by April Moran
“Ivy, please.”
“Not another word, Sara. If you should prove correct in your suspicions, I give you free rein to say so.” Despite her nonchalance, Ivy could not entirely dismiss her friend’s apprehension nor her own.
“I can’t help but worry when you find it romantic to be compared to an insect.”
“If he tries anything worse, I shall immediately hand him over to you and your dreadful temper.”
“What has your father to say on this matter?” Sara sipped her tea, ignoring Ivy’s comment regarding her fiery nature.
“Oh, blast his network of spies. It wasn’t easy convincing Father only politeness forced me to accept Ravenswood’s invitation. He’s probably planning a grand wedding to take place next June.”
“How will you deal with a dilemma of such magnitude?”
Ivy shrugged. “The usual strategy. A hasty escape to America, should he press the issue.”
Both girls began to giggle until they collapsed against the settee.
“I believe you mean that! But, eventually, you shall marry. We both shall, if our parents have their say. It is expected of us, after all. And it’s what we are meant to do, to wed, to be wives. To keep our husband’s homes…”
“To birth the next heir.” Ivy’s sarcasm was soft and cutting. As young women born of wealth and breeding, they existed as valuable assets, cherished commodities in a man’s world of dowries and alliances. Contracts and bloodlines, and above it all, marriage for gain and power.
Sara gasped in feigned horror. “How terrible if you should fall in love with someone your father wants you to marry! Then what shall you do?”
The gentle teasing stung. No one really knew how damaged Ivy was by the memory of her own dear mother and the desperate love Caroline carried for an indifferent husband. Ivy was determined to escape the bonds of marriage like that her parents endured. A love burning bright at its beautiful beginning only to die a slow painful death at the last breath of it, shriveled and pleading for scraps of attention was not what she wanted. Or in her mother’s case, with armloads of suffocating, sweet smelling roses surrounding a lonely deathbed.
Ivy squelched a rare pang of jealousy at the straightforward nature of Sara and Alan’s burgeoning romance. Theirs was a sweet and uncomplicated affair. If all went well, Lord Bentley would request Sara’s hand in marriage. If her dear friend were fortunate, Alan’s interest and his love would never stray nor fade.
Dismissing her melancholy, Ivy changed the subject to the Quinn Ball. It was simple to distract Sara by focusing on Alan’s impending escort as it was the earl’s first time doing so in that official capacity, and she was naturally thrilled beyond measure.
Sebastian was easily located in the crush of people. With his height, he towered above other men, the starkness of his formal apparel out of the ordinary in a society obsessed with bright, eye-catching colors. Like a predatory jungle cat, he stalked a ballroom bursting at the seams with preening peacocks.
His gaze landed on Ivy, his silver eyes traversed her body from head to toe in a manner very improper. The slow, wicked grin spreading across his features sent a hot tingle rushing through her, the blood sliding with a peculiar thickness through her veins. Never mind she was in the midst of a Scottish reel with Count Monvair, the earl sought her out. It was so exhilarating Ivy could scarcely concentrate on the intricate steps of the dance.
From beneath lowered lashes, she watched Sebastian prowl until he reached one of the many oversized pillared columns. Placing his back against it, arms crossed over his broad chest, he presented the very portrait of bored elegance until his brow furrowed into a slight vee.
“Mon cher…your slippers must hurt like Lucifer himself. Mine pain me as well.” Phillipe Monvair leaned in, dragging Ivy’s gaze from Sebastian. “Might we find a private spot? I could help you remove the devilish things. Rub your toes, oui? It would be my greatest pleasure.”
“No, thank you.” If Sebastian learned of the Frenchman’s proposals, the results would not be pleasant. “My slippers are fine, as are my toes within them. But you may excuse yourself, should you wish.”
“Non! Non! Only if you felt discomfort, ma petite, I would happily assist.” Monvair glanced over his shoulder to where the Pack waited impatiently. “Come, we dance instead.”
The sudden tornado of annoyance spinning through Ivy had little to do with Monvair and his improper suggestions and everything to do with Lady Veronica Wesley. Clad in a stunning silk gown of sapphire blue, she boldly sidled up to Sebastian and Ivy watched, gritting her teeth, as the earl bowed at the waist. He kissed the lady’s offered hand while she tapped his forearm with an intricately carved wood and silk fan. It was rumored she shared his bed once again, although the same gossips gleefully crowed the Earl of Ravenswood never chose the same woman twice once an affair ended.
Monvair grunted in protest when a spool-heeled slipper ground his toe.
“Oh, dear,” Ivy muttered, her lack of attentiveness mortifying. “Forgive me, Count. I lost the step.”
“No harm done, mon cher.” Monvair bounced on one foot to recapture the pace of the dance.
“I shan’t do it again,” she promised, giving him a smile that led men to do as she desired without murmur or complaint. The count’s bearded face collapsed into an expression of such adoration, Ivy questioned he felt the pain of his crushed toe at all.
Risking a second glance during a sweeping turn, Ivy saw Lady Wesley frowning, hands fluttering with stylish grace while Sebastian regarded her, his features hard as flint. As the reel ended, he pushed off from the column almost violently, leaving Veronica to stare after him, bottom lip worried between her teeth.
When Sebastian located Ivy and Monvair on the opposite side of the room, his aggravation was unmistakable.
Unaware of the potential danger stalking in their direction, Monvair tugged Ivy to a shadowy alcove. There, he launched into a rambling breakdown of the outrageous cost of his new royal purple and butter yellow waistcoat. Held hostage to his inane chatter, Ivy nodded politely, waiting for Sebastian to come as the strains of the next dance, a lilting waltz, drifted into the nook, mingling with conversations and laughter and the clinking of glasses. She thought her heart, pounding with excitement, could be heard above it all.
“Lady Kinley promised me this dance,” Sebastian announced without preamble, invading the close space like a giant forcing his way into a fairy’s cottage.
“Are you sure, Lord Ravenswood?” Ivy’s head tilted, some devil within her incited to tease him. Perhaps she did not care to dance at that moment? Perhaps she was content to debate the advantages of silk over velvet for waistcoats with Monvair.
“You don’t remember? Lady Kinley? Shall I remind you of the moment you pledged it?” Sebastian’s tight smile dared her to deny it, and before Ivy could form a suitable response, his arms wrapped around her waist. As Monvair sputtered and nearby guests twittered in amused shock, Sebastian nearly lifted her off her feet and whirled her away.
The way his eyes skimmed over her, hot, and possessive, was electrifying. The man was sinfully handsome. He was dangerous. And he smelled divine, a mouthwatering aroma of cinnamon and exotic spices, clean and honest. Not heavy cologne covering an unwashed body or male sweat. It was scandalous to think such thoughts, but Ivy wanted to strip the earl of his shirt, take it home, and sleep all night rolled up in it and that delicious scent.
Sebastian’s lips curved in amusement as Ivy’s gaze roamed his face. She could not stop staring at his mouth, which was as finely molded as the rest of him. What might he taste like? Would he taste of cinnamon too? When he kissed her before, it was all too brief, and she’d been too startled to make note of all those essential details. She would not make the same mistake the next time.
When his smile widened, as if able to read her mind, a warning tingle skipped down Ivy’s spine. Flustered, she watched Monvair trundle with dull resignation back to the Pack. Sebastian followed the path of her attenti
on.
“That was entertaining.”
“It was the height of boorishness.” Hoping to sound reproachful, her words came out in a breathless rush instead. Why could she could only think of Sebastian kissing her, his lips pressing hot against hers? Sleeping nude with his clothing whispering across her bare skin, chased by his warm fingers. What the devil was the matter with her?
His expression remained a study of unrepentant gratification. “I thought it rather brave of me.”
“How so?”
“I saved his toes and sacrificed my own.” Seeing the reluctant smile hovering on the corners of her lips, Sebastian ducked his head. “He survives to waltz another day.” His breath fluttered hot in her ear. “However, were his intentions to get you alone, then he is most fortunate I intervened. He lives another day.”
Had they not garnered everyone’s attention when this brazen earl whisked her onto the floor, they were certainly the epicenter of attention now. “I confess I did step on his foot.” Ivy did not dare mention Monvair’s outrageous proposal.
“You weigh no more than a woodland sprite. Monvair will endure, and if not, others await anxiously to take his place.”
Along the edges of the ballroom floor, the Pack paced back and forth on tenterhooks. Visibly horrified by Ivy’s choice of a dance partner, they mumbled amongst themselves as if making plans to steal her back.
“You’ve upset the balance of things by stealing me from the count,” she said.
Sebastian swept her a glance from beneath lowered lashes. “You do not belong to him. It is not stealing.”
“I do not belong to anyone, Lord Ravenswood,” she shot back but he only smiled at her heated statement, as though he knew secrets she did not.
It made her nervous, that smile of his. She was swimming in deep waters, and the earl had far more experienced at this little game they played.
“We have the attention of nearly every guest in attendance.” Ivy nodded at the glittering crowd suspended along the edges of the marble floor. There was much whispering and passing of knowing glances. All concerning the two of them, no doubt. “You could not sneak a teaspoon out of here without someone’s notice.”
“Must I prove a point? I'm an expert in such things.” His arm tightened at her waist, his eyes hungry and hot. “And in other matters. I could show you.”
“I can’t imagine what you would gain from such actions.” From his slight frown, her bluntness shocked him.
“You cannot begin to fathom…” Sebastian took a deep breath. “I’m a selfish bastard so I assure you it would be well worth my effort.” His eyes flared with the confession and he seemed unable to conceal the desire lurking in those grey depths. “Would it be considered bad form to point out I just stole the waltz I wanted?”
Ivy laughed despite herself. As they danced, he had maneuvered her to one of the French doors opening to an elevated terrace with an overview of the gardens. Before the tune ended, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, leading her out into the brisk night air.
Taking care for the pale coral silk of her ball gown, Ivy leaned against a waist high stone wall bordering the promenade. Along with the help of a full moon, bobbing Chinese lanterns gave a magical glow to the shadowy expanse of lawn. A giggling couple, unaware of they were watched from above, strolled to the darkest of the garden paths winding through the estate and stood indecisively.
“Your actions embolden others,” Ivy rebuked as the couple below suddenly disappeared from view, holding hands as they eased down the obscurity of the path.
“Meaning the Pack follows where others might lead?” Sebastian rested his forearms on the top edge of the stacked stone. The heat coming from his body was comforting. She should have been cold in the night air without a wrap on her shoulders, but it was difficult to feel chilled with him standing so close.
“They are very persistent, and pursuit is a game to them. Attempting to corner me alone is a singular objective.” Ivy glanced at the earl’s profile. “When one succeeds, others try to emulate. I am the one who suffers their efforts.”
It was dangerous and exciting to be with Sebastian in the perfumed darkness. Ivy's heart pounded, which was unnerving and out of the ordinary. Her heart had never thudded with such confusing, wild exhilaration before.
“Demand they desist in their pursuit.” His jaw clenched.
“Their ears hear only what they wish. So, I frequently ignore their foolishness. Sara says I’m so far away sometimes it’s a wonder no one taps my head, searching for me,” she smiled. “The Pack can be relentless, but I’ve no wish to hurt anyone or crush fragile egos by refusing…” Her words trailed away, the harsh memory of Timothy Garrett stinging her like a slap to the face. “What I mean is…”
Sebastian pushed off from the wall at the sudden distress in her voice. If his thoughts shifted to her role in the death of his cousin, he gave no indication. “I understand more than you realize. Marriage-minded mamas and a few fathers use to pitch their daughters at my feet with alarming frequency. My doorstep was quite littered and ignoring them was not an option.”
Waiting for the earl to strike with cutting swiftness, Ivy wondered if perhaps he was sympathetic. The tenseness in her shoulders eased.
He had tangled his fingers with hers and staring at their merged hands, Ivy nearly forgot to breathe. His hand was huge, swallowing her palm. She felt tiny and fragile next to him. Was it possible Sebastian meant her no harm? Was she naïve to trust him? She shook away the doubts.
“I find I do not like the idea of you being hunted.”
A faint confusion threaded Sebastian's words but Ivy had no time to contemplate it when he moved with a sudden purpose, pushing until her lower back was flush with the stonewall.
What was he doing? Would he kiss her? Here? Now? Ivy sucked in a breath, waiting. He crowded her, but she did not mind. Far from it. She quivered with longing, her gaze drifting to his mouth. Cinnamon, he will taste of cinnamon. Sebastian’s head dipped and her lips parted with anticipation.
From the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Viscount Basford marched onto the terrace as if going off to war. From the depths of a deep tunnel, Ivy heard him inquire of a small group assembled near the open doors if anyone had the pleasure of seeing the Countess of Somerset or, perhaps, the Earl of Ravenswood passing through recently. A young lady giggled, pointing toward the darkened end of the terrace.
Sebastian stepped back. Her hand slipped from his.
Ivy stifled a moan of irritation.
“There you are, my dear,” Brandon’s tone held a proprietary timber as he strode toward them. “I had no idea you had wandered out here.”
If it were possible to slap the viscount across his smug face at that moment, Ivy would have. Obviously, he’d been searching for her and now that he’d found her, she was his by prior rights.
The two men gave one another perfunctory bows, a cool frostiness chilling the air. It lingered as Brandon took Ivy’s elbow, his grip tighter than necessary. He wished to demonstrate his favored position in the Pack. Most of all, he meant to remind Sebastian he was the outsider.
Sebastian's attention dropped to where the viscount’s hand grasped Ivy. His eyes narrowed.
“The earl and I were enjoying a breath of air, Lord Basford,” Ivy said. She hesitated to put the viscount in his place with Sebastian as a witness. The night of the Sheffield Ball sealed hostilities between the two men and inciting further animosity was unwise.
“I see,” Brandon muttered, giving Sebastian a glare that said he did indeed “see,” and he did not like what he saw. Tearing his gaze from his opponent, the viscount said to Ivy, “I hoped you might grant me the next waltz, my dear.”
Sebastian assessed Brandon while Ivy wished he would say something. Lay claim to her for the next dance; beseech a walk in the garden. Carry her off into the night. Anything to keep her from leaving his side. When he remained silent, irritation swelled until Ivy remembered she was the one begging him to
limit his contact with the Pack. He only did what she wished.
Internally, she screamed in protest. What is wrong with you? Do you wish me to go? Sebastian seemed uninterested as Brandon pulled her away. It was admirable how he ignored the viscount’s hostile glares, one brow raised in bemusement as he was left behind on the moonlit terrace.
Much later Ivy shook free of Brandon’s grip and the attention of the Pack to discreetly seek Sebastian out, but he had disappeared. She spent the remainder of the evening berating herself for the bitter disappointment she felt.
The following two weeks were thrilling and overwhelming as Sebastian laid an unexpected course of action. He monopolized her at every available chance. Every ball Ivy attended, he did as well, making a point of detaching her from the Pack to claim the waltzes. Every single one. If this were not vexing enough for the Pack, the earl managed to occupy the seat beside her at the midnight suppers for those balls. Many hostesses found themselves apologizing to other guests for the unfortunate confusion. No one could explain the mix-ups, which occurred only when Lord Ravenswood was in attendance.
He arrived at Kinley House daily for tea, much to Sara Morgan’s consternation, the open irritation of Ivy’s butler and her father’s silent, glowing approval. At a piano recital given by one of Sara’s gifted young cousins, the earl gained the seat beside Ivy for the performance and the dinner which followed. When Sara grumbled that the devious earl somehow managed to charm her own mother into granting him the favor, Ivy grinned like a madwoman. Lady Morgan, Sara’s mother, did not believe in tit for tat favors.
One blustery afternoon, they shared an open carriage ride through Hyde Park, along with every other member of London society. That day, sitting quite close for the sake of sharing warmth, Sebastian proved very attentive, ensuring Ivy’s cloak was buttoned securely, the carriage blanket tucked tight about her.
The earl was charming, witty, and disturbingly handsome with impeccable manners. He presented her with all manner of little gifts; a perfectly formed pear, a beautiful quill set with an intricately constructed inkwell in the shape of a long-legged crane; the bird’s body contained the ink, the head dropping back for the quill to be dipped into it. On another visit, he brought her a small, bejeweled box containing tea from his Caribbean estate, Rosethorne.
