedroom door. She wiped her cheeks, lifted her chin, and tried to compose herself. "Come in," she called, pasting a pleasant expression on her face.

  Valerie peered past the door. Her worried face swiftly turned to delight. "Lucy! I'm so happy for you!" She sped across the room and enveloped Lucy in a hug. "A baby! I'm so jealous."

  Lucy tried to smile as Valerie sat down on the footstool at her feet. "Yes. Well, I would rather not have announced it in so ... so unflattering a manner."

  Valerie laughed. "I don't think anyone minds that. All the servants are abuzz with the news." She stopped abruptly and her expression altered. Lucy knew what she was thinking.

  "Are they also abuzz with the news that my husband has once again run off?"

  Valerie took Lucy's hands in her own. "He is only experiencing a bit of shock. I don't believe he'll be gone so long this time."

  Lucy could no longer maintain her false smile. She stood and began to pace. "You don't know Ivan as I do. He cannot bear being forced into doing anything. Especially by a woman. He doesn't trust women at all, and I can't say that I blame him. In his eyes his mother betrayed him. His grandmother ignored him and used him. And now I've trapped him into marriage—"

  "But you didn't want to marry him—" Valerie broke off, and a frown marred her forehead. "That's part of the problem, isn't it?"

  Lucy sighed. "I wouldn't doubt it. In his eyes I rejected him. Or tried to."

  "Then why did he marry you? Just for spite?"

  Lucy had never felt so sad. "I suppose so. I don't know." She shook her head. "All I know is he never meant to marry, but now he's married to me. I suspect he never intended to have children either, and now I've sprung that on him as well. He's so angry with me," she finished in a voice that wavered despite her best efforts to control it.

  "Does he know that you love him?"

  Lucy had halted at the window. Outside it was drizzling. She looked over at Valerie, making no attempt to hide the stricken expression on her face. "Is it so obvious?"

  Valerie smiled. "To me. To James. And probably to anyone else who cares to look."

  "But not to Ivan."

  "It sounds as if he's not too familiar with love. He may very well not be able to recognize it. He might have to be told. Have you tried telling him?"

  Lucy remembered last night. She remembered in the midst of their passion that he had called her love. She remembered telling him she loved him. She knew he'd heard her, but it obviously hadn't mattered. "I told him last night."

  Valerie had no reply to that.

  Lucy sighed. "I think I'll lie down for a while. And . . . And if you would be so good as to alert Simms that I will want the carriage prepared for a trip to Somerset. As soon as I'm feeling up to travel," she added, as a latent wave of na
usea swept through her.

  "You're not going back to Dorset?"

  Lucy could hardly speak for the lump that lodged in her throat. "The Westcott family seat is not my home. I'm going back to Houghton Manor. I want to be with my family. I want to be with my mother."

  Valerie studied her with sad eyes. "You want to be with the people who love you. I understand that. If you think about it, though, that's all that most of us want. Even Ivan."

  She closed the door when she left. But for Lucy, Valerie's words lingered in the air. Even Ivan.

  He was no different than everyone else. He wanted to be loved. But just as he did not know how to love, he did not know how to be loved either. He wouldn't let her love him. And unlike many other traits, such as good manners and proper diction, love was not something a person could be taught to do. A child could, she knew. But not a man who'd been taught so well not to love.

  A hot tear trickled onto her cheek, but she dashed it away. Instead of lamenting what could never be, she should take joy in all she had.

  She curved one hand around her still flat stomach. "I will love you, Ivan. I will love your child and give him—or her—the sort of childhood you should have had, a happy, loving one."

  But though she could be a good mother, she nevertheless knew she could not fill the role of loving father. Only Ivan could do that for his child.

  And maybe he would, she thought, still hoping for the best. Though Ivan did not love her, maybe, once his child was born and he saw the innocent babe, he would have a change of heart. Maybe this child of theirs was the only way Ivan could be taught to love.

  A small sense of renewal lifted Lucy's heart, restoring at least a portion of her spirits. Ivan might not love her, nor want her love. He might reject her, now that he'd had the one thing he seemed most to want from her. But reject this innocent child of theirs? Not if she had anything to do with it.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-One Ivan arrived home just after four in the morning. Lucy knew that because the tall case clock in the upstairs hall had tolled its somber message just minutes before.

  Her sleep had been fitful at best. She'd alternately worried about him, then raged at him. Now, as his steps sounded slow and uneven on the stairs, that worry and rage were replaced by uncertainty. He was so unpredictable. She never knew the right thing to say to him.

  If he were a child she would shower him with love— with stern discipline too, but always tempered with love— until he gave up his rebellion and loved her right back.

  But he was not a child. He was a man with scars upon his heart, a man so deeply wounded that he refused to accept her love. And unlike a child, he had the power to hurt her back. As her husband—as the man she loved—he had the ability to break her heart.

  She lay completely still, straining to hear him. The drapes rustled as the cool evening air surged against them. Some night bird called out in the garden. Then a muffled voice sounded in the hall. "...assistance, my lord?"

  "I know where my chambers are."

  "Yes, sir. But—"

  "Go back to bed, Simms."

  That last was clearer, from just outside the door. Then die handle turned, a faint streak of candlelight cut across the room, and he was there. The door closed and the room once again went dark. But Lucy was attuned to Ivan's presence as clearly as if he carried a bright lamp with him.

  She also smelled whisky. Had he gone off somewhere drinking with his friends? Was he drunk?

  She jumped at the sudden sound of a thud, followed by a crash and a string of oaths. "Son of a bitch! What the bloody hell?"

  Her trunk. He'd run into her half-packed trunk, and tumbled over it, from the sound of things. Though it was difficult, she resisted the urge to get up and check on him. He deserved a little pain. Maybe it would knock some sense into him.

  Still, she couldn't help pushing up onto her elbows and peering through the darkness. The trunk was a nearly invisible shadow. So was Ivan. Only when he cursed again then rolled over and pushed to a sitting position on the floor could she locate him.

  He stared toward the bed. "Don't pretend you're asleep, Lucy. I know you're not. What the hell was that, some sort of booby trap or alarm to warn you I was coming?"

  His irritated tone chased away any sympathy she might have felt for him. "It's my trunk," she snapped. "I'm packing to go home."

  "Home?" He snorted. "Already you call that place home? How swiftly you have adapted to your new role as Countess of Westcott."

  Lucy gritted her teeth. "I hate being a countess. And the last place—the very last place—I'll ever call home is your family seat in Dorset. Or this place either. I'm going home to my family. I'm going home to Somerset."

  His shadow unfurled as he stood. When he approached the bed she drew the coverlet up to her chin. Still, those thin layers of silk and linen did nothing to slow the frantic pounding of her heart. He'd gone from irritated to angry; that was clear. And when he stopped, less than an arm's length from her, she had to fight the urge to flee—as well as the urge to draw him into her arms and comfort him.

  But he didn't want her comfort, she reminded herself. Or her love. Those were the last things he wanted.

  When he spoke, his tone was cold and mocking. "Home? To Somerset? Not bloody likely."

  "Are you saying I may not visit my own family?"

  "I'm your family now."

  "You? Hah! We've been wed almost two months, and this marks only the third night we've spent beneath the same roof. At this rate I shall see you less than two weeks out of the year."

  "So you've missed me?" He reached out and fingered the trailing ends of her plaited hair.

  "You flatter yourself," she snapped, scooting to the other side of the bed. "What I miss is having a husband."

  "What am I to make of that? That any husband will do, just so long as you have one handy?"

  "Had just any husband been adequate, I would have wed ten years ago. I was holding out for a good husband." She glared at him. "Instead I ended up with you."

  His jaw tensed. She'd nicked his pride with her angry words, and she was immediately sorry. She sighed and shook her head. "I'm sorry. It's just that I'm tired, and confused. I didn't really expect you back tonight."

  He stood there a long silent moment. Then he shoved his knotted fists into his pockets. "I suppose you had no reason to expect me. It's not my intention to abandon you, Lucy, nor the child you carry. I intend to do my duty to you. If you truly wish to visit your family, I'll accompany you there, though I cannot stay. I've ignored too many business matters of late and will have to return to London to attend them," he added without further explanation. "But once I'm finished in London, I will carry you back to Dorset. This child will be born at Westcott Manor. Unlike its father," he finished bitterly.

  He wasn't going to abandon her! Lucy's heart leapt with joy. He meant to order her life around—or try to—and that was sure to cause trouble between them. But she could deal with that. The fact that he referred to their child as an "it," however, was what commanded her immediate attention.

  She placed one hand over her stomach. "I think of this baby as a she. Ivana. Or a he. Little Ivan," she said with a smile. "She's a she or a he. But never an it."

  Ivan drew himself up. Lucy could practically see him pull in his bitterness and any other emotions he might be feeling. He pulled them in, hiding them behind a mask of indifference that stabbed at her heart.

  "He. She." He shrugged. "Whatever you wish."

  "What I wish has no bearing on whether our baby will be male or female." When he stiffened at her use of the word "our," she felt a spurt of protective anger for her child. Their child. She resolved to confront him head-on.

  "I know you did not want a child, Ivan. But you seem to enjoy your husbandly rights. Well, those rights carry with them some husbandly responsibilities, one of which is to care for your children."

  He frowned. "I told you I would not abandon you. What more do you want of me?"

>   Lucy's hands knotted in the sheets. "I want you to be a better father than your father was—and a better husband too."

  "Don't compare me to him!"

  "Then don't behave like him."

  He glared at her, but she refused to back down. Then he swore and shook his head. "I must have been mad when I married you."

  He turned on his heel to leave, but before he could stalk from the room, Lucy leapt from the bed and caught his sleeve.

  "Your father and his mother thought they'd done right by you when they stuck you at Burford Hall. They didn't see what they did as neglect, but rather as a rare privilege for a Gypsy bastard such as you. But you didn't think so."

  He threw her hand off. "I have no intention of emulating their behavior. I don't want this child. I admit that. I never wanted children. But I won't shirk my responsibility to it."

  Lucy stood before him in her white embroidered nightgown and bare feet. She knew he didn't want to think of the tiny life inside her as the beginnings of a living, breathing child that would be half his. He didn't want this baby and yet she could not give up.

  "Part of your responsibility is to love your child. Your children," she added in a soft voice. "I know this is hard for you, Ivan. I know I have ruined all the plans you have nurtured so long for revenge against your grandmother. But the fact remains that in a few months you are going to be a father. And if we continue to share a bed, we will probably continue to have more children."

  She paused, wondering what he would say to that. A muscle began to tic in his jaw, but other than that he did not respond. That rigidity fired her temper as nothing else could. "I hope I am not wrong in thinking you man enough to rise to your responsibilities," she finished in a sharper tone.

  Ivan looked as if he wanted to strangle her. His hands tightened to fists and his arms trembled with the force of his tension. But he didn't strangle her. He didn't touch her in any way. Instead he stepped back as if he needed to keep as much distance between them as possible.

  "The difference in our outlooks—and our upbringings— has never been more obvious than now," he began. "You think a person can be commanded to love. To love because it is their responsibility. Believe me when I say it cannot be done. If it could, I would have commanded my mother to love me—and not sell me to another. I would have demanded that my father love me—or at least acknowledge me. I would have forced my grandmother to love me—or if nothing else, visit me once in a while. But I could not do any of those things as a scared and powerless little boy, any more than I can do them now as a wealthy peer of the realm. Nor can you do it. So don't even try."