by April Moran
Sebastian’s focus narrowed to a pinpoint. Everyone and everything faded until only Ivy stood before him. The other guests, the music, the sights, all sounds bleached into the background. There was only her and the unexpected flashing image of the countess pleasuring him, that beautifully full mouth wrapped about his erection, skimming up his naked body until their lips met in a heated kiss. The images searing his brain dazed him. Did other men contemplate similar fantasies? He almost could not breathe from the heat suffocating him.
A muscle ticked in his jaw, his glare turning to one of condemnatory fury. Of course, they did. They must be insane and blind if they did not. The girl was a contradictory mix of innocence and wickedness; judging from the disdainful tilt of her chin, she knew her power and gloried in it. Just when Sebastian thought she might be immune to the lightning crackling between them, the countess made an inarticulate sound and shifted her feet.
The countess was no humble bee. Far from it. She was a butterfly. Exquisite and bright, surrounded by male prowess and anxious to escape. To be elsewhere. These men hunting her could not capture or tame such beauty without crushing her wings beyond all repair.
But he would.
The Pack chattered on, oblivious to Ivy’s discomfort. Sara and Bentley were so immersed in one another the earth might crack apart to swallow them whole with neither giving a murmur of protest. Lady Kinley’s edginess was detectable only by him and Sebastian felt a small measure of his control easing back into his body, his blood cooling the tiniest bit. Enough so he felt more like himself, anyway.
He could seize her by the elbow, if he wished. Drag her from the guard dogs stationed at her flanks. While Sebastian contemplated the possibilities, that silly fop of a Frenchman nearly buried himself in the curve of her neck. Ivy’s head inclined toward the count, eyelashes sweeping down.
Monvair’s whisper went on and on. Good God, what the hell is the bastard saying to take such a ridiculous amount of time? A mysterious half-smile played across Ivy’s rose hued lips, and her eyes, those huge, aqua colored eyes, smoldered. Any rational man, seeing her lips caught between her teeth to suppress a gasp, seeing those creamy cheeks blushing a particular shade of pink, might envision the countess sprawled across his bed. Flushed with desire, biting back cries, writhing. Moaning for more and more...
Sebastian wanted like hell to be the one providing that pleasure... He’d give her more. More than she’d ever had in her life, and he’d make damn sure she crawled back to him, begging for even more than that...
Again, Ivy glanced his way and averted her eyes, the turquoise depths flashing with something that would have looked like shy curiosity on any other woman. On her though - it was a blatant invitation. A tiny smile lifted the corner of her lips.
Something murderous flared within Sebastian. Something never experienced before. Something twisted and confusing. A flash of uncertainty he did not like.
“What is so damned amusing, Lady Kinley?”
The crack of his voice split through the chatter. The Pack, as one entity, turned to stare. While they gathering themselves, bristling and growling, Sebastian bared his own wolfish smile. Did this little viper of a countess require pups as protection?
Ivy’s startled gaze flickered to him. “A private comment, my lord.”
The emotions passing over her features was akin to a curtain falling at a theater play only to rise for the following act. Sebastian saw all her thoughts - revealed in those few transparent seconds. She’d been waiting for him, preparing herself. She would fight, regardless of the cost. And she was both terrified and excited to pay the price and play his game.
“I assume I am the subject.” His hands flexed into fists, itching to smash into Monvair’s nose when the man, with staggering audacity, grinned at him.
Ivy assessed him. “How you must despise hearing you are wrong.”
“Do you believe the truth will offend me?” Based on Monvair’s smugness, Sebastian knew the answer.
“The truth should never offend, my lord.”
“Which can only mean you won't tell me.”
“No.” She smiled at his persistence. “Among friends, truthfulness is appreciated however…”
“We’ve not been formally introduced, is that it?” He interrupted with a slight bow. Her eyes were more intense than he remembered. Framed with long, lushly dark sable lashes, they contained a myriad of aqua swirls and flashes of deep gold deep. The full force of her beauty was enough to bring him to his knees. Now. Now, he finally understood Timothy’s obsession. Ivy Kinley was a dazzling thing. A force to reckon with. When she arched a brow of dark chestnut, battle lines were officially drawn.
“We were formally introduced once before, Lord Ravenswood. It’s foolish to believe that meeting in my father’s drawing room is scored as permanently upon your memory as it is on mine.” Even with its dagger’s edge of sarcasm, her voice was husky and sweet, that distant smile surely reserved for the most persistent of suitors. “You forgot it, and me, before the end of that day.”
Reaching out, Sebastian captured Ivy’s gloved hand. His mouth hovered above her wrist before pressing a light kiss to her silk-encased fingers. She nearly shrank away before stilling the involuntary reaction.
“It would be reckless to forget someone like you.” Of course, I remember you. I’ve come to destroy you. Cupping Ivy’s elbow where the edge of the glove surrendered to bare skin, he inched her away from the dubious protection of the Pack. It was a calculated move, easily mistaken as a conciliatory gesture when she allowed it. “But then, you were merely a child. Graced with an innocence only the young possess and unable to do any real harm. Thank God.”
Viscount Basford stared in stunned amazement, his attempt to drag Ivy back to safety stymied by her two raised fingers.
“Such a sad occasion your visit warranted that afternoon, Lord Ravenswood. My hope is you forgave any disrespect I exhibited in my grief. It was not intentional.”
An image of dirty boots scraping against an expensive carpet flashed in Sebastian’s mind, and when Ivy’s face flushed a guilty pink, both realized they shared the same memory. How extraordinary.
“I forgave you.” he purred, tugging her even closer. I’ve forgiven nothing, Ivy Kinley…you don’t deserve it.
“Children are rarely noteworthy, but I was horrid.” Ivy’s voice was thin, but she stood her ground. “I pray I am unrecognizable today.”
Seeing how much he unnerved her, Sebastian tightened his grip. Lady Morgan glanced at Ivy often, as if reassuring herself the countess stood whole and unharmed. The strains of another waltz drifted in the air, but it resonated with a muted tone. The musicians leaned forward on the railing with conspicuous nonchalance, watching the two combatants face off on the elegant expanse of the ballroom battlefield below.
“I would recognize you anywhere, Countess.” It was vulgar to address her in such a manner, but the way her title rolled off his tongue gave it the cadence of both curse and endearment. He liked saying it. As if he both loathed and loved her and whatever emotion leaked out in the utterance of that word hinged on his whim at the moment.
Sara, her cheeks a distinct shade of white, edged closer. Did she think to rescue Ivy? If so, that was a pity. Sebastian was not yet ready to let her go. His smile was ruthless. “You see, Timothy’s descriptions of your beauty, and your character, were quite exact in detail.”
Timothy’s final correspondence sought a loan to purchase his own lodgings; no reason behind the abrupt request, just an entreaty Sebastian failed to answer. His cousin’s letters had slowly disintegrated until they were little more than rambling, petulant demands for greater allowances from the trust Sebastian managed on his behalf. During the last year of his life, the funds supported far more of Timothy’s fondness for brandy, gambling and the high-priced whores at Madam Trudy’s. He’d never mentioned Lady Kinley in his communications, however Sebastian was not beyond using a lie to his advantage.
Ivy gasped as the meaning of
his words began to make sense.
Her involuntary sound drew immediate results. Alan swung about, brown eyes snapping. His muttered curse sounded suspiciously similar to a hasty plan of wringing his friend’s neck. Howls rose from members of the Pack, passionate vows of defense for the countess tumbling forth in a heated muddle. Guests crushed forward like early morning hagglers at a fishmonger’s stall. Two elderly women shoved through the crowd as if intent on refereeing the confrontation.
“Better than attending Drury Lane.” One, crowned with an old-fashioned purple turban and wobbling against the uncertain support of a mahogany cane, chortled in delight.
“Ha! Better than Hadderly’s last week!” The second woman elbowed Purple Turban aside in a particularly rough maneuver.
“See here, Ravenswood!” Monvair sputtered. Outrage thickened his accent, the silver buttons on the sapphire and fuchsia waistcoat strained to the point of bursting. His attempt to wedge between Sebastian and Ivy resulted in an encounter with young Lord Applegate, bristling with the same gallant intent. The two men crashed, bounced off in opposite directions, then reeled back together, gripping each other’s arms in an awkward dance to maintain their balance. Gales of laughter swept the crowd.
Realizing the two men could collided with them, Sebastian released Ivy, muttering beneath his breath, “Bloody, fucking brilliant. A brawl …”
“Outrageous!” Lord Batten’s thick mustache quaked with the indignation of an irritated walrus, having overheard Sebastian’s curse and he searched for a waiter to hand off his champagne, ready to join the fray should a full-fledged melee ensue.
Basford waited until Ivy was behind him before saying, “Ravenswood, your words are cruel. Hardly those of a gentleman.” The declaration provided reason aplenty for a predawn gathering on a misty field in Regent Park. A few young women whispered of the viscount’s courageous stand. Monvair and Applegate still grappled with one another, an unfair contest as the Frenchman was most concerned for his new waistcoat’s survival.
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed in cold warning. His mouth stretched into a hard line, transforming his features into a veneer of untainted emotion. Even the candles ringing the room seemed to dim, cowering before a man whose eyes flamed brighter than any light they could produce. Any gentleman eager to defend the countess was subjected to a brutal measurement. One by one, exposed to unflinching scrutiny by such a dangerous antagonist, each man deflated.
Lady Kinley was unworthy of the reckless devotion shown by these irrational men. Frustrated rage suffused Sebastian. Especially since she’d sidled out of arm’s reach.
“It is no secret the lady and I share a mutual association by way of my cousin. All in the past, of course, circumstances being what they are. We are all aware Timothy is deceased.” Because of you...Poison Ivy. The accusation hung, heavy, unspoken while Sebastian’s gaze, hard and unapologetic, flickered to the countess.
She did not seem prepared for war after all. One little skirmish and she folded with astonishing haste. Her wide eyes reminded him of a panicked doe, a wounded shimmer in the aqua depths. Her bottom lip visibly trembled. Incredibly, infuriatingly, Sebastian wanted to press his mouth to hers to tame its lush quiver. Goddamn, he’d forfeit his soul to taste the skin of that delicate collarbone, the nape of her neck, the soft underside of her breast…to soothe the hurt he just inflicted.
A tear slid down Ivy’s cheek, its significance elusive to Sebastian, but the crowd hushed, the Pack gawking with such astonishment he wondered if wings were unexpectedly sprouting from the countess’s back. Murmurs slowly built, rising until a deafening crescendo buffeted from all sides. Snippets of disbelief were already racing from one end of the ballroom to the other. Monvair and Applegate’s half-hearted tussle came to an abrupt halt, each staring at the countess.
“She’s crying…”
“Wouldn’t believe it, had I not seen it myself.”
“My God, did you hear what he said to her?”
“That sharp tongue failed her at last.”
Basford bristled with fresh anger, to the point he practically vibrated. “I cannot allow this repulsive cruelty to continue, Ravenswood. This assassination of Lady Kinley -”
“- is none of your affair, Basford,” Sebastian murmured, his eyes fixed on Ivy’s face. One deceitful tear streaked down her pale cheek like a raindrop on glass. He tried not to let it stir him.
“But sir, you… this….” Christopher interjected, stuttering until Sebastian flicked him a cold stare.
Christopher’s mouth slammed shut so fast and so hard, his teeth clicked.
Men grumbled along the edges of the group, their blind loyalty infuriating Sebastian beyond all comprehension. Like hyenas plotting to steal a fresh kill from a lion, they surrounded him. But he knew how to handle scavengers. No one would snatch this lady from between his paws.
“Kingsley?” Sebastian swept the crowd with a contemptuous glare. For God’s sake, Lord Kingsley was older than Ivy’s own father. “Shall you intercede? Or perhaps you, Montrose? Cavat?”
Those unfortunate enough to be singled out clamped their lips tight.
“Lady Kinley was the very soul of kindness to Lord Garrett,” Basford bit out. “She’s an angel to have tolerated his…”
Sebastian swung toward the viscount with such ferocity a collective roar arose from the crowd. Then people pressed closer, making it impossible to separate the Pack from those who’d come simply to witness the slaughter.
“Stay out of it, Basford.” Sebastian welcomed the opportunity to settle the issue in the oldest manner available to men, if the viscount wished to press matters.
“I- I’ve got som-something to- to say!” Christopher barreled forward, filled with fresh determination to waylay Lady Kinley’s tormenter. Basford turned, intending to halt his progress, but Christopher had a belly-full of being the shy, butterfly-collecting gentleman. He shoved the viscount aside, sending him stumbling into a curious footman who’d wiggled through the crowd with a platter of champagne goblets.
Christopher desperately grabbed for the tray while Basford clutched the servant’s coat in an attempt to retain his balance. The three men fumbled about as the first goblet bounced in slow motion and began to slide from the platter. In quick succession, forty others followed, creating a glorious golden waterfall of champagne and glass. Basford collapsed in an ignoble heap, the footman floundering atop of him. Christopher ended up with the tray, juggling it and two surviving goblets. He skidded forward on a thin sheet of spilled champagne until colliding with a heavy “Oomph!” against a much larger, solid wall of iron. The tray, two crystal goblets and one young gentleman hit marble flooring with an ear-shattering clatter.
Teeth clenched tight, Sebastian reached down, hauling Christopher to his feet, ignoring the man’s profuse apologies.
Bedlam erupted, with guests sidestepping splintered crystal, spilled champagne and a tangled heap of arms and legs comprised of the drenched Basford and a mortified footman. Numerous servants added to the chaos, darting here and there to blot frantically at splattered silks and satins. Someone finally extended a hand to Basford while Sebastian did the same to the footman. Muttering a slew of unintelligible curses, shaking off pieces of glass, the viscount glared at Ravenswood as though he were to blame for the entire disaster.
Sebastian searched for Ivy. She must have dodged the worst of it, no doubt pleased with the turmoil, those false tears quick to dry. Hell, if she wasn’t doubled over with laughter, he’d be vastly disappointed. But, she was not in within the Pack’s protective circle, nor at the edge of the boisterous throng. Fists clenching, he recalled Veronica’s words; in sudden, vivid clarity, they burned his brain - “In the midst of all that, Lady Kinley simply vanished…”
His prey had flitted away like an elusive butterfly. Lady Sara Morgan was gone too. Catching Alan’s eye, his friend gave an apologetic lift of his shoulders, and an infuriating thought struck Sebastian. Should Ivy find anything entertaining about this initi
al confrontation, it would not be Basford dropping like a stone, champagne spilling or even bumbling fools knocking one another senseless in romantic charges to her defense. It would be the effortless manner in which she won this skirmish. With the shedding of a tear.
He, the bloody Earl of Ravenswood, defeated by a single, glittering tear. In the space of a bloody half hour, she had gained the upper hand. In a game for which he made the rules.
Chapter 3
When a crash and roars of laughter sounded behind them, neither girl paused to witness the distraction. Sara pushed Ivy through a set of doors leading to the foyer and eased them shut. A quick glance about the hall confirmed they were alone. “Go, Ivy. Now, while Ravenswood’s attention is elsewhere. Lord Bentley will delay him further, but you must leave before anyone realizes you’ve gone. Saints help us,” Sara giggled. “I thought Bentley might actually throw you over his shoulder to carry you to safety.”
Ivy gave her a fierce squeeze of gratitude. “I cannot leave you behind. What if…”
“Never mind me. I can handle myself, you know that.” Sara tilted Ivy a rueful smile. “Who would have guessed Ravenswood could be so ruthless? I should have listened to you and allowed you to escape before he confronted you. Now, go. Quickly, before he comes searching for you. Do not stop for anyone.” She blew Ivy a kiss and with a mischievous smile, returned to the ballroom through the same doors. A key turned in the lock with a soft, decisive click.
Ivy almost grinned as she hurried down the wide foyer. Should Ravenswood try to follow her through that door, he’d find the way thwarted by a clever Sara. And later, the Sheffield staff would locate a key in the most unlikely of places. Either an urn or a window sash, if they found it at all. Knowing Sara, she’d simply take the key with her.
Collecting her cloak, Ivy thanked the two attending maids in the calmest of manners so that her departure would not attract unwanted attention. By the time she entered the expansive courtyard of the Sheffield mansion, her heart thumped so hard and fast she was dizzy.
