by April Moran
"True, but you know the earl will have vengeance on those who cross him. The latest rumor concerns the men from the Faringdon Ball. Each gentleman finds himself teetering on the verge of financial ruin. Whether at the races, the gaming tables or the Exchange, Ravenswood gains from their misfortune.” Sara’s gaze was unwavering. “Some whisper a plan was devised; the infliction of pain where it is felt most keenly - in their pockets. Only the new Duke of Richeforte has been spared. It cannot be mere coincidence.”
With a flash of understanding, Ivy realized what Sebastian had done; the mission he sent Gabriel on that morning from Beaumont clear now. He was punishing those involved the night of the Faringdon Ball. She did not know whether to be appalled or grateful, but the blaze of jealousy searing her heart was merciless. What reward did Lady Veronica Wesley receive for her assistance that night?
Ivy sought to steer the subject to something less volatile. “Landon’s father passed away?”
“Just after your marriage, God save his soul. He was a miserable man, wasn’t he? And lingered forever, it seemed. He was in great pain during his last days. It’s rumored Landon refused to visit his bedside, although he wasted no time taking control of the estates. Alan told me the barristers waited outside the old duke’s bedchambers, quills in hand, ready to take possession of everything and Richeforte’s last breath was to curse his son’s very existence.” Sara bit into a teacake, chewing reflectively. “Now Landon is the duke and Ravenswood will never be able to exact revenge, if that was his intent. Richeforte is too powerful.”
Ivy sat so quietly that Sara leaned squarely back against the brocade cushion of the divan. She too was silent for a few moments, noting her friend’s pale features before wisely changing the subject.
"I find myself wildly curious, my dear, as to the nature of marital relations,” Sara’s lips curled into a smile when Ivy’s eyes met hers in shock. “What is it truly like? Will you tell me? Kissing is quite exciting, as are the caresses, but should the rest of it exist purely for a man's pleasure, then I’ll exercise control until the wedding night. What are your thoughts on the matter?"
Ivy swallowed hard, unsure how much to reveal and infinitely grateful they no longer spoke of Sebastian’s revenge and his victims. Especially since it was only recently she’d been counted in those numbers. "Wait for the wedding, darling. Succumbing before bears its own set of problems.”
"The act itself is painful? Should I be afraid?” Sara’s blue eyes held a fierce determination. “I must know more. Blast it. You’re the only one who can tell me the truth of such things. Mother blushes and stammers and always manages to change the subject. I have failed miserably to get any information out of her. And as we recently decided to move the wedding to the end of the summer, I would appreciate the time to prepare myself for what will occur on our wedding night.”
Ivy knew the depths of her friend’s love for Bentley, and she knew she should tell Sara a falsehood. She should not say the act of making love was magical and so deeply poignant that many times she was moved to tears by Sebastian’s touch.
To say the pleasure of kisses led to even greater delights would be a grave mistake. It would most certainly have Sara wishing to experience it herself. Doing so before the wedding, before vows, before rings, but most importantly in the deepest of shadows, would result in tangled complications. Sara and Alan had the opportunity to do things properly, not hopelessly muddled like she and Sebastian.
Ivy recalled the relief experienced last week when her monthly courses appeared. A few days late, but they came. The discomfort was a welcomed nuisance even with the recurring bouts of nausea she suffered. It ensured their tale of a romantic elopement remained untinged by salacious rumors of pregnancy. He’d not said so, but she suspected Sebastian was vastly disappointed she was not with child.
Plucking at the threads of the cushioned seat, Ivy constructed a reasonable argument. "Sara, do you recall our conversation that day at tea when we spoke of marriage? Marry well and provide heirs. That is expected of us and we both know this. I will admit the marriage bed is not unpleasant, but my role is to provide Ravenswood his heir. It is a duty I am bound to honor, regardless of what led to our hasty wedding. Dearest, wait until Bentley makes you his wife. Your way will be so much easier than mine; you love him and he adores you. You will understand what I mean on the night of your wedding, I promise.”
Sebastian waited outside the door for an appropriate moment to join the two women. Chivalry prompted a delayed entrance until the conversation turned to something less intimate, less intriguing. Now, his stomach clenched as if suffering the most vicious of knife jabs.
Stalking down the hall, cold sickness rose in his throat. Is this why Ivy succumbed? Why she yielded that night in Beaumont’s library? It could not be the misguided belief he needed an heir to secure the Ravenswood legacy. Performing her wifely duty and providing him a son would not excuse her from his lusts. A small part of him had believed her capitulation to be a form of gratitude for not killing Basford, but now, Sebastian realized it was something else entirely.
There must be more than duty between them. When he brought her to climax after quivering climax; when she clung to him so sweetly, kissed him softly as they drifted back to earth - there had to be more. There was affection in Ivy’s voice, a shimmer of love he thought flashed again just below the surface in her eyes. These were not indications of a wife just performing her obligations, as she just so patiently explained to Sara.
At least Sebastian believed he saw something inside those turquoise eyes, something easier to recognize every time they made love. Was that elusive emotion truly there? Fluttering below a thin shell of mistrust? For all the talk of waiting for Ivy to love him again, to trust him, Sebastian realized he was becoming decidedly impatient. He hated himself for it.
And now to discover she was merely doing her “duty”.
He could not allow himself to believe it.
He misconstrued her intent. Or, perhaps misheard her.
"...a duty I am bound to honor...”
Sebastian brushed Brody aside when the butler scrambled ahead of him in grand foyer. There was a perverse pleasure to be found in wresting control of the door away from his new butler, his wife's old butler, and even greater pleasure when the massive oak door slammed behind him. The resulting shudder of it undoubtedly alarmed the two women, sitting in his damned drawing room, discussing sex and marriage and birthing sons to carry on the Ravenswood and Bentley names.
Sebastian staggered out into the warmth of London’s early summer.
Damn her.
The words, "a duty," reverberated in his brain as he hailed a hansom cab, having no desire to wait for one of his own carriages brought around. Barking out directives, he sagged against the torn leather seat of the musty vehicle. He needed a drink - several in fact- to erase everything pounding in his head.
He needed lightning bolts to crush the betrayal stabbing his heart.
A terse note arrived later informing Ivy that Sebastian was called away on business. Urgent, he claimed; he could not tear himself away. He would not return until it was time to set out for the ball they had pledged to attend in their honor. Puzzled by the curt tone of the missive, Ivy put it aside and settled in the library with a book. Her solitude was short lived.
"I thought I might join you.” Rachel glided, taking a seat in a taupe shaded chair. It was opposite the settee where Ivy just tucked her feet on. Jumping with guilt, she almost slid her feet to the floor before steeling her spine with a sudden resolve. She was Countess here. This was her library now, her settee, and if she wished to place her feet upon it, she possessed every right to do so. Nodding at Rachel, Ivy kept her feet right where she pleased, although she did curl them under the hem of her gown.
Rachel’s brow lifted, but she only rang the bell, giving instructions to the maid that arrived. “Tea, Mary. No, not the Rosethorne blend. Prepare the selection Cook picked up at Market last week.”
When they were alone, Rachel’s sharp blue eyes, raked Ivy. "I must admit you are quite beautiful.” Her tone was dispassionate.
Rachel Garrett greatly resembled her deceased son. She bore the same black curly hair and blue eyes, the same mouth and chin. But whereas with Timothy, these attributes created a charmingly boyish face, on his mother, those same features created a hard countenance of angles and severity. Ivy resisted the urge to squirm, feeling a sudden desire for Sebastian to be near.
"Thank you,” Ivy murmured, unsure how to respond to a compliment that was not truly a compliment.
"It certainly explains why Ravenswood could not resist you.” Rachel studied Ivy as though she were an experiment gone awry. Something to be examined, dissected, then quickly labeled and stored away; a danger to mankind. “Nor Timothy, for that matter.”
Tracing the lettering of the book’s cover to conceal her mounting annoyance, Ivy remained silent as the tea was delivered and poured. She was glad Rachel did not wish to drink her Rosethorne tea. It might be selfish, but she did not want to share it with someone who disliked her so intensely.
Rachel continued. "I suppose my nephew says he loves you. Although men will say anything to gain the prize, especially one wanted so desperately.”
Ivy bristled. "Whatever led Sebastian to marry me is between us, madam.”
The other woman’s laugh was dry. "Calm yourself, my dear. Let us remain civil. After all, we must share this house for periods of time. While I am not happy you are here, I cannot change the fact it is so. And we shall endeavor to make the best of it. Don’t you agree?"
Ivy's lips tightened. A thread of insincerity laced Rachel’s tone, a note of calculated planning, but the olive branch she extended must not be ignored. Sebastian would want it accepted. He would be so disappointed if it was not.
Rachel sipped her tea, her tone conversational. “I’ve noticed you are wearing the Butterfly Brooch often. As the new countess, the Ravenswood jewels are yours, but my dear, I do hope you realize, while somewhat humble in appearance, it is one of the more valuable pieces. Please take care of its handling, won’t you? I hoped that Timothy would be allowed to choose a few heirlooms for his own bride but, unfortunately…”
Ivy swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Lady Garrett, I’ve wanted to tell you for so long how Timothy’s passing was tragic.” She touched the brooch as if to protect it. “I understand your feelings toward me, but I want you to know, I never encouraged him in the manner you believe. Never. And, I do wish to put the past behind us. I hope we can reach a level of understanding.”
"Please, my dear.” Rachel’s half smile practically reeked of satisfaction as she ignored Ivy’s hesitant words regarding her deceased son. "You may call me ‘Lady Rachel,’ and if you do not object, I shall call you...Ivy.”
Ivy bit her lip. The word "poison" trembled on the tip of Rachel's tongue before it was swallowed back. Then Lady Rachel sipped her tea and smiled at her over the rim of the cup.
The truce existed in words only.
A gleam of sympathy existed in Gabriel’s dark brown eyes, his manner subdued, but he would not reveal Sebastian’s location, only relaying the earl’s delay was longer than anticipated. He sat with the coachman as they drove Ivy to the Graham residence and he was the one to help her down from the coach. Before she disappeared into the manor however, he murmured, “Do not fret, my lady. He will be here to accompany you home, I promise you that.”
Two hundred guests turned to watch as Ivy entered the ballroom alone. A chorus of chattering voices, excited to see the Earl and the new Countess of Ravenswood, exclamations over the outrageousness of their elopement, fell abruptly silent. Ivy cursed the Graham’s and their antiquated penchant for announcing guests. Someone should inform them it was no longer the thirteenth century.
Snickers of laughter brought her chin up. Her fingers rose to trace the filigree butterfly. For an eternity, Ivy stood, and her gaze, glittering with anger and embarrassment, cut the crowd like a queen through vagabonds.
The Earl of Bentley, the dear man, appeared at her side to twirl her into a waltz the musicians apparently forgot how to play. The notes were jarring, with stuttering half-starts, but Alan’s kind actions opened the floodgates. Other gentlemen sought her attention following that initial dance. Without Ravenswood’s glowering visage to stem the tide, Ivy found she was in even higher demand than before her notorious wedding.
It did not seem to matter she was newly wed to one of the most feared men in all of England. She was a woman to be conquered for different reasons now. Gentlemen who carefully steered clear of the Marriage Mart eyed her with consideration. If Sebastian deserted her with such haste, it was a reasonable assumption the new countess was open to discrete advances.
For nearly an hour, Ivy danced before excusing herself. Several Pack members approached her, offering congratulations on her marriage, comically diligent in their efforts at avoiding mention of Viscount Basford. Count Phillipe Monvair gave her a lackluster wave from across the ballroom, his arm occupied by a lady most definitely not an heiress. Ivy bit back a smile at his air of resignation.
Declining Lord Longleigh’s entreaty of a second dance, Ivy found refuge near a cluster of young ladies enjoying their first season. Like busy, fluttering sparrows dusted in white, they flocked together, giggling behind gloved hands. One girl in particular calmly returned Ivy’s perusal until the contingent of men from the Faringdon's Ball snagged her attention. The Earl of Clayton boldly met her eye for the briefest of moments, a spark of interest evident in his hungry stare, but the others were noticeably subdued. Was it true? Had the dissolute lot of them been punished for that fateful night? It seemed a bit unfair. She should bear some blame for her own rash behavior.
Her gaze next landed on Lady Veronica Wesley as she was announced by the Graham’s majordomo.
An awful rumor had already circulated the ballroom twice over, preceding the lady’s late arrival. Lady Wesley was recently the recipient an inheritance of some sort. An obscene amount of money, someone whispered. Subsequently, she dismissed Lord Alimar as her sponsor just two days before. It was all quite secretive; no one really knew where the funds originated from. Someone said a great aunt living abroad in Italy had died, leaving her fortune to Veronica, but Ivy knew better. Sebastian was her mysterious benefactor. Veronica was rewarded after all.
A lump of sour tasting jealousy rested in the hollow of Ivy’s throat. Was the lady Sebastian's current favorite once again? Had her husband spent his day in her bed? Where was he now? In another paramour’s arms? The thoughts swirling about her head left her nauseous. Sebastian would not do that to her. He couldn't.
He loves me. I know he does...but still, men are such fickle creatures...
Ivy stared at the glittering blue topaz ring on her finger. It felt impossibly heavy. As if it weighed a ton. Focused on her own misery, she failed to notice Veronica approach until the woman's husky voice sounded in her ear.
"Begging your pardon, Lady Ravenswood, but are you alright?"
Ivy pasted a smile on her dry lips, her response wooden. "Of course, Lady Wesley. Why do you ask?"
Veronica smiled. "Just that you did not appear yourself for a moment. My felicitations upon your recent marriage. I understand it is agreeable to you both, which I’m glad to hear. How I love elopements - so very romantic. Is Lord Ravenswood about? I’d like to offer him my congratulations as well.”
The lady exhibited genuine inquisitiveness. Her tone held no cattiness; no snide implications underlying the words. Glancing about the ballroom, Ivy realized wildly curious eyes now fixated on the two of them - the new wife and the former mistress. The situation was simply too delicious to ignore.
"Oh, they do adore a good scandal, don't they?" Veronica murmured, her lively eyes dancing with amusement.
"I beg your pardon?" The woman was making a concerted effort to be pleasant, but Ivy still wondered at her motives.
"None of it is true, you know. The rumors
you’ve undoubtedly heard. Your husband has not sought my attentions.” Veronica’s smile was serene. "Ravenswood has not visited my bed since the day following his return to England. And that was before he ever saw you. Lord knows he was ruined for any other woman after that. But you probably realize that.”
Accepting a glass of champagne from a liveried servant, Ivy resisted the urge to toss back the contents in one gulp. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you know about the money.” Veronica’s head tilted, gauging Ivy’s reaction to her bluntness. "I trust you will repeat the same story he instructed me to relate. However, it is an insult to your intelligence to pretend it came from a great aunt. He gifted it to me. I was rewarded, the others punished for the Faringdon incident. It’s the earl's way. There is still Richeforte to be considered, although I confess I do not know Sebastian's plans for him. He was instrumental in your rescue, but that man’s motives are always suspect, regardless of circumstance. Richforte’s callousness is renowned. There is sure to be a cold-blooded, utterly ruthless motive behind his assistance.” Her smile twisted as she sipped her champagne. “Or, maybe he wished to claim you as his next mistress and I thwarted his plans too. Be glad Sebastian did not allow Richeforte to have you. The duke possesses a rather short attention span. Unfortunately.”
Ivy did not reply, her fingers twisting nervously about the stem of the fragile champagne goblet.
The lady touched her arm. "I see doubt in your eyes, Countess. You must know Ravenswood is devoted to you. He would not have married you otherwise, and he is so different with you.”
Ivy’s heart was doing funny things within her chest. She took a deep breath to still its wild thumping. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Examining her as if to determine Ivy’s secret power in holding Sebastian’s attention, Veronica chuckled. “Don’t you? There is a visible hunger in his gaze when he looks at you, a desperate sort of craving. As though you calm him and yet, he fears your hold on him. It is most fascinating. I’ve known him for simply ages so I can verify his legendary indifference toward women. I’ve never seen him so captivated. His eyes look nowhere else but at you.”
