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Overview
With revenge in his soul, Ivan Thornton, the rakehell known as the Gypsy bastard, cuts a swath across London, leaving broken hearts in his wake. But the newly entitled Earl of Westcott—and the most eligible bachelor in the city—hasn’t even begun to punish society for turning its back on him when he was a child, making him suffer for the sins of his father.
A spinster possessing neither title nor fortune, Lucy Drysdale knows that her sharp repartee and intellectual curiosity frighten off potential husbands. In London to chaperone the sheltered young cousin of the Earl of Westcott through her first social season, she plans to attend lectures given by the world-class expert in psychology with whom she’s been secretly corresponding. Instead she finds herself clashing with an arrogant, uncivilized nobleman who is handsomer than sin and awakens passionate feelings in her. Vowing to keep her wits about her, Lucy dares the unthinkable: taming a man whom society deems too dangerous to love.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504025034 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 11/24/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 291 |
| Sales rank: | 1,004,740 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Rexanne Becnel is the author of more than twenty historical romance and contemporary mainstream novels, many of which appeared on the USA Today bestseller list. With the publication of her first novel, My Gallant Enemy, Becnel won the Waldenbooks Award for Best First-Time Romance Author and the Romantic Times Award for Best Medieval Romance by a New Author. While growing up, Becnel lived for a time in Germany and England, where she became fascinated by medieval history. After studying architecture at the University of Southwestern Louisiana, she worked as a building inspector for the Vieux Carré Commission, the agency of the City of New Orleans charged with protecting and preserving the distinct architectural and historic character of the French Quarter. Becnel lives in New Orleans with her husband and two children.
Read an Excerpt
Dangerous to Love
By Rexanne Becnel
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1997 by Rexanne BecnelAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2503-4
CHAPTER 1
London, March 1829
Ivan Thornton paused before descending the steps, waiting for it to begin. Sure enough, a murmur rippled through the crowded ballroom. A lull in conversation first, followed by an even more earnest buzz of whispers.
"It's Lord Westcott."
"The new Earl of Westcott."
"Westcott's bastard Gypsy boy."
Ivan didn't have to hear the words to know what was being said of him. He'd lived the last twenty years and more hearing far worse than that. From the moment he'd been torn from his mother's arms at the tender age of seven, he'd learned how to fight his tormentors. He'd been fighting them ever since.
But there were better ways to fight them than with fisticuffs, swords, or even dueling pistols. He'd learned that too. And now he was poised to punish them all for what they'd done to him — all these arrogant asses who dared refer to themselves as the quality.
He surveyed the room with the carelessly bored gaze of a very wealthy young lord, a gaze that did not prevent him, however, from noting every detail of this evening's assemblage. The old men had already begun to edge toward the gaming room and its ever-ready supply of brandy and cigars. The matrons and chaperones gathered in clumps around the perimeter of the ballroom, keeping an eye on their young charges but ready to share a bit of gossip with the other self-appointed guardians of good society.
The objects of their watchfulness, this season's crop of white-clad innocents, also stood in small groups. They'd been giggling and using their fans to flirt with the young men of the ton. Now, however, they were staring round-eyed at him.
He fought down the urge to snarl at them, to send the entire pack of ninnies squealing in fear for the safety of their mother's bosoms.
Get a hold of yourself. At last revenge was within his reach. He would not ruin everything on account of a few overdressed, undereducated young chits. Before this season was done he would have every one of them competing for his attention. He would have their mothers fawning over him and their fathers eager to have the Westcott line joined with their own.
And he would have his harridan of a grandmother precisely where he wanted her.
"So, Westcott. Did you ever expect to be the most eligible bachelor in London?" Elliot Pierce gave him a not so subtle nudge. "Go on, man. Let the majordomo announce you. I, for one, plan to drink heavily, gamble furiously, and tumble at least two of the housemaids before this night is done. Unless, of course, I can find two willing ladies."
Not responding to his friend, Ivan stepped forward.
"Ivan Thornton. Earl of Westcott, Viscount Seaforth, and Baron Turner," the haughty servant intoned.
Even the servants disdained him, Ivan thought. But that didn't matter to him any more. It had ceased to matter years ago. The only difference was that now he had the titles and the money to make them dance to his tune.
He tugged on his sleeves then marched down the five broad carpeted steps and into battle. Behind him his three closest friends were announced. His only friends.
Mister Elliot Pierce and Mister Giles Dameron earned no particular notice from the curious throng already arrived at the Stennis's off-season soiree. When Mister Alexander Blackburn was announced, however, another buzz began.
A bastard earl and a bastard prince — the former acknowledged and wealthy beyond all bounds, the latter unacknowledged and poor as a church mouse. Still, everyone knew that might change when the king died.
By association, the two unknowns were assumed also to be bastards, and all from Burford Hall — Bastard Hall, as was the school's more familiar name.
Whether horrified or intrigued, repelled by their improper parentage or drawn by the new earl's fabulous fortune, everyone who witnessed the four young men's entrance agreed on one fact: this year's season would not be dull. No, not dull at all.
And of all those who subscribed to that theory, none was so certain of it as Lady Antonia Thornton, Dowager Countess of Westcott, grandmother to the new earl, and author of this entire mess.
Yet she was not prepared so swiftly to write it off as a disaster. Not quite. After all, he had attended the investiture three months earlier. As a young man, finished with Burford Hall and sent straightaway to the Continent to extend his education, he'd stoutly denied that he would accept his father's titles when the man died. But he'd come around, as she'd known he would. Who could possibly resist the titles and the fortune that went with them? She'd won that battle when he'd attended the investiture. She was convinced now that she would win the second battle too, for wasn't he here tonight, meeting this season's crop of eligible young ladies? She would see him wed, and soon. Then she'd see the birth of her first great-grandchild. Only then would she consider this war between them won.
"So that is the boy," said a voice from just behind her.
Antonia kept her eyes on her grandson. "You've seen him before, Laurence."
"Yes, but he was younger then. And angrier. I must say, Toni, I truly believed him when he said he'd rather be a street sweeper than accept the mantle of his family birthright."
"That was ten years ago. He's older now and wiser. And his father is dead. But don't be fooled by his respectable demeanor. That is merely testament to the talents of his tailor and his barber — to whom he pays an ungodly sum, I'm told. Beneath that handsome façade beats the heart of a savage. An angry savage."
Laurence Caldridge, the Earl of Dunleith, who'd outlived four wives and six children, stared at her unforgiving profile, not understanding any of this. "If you believe him a savage, why did you acknowledge him as Jerome's son? Why hand him the title? Why not let it go to your nephew —"
"Because I'd rather the title pass to a street sweeper than to any of those idiot children of Harold's," she snapped. "And you know it. Now, if it's your intention to stand here and hand me advice I do not appreciate, you had better alter your plans. Fetch me a glass of punch. Wait, I've a better idea. Go to him and introduce him around. In particular be certain to introduce him to the Countess Grayer, the Duchess of Whetham, and Viscountess Talbert. Between them they have seven daughters, granddaughters, and nieces who are eminently suitable."
She waved her hand in dismissal. "Go on, Laurence. See he is introduced to anyone he has not already met. Meanwhile, I shall contemplate my headstrong grandson and determine how best I am to proceed with him."
Laurence went off, grumbling and shaking his head. But she knew he would do as he was told. If only she could be as certain of her grandson. She stared at him, at the striking man he'd become, his hair Gypsy black, his skin Gypsy dark. And wearing that outrageous earring. The gall of him!
She had to admire that gall, however. One thing was certain: he possessed the arrogance of an earl. Unfortunately he also possessed the blatantly seductive allure of his mother's damnable race.
Would he approach her? she wondered. Would he greet his only living relative, the woman who'd rescued him from the life of a heathen and given him a birthright comparable to any in the kingdom? Or would he strike back at her by snubbing her?
She watched as he greeted Laurence. Not effusively, but not rudely either. She studied every nuance of his behavior as he was introduced to Lady Fordham: how he bowed, how long he held her gloved hand, his expression as they conversed. When he smiled at something Laurence said, she frowned. He was more than merely handsome, she realized. Much more. Just now he'd reminded her of his grandfather.
She'd never seen any family resemblance in the boy before, save for his ice-blue eyes which were identical to her own. Beyond that, however, he'd always been a damnable Gypsy, no more, no less. But in that smile, in the slant of his mouth and the even flash of his teeth, she'd had a glimpse of her Gerald. Thirty years gone, he was, leaving her to manage the vast holdings that went with the Westcott family name. How she missed him! Their only child, Jerome, had been useless at business. Worse, he'd left no heir but this bastard son of his She could only pray now that the education she'd given the boy at Burford Hall had prepared him for his responsibilities.
By the time Laurence returned, she was exhausted from the strain. Ivan was dancing with the Feltons' youngest daughter. She was a busty redhead, but far too silly to make a countess.
"Well? Will he greet me?"
Laurence cleared his throat, patted his pockets for his snuffbox, then thought better of it. He tugged on his luxuriant whiskers. "He didn't say. But I think he will, Toni. I think he will. After all, he hasn't seen you since the investiture in January."
It was long past midnight before the insufferable cad approached her. Long past when she would normally have repaired home. But she refused to do so until he greeted her. She could not go to him. That would not do at all. That meant she must wait for him — or else give everyone in attendance the satisfaction of knowing he'd snubbed her.
When he finally made his way to where she sat, flanked by Laurence and Lady Fordham, she was ready to give him a good dressing-down. How dare he treat her this way!
One look in his frosty eyes, however, and she swiftly squelched that idea. He was angling for a fight, a very public fight with her. She could see it in the frigid depths of his glare, in the tense set of his wide shoulders.
Just like Gerald, the wayward thought came once again. She'd loved her husband to distraction, but they'd fought like cats and dogs. Still, they'd got on well enough. Perhaps she and the boy — No, he was a man. Perhaps they could somehow find their way to a similar sort of volatile peace.
"Madam." He gave her a curt nod. "May I introduce my companions to you?" He indicated the three men arrayed alongside him. "Mr. Elliot Pierce. Mr. Giles Dameron. Mr. Alexander Blackburn."
To their credit, each of the other young men displayed very correct manners. She stared closely at Blackburn, looking for something of his royal heritage in him. No one saw much of the king these days. But in his younger days he'd spent much time in the social whirl.
"'Tis said I have his mouth, and his hair." The grinning fellow answered her unsaid question in a whisper meant, nonetheless, to carry to the rest of their small crowd.
Antonia's eyes narrowed. "Really? And here I thought it only the glint of sophomoric humor in your eyes that proved your kinship."
Blackburn's grin increased in delight. "At last. A lady who sees the madness in my eyes and does not demurely look away." He fell to one knee, a hand pressed fervently to his heart. "Say you will marry me, my dear Lady Westcott, for clearly 'tis you I've been searching for these many lonely years."
Before Laurence could struggle angrily to his feet, Lady Antonia caught his arm. She grimaced at mad King George's bastard of a grandson. "Get up, you fool. Get up before I accept your daft proposal," she added.
That drew a burst of laughter from the other two young men, followed by nervous chuckles from Lady Fordham and then from Laurence. But her grandson did not so much as twitch his lips. Steeling herself against any display of emotion, Antonia addressed his madcap friend. "I regret that my grandson has not a portion of your wit, Mr. Blackburn."
"We often remark on his lack of wit," Mr. Blackburn answered. But it was Ivan's answer she waited for.
"Is it my witticisms you want, madam? And here I've been deluded into thinking it was my obedience. My gratitude. My will. Indeed, my very mind. But no, it is only my witticisms. If I endeavor to be witty and amusing, will you then retire to the country content, and leave me in peace?"
She glared into his vivid blue eyes, so like her own it was disconcerting. "If that wittiness is accompanied by good manners and better intentions, then yes, I will happily retire from your life."
"Have I not displayed good manners this evening? I've made certain to charm the matrons and dance with their daughters."
"And is it your intention to marry one of those daughters?" she asked, deciding to be blunt.
He held her gaze and in his expression there was no mistaking his intense dislike of her as well as a spark of something else. Triumph? No, that could not be it.
He shrugged. "I plan to marry one of them. If I can find one who suits me."
"Does that mean you will remain in town for the season?" She held her breath, hoping, praying that he would. The plain truth was that she was running out of time. She wanted him married and with a viable heir before she died.
This time he smiled at her, though it was not a smile that was in the least reassuring. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Not an hour later their conversation was not nearly so civil. They'd returned home separately to Westcott House. He confronted her in the cavernous drawing room.
"I am still the dowager countess," she was saying. "You will not put me out of my own home!"
Ivan stared impassively at his grandmother. But inside he was raging. If she thought she was going to live in the same household with him, she was sadly mistaken. If she thought any portion of her life would remain as simple as it formerly had been, she was mad as a hatter.
He allowed himself a faint smile. "I believe I am the one invested with the title and, therefore, possession of this hideous heap of bricks. Not you. I am the one all of the family property is entailed upon. And I am the one who will make the decisions regarding the ultimate disposition of those properties."
He knew that would silence her, and it did, for the disposition of the Westcott title and estates meant everything in the world to the coldhearted bitch who had sired his equally coldhearted parent. As much as she despised him, she despised her brother-in-law's side of the family even more. So long as Ivan did not father a son, the chance remained that the property could revert to her dimwitted nephews, or that he would entail it upon one of them. She simply could not abide that idea. Most of all, she could not abide the fact that she was powerless to control Ivan or, as a result, the vast family estates. It was the power he'd waited twenty years to wield over her.
He gave a grim chuckle at the sight of her choking back her fury. How ironic that his sexual activities should control her life. Despite his father's indiscriminate behavior with everyone but his own wife, he'd apparently sired only one child. Now, however, that bastard son held control of both the titles and the obscene amount of wealth that went with them. In contrast to his father's loose morals, Ivan meant his own behavior to be so discriminating as to be sure no one succeeded him to the same titles and wealth. At least not during her lifetime.
It was clear, however, that while discussion of the entailment might restrain the autocratic old woman somewhat, it would not silence her entirely. Were she not such a thoroughgoing bitch he might actually have admired her tenacity. She'd outlived her husband and her son. But she was not likely to outlive him. He would triumph over his grandmother if only by attending her funeral.
"Westcott House is quite large enough for the two of us," she stated in what, for her, was a conciliatory tone. "I keep mostly to my own apartments, which are in an entirely separate wing —"
"You will be more comfortable at the country house," he interrupted. "While I am in town I do not care to see you at all."
"And what will you do? Put me out? I should just like to see you attempt that. Yes, indeed. I would." Her bony hands gripped the crystal- topped cane she sometimes used, while her sharp blue eyes glared shards of ice at him.
But his eyes were just as blue and just as frigid. "I'll maintain a bachelor's household here for the duration of the season. I should think you would approve of that. After all, according to town gossip, I am the newest and most eligible bachelor in town, and sorely in need of a wife."
She peered at him suspiciously. "You will be actively seeking a wife?"
He took great pleasure in the answer he gave her. "Yes."
Yes, he was seeking a wife. But he had no intention of finding one. Let the old crone live on hope. Let her die still hoping.
She leaned forward, unable to disguise her rising excitement. "I know all the good families and most of the eligible young ladies. I can arrange introductions, perhaps even hold a reception."
"That will not be necessary."
"But John, just think —"
"I am Ivan!" he snapped. "I will always be Ivan no matter how you try to make an English lord of me!"
He'd been standing nonchalantly at the wide marble mantel. Now he began tensely to pace.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Dangerous to Love by Rexanne Becnel. Copyright © 1997 by Rexanne Becnel. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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