Page 21 of Taming Ivy
Sara gasped in feigned horror. “How terrible if you should fall in love with someone your fatherwantsyou to marry! Then what shall you do?”
The gentle teasing stung. No one really knew how damaged Ivy was by the memory of her own dear mother and the desperate love Caroline carried for an indifferent husband. Ivy was determined to escape the bonds of marriage like that her parents endured. A love burning bright at its beautiful beginning only to die a slow painful death at the last breath of it, shriveled and pleading for scraps of attention was not what she wanted. Or in her mother’s case, with armloads of suffocating, sweet smelling roses surrounding a lonely deathbed.
Ivy squelched a rare pang of jealousy at the straightforward nature of Sara and Alan’s burgeoning romance. Theirs was a sweet and uncomplicated affair. If all went well, Lord Bentley would request Sara’s hand in marriage. If her dear friend were fortunate, Alan’s interest and his love would never stray nor fade.
Dismissing her melancholy, Ivy changed the subject to the Quinn Ball. It was simple to distract Sara by focusing on Alan’s impending escort as it was the earl’s first time doing so in that official capacity, and she was naturally thrilled beyond measure.
Sebastian was easily located in the crush of people. With his height, he towered above other men, the starkness of his formal apparel out of the ordinary in a society obsessed with bright, eye-catching colors. Like a predatory jungle cat, he stalked a ballroom bursting at the seams with preening peacocks.
His gaze landed on Ivy, his silver eyes traversed her body from head to toe in a manner very improper. The slow, wicked grin spreading across his features sent a hot tingle rushing through her, the blood sliding with a peculiar thickness through her veins. Never mind she was in the midst of a Scottish reel with Count Monvair, the earl sought her out. It was so exhilarating Ivy could scarcely concentrate on the intricate steps of the dance.
From beneath lowered lashes, she watched Sebastian prowl until he reached one of the many oversized pillared columns. Placing his back against it, arms crossed over his broad chest, he presented the very portrait of bored elegance until his brow furrowed into a slight vee.
“Mon cher…your slippers must hurt like Lucifer himself. Mine pain me as well.” Phillipe Monvair leaned in, dragging Ivy’s gaze from Sebastian. “Might we find a private spot? I could help you remove the devilish things. Rub your toes,oui?It would be my greatest pleasure.”
“No, thank you.” If Sebastian learned of the Frenchman’s proposals, the results would not be pleasant. “My slippers are fine, as are my toes within them. But you may excuse yourself, should you wish.”
“Non! Non!Only if you felt discomfort,ma petite,I would happily assist.” Monvair glanced over his shoulder to where the Pack waited impatiently. “Come, we dance instead.”
The sudden tornado of annoyance spinning through Ivy had little to do with Monvair and his improper suggestions and everything to do with Lady Veronica Wesley. Clad in a stunning silk gown of sapphire blue, she boldly sidled up to Sebastian and Ivy watched, gritting her teeth, as the earl bowed at the waist. He kissed the lady’s offered hand while she tapped his forearm with an intricately carved wood and silk fan. It was rumored she shared his bed once again, although the same gossips gleefully crowed the Earl of Ravenswood never chose the same woman twice once an affair ended.
Monvair grunted in protest when a spool-heeled slipper ground his toe.
“Oh, dear,” Ivy muttered, her lack of attentiveness mortifying. “Forgive me, Count. I lost the step.”
“No harm done,mon cher.” Monvair bounced on one foot to recapture the pace of the dance.
“I shan’t do it again,” she promised, giving him a smile that led men to do as she desired without murmur or complaint. The count’s bearded face collapsed into an expression of such adoration, Ivy questioned he felt the pain of his crushed toe at all.
Risking a second glance during a sweeping turn, Ivy saw Lady Wesley frowning, hands fluttering with stylish grace while Sebastian regarded her, his features hard as flint. As the reel ended, he pushed off from the column almost violently, leaving Veronica to stare after him, bottom lip worried between her teeth.
When Sebastian located Ivy and Monvair on the opposite side of the room, his aggravation was unmistakable.
Unaware of the potential danger stalking in their direction, Monvair tugged Ivy to a shadowy alcove. There, he launched into a rambling breakdown of the outrageous cost of his new royal purple and butter yellow waistcoat. Held hostage to his inane chatter, Ivy nodded politely, waiting for Sebastian to come as the strains of the next dance, a lilting waltz, drifted into the nook, mingling with conversations and laughter and the clinking of glasses. She thought her heart, pounding with excitement, could be heard above it all.
“Lady Kinley promised me this dance,” Sebastian announced without preamble, invading the close space like a giant forcing his way into a fairy’s cottage.
“Are you sure, Lord Ravenswood?” Ivy’s head tilted, some devil within her incited to tease him. Perhaps she did not care to dance at that moment? Perhaps she was content to debate the advantages of silk over velvet for waistcoats with Monvair.
“You don’t remember? Lady Kinley? Shall I remind you of the moment you pledged it?” Sebastian’s tight smile dared her to deny it, and before Ivy could form a suitable response, his arms wrapped around her waist. As Monvair sputtered and nearby guests twittered in amused shock, Sebastian nearly lifted her off her feet and whirled her away.
The way his eyes skimmed over her, hot, and possessive, was electrifying. The man was sinfully handsome. He was dangerous. And he smelled divine, a mouthwatering aroma of cinnamon and exotic spices, clean and honest. Not heavy cologne covering an unwashed body or male sweat. It was scandalous to think such thoughts, but Ivy wanted to strip the earl of his shirt, take it home, and sleep all night rolled up in it and that delicious scent.
Sebastian’s lips curved in amusement as Ivy’s gaze roamed his face. She could not stop staring at his mouth, which was as finely molded as the rest of him. What might he taste like? Would he taste of cinnamon too? When he kissed her before, it was all too brief, and she’d been too startled to make note of all those essential details. She would not make the same mistake the next time.
When his smile widened, as if able to read her mind, a warning tingle skipped down Ivy’s spine. Flustered, she watched Monvair trundle with dull resignation back to the Pack. Sebastian followed the path of her attention.
“That was entertaining.”
“It was the height of boorishness.” Hoping to sound reproachful, her words came out in a breathless rush instead. Why could she could only think of Sebastian kissing her, his lips pressing hot against hers? Sleeping nude with his clothing whispering across her bare skin, chased by his warm fingers. What the devil was the matter with her?
His expression remained a study of unrepentant gratification. “I thought it rather brave of me.”
“How so?”
“I saved his toes and sacrificed my own.” Seeing the reluctant smile hovering on the corners of her lips, Sebastian ducked his head. “He survives to waltz another day.” His breath fluttered hot in her ear. “However, were his intentions to get you alone, then he ismostfortunate I intervened. Helivesanother day.”
Had they not garnered everyone’s attention when this brazen earl whisked her onto the floor, they were certainly the epicenter of attention now. “I confess I did step on his foot.” Ivy did not dare mention Monvair’s outrageous proposal.
