Dangerous to Love

by Rexanne Becnel

  His words were angry; his tone furious. But Ivan's sarcastic little speech did not enrage Lucy. Rather, it made her want to cry.

  "I cannot believe she really sold you," she said, appalled at the very idea.

  His lips twisted in a bitter smile. "Don't worry. I'm sure she received more from the deal than my grandmother wanted to spend. I console myself that at least I cost a pretty penny."

  Lucy was not fooled by his sarcastic reply. His own mother had sold him. Even if the woman had thought she was doing the best thing for him, how excruciatingly painful that knowledge must be for him to bear.

  Without thinking, she crossed to him. But the instant she touched his hand he jerked away.

  "We can leave for Somerset tomorrow," he said, turning for the door.

  "Ivan, don't go. Don't leave. Please. We need to talk."

  "You need your rest," he countered. "Especially now."

  "I don't need to rest. I'm not sick."

  "That's not how it appeared this morning."

  "That's a temporary malady. It will soon go away."

  He paused at the door and looked across the dim room at her. "You want this child, don't you?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Why?"

  "Why?" Lucy studied his face, and even in the shadows she recognized the wariness in his eyes. His mother hadn't wanted him, so naturally he doubted Lucy's sincerity about the child growing inside her now. She knew it was imperative that she say the right thing. "I want this child because I love children. Because like most women, I could never be totally fulfilled unless I raised a child of my own. But not just any man's child," she added. "I want this child. I love this child already because it is your child. Our child," she finished in a hushed voice.

  His face revealed nothing. That was disheartening enough. The edge of sarcasm in his voice, however, was devastating. "Two months ago you refused to marry me at all. You expect me to believe now that you treasure this child because it is mine?" He let out a humorless chuckle.

  "I think, Lucy, that we will get along better if we leave emotion out of our relationship in the future."

  Lucy hid her heartbreak in indignation. What else could she do? "And how, pray tell, shall we accomplish that? Are you saying you will not be returning to our bed?"

  He scowled. "And are you saying that now that you're pregnant you no longer want me there?"

  "No! Of course not." Her face turned pink at that revealing response. "But how can I leave emotion out when you ... When we ... When we consummate our union? You don't seem unemotional then. Are you saying that in the future you will be?"

  She thought she had him there, for he clenched his jaw. Twice. She saw the muscle jump in his cheek. Then his eyes narrowed. "I believe you are confusing passion with other, more enduring emotions. Lust is not love. Desire is a fleeting thing. Like hunger. I suggest you not make more of it than it is."

  Like a harsh slap, the words found their mark. Lucy gasped and fought the urge to step back, to scurry away from him and his cruel words. He knew how those words hurt her, how they affected her. He'd heard her say she loved him. Now he was using that knowledge as a weapon to torture her.

  He was succeeding very well.

  She gathered her hurt up and shoved it deep inside her heart, to a place he could not see. "I bow to your greater knowledge of love," she said, adopting the same sarcastic tone he'd used. "Regarding my journey to Somerset, you need not bother to accompany me. I'm sure your business in town is far more pressing."

  "It's not a bother. I've been a neglectful husband and I mean to rectify that," he said in a clipped, perfunctory voice.

  Lucy turned away. He was so calm, so unaffected by all of this. Meanwhile, her heart was bleeding as if from a mortal wound. "Good night, then," she murmured as she crawled back into the high bed. She pulled the coverlet up to her chin, fighting back the sting of rising tears. If he didn't leave soon she was afraid she would embarrass herself completely. Just leave, she prayed. Dear God, make him leave!

  Ivan stood next to the door, one hand on the knob as he looked back at his wife.

  Why had he returned here? What had he been thinking?

  He'd panicked when she'd become ill. He'd never felt so completely helpless as he had those few desperate mo ments when he'd not been able to help her. When he'd discovered the source of her illness, however, that panic had turned to fury. He'd felt as if she'd betrayed him.

  It had taken the whole day and half the night—and most of a bottle of whisky—for him to recognize that this pregnancy was more his fault than hers. He could have taken precautions as he'd always done in the past. But he hadn't—never mind why—and now she carried the heir he'd never wanted to have.

  So he'd come back, only to run away now once more.

  But he didn't have to leave, he told himself. He could close this door, strip off his clothes, and get into bed with his wife. Angry as she was with him, it would still take very little to turn her anger to passion. That was the one thing he was sure of—the only thing he was sure of when it came to Lucy—that her passion for him was very nearly as powerful as was his all-consuming desire for her.

  He looked over at her, at the curvaceous form beneath the thin sheets, and felt her eyes on him. It would be a challenge to seduce her tonight, but he knew he could. She would protest. She might even fight him. He would understand if she did. But in the end she would capitulate and he would make her very glad she did.

  But what if she again professed her love?

  Sweat beaded on his forehead at the thought. He didn't want her love. He didn't want anyone's love.

  He didn't believe there was such a thing anyway. At best it was a combination of lust and affection. At worst it was a manipulative trick, one he was not fool enough ever to fall for. That some women loved their children, he supposed might be true, and he sorely hoped Lucy would love this child she bore. The last thing he wanted was to have his child—any child—grow up in the care of women like his mother and grandmother.

  But love between a man and woman? No. He liked her, that was all. And he desired her. He didn't love her, though, any more than she loved him.

  Regardless, however, he had to do something. He had to either go to her or leave. But he was frozen by indecision. Then she blinked and shifted restlessly, and panic made the decision for him. He jerked the door open, charged through it, and in his haste, slammed it harder than he meant.

  That only deepened his despair, for he knew how women were. Though she was not the weepy sort, he'd seen the sheen of tears in her eyes. She'd held them back, though. But not now. Not after he'd slammed the door on her.

  He made himself wait, to listen for the telling sound of her sobs. When they didn't come, he turned down the hall, still sweating, just as panicked as he'd been when she'd become so violently ill. He couldn't handle it. Not her sickness, nor her tears, nor her lack of them. He couldn't deal with her and that fed his panic all the more. No other woman had this effect on him. He'd vowed none ever would.

  But Lucy did.

  And now that he was married to her—was having a child with her—he was at a complete loss as to how he was to deal with, her. He couldn't keep running away. But what other choice did he have?

  At the awful crash of the door against its frame Lucy turned her face into the pillow and burst into tears, hard, cruel sobs that shook her body, they were so strong. But they were silent. She saw to that. She buried herself beneath the sheets and silken coverlet and poured all her pain and sorrow into the muffling solace of the uncritical pillows.

  That the bed linens smelled of him—of their lovemaking of the previous night—only wrenched her all the worse.

  How could he love her—make love to her, she amended— and hate her at the same time?

  intellectually she suspected he hated all women. Or perhaps he feared them. It was no wonder, given his dreadful childhood experiences with them.

  But it was not her intellect he'd torn to shreds. It was h
er heart. As she sobbed out her pain and loneliness in her cold, solitary bed, she curled around her baby.

  "You shall always be loved," she vowed between hic-cuping sobs. "Always."

  And so shall you, Ivan, though you may never believe it. You shall always be loved by me.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The long day's ride to Somerset was wretched. Lucy was nauseous the entire journey, and they had to make frequent stops. She'd never suffered from the traveler's malady in the past. Her pregnancy, however, seemed to have turned her into a foreign creature, totally unlike the strong-willed, healthy person she'd always been. Or was it her unhappy marriage to Ivan that had her so weepy and ill.

  Ivan accompanied them, but astride a high-spirited gelding that he said he'd recently purchased and needed to ride. He left Lucy to the company of the maid he'd insisted that she bring along.

  It was just as well, she told herself. Although she ached with sorrow over his remoteness, his proximity while she was so sick would have been infinitely harder to bear.

  They reached their destination after the late summer dusk. Houghton Manor was lit as if for a ball, with lamps burning in almost every window. Lucy knew neither her mother nor Hortense would instigate such an extravagance. Graham must be even more pleased to have an earl for a brother-in-law than she'd suspected.

  They were met by everyone, even young Charity and Grace. Lucy had never been so happy to see her family. Since meeting Ivan she'd begun to value them in a way she'd never done before. She hugged each of them in turn, even holding tightly to Graham. For all his priggishness, he was a good brother who had always cared deeply for her welfare.

  When her mother opened her arms to her, Lucy was close to tears.

  "Oh, my darling. My darling," Lady Irene crooned, holding her with unusual strength. "I have missed you so much." She cupped Lucy's face with both hands and kissed her, then stared at her with bright, hopeful eyes.

  Lucy knew what that look meant. But she was not ready to reveal her condition. Not here in the foyer with everyone standing around—with her own emotions so raw and Ivan so near.

  "You look exhausted," her mother said, eyeing her shrewdly.

  "It has been an extremely tiring day. If you don't mind, I should like nothing better than to collapse into my bed."

  "I've had your old bedroom freshened up," Hortense said, slipping her arm in Lucy's. She glanced at Ivan then leaned nearer Lucy, whispering, "I had another feather mattress added to the bed."

  Somehow Lucy managed a meager smile. But inside she began to shake. They would have to share a room. Not once during the horrendous journey here had that thought occurred to her.

  "Now, Hortense," Lucy's mother interrupted. "You have your children to attend to. Let me attend to mine. Come, Lucy. I'll help you unpack while Ivan and Graham have a drink in the library."

  Lucy glanced at Ivan. He stood with his hat and gloves still in hand. He looked no worse for wear, considering he'd spent the entire day astride. If anything, his windblown appearance made him more unbearably handsome than ever. He met her gaze, then looked away, greeting Graham with every appearance of ease.

  "A glass of Irish whisky would sit very well."

  "Then come along, come along," Graham urged.

  So they dispersed, Ivan to indulge in the drinking he seemed to enjoy more and more, Hortense to tend to her boisterous brood, and Lucy to face the determined grilling of her mother.

  "Well?" Lady Irene began before the bedroom door had scarcely clicked closed. "Have you any particular news you wish to share with your mother?"

  Lucy sank onto the chaise longue that angled away from the window. She'd imagined many sorts of futures for herself while curled up in this very spot, but never that she'd marry a man who didn't love her and who didn't want to have children.

  "May I at least remove my traveling coat before you begin this inquisition?" She broke off when she realized how tart her words sounded. This was her mother who loved her, who wanted only good things for her. She did not deserve any part of Lucy's ill-temper.

  She stared at her mother, whose face hid no emotion, not her consternation nor her continuing curiosity. Here was one person, at least, who would be deliriously happy to hear that Lucy was expecting, and for no more reason than that she adored babies. Especially her own grandchildren.

  "I'm sorry, Mama. It's been a long, grueling day and ... and I've been in the most horrid mood of late."

  "Of late?" The woman moved closer to Lucy. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. "Do you notice any other changes?"

  Lucy smiled. She couldn't help it. "You mean like nausea or weepiness or—"

  "You're in the family way!"

  "l am."

  Lucy was immediately smothered in a glad embrace. "Oh, my darling, darling girl! I've waited so long for this day. So long! Have you told your husband yet?"

  The beginnings of Lucy's pleasure in her mother's enthusiasm faded at once. "Yes. He knows."

  Lady Irene frowned at Lucy's obvious lack of animation. "He is not pleased?"

  The urge to tell her mother everything was nearly overwhelming. But Lucy held back. It would only make things worse if Ivan were subjected to his mother-in-law's scrutiny.

  "He was... shocked," Lucy finally answered. "But he's getting used to the idea. You must remember, Mama, that we married rather suddenly. Now, to immediately have a family, well, it's rather daunting to both of us."

  "There, now," Lady Irene said, patting Lucy's hand. "What is there to find daunting in starting a family? If you'd waited any longer, well, it would very likely have been too late. It's not as if you're fresh from the schoolroom. But you didn't wait, and now, come the spring, I shall have another grandchild to hold. You won't be going back to town, will you? No, of course not," she said before Lucy could respond. "It would be far better for you to remain here for the duration of your confinement—al though the dowager countess will, no doubt, want you at Westcott Manor. Have you informed her yet about the baby?"

  Lucy wrote to Lady Westcott the next morning. She didn't tell Ivan what she was doing, for she suspected he would object, and that would lead to a scene, and then her entire family would want to know about the unpleasantness going on between Ivan and his grandmother—and perhaps deduce what was going on between Lucy and Ivan as well. She rationalized that she hadn't had a chance to tell him anyway. He'd come to bed late, slept on the chaise longue, then been gone before she rose. According to Prudence, he and Graham, along with Stanley and Derek, were now out fishing on the Exe.

  So even though she knew he would not approve, Lucy wrote the letter anyway. She refused to let herself become caught up in the Westcott family feud. She meant to treat them both as good manners dictated they be treated. Lady Westcott deserved to know about the new life that bloomed inside her, the new Westcott heir. But Lucy knew Ivan would be furious.

  She told him as they descended together for dinner. It was the first time she'd been alone with him.

  "You wrote her about your condition?" Ivan paused at the stair landing. "This child is not something I plan to share with her. She will never he a part of its life. Do you understand?"

  Lucy looked up at him. He'd dressed for dinner, leaving off the earring for once. But that did not diminish one whit the wild, Gypsy look of him. If anything, the more restrained his clothing, the more flamboyantly did his heritage shine forth. And just as his proper dress and aristocratic blue eyes set off his Gypsy darkness, so did his quiet tone and impeccable manners toward her now only emphasize his anger—and also the vengeance he still meant to wreak upon his grandmother. The pain he still needed to inflict on her.

  It made Lucy want to cry. But then, lately, everything made her want to cry. She buried the urge and met his steady glare. "I plan to correspond with whomsoever I please. Just as I always have."

  His eyes were cold. "Why do you persist in contradicting me?"

  "I thought that was what attracted you to me, that I
disagreed with you and tried to thwart you." Though her answer was tart, inside Lucy was aching.

  He smiled, just a faint curve of one side of his mouth, but it made her heart beat faster. "What attracted me to you was the passionate nature you keep tamped so tenuously beneath the proper facade you wear."

  Lucy knew he was trying to unsettle her and she hated that he was succeeding. She tilted her chin up. "You have a rather curious way of showing your interest in my so-called passionate nature."

  A light began to glitter in his eyes. "Feeling neglected, are you?"

  "Hardly," she snapped. "I just find it awkward to pretend for my family's sake that we are content."

  "Then don't pretend," he said. His hand came up and his knuckles grazed the side of her neck.

  Lucy swallowed hard. "Don't pretend we're content? Shall I air my unhappiness to everyone, then? Is that what you want? Or will you air your unhappiness for them?"

  He leaned nearer to her. "What I want is for you not to have to pretend. I can make you content, and we both know it."

  He was going to kiss her. She could tell by the slumberous look in the depths of his azure eyes. She wanted that kiss, as he no doubt could tell by the melting expression in her own mesmerized gaze. He was going to use that powerful masculine appeal to cast his spell on her—his potent sexual spell.

  If she had an ounce of sense she would fight that spell. This was not the way to peace between them.

  But that was an intellectual response, and at the moment she was feeling anything but intellectual. Their mutual attraction was the one place they met as equals, with the same goals and desires.