to calm the nerves.” She gave Lucy a searching look. “Are you up to this, Miss Drysdale? Can you hold your own with my unpleasant grandson? Or would you rather beat a hasty retreat back to your quiet countryside?”
If Lucy had been reconsidering her reason for being in London, the countess’s reference to Somerset cured her of it—and she suspected the clever old woman knew it.
“I would prefer to have been better forewarned that he … dislikes you so intensely,” she said, deciding to be candid. “Also that he has so … is so … That he has such a presence about him,” she finally said.
“That he is so damnably attractive, you mean.” Lady Westcott squinted at her. “I trust you are not so unwise as to be swayed by his manly countenance.”
“Of course not!” Lucy retorted. “But I cannot vouch so easily for your godchild.”
“You will be able to handle Valerie; that does not worry me at all. As for his dislike for me, that is of no moment. No moment whatsoever.”
So she said, Lucy thought as a maid brought in a tray of tea and biscuits, and a decanter of cognac. So she said. But it was obvious that the old woman was as drawn to her brooding grandson as were all the other ladies of the ton. Lucy suspected the old woman wanted his affection. She wanted his familial love.
Whether she would ever get it was highly debatable, and quite beyond Lucy’s sphere of influence. All she could do was make sure that Lady Westcott got what she said she wanted: Lady Valerie Stanwich safely wed to an acceptable gentleman. And safely out of Ivan Thornton’s clutches. Beyond that she would not concern herself with the Gypsy earl’s personal affairs.
Later, however, once Lucy was settled in her bed, in a very pretty room across the hall from the countess’s suite, she found her mind wrestling with the most inappropriate thoughts.
He really was a Gypsy, with his coal-black hair waving over his collar and that hedonistic earring. But he was an earl too, and Lucy understood fully the magnetic pull he would have on any young woman’s senses. To even think of those enigmatic eyes gazing into hers, of those strong tanned hands touching her—
She let out a decidedly unladylike oath and turned angrily to her other side. She would not think of such things. She could not allow herself to do so. Her role was simple and easily defined: keep Lady Valerie out of Ivan Thornton’s clutches.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering what female would ultimately fall into his clutches. And whether her lot would be awful or wonderful.
Four
L ucy awoke some time before dawn to the sound of horse’ hooves ringing upon pavement, and noisy, though muffled, laughter. Where was she?
The answer came to her immediately, but not before her heart had clutched in unreasoning panic. She was in London, she reminded herself. At Westcott House. Where the notorious Gypsy earl held sway.
That started her heart thumping all over again, but not in panic—though perhaps, if she were wiser, she would be panicked.
Exasperated by her perverse reaction to Ivan Thornton, Lord Westcott, Lucy threw back the butter-soft coverlet and arose. Behind the heavy damask curtains, dawn was just beginning to flirt with the night, silhouetting the rooflines of good English slate and the rows of fanciful chimney pots that adorned the other houses fronting Berkeley Square. But dawn in the city was not the focus of Lucy’s interest, not this morning anyway. Instead she squinted at the carriage pulled up to the front of the house. Four horses stamped impatiently in their traces.
Who on earth would be arriving at such an unheard-of hour? she wondered, peering into the gloom. Even with her cheek against the windowpane, however, she could not quite see if anyone had stepped down from the smart vehicle. That only increased her curiosity. Though she knew it was unseemly, she unlatched the window, then carefully inched the sash up.
Much better, she thought,
If Lucy had been reconsidering her reason for being in London, the countess’s reference to Somerset cured her of it—and she suspected the clever old woman knew it.
“I would prefer to have been better forewarned that he … dislikes you so intensely,” she said, deciding to be candid. “Also that he has so … is so … That he has such a presence about him,” she finally said.
“That he is so damnably attractive, you mean.” Lady Westcott squinted at her. “I trust you are not so unwise as to be swayed by his manly countenance.”
“Of course not!” Lucy retorted. “But I cannot vouch so easily for your godchild.”
“You will be able to handle Valerie; that does not worry me at all. As for his dislike for me, that is of no moment. No moment whatsoever.”
So she said, Lucy thought as a maid brought in a tray of tea and biscuits, and a decanter of cognac. So she said. But it was obvious that the old woman was as drawn to her brooding grandson as were all the other ladies of the ton. Lucy suspected the old woman wanted his affection. She wanted his familial love.
Whether she would ever get it was highly debatable, and quite beyond Lucy’s sphere of influence. All she could do was make sure that Lady Westcott got what she said she wanted: Lady Valerie Stanwich safely wed to an acceptable gentleman. And safely out of Ivan Thornton’s clutches. Beyond that she would not concern herself with the Gypsy earl’s personal affairs.
Later, however, once Lucy was settled in her bed, in a very pretty room across the hall from the countess’s suite, she found her mind wrestling with the most inappropriate thoughts.
He really was a Gypsy, with his coal-black hair waving over his collar and that hedonistic earring. But he was an earl too, and Lucy understood fully the magnetic pull he would have on any young woman’s senses. To even think of those enigmatic eyes gazing into hers, of those strong tanned hands touching her—
She let out a decidedly unladylike oath and turned angrily to her other side. She would not think of such things. She could not allow herself to do so. Her role was simple and easily defined: keep Lady Valerie out of Ivan Thornton’s clutches.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering what female would ultimately fall into his clutches. And whether her lot would be awful or wonderful.
Four
L ucy awoke some time before dawn to the sound of horse’ hooves ringing upon pavement, and noisy, though muffled, laughter. Where was she?
The answer came to her immediately, but not before her heart had clutched in unreasoning panic. She was in London, she reminded herself. At Westcott House. Where the notorious Gypsy earl held sway.
That started her heart thumping all over again, but not in panic—though perhaps, if she were wiser, she would be panicked.
Exasperated by her perverse reaction to Ivan Thornton, Lord Westcott, Lucy threw back the butter-soft coverlet and arose. Behind the heavy damask curtains, dawn was just beginning to flirt with the night, silhouetting the rooflines of good English slate and the rows of fanciful chimney pots that adorned the other houses fronting Berkeley Square. But dawn in the city was not the focus of Lucy’s interest, not this morning anyway. Instead she squinted at the carriage pulled up to the front of the house. Four horses stamped impatiently in their traces.
Who on earth would be arriving at such an unheard-of hour? she wondered, peering into the gloom. Even with her cheek against the windowpane, however, she could not quite see if anyone had stepped down from the smart vehicle. That only increased her curiosity. Though she knew it was unseemly, she unlatched the window, then carefully inched the sash up.
Much better, she thought,
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