by April Moran
How he would gain her consent, he had no idea, but on the morrow, he would obtain a special marriage license. Convincing Ivy Kinney to become his wife was a problem in need of a solution. But his wife she would be.
Chapter 18
The room tilted when Ivy sat up. After an endless, hovering, moment, it righted, but slowly and awkwardly, like a broken toy boat set adrift in a rough pond. Burning waves of nausea rose in her throat. Choking it down with determined swallows, she collapsed against the pillows with a tormented groan.
The silver ballgown lay draped over the back of a chair near the foot of her bed. Her undergarments sat folded and stacked in the brocade seat, her shoes lined up in orderly fashion beneath the chair, as though she had just slipped them off. She ventured a peek beneath the coverlet.
A peach colored nightgown. One she did not recall donning. Nor did she remember removing any clothing to put the flimsy garment on. Mangled white roses lay scattered everywhere; on the vanity table along with the diamond necklace, on the floor, in the bed. The red one was missing, but that was not out of the ordinary.
Pushing her tangled hair back, Ivy probed her temples. Her head throbbed as if a hundred tiny devils beat it with mallets. Wearily, she managed to pull herself higher onto the pillows, and in reward, unrelenting details of the night splashed across her mind.
Ivy swallowed back a sob of misery. She remembered arriving at the ball, men quickly gathering around her. Clayton, Danbury. Brandon Madsen watched with grave concern from the edges. The Earl of Landon held her arm, wishing to take her somewhere. Lady Wesley stopped him.
Lady Wesley? The lady in question had never been complimentary; there was no explanation for her involvement. Pressing her temples even harder, Ivy struggled to dredge forth more. She leaned against a wall, the cold brick soothing to her heated face. There were moments of sickness, dizziness and cursing and Lady Wesley babbling nonsense about French coffee.
Oh, God help me.
Had Sebastian truly carried her, tossing her like so much unwanted baggage into a luxurious coach with cream-hued leather seats?
That particular memory ended in a vague recollection of fighting him in his bedchamber. Thrown onto a huge bed while he loomed over her like a beast guarding a new kill. She remembered tasting blood in her mouth. Did I bite him? It’s all such a blur…
She threw her shoes at him and perhaps a brandy snifter. Or did she? Everything tangled in her mind, knotted in half bursts and blinding flares.
They made love.
Ivy moaned, praying it was a hallucination, a vivid dream brought on by vast quantities of alcohol. Or perhaps a nightmare, if one did not care to place too fine a point on it.
Sebastian’s scent clung to her, an intriguing combination of soap and cinnamon and spice, and something else, something foreign, the smell of sex. The junction of her thighs was too tender, her breasts still tingling from his greediness for any of this to be a fragment of her imagination. Touching her mouth with trembling fingers, she remembered pulling his head down to hers, demanding he kiss her.
“Oh, no.” Erotic fragments of the tattered evening flashed like lightning in her mind. “No, no, no.” She pressed her palms to her eyes. If she rubbed hard enough, maybe she could somehow block it all out. The dark, possessive kisses, whisper-soft caresses. The slide of his body entering hers as she surrendered.
Soft pillows muffled her cries. “What have I done? What have I done?”
She had clutched him to her when she thought he would withdraw, her hips meeting his thrusts with wanton eagerness. Reaching the pinnacle of satisfaction, she moaned his name, once at the tips of his fingers and twice more as he plunged so deep into her very core. For some distressing reason, these particular memories were crystal clear. She could not escape their clarity; they burned like raining hellfire.
Ivy took a shaky breath to calm herself, her eyes slowly adjusting to the morning light. It was then she saw the envelope on the bedside table. A single, wild red rose in full bloom lay atop it. Where, and how, did he obtain a wild rose? The whole of London was bankrupt when it came to red and white roses, courtesy of her awful ritual. With trembling hands, she ripped the envelope open.
Lady Veronica Wesley provided your escort home.
The note drifted to her lap. Ivy possessed no recollection of the time after they made love. Exactly how Sebastian managed to spirit her away from his bed and into her own, with no one seeing or hearing a thing, was miraculous. She ought to be grateful for the alibi, should anyone question her.
Sebastian made love to me, and I loved it…
All of it. Every heart-stopping, terrible, beautiful moment of it…
He covered me in red rose petals and made love to me…
One hand slid to her stomach, fingers wobbly coasting from navel to the curve of her lower belly. Sebastian made love to her. What if…what if…
What if she became pregnant?
Disturbing visions flooded Ivy’s mind. The earl, standing like stone beside his massive bed, while she writhed in silent agony giving birth to his bastard.
Tumbling from the bed, she staggered to the watercloset. She made it just in time.
Her stomach expelled the evils of the previous night into the porcelain washbowl, purging the horror of her own thoughts. When the spell was over, she collapsed against the wood panel wall of the small room. To combat the undulating waves of sickness, she pulled her knees to her chest, arms wrapped about them as she drew in deep breaths. Tears pricked behind her eyelids but she fought them back.
Her heart, fragile and torn, thumped slow and steady while the scattered pieces were scraped together. She did not know what to do. She could only wait for Sebastian to make the next move.
Chapter 19
Five. Five sleepless nights spent tossing and turning, waiting for Sebastian. Ivy drove herself mad during those nights.
On the sixth day, she listlessly accepted Brandon’s persistent invitation to an afternoon play. Members of the disbanded Pack seemed so innocent now when compared to her latest group of debauched admirers.
Brandon appeared genuinely concerned as he carefully handed Ivy up into the coach. Solicitous and calm, he inquired of her health, remarking how pale she was, before launching into a monologue of his activities since their last bit of time together. The steady monotony of his words lulled her. Soon, her thoughts bogged her down. She wondered why Sebastian had not come to her. And she might have convinced herself it was all a bad dream, if not for the rose accompanying the alibi note. And the tiny bite marks he left on her skin.
Ivy was so emotionally bruised she failed to notice the coach’s detour until it was too late. They had traveled past the outskirts of London, heading north at an alarming rate of speed when Brandon’s intentions became clear.
“This is not the route to the Lyceum.”
“Change of plans, my dear,” The viscount admitted gently.
“These new plans include abduction?”
His gaze roamed her features. “Merely a ride through the countryside, darling. Relax. You might enjoy a change of scenery.”
“I’ve no desire to see the countryside. Please turn the coach around and take me home.”
“My dear, that’s not possible. Now, do not be difficult. We have business in Gretna Green, you see, and our attendance is mandatory for these matters to work.” Brandon’s tension visibly increased as he spoke. “Your infatuation with Ravenswood ran its course, and I’ve grown weary waiting for you to accept my proposal.”
“I don't wish to marry you.” Ivy’s face flushed with anger. Would she go through life constantly abducted at one point or another?
“This is a necessity, Ivy. I want you for my wife, and you are in desperate need of a husband.”
“I’m in desperate need to be left alone by selfish men.” The viscount was subjected to her cold stare. “And I was not infatuated with Ravenswood. Like you, he was little more than another suitor, bedeviling my steps. The gossips rea
d far too much into his courtship.” The lie tasted bitter on Ivy's tongue. No other man on earth was like Sebastian Cain.
Brandon smiled, his tone dispassionate. “Of course, I must ignore the favors you granted him if I am to take you for my wife. A sacrifice I’m willing to make.” He flicked a speck of imaginary dust from his coat. “Your intimacy with that man angers me, although there is a bright side. The punishments I will mete out for the loss of your virginity will do much to appease me.”
Ivy’s blood chilled at the mention of punishments. What the devil did he mean? Why was his smile so frightening? So…different? “I did not grant him favors.”
The viscount cocked his head. “Didn’t you?”
Why did she not see this coming? Brandon believed himself the leader for her hand, although with no encouragement on her part. Fear left her mouth dry as Timothy came to mind. She survived that particular abduction. She would survive this too. But as she traced the scar hidden beneath her glove, she wanted to scream with helpless fury.
Brandon’s smile turned cruel with her silence. “I lost a great deal of money wagering I would be the one to break you. On our return to London, all will be put to right, and with your fortune, my losses will be covered quite handily. Although, I don’t wish you to think I only married you for your considerable wealth, darling.”
“This will be annulled,” Ivy said.
“Do you take me for a fool, Ivy?” Brandon might as well be a stranger; none of his previous courtly mannerisms in evidence. “I will have you. Best to resign yourself to it.”
“You will not be able to keep me.” Her head tilted with a sudden thought. “Have you considered I might be with child?”
He frowned. “Ravenswood broke off with you over a month ago. If you were breeding, you’d know by now.”
“But, are you certain?” Ivy asked. “Five nights ago, I was in the earl’s bed. I could be carrying his babe now. You would claim his bastard as your own? Take that risk?”
“I don’t believe you.” His hand waved in dismissal, but a fraction of doubt quivered in Brandon’s voice.
“Oh, it’s quite true. He came for me at the Faringdon Ball. You probably saw Lady Wesley escort me to the gardens; she helped him, to take me away. My disappearance created much gossip but it was Ravenswood’s doing, of course. He cannot stay away from me. I do believe the man is quite obsessed. Something in the family bloodlines, no doubt. You know his cousin suffered the same affliction…” Ivy shook her head as if in remembrance. “That very night, Sebastian took me to Ravenswood Court. Stripped me bare, laid me out on his bed. Then he…”
Brandon shook with impotent fury. “Shut up, damn you, shut up! Even if true, it changes nothing! We will wed, and if you are with child, there are ways to rid you of it. One never knows with first pregnancies. They can be so tenuous, so very fragile. Accidents are such a worry. We would start anew, and none would question the brat you carry is mine. I’ll make damn sure of it, even if it means keeping you under lock and key.”
The horror of his suggestion was sickening. Whatever Ivy hoped to accomplish by revealing Sebastian’s actions, Brandon smashed to bits with brutality. Despite her intent to be strong, tears welled in her eyes.
Leaning forward, he cupped her chin with merciless fingers. “Get some rest, my dear. When we stop to change horses, I suspect I’ll need to restrain you.”
“You are despicable,” Ivy choked, jerking away to press against the far wall of the coach.
“And you keep adding to the punishments, darling. Addressing me in such a manner is worthy of something quite painful.”
They continued through the afternoon and as darkness approached, a heavy rain erupted. The two horses labored in the thickening muck. In some parts of the road, the mire quickly became fetlock deep. Rain beat mercilessly against the glass of the coach windows while a harsh wind buffeted the vehicle until it became difficult to remain seated. Brilliant flashes of lightening illuminated the murky black skies with growing frequency. As the storm grew, leaves and debris scuttled across the road and the horses whinnied loudly in protest as the coachman drove them onward with increasingly sharper cracks of the whip.
At one point, the coach skated sideways on a patchy sheet of mud, and Ivy’s heart lurched at the unsettling feel. The horses were slowed to a walk and she wondered if she dared an attempt at escaping. The coach moved so slowly, she might not be injured if she jumped. Would she reach the woods quickly enough to hide in the cover of darkness?
She would not be a helpless victim again, not as she had been with Timothy. She must fight until there was no strength left in her body. Sensing her intentions, Brandon moved to the seat beside her. Ivy reacted with the panic of a cornered fox. He gripped her upper arms and she bit at his hands, surprising him with her fierceness.
Brandon stared on the blood on his wrist then his hand lashed out, causing Ivy to crumple with a dazed sob, her hand to her jaw.
“Save the hysterics, Ivy.” With a punishing grip, he held her hands in one of his, leaving bruises on the pale skin of her wrists. His other hand clutched her face, fingers biting into the tenderness of her cheeks. “It will be so much better if you don’t struggle.”
“I’ll fight you with all I have.” Ivy’s response was a dizzy moan of pain.
He swooped in, kissing her so hard, his teeth ground against her own, his tongue whiplashing hers until she gagged. Ivy tasted blood; his or hers, she was unsure.
When Brandon finally released her, he laughed, licking his lips as if relishing the flavor of her, blood and all.
“Oh, very well. Fight, if you must. I’ll find pleasure in it too, that much is certain.”
Sebastian did not venture out, unsure of his composure if he should happen to encounter Ivy at any one of the social functions taking place around London. No illusions existed as to the sudden influx of invitations garnered upon his return from the wilds of Scotland. Hostesses and society matrons speculated if the two most notorious members of the ton appeared at the same place, fireworks would forthwith commence.
Of course, no one knew fireworks had already commenced. Sebastian hated himself for taking advantage of Ivy’s inebriated state, but an inner voice mocked the faint sense of chivalry. He’d do it all over again if the opportunity presented itself. He tasted her kiss even now…
There was still the matter of regaining Ivy’s trust. Winning her love again. He encountered no trouble when it came to obtaining the special marriage license; his level of power ensured its relative ease of procurement. But it did take longer than anticipated. The magistrate owing him a favor had only just returned from Paris two days before, the license arriving at Ravenswood Court that very afternoon. Now, the difficulty lay in convincing the bride to marry him, a bride who hated the very sight of him.
“Only yourself to blame, Ravenswood,” Sebastian muttered, flopping into an overstuffed leather chair. It was pouring rain and the steady drum of raindrops combined with his mood to make for a bleak, miserable evening.
Tomorrow would be better. It must be. Because tomorrow he would claim her. Tomorrow, he began the journey of regaining her trust and her love. Tomorrow could not come quickly enough.
Sebastian barely noted the melodious chimes of the doorbell down the long hall. Even the sounds of a scuffle and raised voices in the foyer failed to intrude on his melancholy. Only when the door to his study flew open, crashing against the opposite wall, did he acknowledge the intrusion.
Soaking wet, furious, Lady Sara Morgan stood in the doorway. Aunt Rachel hovered behind her, face pinched in outrage at the young lady shoving her way into their home in the midst of a thunderstorm. Sebastian regarded his friend’s fiancé with a puzzled frown. What the devil was she doing?
“Get up,” Sara snapped.
Sebastian smiled then realized her seriousness. The girl’s coiffure was a saturated mess; a blonde curl drooping over one eye, the rest hanging in a tangled mass down her back. Her dark rose silk evening gown was h
opelessly rain-soaked and most certainly ruined; the matching slippers splattered with mud and sopping wet. She'd catch her death of cold if she didn't get out of those garments and into something warm and dry.
“She barged in, demanding to see you. Jackson informed her we were not receiving guests, but she pushed her way through.” Rachel sputtered with rage while Sara, sweet, gentle Sara, wore the countenance of an avenging angel. Or a rampaging murderess. Either possibility was terrifying. Neither boded well.
Other than to lift a sardonic eyebrow at her soft-spoken, steely command, Sebastian did not move.
Sara swung toward Rachel with clenched fists. “I won’t repeat myself, Lady Garrett. Be silent.”
The older woman’s thin lips clamped shut.
“As for you, my lord,” Sara snarled, advancing on Sebastian with deadly intent. “I told you to get up.”
“To what do I owe this little visit?” Ignoring the directive, Sebastian extracted a cigar from the ornate humidor on his desk. Lighting it with an unhurried air, he reclined in his chair, drawing deep then exhaling so the smoke swirled high overhead.
Just beyond Sara, Gabriel Rose appeared in the doorway, huge and menacing. His brows raised in silent query. Should he remove the girl or allow her to stay?
Sebastian gave a subtle shake of his head. He had no desire to see his friend’s fiancée manhandled from his home.
“Ivy…” A shimmer of fear flitted in Lady Morgan’s gaze. She glanced at Rachel then focused on Sebastian, her voice stronger. “It’s Ivy.”
One would never know by looking at him, but every nerve in his body drew up tight as a bowstring at the mention of Ivy’s name. For a moment, he believed Sara had come to exact vengeance, either for his most recent seduction, or that terrible night in Lord Kinley’s study. He certainly deserved punishment for both. Indeed, there were many things he was guilty of, things he would most likely burn in hell for.
