Page 13 of Taming Ivy
“Perhaps you are right. I cannot imagine you shedding a tear in public. As to the matter of Ravenswood and his courtship,” Jonathan shook a warning finger as Ivy gave him a blank stare. “Will you ruin it as you have the others?”
“Will you never stop these tragic attempts at matchmaking?”
“I suspect you’ve tipped that pretty nose of yours up at every eligible gentleman in London, including those I’venotpersonally selected. If the earl deems you worthy of his attention, you will think twice before discouraging him.” Jonathan’s fingers drummed the chair arm while considering his mutinous daughter. “His is an excellent bloodline. And Ravenswood is hardly the worst of the lot. There was that unfortunate business with the Earl of Landon, but men do foolish things when women are involved. I was friends with old Ravenswood and your mother was very fond of the countess.”
“I was unaware you possessed friends.” Another bite of scone promptly turned to sawdust in her mouth. “Just unfortunate souls you’ve taken advantage of.”
Despite the taunting, Ivy’s curiosity was aroused. Jonathan employed spies all over the country for various purposes. Should anyone be privy to the mystery of Sebastian Cain’s flight from England four years before, her father would know the details. But there was little point in quizzing him. He would misconstrue it as a sign of her interest in the earl.
Ivy’s head tilted. “And how would you know whom Mother was fond of? You rarely took note of her, except to check the profits of her estates. Or when it came time to pay the florist.”
“Watch yourself, little miss.”
Jonathan’s voice trembled; whether from anger or shame, Ivy did not care. They were forever at cross-purposes, the chasm deepening with each battle. Her father’s chief interests were twofold - to see his daughter advantageously wed, and to increase his wealth and power beyond the obscene levels already attained. He would never understand her aversion to matrimony for he firmly believed in contracts and dowries and gains. He married Caroline for love, but her mother’s estates proved a strong lure as well. In his view, love marched a distant second to position and power.
Following Timothy’s death, Jonathan allowed Ivy to come and go as she wished. On occasion, she must answer his probing questions, but those inquisitions were shallow. Matters soon reverted to their previous state; her father away on estate business, mercifully absent and Ivy doing as she pleased with a blessed lack of supervision. His attempts at steering her toward marriage were strangely lacking these past eight months and Ivy imagined her whispered involvement in the scandal over Timothy’s death cooled his enthusiasm. It appeared that reprieve was over.
She sipped her tea in silence. Her father believed she’d rejected many of England’s most eligible bachelors, but if he knew how close she’d come to being married into the Ravenswood family, he would have stopped at nothing to make it a reality. Oh, he knew something occurred with Timothy; after all, it was the gossip of choice even now. It was impossible he could know the full extent of the matter, regardless the number of spies he employed. Neither she, Sara, nor Brody would ever speak of it.
Nor Timothy, for that matter.
“Maybe the tattlers have it wrong, but all the same, you shall not refuse his courtship.” Jonathan’s fist pounded the rosewood table in an unexpected burst of frustration. Delicate teacups clattered upon their saucers in noisy protest while from his post at the sideboard, Thomas slanted the earl a faintly exasperated stare. “Damn it, girl! You’re nearing twenty years of age…. will you wind up an old maid to spite me?”
Ivy slid from her chair, gripping the back of it as if it were a necessary shield. “I have a dress fitting at Madam Jocelyn’s this morning.”
“Do you understand me, Ivy?” Jonathan scowled.
“Rest assured, Father, Ravenswood has no intentions of vying for my hand. His interests are far too bloodthirsty for such trivial matters.”
Ivy swept from the room before Jonathan responded and upon entering the center hall, nearly collided with Brody. He carried a large bouquet of ivory-hued wild roses arranged with artful meticulousness in an expensive crystal vase.
“My lady, the lad delivering this informed me he could not, under any circumstances, have them refused. He proved so distraught, I had little choice but to accept.” Brody’s brow lifted in bemusement as he shifted the weight of the vase from one arm to the other. “Poor tyke. I wonder what manner of punishment he might have received if his mission failed.”
Ivy grimaced in dismay. London’s male population loved to send flowers and French bonbons to the opposite sex, especially to the women spurning their advances or to whom they offended in some way. During the final year Mother languished, her father had fresh roses delivered to her bedside every day. Even when he was away, the roses came without fail. Her mother adored them; the romantic blooms overflowed the grounds of Somerset Hall, the gardens inundated by them.
Ivy hated them.
They caused her head, and her heart, to hurt. She could barely stand to look at or smell them. But a crushing sense of betrayal swamped her anytime she considered having the flowers ripped out. She simply could not do it, knowing her mother’s love for them.
“It’s alright, Brody. There must be some way around this latest tactic of florists and foolish men.”
Brody sniffed in agreement. “Shall I place them in the drawing room or the music room?”
“The music room, I suppose.” Trailing behind, Ivy watched as he placed the vase atop a gleaming black pianoforte. The roses were flawless but uncultivated. Where exactly did one find wild roses in the heart of London?
“There is a card.” The unconventional bouquet earned the servant’s full disdain. “Should you care to read it, milady.”
“If only to inform the gentleman not to bother in the future.”
Brody reached into the flowers and drew back with a muttered curse. The square of creamy vellum fluttered to the floor.
“Whatever is the matter?” Ivy exclaimed in bewilderment as the butler examined his fingers. “Does a bee still make his home there?”
“Thorns, milady! They neglected to remove the thorns! It’s fortunate you were not harmed by their stupidity.”
Ivy inspected the damage; a few minor punctures to Brody’s fingertips and a scratch across the top of his wrist. Dabbing at the drops of blood with a handkerchief tugged from his coat pocket, she said, “I’m sure it was an oversight.”
Brody allowed her ministrations then took the cloth from her, muttering in agitation, “My best silk handkerchief. How the devil shall I get these stains out?”
