Dangerous to Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

peacemaking and trying to make conversation beyond the mundane.
    Please let Lady Westcott possess even half a brain, Lucy prayed. For if she did and if she stayed a while at the Fordhams’ home outside Taunton, Lucy might at last have a companion for the scintillating discussions of books and ideas and politics she so longed for. Someone to provide intellectual sustenance until she figured out a way to get herself to London.
    The Fordham country house was an ancient ramble of rooms, some dating all the way back to Henry II. The Fordhams themselves were not quite that old, though they looked it. So did Lady Westcott, Lucy decided rather irreverently when they were ushered into that grande dame’s presence.
    The dowager countess sat in the Fordham seat of honor, a monstrous chair of intricately carved English oak, upholstered with plush Chinese cushions. She wore a gown cut in a severe style, but made of the most luxurious ebony silk Lucy had ever laid eyes on. Heavy as it was, the silk draped as fluidly as the finest gauze.
    The woman’s only ornaments were a pair of black jet earrings, a heavy watch chain, and an ebony cane with a crystal head. What impressed Lucy the most, however, was that despite her petite stature and birdlike features, Lady Westcott had a most imposing presence. Any other woman would have been dwarfed by that chair and overwhelmed by the rest of the ostentatious ropm. But not Lady Westcott. Now, why was that?
    The dowager countess greeted the visitors with regal civility. Lord Fordham introduced Viscount Houghton first, then Graham introduced the rest of his family. Lucy, of course, was last. But for some reason, the old woman seemed to study her much more closely than she had the others.
    When Lucy completed her very correct curtsy, Lady Westcott addressed her directly. “How old are you, Miss Drysdale?”
    Blunt, wasn’t she? “Twenty-eight. Why do you ask?” Lucy added, deciding to be every bit as blunt as the old woman.
    The countess’s brows arched in faint surprise. Graham cleared his throat and Hortense began to fan herself, while Lucy’s mother, Lady Irene, tittered nervously, as if her candid daughter had only been making a joke.
    “No wonder you are yet unwed; you’re not the biddable sort, are you?”
    Lucy smiled. “I’m afraid not. Do not hold my mother to blame for that fact, though.” She sent her mother a consoling glance. “She has tried mightily to instill in me all the feminine traits. While she had success in most areas, there are a few of her lessons, I confess, that did not altogether take.”
    “My sister has had offers, Lady Westcott. Several good offers,” Graham emphasized. “But she has not yet found a man who pleases her.”
    Lucy sent him a sympathetic look. “Were he to be entirely frank, my lady, he would tell you that I always manage to come up with some excuse or another to decline those offers. He would tell you that he has gone through all his acquaintances quite to the point of pulling his hair out. But I remain as you see me: unmarried and likely to continue so.”
    “And content in that state?”
    Lucy stared at the dowager countess. She was small as a sparrow, but with a raven’s shiny plumage and a falcon’s sharp gaze. For some reason she’d honed in on Lucy as her prey. The question was, why?
    The answer came to Lucy with a start. She must be seeking a wife for her grandson, the new earl. But why on earth would she be interested in a spinster possessed of neither title nor fortune? His wealth alone would buy him almost any bride he wished. Throw in the title and he became irresistible, at least by society’s standards.
    Then an awful thought occurred to her. If his grandmother was reduced to considering spinsters like herself, that must mean there was something terribly wrong with the man. And not just that he’d been born a Gypsy bastard before his father adopted him. The whole world already knew that. Likewise, the whole world would