Dangerous to Love (9 page)

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Authors: Rexanne Becnel

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Regency

BOOK: Dangerous to Love
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Even though, unfortunately, she was.
 
I
van found Giles and Alexander at the Piss Pot, a seedy watering hole that had been a potter’s shop in a former age—Pitt’s Pottery—but was just the Piss Pot now.
Giles sat over a deck of cards, fleecing a rather tough-looking character of a week’s pay. Were it not that Giles was so ferocious-looking himself, he would long ago have had his throat slit in some dark alley, he was that adept at cards.
Alex was the complete opposite. Though tall and of medium build, he had the pretty features of a lad—and languid manners befitting a prince—albeit an unacknowledged one. Now he sat in a corner booth, a pretty bawd in his lap. He had one perfectly manicured hand wrapped around a squat tumbler and the other up the wench’s skirt.
Alex was the first to spy Ivan. “What brings you out this dismal night, my friend? Don’t tell me your loving grandam has run you out of your own house?”
“Don’t think you can go crawling back to Elliot,” Giles warned Ivan, never looking up from his cards. “You hurt his feelings when you rejected his humble abode for that excessively large pile of stones you call the family’s town house. One would think his three rooms not good enough for an earl.”
The girl sitting on Alex’s lap gave a little squeal, then a slow sigh.
“What do you say, Tess?” Alex asked. “Can a sweet piece like you tell the difference between a merchant, an earl, and a prince—under the covers and in the dark, I mean?”
She let out a giggle. “Shall we have us a contest, then? I’ll close my eyes and give each of you a feel—or p’rhaps take a taste?” She laughed, then rubbed her bottom back and forth upon his lap. “You’re beginning to feel very like a king to me, milord.”
It was the wrong thing to say to Alex. Ivan could have told the coarse wench that. Any mention of the king, unless in the most derogatory tones, invariably soured the man. But then, what else should one expect? Of the four friends, the three of them who actually knew who their fathers were, despised them. Ivan had often thought Elliot Pierce fortunate not to be cursed with the knowledge of his own father’s identity.
“Where’s Elliot?” he asked, signaling the tavern master for his usual glass of gin. He took a chair near Alex, ignoring the interested look the girl—now shoved off Alex’s lap—was giving him.
“Give us some privacy,” Alex growled at the wench, sending her fleeing, her face a mixture of fear, anger, and confusion.
“Elliot is in some gutter or another,” Alex muttered once the girl was gone. “His perverse way of celebrating his latest financial coup.” He swigged down the dregs of his cup. From the card table came a sharp oath. A fist hit the table. A bottle toppled over, then shattered on the floor.
Ivan glanced mildly at Giles. The other card player had lurched to his feet and stood now, shaking a fist at his still seated opponent—not at all an unusual occurrence. Ivan had learned long ago not to play cards with Giles. Now this half-drunken cooper or draysman or whatever he was, was learning that same lesson the hard way.
Giles didn’t move; he just stared at the sweaty brute, stared at him without blinking, until the man let but a string of curses far more inventive than Ivan would have credited the fellow with. Finally he spat, not on Giles, but near enough to make his insult clear. Only then did he leave, shoving over every chair in his path.
“Sore loser,” Alex quipped. “What did you take him for?”
“Five quid You’d have thought it a tenner the way he carried on.”
“Where does the likes of him get five quid?” Alex groused. He was forever short of coins.
“By the honest sweat of his brow, if the smell of him was any indication,” Giles said.
“He ought to spend his pay on a new set of teeth,” Alex remarked, tugging at the long lace cuff that hung from beneath his stylish silver-gray coat. “Or perhaps his tailor. No, good teeth are more important even than good clothes, don’t you agree?” Then he focused on Ivan and his tone changed. “You look as though you’d like to knock somebody’s teeth in. Your grandmother’s?”
Ivan stared at the glass of gin, rolling it back and forth between his palms, watching the liquid swirl. “She has a new ploy, a new game she thinks to play with me. A sweet young thing—you’d like her, Alex. Lady Valerie Stanwich. She’s sponsoring her for the rest of the season and has moved the girl, her chaperone, and herself into my house.”
“And so you will be moving out again?” Alex asked, joining the other two at the sticky table.
Ivan shook his head. He’d had time to think about his grandmother and her plan—and about the imperious Miss Drysdale—on his ride over to the Piss Pot. “No. Not this time. I plan to maintain my residence at Westcott House. In fact,” he said, his eyes glinting at his friends. “I’d like to fill the house with people. Entertain regularly.”
Alex yawned. “If you want to run her off, we’d be more than happy to assist you. I can keep the grandmother happy—she likes me, you know. Giles can pursue the girl. No mama in her right mind would let her daughter even look at a merchant’s bastard, no matter how much money he has. No offense, old man,” he added to Giles with a shrug. “And perhaps, just for fun, Elliot can chase the skirts of the chaperone. Is she hatchet-faced, or a dried-up old prude? Those are the two most popular sorts in chaperones, you know. Or else she—”
“I’ll tend to Miss Drysdale myself.”
That drew an interested look from both of his friends. Alex’s bored expression evaporated and a sly grin lifted one side of his mouth. “Out with it, man. Is she worth pursuing, or do you mean only to aggravate the countess?”
Ivan studied his two friends. Bastards all, they’d bonded during the grim years at Burford Hall. Without them and Elliot, he sometimes thought he might not have survived those hellish years. They were closer than brothers—from what he’d seen of brothers. They’d been in and out of any number of scrapes together. They always looked out for one another, and even had shared women from time to time.
But this was not one of those times.
“I can handle my grandmother and her plotting myself. All I ask of you is that you keep Lady Valerie’s dance card filled.”
“And what of this Miss Drysdale?” Alex persisted, his clear eyes lit with curiosity. “Shall we keep her dance card filled also? Or shall you tend to that task yourself?”
“Do chaperones
have
dance cards?” Giles asked. Of them all, he was the least familiar with proper society and its maze of rules.
“No,” Ivan answered. “But that doesn’t mean she cannot dance.”
Nor that she, smart and outspoken though she was, could not be made to dance to his tune.
 
It was almost noon when the Earl of Westcott had a carriage brought around. That was morning by town standards, for breakfast was not served until after ten and morning calls were not actually made until early afternoon.
Lucy had forgotten how silly it all was, for she had learned to enjoy the early morning hours these recent years in the country. Nevertheless, the carriage was here now and they were going out. She could hardly wait.
If only the disconcerting Earl of Westcott weren’t accompanying them. To make things even worse, he had ordered the open phaeton brought around for them, a fancy bit of work which necessitated that the three of them crowd in together on the single seat. In order to maintain proper decorum, Lucy settled herself squarely between his lordship and Lady Valerie.
She and Valerie had discussed Ivan Thornton at length before breakfast, and Lucy was quite relieved that the girl was not in the least enamored of the dark, dashing earl. To be more accurate, the girl was positively petrified of the man. He was far too dangerous for the likes of timid Valerie. Far too roguish.
“But he has twenty thousand a year in rents, and even more than that from the funds,” Lucy had reminded the girl. “Your family would consider him a brilliant match for you. Aren’t you at all tempted?”
Valerie’s chin had trembled and her lovely blue eyes had sparkled with the hint of tears. “Oh, please, Miss Drysdale, do not throw me at him. I beg you, do not. He is far too … too …” She had finished with a helpless little shudder. “He terrifies me. I fear he will make mincemeat of me, if that makes any sense at all.”
Indeed, it made perfect sense to Lucy. After reassuring Valerie that she would thwart any possible match between the two of them, Lucy had prepared herself for the trying hours ahead.
“This vehicle is rather small,” she began when he seated himself beside her and took up the reins. “Surely you have something larger in your stables.”
“I thought the open phaeton a better choice than the closed carriage,” he answered as he chirruped to the pair of handsome bays. He swung his head around and met her gaze, and her heart began to thud. Then holding her eyes captive with his, he shifted his leg so that his knee touched hers.
Lucy’s heart managed somehow to lodge in her throat.
But then, that was what he wanted, she reminded herself. To unsettle her. To disconcert her.
She refused to let him succeed.
“If you insist on crowding us this way,” she muttered, “then at least be good enough to keep your … your limbs to yourself.”
“My limbs?” He gave a wicked laugh, displaying a flash of white teeth against his dark skin. “That’s right. How could I forget? The word ‘legs’ is far too coarse for ladies of refinement.” He leaned forward just a little, and in the process brushed his arm against Lucy’s. “Tell me, Lady Valerie. You grew up with several brothers. Do you refer to your lower appendages as ‘legs’ or ‘limbs’?”
Lucy could feel Valerie trembling. Or was it herself? She caught the girl’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. Though she was glad Valerie’s timidity would ultimately be her best protection from the earl’s devilish charms, there was a part of her that wanted Valerie to stiffen her spine. She should put Ivan Thornton in his place with a short, pithy reply.
But that was not going to happen, and Lucy knew it. When the silence from Valerie’s side of the seat lengthened, when the girl’s cheeks grew hot with color and her hold on Lucy’s hand turned positively painful, Lucy knew it was up to her.
“Lord Westcott, if you insist on bringing up subjects inappropriate to a young woman of Lady Valerie’s sensibilities, then perhaps it would be better if you turn this vehicle right around and return us home.”
They hadn’t quite reached the end of the square. When they did, however, Ivan proceeded down Berkeley Street, then turned into Picadilly Street, as if he hadn’t heard her at all. But he’d heard, all right, and his next words confirmed it.
“You must allow me the opportunity to ascertain my cousin’s sensibilities, Miss Drysdale. Athough we are family, we have only just met. If she is not as prone to frankness and candor as you are, you cannot hold me accountable for not being knowledgeable of that fact. I’d be willing to wager that you, notwithstanding your current role as her chaperone, are more likely to call your lower appendage a leg. But if you and Lady Valerie prefer I call it a limb, then very well. I admit it. My limb is encroaching on your space.”
He pressed his leg very deliberately against hers and grinned. Then he pulled it away. “There. Is that better? My limb is no longer touching your limb.”
If Lucy hadn’t been so flustered by the unsettling feel of the strong muscular thigh lying beside hers, she would have dismissed his behavior as merely the teasing antics of a young man. Unfortunately there was a deeper, darker side to his teasing. A threateningly masculine side that she was less sure how to handle.
Praying he was finished with such antics, she resolved to concentrate on getting through the drive as best she could.
Despite her earlier objections, Lucy had to admit that the day was perfect for an open vehicle. The sky was a high, clear blue, decorated with occasional clouds of brilliant white. A light breeze kept the weather mild and she found herself enjoying the ride very much. This was London at its best, free of either fog or smoke.
He handled the pair of bays with a masterful touch. She’d always heard that Gypsies were especially good with horses. His hands were light on the reins, but strong too. She watched them with rapt fascination until she realized what she was doing. Then she tore her eyes away and cleared her throat.
They drove down Piccadilly Street to Park Lane with only the most desultory of conversation. “That’s the King’s Palace there, across Green Park,” she pointed out to Valerie. “And there, at that fountain up ahead, that’s Hyde Park Corner,” she added, trying to keep her attention anywhere but on Ivan Thornton.
As they neared Stanhope Gate, which led into the park, the busy traffic grew heavier still. Once they turned in at the gate, however, it became little more than a queue lined up through the park, phaetons and curricles and landaus—even a hack or two. And whoever wasn’t in a carriage was mounted on a spirited steed.
Valerie was all eyes, staring about like the green girl she was. During her own first season Lucy had been just as impressed by the dazzling display of high society, of the silks and muslins, braid and ribbons, feathers and jewels. Her second season she’d affected a more blasé attitude. Now, however, she found a certain amusement in it. Like children, the ton had come to the park to show off their newest toys. One elegant woman remarked on another’s cunning bonnet. One top lofty fellow complimented another’s fine mount. And everyone kept a close watch on everyone else, all the while trying to display themselves in the best and most flattering light.

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