Taming Ivy (The Taming Series Book 1)

by April Moran

  “You are truly dazzling tonight, Lady Kinley.” Lord Christopher Andry leaned in. “Prettier than the exquisite butterfly I only recently discovered.”

  Freshly graduated from Oxford, Christopher often floundered in painful shyness. It receded if the conversation turned to a scientific explanation of some unfortunate winged insect he’d captured and preserved under glass, stabbed into place with an ivory headed pin. Tonight, emboldened by champagne and a few tumblers of brandy, his hands barely trembled as he smoothed back his pale blond hair.

  “What’s this?” Sir Oliver Batten’s smile lay partially concealed beneath a mustache of graying brown. “Andry is giving compliments instead of dissertations on a ghastly beetle collection. What’s gotten into you, sir?”

  “Half a bottle of champagne, I suspect.” Monvair stroked the dark goatee lending a rakish flair to his thin features. A few chuckled at his dry humor while Christopher flashed the Frenchman a baleful glare.

  “Lord Andry, we shall have a splendid time discussing this latest find over dinner.” Ivy touched the crook of Christopher’s arm before easing away. She’d grown much wiser during the course of this second season, and managing squabbling, jealous men now came as second nature. A shame she became so proficient after destroying one man with so little effort.

  The others groaned while Christopher lit up like a firefly.

  Although she returned his smile, Ivy intended on escaping long before the announcement of the midnight dinner. To give the impression one was favored over others was unwise, even if she held a soft spot for Christopher. He reminded her of Timothy before things went so dreadfully wrong, before Timothy decided she owed him more than her friendship.

  Some manner of disturbance was causing a flurry of activity across the ballroom. It drew the attention of the crowd past the edge of the Pack as two men stalked toward the elevated terrace; an undulating sea of expectant faces bobbing behind the one in the lead.

  Ivy’s smile froze. Sara unceremoniously pushed past Christopher to take her hand, giving it a quick squeeze of encouragement as the Pack launched into a new squabble over who might procure fresh champagne for the ladies.

  “He’s coming,” Sara whispered. “Dear God. I may be ill.”

  “Don’t you even dare, Sara Morgan.” Ivy was surprisingly calm. Her executioner was coming. He did not carry an axe, but the result would be the same. “One of us must keep our wits, and our heads, about us.” Was it too late to escape? If only she possessed the strength to pry her fingers from Sara’s grip. There must be a way to break through those damn terrace doors…with or without the key from Lady Sheffield’s hefty bosom.

  Sara’s brilliant smile flashed from behind clenched teeth. “We will not be ill!”

  “You’re hardly convincing when you’ve turned a ghastly shade of chartreuse. I’ve seen that color once before. Came across Lord Paulson tossing his biscuits at the Searcy party a month ago. He lost a fortune at the hazard tables and I overheard him moaning how he’d ever explain it to his father and -”

  “Shhh!” Sara’s face took on an even greener cast. “You’re only making it worse. Why are you suddenly so calm?”

  Ivy almost laughed at that. Her? Calm? Oh, she was far from that. The nightmares suffered since news of Ravenswood’s return swept through London were coming true. Ivy knew she should move quickly in the opposite direction and yet, a bizarre urge to see the approaching menace seized her. Gripping Sara’s shoulder with one hand to maintain her balance, she lifted up the slightest bit on her tiptoes. And immediately sank back down, shivering, the breath squeezed from her lungs.

  The man towered over those around him. Only the Earl of Bentley, almost lockstep beside him, possessed a similar height. Oh God. Sebastian Cain was terrifying. And brutal. A warrior hacking through bodies of vanquished mortals to reach his battle prize, the crowd falling to pieces behind him.

  She was that prize. A sacrifice of blood in exchange for Timothy’s young life. The sounds of the ballroom faded and an icy rivulet of sweat trickled down Ivy’s spine to settle in the hollow of her back. She was definitely not calm.

  “Damn Timothy Garrett,” Sara whispered fiercely. “Damn him!”

  Ordinarily, Ivy interjected. “Have mercy for him,” she would say, pleading for compassion. A prayer would be whispered for the charming, pleasant young man she once considered her friend, a hope his tortured soul found peace despite his sad, desperate actions.

  Now, Ivy nodded in silent agreement.

  Ravenswood was overwhelmingly male, all wide shoulders and lean muscles. He appeared to have no need for discreet padding to aid his form. In fact, it was indecent, the manner in which the elegant clothing clung to his body, stretching but snug in all the appropriate places. Realizing the path of her gaze, Ivy jerked her eyes back up, her cheeks on fire. The stark simplicity of his masculinity made every other gentleman seem a bit foppish by comparison. And his eyes…Good Lord. They were piercing and hot, glimmering silver with promises of sin and dangerous pleasures. And revenge. This man...he’d seen things. Done wicked things. Even in her innocence, Ivy recognized the sensuality burning within him like a lit flame.

  Unwelcome memories from seven years prior rose in her mind. Enveloped by girlish purity and despairing grief, Ivy failed to recognize the young lord’s splendid attractiveness that day in her father’s drawing room. She noted it now. Despite her panic, it was impossible to ignore his devastating handsomeness. Thick ebony colored hair curled in ruffled waves against the tall collar of his black, cutaway evening coat. Lightly bronzed angular features were a study in rugged, male perfection, defined by high cheekbones and a bold nose. The square line of his jaw was fascinating, for although clean-shaven, the barest hint of a shadow lent a rakish air. He seemed immune to the women of varying ages trailing in his wake, many of them giggling and whispering, sometimes shoving to get closer.

  He was danger incarnate. A predator who would think nothing of devouring her alive. He would wipe his mouth, lick his fingers and thank her for providing his breakfast. A sinful creature whose days surely began with a feast of virgins. Self-preservation screamed at Ivy to run, to get as far away as possible, but she found it impossible to move. Every muscle in her body ignored the mental commands to skitter out of harm’s way.

  Ivy swallowed past a lump of nausea. “Sara, I am terrified. What should I do?”

  Sara blinked. “Now, I’m truly worried. I’ve never known you to be afraid of anything so I can only tell you to have courage, darling.”

  Courage? Ivy possessed not an ounce of it so she formed a desperate strategy. Should she fail to acknowledge Ravenswood, perhaps he would do the same. They could slip past one another, each pretending the other did not exist. Remembering the devastating cut inflicted by Lady Garrett last week, a helpless sound, somewhere between a giggle and a sob, escaped her. Surprisingly, it drew a sharp eye from Brandon, and for a long moment, he considered her before resuming a disagreement with Christopher that he would most certainly accompany the countess into the midnight supper.

  Ivy’s jaw tilted. She must brazen this particular encounter out. Pray the earl held no interest in her. Gripping Sara’s hand tighter, her gaze fixed on the musicians’ loft. She could survive this and him. She must.

  Fifteen minutes before, Ravenswood and the Earl of Bentley stepped into the Sheffield Ballroom, their progress delayed by several guests determined in their quest to personally welcome Sebastian back on English soil.

  “Which one is she?”

  “Oh, I forgot you’ve not been introduced,” Alan grinned. “It won’t be difficult to spot her. She’s an uncommonly beautiful girl. Dazzling, actually.”

  “I’ve met her before. Just after Kinley lost his wife. A disagreeable chit with the manners of a sailor, frizzy brown hair and a face splattered with freckles.” Sebastian’s gaze dissected every female he saw. Young, old, plump, thin, some desirable, some not. Half possessed the plain brown hair of his memory. “And she was overweight
.”

  Alan’s eyebrow rose. “Freckles and fat? It is not possible we speak of the same Lady Ivy Elizabeth Kinley.”

  “Plump,” Sebastian grumbled, accepting a snifter of brandy from a passing servant. “She was plump. I think. It’s difficult to say. I believe her clothing was stolen from a stable boy. An overweight, filthy stable boy to be precise. Damnit, Bentley, at the very least, tell me what to search for now.”

  “You’ll know her when you see her. Here now, I’ll take pity on you. Look for an unusually high number of men accumulated in one spot, with two beautiful ladies at the center. However, the lovely, petite blonde who is surely with Lady Kinley has captured my interest, so I’ll thank you to spare her in the carnage.”

  Sebastian scowled. “There must be three hundred guests crammed into this damned ballroom. What constitutes an abnormally high number of fools gathered around one woman?”

  “Two women,” Alan chuckled, giving Sebastian a friendly punch to the shoulder. “As we will soon join those fools, you might refrain from the derogatory characterizations.”

  With a snort of disgust, Sebastian scanned the room again. Only this time his gaze crashed to an abrupt halt. There. Across the swamped ballroom. It must be her. Standing on tiptoes, balancing herself with a hand on a blonde girl’s shoulder, she surveyed the room in the same manner he did. Her eyes swept over Sebastian, halting for the briefest moment as their stares locked, and it felt as though a hundred, crushing jolts of lightning streaked through him. In absent disbelief, he rubbed the vicinity of his chest. It was her.

  His prey.

  What in the name of holy hell had become of the ungainly, awkward, neither pretty nor ugly child from seven short years before? This girl, this vision of absolute beauty, bore no resemblance to her. None whatsoever.

  The discovery leveled Sebastian. He felt cheated. And holy hell...those could not be...were those damned angels singing? Lilting, beautiful...a chorus of melodic voices possessing the power to bring grown men to tears. Was it real? Or merely in his head?

  No, thank God, not real angels. Just Lady Tremayne’s pair of husband-hunting daughters providing a soaring a cappella performance while the musicians indulged in a short reprieve.

  “Ah, you’ve found her.” Alan’s tone dripped with such sly amusement Sebastian realized he knew all along just where the countess stood in the crowded ballroom. “Well? What do you think?”

  Think? Thinking was impossible. Sebastian could only feel, and what he felt must not be uttered aloud. It was too brutal, involved several crimes against God and Her Majesty’s Crown - and all necessary for the ruination of a countess. And highly pleasurable for the man cruel enough to implement them.

  Men swarmed about her, glazed adoration stamped on their features. Like drones surrounding a queen bee, their bodies clad in varying shades of colorful brocades and satins, they buzzed in a futile hunt for prime positions.

  It was unfair to compare her to such an unworthy creature as a bee. Maybe a butterfly was a better analogy, or perhaps an exotic bird, beautiful and delicate, ready to flutter away at any moment. Fury sizzled through his veins but Sebastian welcomed it. It clarified his vision, sharpened things. God, her exquisiteness must have overwhelmed Timothy. No wonder his poor cousin succumbed to madness.

  While Sebastian clenched his teeth, the angelic chorus created by the Tremayne Twins rose and fell as a backdrop. Damn, the girl positively glowed, like a flash of sunshine in a tawdry ocean of the artificial, her gown the palest blush hue, the exact shade of a red rose petal before it begins to fade to cream. He did not usually apply flowery tributes to women, no matter their attractiveness. It difficult business to wring a compliment from the Earl of Ravenswood’s lips; worshipping this girl in a moment of weakness made his anger swell to dangerous heights. What the hell was wrong with him? His particular brand of cold-blooded vengeance required unemotional reasoning and he’d never any trouble yielding it before. At least until now.

  “Damnable Pack,” Alan muttered beside him.

  Sebastian was spoiling for a fight. The heat of it smoldered in the pit of his stomach, contracting with a violent need to confront the countess. He tore his gaze from the sunlight radiating on the upper terrace of the ballroom, finding it difficult to reconcile she was indeed his target. She required only a halo and a damned pair of wings to complete the illusion of absolute purity.

  He felt dizzy. Off balance

  “Why do you say that?” He pinned Alan with a penetrating stare. It sounded as if his old friend believed those men to be wholly responsible for the fashioning of the vain creature standing in their midst.

  “Never mind.” Alan swallowed back any further oaths.

  Sebastian was hardly ignorant of Society’s charming label for Lady Kinley’s devoted band of followers, having learned of it upon his return to England. The knowledge Timothy participated in the sordid affair was infuriating. His jaw set at a grim angle, Sebastian made his way toward the countess, Alan falling lockstep beside him.

  “Do try not to frighten off Lady Morgan, will you?” His friend’s murmur was sarcasm at its best.

  Sebastian managed a terse nod of agreement.

  A mythical Pied Piper, he led the growing crowd. Upon guessing his intent, they now flowed in his wake, a herd of bleating, mindless sheep.

  Sebastian considered the young woman standing beside the countess. Alan seemed quite smitten with Lady Sara Morgan and she was certainly a beauty. Her family was well thought of, the young lady herself described as kind and gentle. Sebastian found it perplexing she should befriend the likes of Ivy Kinley. His sources were quick to note the two girls’ devotion to one another, their friendship dating back finishing school.

  To the countess’s left stood a dark blonde gentleman. Brandon Madsen, Viscount of Basford, considered himself the forerunner for Ivy’s hand. Sebastian wondered how disappointed the man might be when her ruination was complete. The viscount appreciated the appeal of a fallen woman, doing his best to keep them occupied, although in the most secret of fashions. Quite a bit of the Basford inheritance was expended cleaning up behind the viscount and his pleasures.

  Upon reaching the terrace, Sebastian did the opposite of what was expected. He promptly directed his attention to Sara as she yanked her hand from Ivy’s tight grasp. Alan gave an exasperated shake of his head and politely greeted the countess.

  “Lady Morgan.” Sebastian brushed an impersonal kiss across Sara’s gloved knuckles. “Lord Bentley’s claims of your beauty have not been exaggerated.”

  Sara dipped a quick curtsy. “Such kind words, Lord Ravenswood.”

  “The truth is not always kind, but in your case, Lady Morgan, it is wonderfully so.” He kissed her hand again before allowing her fingers to slide from his.

  The moment Sebastian released Sara, Alan brushed past him. Placing his own kiss to her gloved fingers, Alan pulled her to him and that tiny bit of space enabled a different man to slip next to Lady Kinley.

  Sebastian’s gaze swept over his target, two gentlemen now flanking her sides. Like palace sentinels, they watched with mistrustful eyes while Ivy stood so rigid between them a slight breeze might snap her in half.

  She studied the orchestra’s loft with great intent. Indeed, her eyes traveled everywhere other than his direction. When she tired of staring at the musicians as they settled into their seats, her gaze drifted to various members of the Pack. Sebastian frowned. Should he be irritated or gratified? Was she frightened to death or ignoring him? She dare not snub him, not when half the ballroom just followed him to her feet. No. She was unquestionably terrified. An excellent start to things. She must be quivering with dread, although truthfully, she seemed merely disinterested by his presence.

  Half the ballroom followed you to her feet…Sebastian’s smile froze. Goddamnit.

  In the haste to launch the first volley, he committed a grave misstep. He bloody well sought her out, like every other fool gathered so hopefully in this corner of the ballro
om.

  Basford leaned into Ivy, speaking low in her ear, his gaze locked on Sebastian. Sebastian ignored the viscount’s challenging air, choosing instead to join Alan as he engaged Sara in casual banter. This allowed him to study Ivy and he took full advantage of the opportunity.

  The top of her head would only reach the center of his chest should they stand face to face. It irritated him that she was not plump. Instead, she was lushly slender, with skin the color of cream roses, her cheeks the exact blush shade of her gown. The faintest of freckles lay scattered across her straight nose.

  Sebastian nearly snorted aloud in disgust. Any other woman would move heaven and earth to be rid of that gold dusting. At the very least, she should pat her face with rice powder to conceal their existence. How could she appear sweeter with those freckles rather than hopelessly blemished?

  Pinpointing her based on hair color alone would have given him a devil of a time. It was not the mousy brown of his memory, but a gloriously thick mass of chestnut, rich and glossy, brimming with hints of golden sunshine. Twisted into a stylish tumble, one silky ribbon of a curl trailed over a bare shoulder to grace the top of her décolletage.

  And sweet fires of Hell, Ivy Kinley was blessed with curves no woman had a right to possess; all intriguing hollows and bends created for a man’s pleasure. Sebastian’s hand itched to touch the dip of her lower back, where the skirt of her gown flared away from a tiny waist. The modestly low bodice of the dress seemed to have no need for the additional padding some ladies used to enhance nature’s gifts. Her breasts mounded above the neckline, tempting morsels he wanted suddenly to trace with his tongue. He wanted to push that neckline down, to expose her. Taste her. Claim her.

  It felt as if bonfires were lit all around him. Sebastian wondered if he could be the only one suffering the overwhelming, sweltering heat of the room. Was sweat beading up on his brow?

  Viscount Basford touched the countess’s elbow, a possessive brush of his hand she did not seem to mind. She smiled, her gaze shifting to Sebastian before darting away.