Page 12 of Taming Ivy
More than two hundred conveyances waited patiently for their charges, a hopeless crush, but the Kinley coach stood near the front of the que. Once inside the dark confines of the coach, Ivy choked on a hysterical laugh. Her poor servants, she thought, recalling the alarm on the footman’s face as he handed her up into the vehicle. She probably frightened them half to death, the way she rushed forward, pleading to be taken home immediately.
Oh…what was she to do? Ravenswood had returned. The earl’s self-imposed exile from English soil was over. Because of her. He sought her out, taunted her, then with disgusting ease, left her in pieces. Lacerated by his cruel barbs.
With hands that shook, Ivy stripped off her white gloves. As the coach clattered along London’s uneven streets, she stared at the half-healed puckered scar slicing her left hand into halves. Beginning in the valley between thumb and forefinger, a faint, blush-pink road tracked the hill of her palm before dipping to the paper-thin skin just above her wrist.
Ten petite dashes of thread. Thread that once held the sliced edges of her flesh together. Thanks to her butler’s skill with a needle, eventually only an ivory-hued slash would exist as a reminder of Timothy Garrett’s betrayal. If only she could explain to Lord Ravenswood the events leading up to the tragedy. If only the earl might listen. If only he wouldbelieveher….
Common sense said he would not dare follow, but Ivy’s stomach roiled with nauseating uncertainty. The lengths the man might go to avenge Timothy’s death were uncertain. Those ruthless gray eyes did not lie; the Earl of Ravenswood meant to destroy her. She’d be a fool to ignore the danger.
Ivy made her way to the dining room, cursing her mistake in oversleeping. Considering the lack of bravery the previous night, she refused to cower in her room. If she were fortunate, her father would already be gone and about his business for the day, unaware of the encounter with Ravenswood.
A peek into the vast room confirmed her worries. Hidden behind a sheaf of freshly ironed morning papers, Jonathan Kinley sat at the head of a lengthy rosewood table, a steaming cup of tea at his elbow. He’d finished his breakfast and awaited her arrival.
With a deep breath, Ivy approached the side buffet. Thomas, one of the underbutlers, stepped forward to assist but she waved him away.
Once, long ago, she and her mother shared breakfast with the earl in this very room. Once, long ago, her father swept Ivy into his arms, tickling her until she squealed in delight. “You’ve sprouted overnight, like the weed you’re named for!” Jonathan would bellow in laughter while his wife frowned in mock disapproval.
“Jonathan,” the countess rebuked in her sweet, even-tempered manner, “it’s most unseemly for Ivy to shriek in such a tone. And even more so for you to cast her so high in an attempt to touch the ceiling.”
“But Mama, I can touch the sky if I want to! Papa says so!” Argumentative even at the tender age of four, she wrapped her arms around the earl’s neck, begging to be tossed even higher while Jonathan whispered they’d best give Mama many kisses as a distraction. Dipping his daughter toward Caroline, Ivy gave the countess the sort of resounding smack on the cheek children give as kisses. Then the earl gave his own kiss to his wife, which caused Ivy to sigh with impatience because that kiss lasted much longer and involved whispers and soft laughter she did not understand.
It was that way for the first six years of Ivy’s life until matters drastically changed. She never learned the exact details, but she recalled her mother mentioning “bad investments and creditors,” and perhaps she shouldn’t pester her father to play with her. The earl was very busy, Caroline explained.
At that age, Ivy did not know what bad investments and creditors were. She only knew that her father, upon whom the sun rose and set, and who always had a smile for her and her mother, became short-tempered and impatient. The earl had no time for either his daughter or his countess. There were no more afternoon picnics or quiet evenings spent fireside. He was absent on business more often than he was at Somerset and when she and her mother came to visit him in London, they were virtually ignored. Caroline was left to her own devices while Ivy drifted about the partially unfurnished townhouse like a little ghost.
For unexplained reasons, Ivy did not comment upon the disappearance of the furnishings and the lovely paintings. Even when her toys vanished, she said nothing. When several carriage horses and her favorite pony were suddenly absent from the Somerset stables, she dared not question that either, although she cried for weeks over the loss of Zeus, her smart little chestnut gelding.
On rare occasions, the family shared a meal, her father at one end of the huge table, her mother at the other. Since her nanny’s discharge many months prior and the staff’s operating at a bare minimum, Ivy often joined her parents rather than be banished to the nursery. She would sit perched in the middle, stiff and proper, a tiny buffer between two adults once madly in love but now only sharing an awkward kiss on the cheek upon entering or leaving a room. Caroline mustered encouraging smiles, but Ivy recognized every teardrop of her mother’s silent anguish. Entire meals passed with Jonathan failing to acknowledge his lovely wife and daughter were even present.
This morning, Ivy wished her father would resume such habits. She slid into a chair several places away as Jonathan laid aside the papers, his vivid blue gaze sweeping her. His frown contained a shadowy concern.
“So, Daughter. What have you to say for yourself?”
“Good morning, Father.”
“Do not avoid the subject.”
“I’m afraid I’m unaware of the subject,” Ivy cheerfully retorted, accepting the cup of tea Thomas handed her.
At fifty-two years of age, her father was an attractive man, his full mane of chestnut hair streaked with gray and a face that had weathered well. Women, some hardly older than Ivy, still hoped to become his next countess. Why he never remarried, she did not know. She could only assume he had no interest in another’s needs outside of his own.
“What is this business between you and Ravenswood? I’ve been told you spurned his suit.”
She choked on a sip of tea. “Hiswhat?”
“The gossips say he wishes to court you.”
“That is far from what that man wishes,” Ivy muttered. The earl craved nothing less than an opportunity to rip her to shreds. His aunt’s very public social cut was painful enough, but Ravenswood, oh, the man was a veritable master of the game. He truly slashed for blood.
Her laugh was scornful. “The situation was comically misconstrued, Father. It’s true Ravenswood introduced himself, but he conversed with Sara far more than me.” The blueberry scone she nibbled on gummed about her teeth and suddenly tasted as dry as a chunk of wood. It was stretching the truth, but the mandidspeak to Sara first.
Before launching his attack…
A strange light entered Jonathan’s eyes. “They say you fled the ballroom. Sobbing, no less.”
Why her father sounded so oddly protective was unfathomable. Ivy gave an unruffled façade of a shrug. “How absurd.Theyhave an overactive imagination.”
Her nerves trembled like leaves in a high wind. How foolish to react so impulsively to Ravenswood’s barbs. If only she’d kept her wits about her. Flung a witty retort in his handsome face instead of fleeing. For God’s sake, it was surely on everyone’s lips this morning.It’s true!Poison Ivy weeping!
