by April Moran
Sebastian did not remain in the carriage.
With instinctive reflexes, he tucked into a loose ball. A less than perfect rolling motion was executed upon hitting the ground, and he tumbled off the gravel path as the carriage rattled on without one of its passengers.
Puffed white clouds drifted across the deep blue expanse, the silhouettes of two birds darting to and fro far above him. Staring up at the sky, Sebastian struggled to breathe. Was it safe to unfurl his body? It didn’t feel like it. Hopefully this shortness of breath was simply the result of having the wind knocked from him and not from any broken ribs.
Shouts echoed in the distance, various gentlemen inquiring to his welfare. If he did not get to his feet soon, he’d find himself surrounded by those curious to learn what forces demolished the fearsome Earl of Ravenswood. He possessed a ready answer for that. Ivy Kinley. Should anyone be stupid enough to question him, it was Ivy Kinley who had laid him low.
Sebastian rose stiffly, brushing his legs off. Damn. His coat ripped after all. While Ivy’s cry sounded desperate when she grabbed for him, he now questioned its sincerity. She probably enjoyed watching him tumble from the carriage. Maybe she nudged him a little on his way over.
Waving away two lords approaching on horseback, Sebastian began the walk to where the carriage waited for him. Those fifty or so yards seemed more like fifty miles. Every living creature in Hyde Park surely watched his progress as he limped along, raking a hand through dust-powdered hair to shake out a few small pebbles caught in the waves. Spying the parasol in the gravel, he retrieved it, although it was a twisted mess of lace, boning and unfortunate silk blooms. He found a perverse pleasure in its destruction. I must have landed on it.
Ivy silently watched his approach from the backside of the carriage, eyes wide as he slapped the parasol with angry thumps against his leg, a delicate substitute for a riding crop.
Seeing the dangerous glitter in Sebastian’s eyes, she wisely uttered not a word, a slight twitch of her upper lip the only indication of her amusement. Bowden stared straight ahead, respectfully resisting any urge to turn and view his employer’s scuffed state. Even the horses knew better than to fidget or stamp with impatience as Sebastian placed both forearms on the carriage doorframe. Leaning heavily against it, his eyes closed for a brief moment. His sorely tried temper needed taming before he could contemplate speaking to her, much less sit in the same vehicle with her.
With a muttered curse, he flung the parasol with such force it bounced off the cream-colored leather seat to land at Ivy’s feet. Biting her lip, she picked it up.
“I tried to save you.” Her voice lilted with barely suppressed satisfaction as she examined the once pretty accessory. “I did not think you would go over the edge.”
“An unfortunate hazard, it seems.” Lifting his head, Sebastian watched a brightly colored butterfly flit up and over the carriage. It hovered about Ivy for second or two before continuing on its way.
“Oh? Do you fall from carriages on a regular basis?”
“I consistently find myself on the verge of some manner of edge around you. The edge of insanity, the edge of my temper.” He nearly ground his teeth to powder. “The edge of lust.”
Ivy swallowed hard. “I’m at a loss on how to remedy your problem.”
“I have several ideas. None you would like.”
Her head tilted in consideration. “How do you know that?”
“Trust me. Especially as you have no idea which emotion I may indulge.”
She met his scowl with a slow grin of acid sweetness. “I’ll require a new parasol to deal with your ill humors, my lord. Another rap on the head would be to your benefit, I think.”
A choked, strangled sound bubbled from Sebastian's throat. Ivy tightened her grip on the parasol. Would she need it to defend herself? Should the earl turn violent, would Bowden rouse the horses to carry her away if need be? She should mind her tongue when he was so angry...
A chuckle escaped him, followed by bellowing laughter.
Despite the frustration with the inability to tame the earl and her heartache with the decision she would never see him again, Ivy’s soul melted in a puddle of longing. Sebastian laughed, as she’d never heard before. Oh, he had chuckled in the time since she met him, grinning as they shared amusements, and she witnessed him enjoy humorous moments with Lord Bentley and other friends. This was different. This was genuine and real, twisting her heart in a way pretty words and passionate kisses would never achieve. She stared at him as he flung himself into the seat beside her, gaping while he swiped tears of merriment from his cheeks.
Had he ever laughed like this? Surely, he must have. Only, it must have been years and years, maybe even since before his parents died. This came from somewhere deep within him, a place where sunlight did not dare venture. Ivy wished to crawl up into Sebastian’s lap and kiss him for that beautiful, golden sound. It liquefied and burnt to a cinder every intention she possessed of erasing him from her life. She could not bear to let him go.
The carriage proceeded from Rotten Row to a more secluded section of the park, and the laughter faded, the lighthearted moment replaced by a shaky truce.
Sebastian regarded her solemnly. “Will you forgive me?”
Ivy’s heart thumped. If she accepted, things would go on as before. If she rejected the apology, Sebastian would deliver her to Kinley House, deposit her on the doorstep and that would be the end of matters. This business of forgiving him was becoming too familiar. And far too easy.
Her throat tight, Ivy nodded her consent as she examined the parasol. “The poor thing. You’ve ruined it.” And me. I’m at your mercy, fool that I am.
“It served its purpose well as Slayer of Bumblebees. I shall purchase you another, although I believe the cost is offset by the damage my coat suffered.” After showing her the rip in the garment, he took the parasol from her, tossing it to the opposite seat. “A rather flimsy weapon, but necessary for your protection.”
“My protection!” She gave him a mock frown. “You were only interested in saving yourself. It is a shame about your coat, although you might have avoided the mishap by not standing up in a moving carriage.”
“I’m convinced you assisted with my tumble.” The accusation was half-hearted even as he gave her that lazy grin which never failed to set her heart to racing.
“Perhaps I could have held tighter to you.” A giggle escaped Ivy at the thought of the earl waving the parasol around his head. “Oh, what do you suppose others thought? Our exploits shall keep the scandal sheets quite busy this week.”
“The gossipmongers can hang.” Sebastian reached for her, gathering her into his arms, tilting Ivy’s face so her pretty hat was not in his way. “Ah, Ivy…damn it all to hell. I might possess the willpower to resist you if your lips did not taste like the finest of wines.” His lips brushed against hers, laughter evident in sweetness of the gesture. “And if I did not have every intention of becoming intoxicated.” For a long moment, he kissed her, making up for the time missed over the past few weeks.
On the return to Kinley House, Ivy did the unthinkable, the rash, the absolute scandalous. She invited him to the monthly dinner.
“If you are otherwise engaged, it is understandable,” she assured him, the words hovering on her lips to remind him of the dinner’s intent. But surely, he knew. It was no secret this took place once a month. Sebastian was absent from London during the last one, but he must know.
Earlier, he had captured her hand, his fingers tangled with hers and every so often, he lifted it to his lips, his mouth skimming her knuckles. He did this now, lingering to taste her skin, sliding her palm to cup his clenched jaw. He held it there, the force of his hand covering hers and Ivy stayed, a willing prisoner.
“Of course, I shall come.” His gaze darkened. “I see no reason why this should not be a nightly occurrence.”
“Every night?” Ivy’s heart beat so erratically it was difficult to form words. The faint stubble of
his chin scratched her palm, the heat of his skin warming hers. She dared not hope too much, but he could only intend one thing with a statement of this nature.
This would be the last night of the Pack’s monthly dinners. As each devotee requested her hand in marriage, Ivy would refuse in customary fashion until the last one. That request would be the one she wished for her entire life. When Sebastian proposed, she would say yes. Yes, with her heart unlocked, her soul open to his. A thousand yes’s.
Sebastian loved her. The spark in his eyes, how his breathing hitched whenever their gazes collided, it all told her the truth. A fire ignited between them when their flesh happened to touch, whether fingertips, or lips, or other, more intimate places. They belonged together. She belonged to him. She would say yes. To anything and everything he wanted. She would be his wife. His.
Ivy curbed her soaring exhilaration. “Eight o’clock, then.”
Sebastian waved Bowden’s help away as he exited the carriage. Gathering up her gloves and the ruined parasol, he handed them to a Kinley footman before gripping Ivy about the waist to swing her down. Pedestrians on Mayfair stared at the sight of the Earl of Ravenswood with his arms wrapped about the Countess of Somerset as though they were a married couple.
Setting her on the sidewalk, his embrace lasted longer than was proper. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, Sebastian tilted her chin with a forefinger, his gaze inscrutable. “I shall count the seconds until I see you again.”
Chapter 12
“Are you sure?” Alan shook his head with a bemused smile.
The two men lounged in Sebastian’s library. Having gone over a report on a mining operation considered for investment, the invitation to the countess’s dinner was mentioned in casual passing.
“Of course. She did invite me, after all.”
Alan choked on a laugh, taking a swallow of his brandy. “I doubt you shall fit in very well with the usual company.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Alan’s amusement exasperated Sebastian. What was so comical about dinner? It simply existed as a prelude to the real purpose behind the evening’s agenda. The countess would be his and he was imagining the ways he would have her. Her reluctant admission of a broken heart was the key to unlocking the last door to her surrender. And he grabbed it to force his way inside.
“You honestly don’t know?”
“Enlighten me.”
“It’s the Pack’s monthly dinner.” Alan’s grin was unabashed. “They arrive at Kinley House at the same time, on the same day, once every month during the season. A great to-do since Lady Kinley’s coming out. You missed the grand affair last month when you took off for Scotland to purchase those new racers, but everyone knows- I thought you did as well.”
“You mean, she…” A terrible, dawning fury washed over Sebastian. He’d been deceived. The game, this game of blood and revenge, was hers all along.
When he got his hands on her, it would not be a pretty sight.
“Marriage proposals are tolerated only on this one day. Poor bastards, she refuses them, but they can ask. And the Pack gets it out of their system for a time, at least until the following month. It certainly does the trick. Sara tried doing the same last season until her parents realized it.” Alan refilled Sebastian’s glass with bourbon. “Here, you need something stiffer than brandy. You see, each man awaits his turn and their golden opportunity, then pops the question and makes his case. Which drives her father quite mad. All those eligible bachelors under his roof and not a chance in hell one will be accepted. You realize, as the forerunner this season, you’ll have the first crack at her. Unless you wait at the end of the line. Who knows? By the time Lady Kinley gets to you, she may accept a proposal out of sheer exhaustion.”
Alan laughed, not fully appreciating the fury swirling within Sebastian. “I suppose the ton was so caught up gossiping about the two of you, it forgot the familiar scandal of the dinner. How she accomplishes it, I don’t know, but it seems not one man is ever discouraged enough to fail to appear the following month, ready to bedevil her anew. Of course, the procedure is not without flaws. Her butler broke up a few scuffles last year. The scandal sheets adored it. Unusually devoted man, her butler,” he mused, examining the contents of his glass before casting a suspicious eye at Sebastian. “You’re not ribbing me, are you, Seb? You truly didn’t know?”
Sebastian was silent. He was so stupid. When had she determined his true intentions? The only person with any inkling of his plan was his aunt, and she’d never betray him.
Ivy played the injured victim so well. How fortuitous to see her today, the exact day of the monthly dinner. She could not have planned it any better. She knew him well enough now, knew how he enjoyed the pursuit, the excitement of it. Only he decided when and if this relationship would end, but her threat today had him panting at her heels. Holy hell, if she sweetly requested he swim across the Atlantic Ocean and back again, today of all days, he would have done so without question.
Was there a better way to foil his plans of revenge, to prove her mastery, than to have the Earl of Ravenswood show up on bended knee alongside the other fools? Her manipulations and tactical schemes were worthy of a seasoned warlord. It was quite brilliant, and now he hovered on a razor’s edge of becoming the laughingstock of London, the very latest of Poison Ivy victims.
He underestimated her, those innocent smiles and breathless gasps of passion playing him straight to a hangman’s noose. A deafening roar filled his head. They laughed over bumblebees and parasols and it felt damned good to let his guard down, to lower the heavy burden of his icy exterior. He’d not laughed like that since before Marilee. Good God, since before his father died…
Alan stared at him. Was it because of the anger shining from his eyes like twin candle flames? Or because the ache of devastation tumbling across his heart could not be concealed?
“Sebastian.” Alan chose his words with care. “Timothy attended those dinners. Undoubtedly, he put forth his share of marriage proposals. It’s said Lady Kinley is gentle in her refusals. I don’t know what happened between your cousin and the countess, I don’t know what circumstances led to his death, but whatever occurred, I do believe she was always kind to him.”
Sebastian swirled the bourbon in his glass, staring into its amber depths. He did not trust himself to utter words.
“Eventually, she must heed her father’s admonishments to select a husband,” Alan said hesitantly. “You obviously care for her. Do you think…?” The half-formed suggestion trailed away when Sebastian’s lips curved into a faint sneer.
“I will indeed have a proposal for the countess.” Eyes flashing dark and unapologetic, he leaned forward, clinking his glass with Alan’s in a hollow salute.
I’ll have her heels in the air and her heart bleeding in my pocket by the end of the evening.
As Sebastian descended from the Ravenswood coach, Count Phillipe Monvair advanced on the sidewalk to shake his hand with vigor. It appeared the count was of a forgiving nature, willing to pardon every instance Sebastian stole Ivy from him.
“Monsieur, so you come to try your luck with our beautiful countess, non?”
“Luck has little to do with it,” Sebastian replied in great irritation.
The dark-haired Frenchman grinned. Garbed in an unfortunate combination of scarlet and emerald green satin, his chest puffed out, Monvair resembled a scrawny Christmas tree, lacking only a candle in both hands to complete the image. “So true, mon ami, so true. But then, one never knows when our lady may find herself at odds and accept a proposal, oui? I have asked many, many times and always the refusal. But, se la vie. I ask once more.”
“And is this your last?” God help him, or damn him, for his curiosity. “Time asking, that is.”
“Mon Dieu, non! I will ask until she accepts or no longer allows our determined requests.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Sebastian took the steps into the house two at a time as Monvair followed, chattering in a c
heerful mix of French and English.
Subjecting Sebastian to a thoroughly condescending smile, Brody took their hats and gloves before showing them to the conservatory terrace where twenty or so men waited. The scene reeked of male tension and anticipation.
Accepting a brandy from a passing servant, Sebastian considered the gathering. Jealousy flooded him, leaving him damp with the strength of it. Damned if he understood the Pack’s dogged pursuit of Ivy. If she had yet to accept a proposal, what led any of them to believe she ever would? This farce was nothing but a way of keeping fools under her spell.
God help him, the fact he had become one of these oblivious men nauseated him. Tossing back the brandy, Sebastian grabbed a second from the tray of the same impassive servant. An irritating voice within warned he was drinking too much, too quickly and he ruthlessly stifled it.
Scattered about the conservatory, men rehearsed proposals, their faces earnest as words were recited in their proper order. There was a sad humor in the scene. However, the thought of Timothy practicing, scraping together his courage, made Sebastian’s blood boil in a cold, dark rage.
“Good evening, Lord Ravenswood.”
The gilded blonde man addressing him was the one who took a tumble, champagne tray and all, the night of the Sheffield Ball. What the devil was his name? Ah, yes. Andry…Lord Christopher Andry. Although suffering a minor case of tongue-tied nerves around Ivy, he proved no less diligent in his pursuit. Sebastian had seen him many times, hopping about her with the devotion of an eager puppy, prattling of damned butterflies or dragonflies or some manner of bug, for god’s sake.
“If I may comment, sir, you appear quite miserable.” Christopher took a quick gulp of his brandy.
