Taming Ivy (The Taming Series Book 1)

by April Moran

  “Your relationship borders on toxic. How can you ignore your suspicions? Gabriel told you of her meeting with Longleigh this morning. She danced with many men last evening; he was just one of her partners before your arrival. At one point, the two of them disappeared onto the terrace together. They were absent so long, I almost ventured after her. To stem the inevitable gossip. Sebastian, the girl is playing you a merry game, just as she did with my Timothy and all the others.”

  "Aunt Rachel, you are my father’s only sister and I have an interest in your well-being. I shall repeat this one more time. The last time,” Sebastian advanced upon his aunt with fists clenched, his features twisted into a mask of reserved violence. "Say another word against my wife, and I will, without hesitation, have you permanently removed from this house. Is this clear?"

  Rachel abruptly nodded her head, standing to take her leave. “It is unfortunate you will not listen to reason, just as my son would not. If you'll excuse me, I shall retire now.” Whirling on her heel, her face oddly pinched, she hurried away from him as Ivy stepped from behind the column.

  Sebastian's eyes slid to her then back to staring at the fire.

  "I did not mean to intrude on your conversation,” Ivy murmured. “I only came to select a book.” Her face flamed at Sebastian’s cutting dismissal of her presence, tears stabbing like hot pokers at her eyes. She walked blindly toward the nearest set of shelves. It could hold the history of astrology in regards to the ancient Greeks or the bawdiest of Irish limericks and she would not care. She only knew she would not cry. I will not! Not in front of her! Or him!

  "You walk as silently as a cat, my dear. One never knows when or where you might show up.” Rachel followed Ivy, her tone conversational. "Ravenswood Court has acquired many fine works of Shakespeare over the years. From comedies to tragedies, you’ll find them on that shelf. I have my favorites, if you care for a recommendation.”

  Ivy did not trust herself to say anything, did not even dare turn around, since her palm fairly itched to slap the older woman.

  Rachel came closer, perusing the shelf Ivy stared at blindly. “Try Hamlet, my dear. Complicated, but a true masterpiece.”

  Although she ground her teeth at the subtle jab regarding the infamous play centered on family and multiple poisonings and suicides, somehow, by the grace of God, or maybe the Devil, Ivy’s calm demeanor remained in place as her fingers glided over leather spines, tracing the titles etched in gold.

  Realizing her prey refused to take the bait, Rachel sniffed in defeat and floated from the library in a cloud of black.

  "I honestly did not know you were in here,” Ivy murmured as the silence stretched until it became a living, breathing entity inhabiting the library’s mahogany paneled walls. Deliberately skipping Hamlet, she slid The Tempest from its place. How difficult it was, ignoring Rachel’s insinuation she was little more than an interloper in Sebastian's household, or, even worse, that she might seek an affair with another man. Her fingers clenched with both anger and hurt, the pain a thousand times sharper because her husband failed to dispute his aunt’s suggestion.

  "Why did you not tell me you rendezvoused with the Viscount Longleigh?"

  Ivy turned, holding the book to her chest as though it were a tiny shield. "I met Lady Grace Willsdown during my ride. Lord Longleigh’s father serves as her guardian and the viscount provided her escort this morning. I did not meet them by previous arrangement.”

  "Didn’t you?" The question was soft. "Was the mysterious Lady Willsdown at the ball last night? Is she now tasked with making your assignments? Longleigh was not one of the Pack, nor part of Clayton’s group. Why his sudden interest in you? Or does he simply facilitate your meeting someone else? He is very close to the Duke of Richeforte, although I’m sure you know that.”

  "Lady Grace Willsdown is your fifth cousin and her father’s title passed to you years ago, had you bothered to take notice of it. I had no idea either she or Longleigh would be in the park this morning - "

  Sebastian interrupted her with a snarl. "Damnit, Ivy. Do you take me for a fool?”

  “It is the truth, or Gabriel would have told you otherwise,” she said flatly. “You are welcome to question Longleigh. Or, your newly discovered cousin, should you like.”

  “Why did you not tell me you met him there?" The question was repeated just as gently as before, his voice containing a strange quiver.

  Ivy’s eyes narrowed. "Because, I did not meet him. There, or anywhere, for that matter.”

  Sebastian’s hands shook the tiniest bit as he swallowed the rest of the brandy. His fingers clenched the glass hard enough to crack it before he tossed it into the fireplace with a muttered curse.

  The sound of the glass shattering and the fire popping from the droplets of brandy was abnormally loud in the library’s stillness. Ivy’s heart twisted in abrupt recognition of Sebastian’s distracted jealousy. Perhaps Rachel Garrett was right. Perhaps her husband needed protection from her after all. Her own iciness, her unwillingness to melt; it was destroying him. She was doing nothing to erase his doubts. She was making things worse.

  She was ruining them both.

  Regret flooded Ivy. Flinging aside the book, she flew to him, her arms wrapping tight about his waist.

  Breathing in the sweet, clean fragrance of her, Sebastian gave a broken sigh. His forehead dropped to rest against the top of her hair. Molly had pulled her curls back into a simple braid, the thick rope of it reaching to the small of her back and he toyed with the end of it as Rachel’s warning echoed in Ivy’s mind: You need protection…

  Perhaps he believed his aunt. Maybe his obsession would lead to his downfall and she would provide the catalyst for yet another tragedy. A tear trickled down Ivy’s cheek. She buried her head against his chest until his shirt absorbed the bit of wetness. She did not want to be the reason for his heartache and she had no desire to intentionally wound him. Could he understand how terrified she was that he would hurt her?

  When his arms tightened, Ivy drew in a deep shuddering breath of relief. Her emotions were so tightly strained that the slightest bit of kindness from him was enough to shatter her fragile composure. Stroking her back in rhythmic silence, Sebastian had no idea how close she was to crumbling.

  Later that night, curled against Sebastian's side, Ivy let her arm rest lightly across the width of his abdomen. The rise and fall of his chest below her cheek and his steady breathing was calming. Unconsciously, her grip tightened around his waist. She snuggled closer.

  But, even while holding her, she felt the faint chill in his embrace. He would not send her away, as evidenced by his own words, but he remained eerily distant.

  Pulling herself to a sitting position, Ivy saw his eyes glittering in the dim light cast by the fire. “Do you believe I would be unfaithful to you?”

  Sebastian’s voice was emotionless. “Many women find the constrictions of marriage to be a heavy burden. Some seek pleasure outside the boundaries of wedding vows, and there are men who will believe you to be one of those women. You should not encourage them, Ivy, no matter how innocent their intentions may seem. Fulfilling your duties to the Ravenswood title should keep you busy enough.”

  Ivy stared at him. Beneath the carefully chosen words lurked the unspoken accusation. Sebastian believed she would strain against the reins of duty, rebelling against a marriage she never wanted and the responsibilities thrust upon her. He was suspicious, questioning if her escalating unhappiness might force her to another man’s arms. If she came to his bed out of a sense of obligation, she would abandon it just as quickly. She would betray her husband. Eventually.

  “The same is said of men, although it is common for them to find pleasures elsewhere, both before and after vows are exchanged,” she pointed out. “Do not mince words with me, Sebastian. Do you believe me capable of betraying you?”

  He was taut as a new bow awaiting its first arrow. Her accusation did not meet with denial as his gaze slid to focus once more on the cei
ling. His jaw clenched so tight, she saw a muscle ticking in it, even in the close darkness of the room. They were both worn down to delicate shells of raw emotions, a state where every imagined slight carried the potential to erupt into a full-fledged battle. These two issues, obligation and betrayal, were so horribly entangled there seemed no rational way of dealing with one without confronting the other.

  Ivy slumped, the tears impossible to stem. "Send me away, Sebastian. Please. Send me away before we destroy any feelings we have for each other with hurtful words and accusations. Send me away before I hurt you, before you hurt me. I cannot bear this any longer.”

  Sebastian’s arm snaked about her so quickly Ivy exhaled in relief. Warm and naked, he surged against her, and although she wept with heartache, she welcomed him. No matter the argument between them, the fact he held her, his erection prodding her stomach, his lips gliding over hers, shot a thrill of excitement through her bones. He pulled her beneath him, sinking into her softness.

  “I wish it were that simple, Ivy. I wish to God, I could send you away. I wish I could live without you. I told you - and I will tell you again and again, if I must. You are the very air I breathe, my heartbeat and my love. I cannot set you from me - damn you, I cannot. Do not ask it of me again, I beg you. No matter the different ways you demand it, I will always give you the same answer. No. You are mine.”

  Deep slumber was damnably elusive. Ivy’s despair tore Sebastian’s heart to pieces and he lay awake until dawn, attempting to find a solution to the coil he had created.

  Aunt Rachel delighted recounting, in exacting detail, every one of his wife’s waltzes at the Graham Ball, how she laughed and flirted over lemonade and champagne. How many times she strolled the terrace and visited the exotic attached garden conservatory, and the different gentlemen lucky enough to accompany her before his arrival. Jealousy stung him, but his finger, tracing the curve of Ivy’s soft cheek, did so gently.

  These moments of doubt were despicable. He loathed the insecurity he felt, the nauseating punch to his gut as Gabriel reported the events of his wife’s morning ride. Ivy could not possibly betray him. She did not want to marry him, but she possessed too much honor to be unfaithful. He was the worst monster to think it, even for a moment. Ah, he was so goddamn awful to her at times - could he blame her if she ever did turn to someone who treated her kindly?

  “Mmmm…” Ivy snuggled closer. “Is it night still?”

  “Nearly daybreak.” He shifted so she fit more comfortably in the circle of his arms. “I did not mean to disturb you. Go back to sleep.”

  “Were you sleeping?”

  Sebastian let out a weary sigh, dropping a kiss to her temple. “No.”

  “Oh. Then, will you - will you kiss me awake, Sebastian?” Her face lifted to his, aqua eyes alight with invitation. “Kiss me and make love to me as the sun comes up?”

  How could he resist her? She was so lushly sweet and warm and pressing against him. Oranges and lilies enveloped him, the headiness of her scent swamping him as they made love with an odd tenderness never present before. When Ivy wept at the end, holding onto him as if nothing in the world would ever make her let go, Sebastian couldn’t help but hope he was finally breaking through his wife’s fragile barriers.

  Flying from the bed, a hand clamped over her mouth, Ivy barely made it to the commode room. Molly hurried to her, pulling her mistress’s hair, sticky with sweat, away from her shoulders and flushed face. When the violent retching spell was over, she wiped Ivy’s cheeks with a cool cloth.

  “Tis the eighth time since you arrived in London, milady,” the maid stated matter-of-fact. “It could be a babe.”

  Ivy took a shuddering breath, blotting her lips with the cloth before accepting the cup of water Molly offered. Swishing the liquid around her mouth, she spat into the sink. “Impossible. My monthlies were less than three weeks ago.”

  “Tis not uncommon. To bleed and still carry a child. My mum told me once the two could overlap. We should call for the doctor…each time is worse than the last.”

  Ivy drank the remaining water before trusting herself to answer. Thank heavens Sebastian was not there to witness these bouts of illness. It usually did not happen this soon following breakfast - the last two times occurring just after she’d had afternoon tea. Oh, God. Just thinking of tea made her queasy.

  “I would know if it were a baby. At least, I think I would know.” Steadying herself before exiting the commode room, Ivy made it as far as the bed before needing to lie down. The dizziness was intense, the room whirling like a child’s toy top. “I do not need a doctor and the earl does not need to know of this either.”

  “But he will find out, milady. Especially when you start to grow,” Molly said with her usual stoic, Irish pragmatism.

  “Molly,” Ivy’s voice grew sharp with irritation. “It’s not a baby. Now, please, bring something to quiet my stomach. It feels like a basket of seagulls, all swirling about. And, God, my head. If only this dizziness would cease.”

  “I’ll ring for fresh tea.”

  Swallowing hard against a second wave of daunting nausea, Ivy groaned. “No. I cannot stomach it. I wonder if perhaps that batch has gone bad.”

  “I’ll see what Cook suggests, milady. Maybe some ginger water and something soft to eat. You can’t be sick like this and not eat. You’ve lost weight as it is.” Molly bustled about the room, pulling the drapes against the bright sunlight although she’d drawn them open just an hour before.

  When the door closed behind the maid, Ivy sank against the pillows with a heavy sigh, her eyes closing in fatigue. She pulled the coverlet up to her shoulders, appreciative for the coolness of the silk pillowcases against her flushed cheek. Blissful silence ensued until the door creaked.

  Waving a hand, Ivy’s eyes remained shut. “For God’s sake, Molly, do not bandy it about in the kitchens. Miss Agnes concocted some manner of foul tonic for me last time. It was dreadful, awful stuff…”

  “Last time?”

  Ivy’s eyes snapped open to see Sebastian framed in the doorway, his brow pulled into a fierce frown. “What’s this about the last time? I passed Molly on the stairs - she was scared as a rabbit to see me.”

  “I-I thought you left to meet with Bentley.”

  “He can wait. I hoped you would be agreeable to a ride in the park. Raven and Spring could use the exercise. And I wanted to spend the day with you.” Crossing to her, Sebastian placed a hand on her forehead. He frowned again at feeling how warm she was. “You are ill. I gather this is not the first time?”

  “It is nothing. Something I ate or perhaps the tea from Rosethorne. I adore it, but maybe it has spoiled.” Ivy leaned into his hand, grateful for the soothing motions against her scalp as his fingers brushed her hair away from her forehead. “I do not wish to burden you.”

  “Ivy, you are mine. Mine to care for and to take care of. You are my wife. Never a burden. How many times have you been ill? When did this begin?”

  After hearing her explanation, he nodded. “It may be the tea, although I’ve never heard of this happening before. I’ll have it disposed of and procure a new batch from Beaumont’s cellars. But, should this occur again, you will tell me immediately.”

  Sebastian demanded Ivy stay abed the rest of the day and she reluctantly acquiesced. Her claims she felt much improved went ignored. When the noon meal came, he watched while she ate weak chicken broth and a small bowl of fruit. Later, she polished off a small plate of biscuits Molly snuck up to her, along with a cup of coffee, complete with extra sugar so she could abide its bitterness.

  The next day it was as though Ivy was never sick and she convinced Sebastian it was perfectly safe to ride Spring at a sedate walk. That afternoon all of English society witnessed the Earl of Ravenswood, courteously, and with all the mannerisms of a besotted husband, attend to his wife as though the two had never quarreled so fiercely just the week before.

  Ivy’s smiles and laughter were most puzzling to those watching
from a distance. The countess did not appear miserable, and the Earl could not keep his hands off her. He constantly touched her arm or her hand, sometimes leaning over to give her a kiss, all of which the countess welcomed with a smile. If they were indeed angry at each other, they gave magnificent performances to indicate otherwise that afternoon in Regent Park. Perhaps, interested parties grumbled, neither was quite ready for the type of affair one engaged in when bored with marriage.

  An unspoken truce emerged between Ivy and Sebastian. A truce not formally agreed to, but one both readily clung to. It was a fragile, sweet thing and they strove not to break it, treading lightly around each other. The days were filled with soft kisses and the nights with such passionate lovemaking, that the remaining time in London glowed with a hazy, dreamlike quality.

  The final balls of the Season had begun, the streets of the city filling with Society’s exodus eager to escape the heat of town for the cooler climes of the countryside. Household staffs were shifted and rearranged in preparation of the summer's whirlwind of events. The ormolu clock on the fireplace mantel chimed two o’clock as Sebastian closed the ledger book with a decided snap.

  Ivy was home from an afternoon spent visiting at Sara Morgan’s. Stepping to the door of his study, he overheard her giving Brody instructions to serve tea in the west drawing room and to inform his lordship she would meet him there after freshening up. Humming an Irish waltz just slightly off key, she ascended the stairs while holding onto the banister for balance, giggling when she lightly tripped upon a step.

  When Sebastian ventured into the foyer, Brody grinned and quickly explained the situation. “Her Ladyship, Lady Morgan, and Lady Willsdown did a bit of celebrating, milord, to toast the end of the season. A tradition of sorts, you see.”

  “I see.” Sebastian chuckled as he heard the sound of a piece of furniture being bumped against and a second later, his wife’s enchanting laughter. “Would you hazard a guess on their beverage of choice? I suspect something a bit more potent than tea.”