Page 23 of Taming Ivy
Sebastian's attention dropped to where the viscount’s hand grasped Ivy. His eyes narrowed.
“The earl and I were enjoying a breath of air, Lord Basford,” Ivy said. She hesitated to put the viscount in his place with Sebastian as a witness. The night of the Sheffield Ball sealed hostilities between the two men and inciting further animosity was unwise.
“I see,” Brandon muttered, giving Sebastian a glare that said he did indeed “see,” and he did not like what he saw. Tearing his gaze from his opponent, the viscount said to Ivy, “I hoped you might grant me the next waltz, my dear.”
Sebastian assessed Brandon while Ivy wished he would say something. Lay claim to her for the next dance; beseech a walk in the garden. Carry her off into the night. Anything to keep her from leaving his side. When he remained silent, irritation swelled until Ivy remembered she was the one begging him to limit his contact with the Pack. He only did what she wished.
Internally, she screamed in protest.What is wrong with you? Do you wish me to go?Sebastian seemed uninterested as Brandon pulled her away. It was admirable how he ignored the viscount’s hostile glares, one brow raised in bemusement as he was left behind on the moonlit terrace.
Much later Ivy shook free of Brandon’s grip and the attention of the Pack to discreetly seek Sebastian out, but he had disappeared. She spent the remainder of the evening berating herself for the bitter disappointment she felt.
The following two weeks were thrilling and overwhelming as Sebastian laid an unexpected course of action. He monopolized her at every available chance. Every ball Ivy attended, he did as well, making a point of detaching her from the Pack to claim the waltzes. Every single one. If this were not vexing enough for the Pack, the earl managed to occupy the seat beside her at the midnight suppers for those balls. Many hostesses found themselves apologizing to other guests for the unfortunate confusion. No one could explain the mix-ups, which occurred only when Lord Ravenswood was in attendance.
He arrived at Kinley House daily for tea, much to Sara Morgan’s consternation, the open irritation of Ivy’s butler and her father’s silent, glowing approval. At a piano recital given by one of Sara’s gifted young cousins, the earl gained the seat beside Ivy for the performance and the dinner which followed. When Sara grumbled that the devious earl somehow managed to charm her own mother into granting him the favor, Ivy grinned like a madwoman. Lady Morgan, Sara’s mother, did not believe in tit for tat favors.
One blustery afternoon, they shared an open carriage ride through Hyde Park, along with every other member of London society. That day, sitting quite close for the sake of sharing warmth, Sebastian proved very attentive, ensuring Ivy’s cloak was buttoned securely, the carriage blanket tucked tight about her.
The earl was charming, witty, and disturbingly handsome with impeccable manners. He presented her with all manner of little gifts; a perfectly formed pear, a beautiful quill set with an intricately constructed inkwell in the shape of a long-legged crane; the bird’s body contained the ink, the head dropping back for the quill to be dipped into it. On another visit, he brought her a small, bejeweled box containing tea from his Caribbean estate, Rosethorne.
Ivy insisted such gifts were highly improper; he should refrain from giving her any others. Sebastian only smiled and murmured, “I do as I please, Countess. Have you not discovered that yet?”
Again, he brought her roses; dark pink ones smelling of lemons, with petals soft as velvet.
She should have told him of her aversion to the blooms, but he disarmed her in the most devious of ways. Roses were a favorite of his mother’s, Sebastian said. Their scent reminded him of her and the similarities, although for vastly different reasons, tugged at Ivy’s heart. She lacked the strength of will to send the flowers to the church cemetery. That bouquet, like the first, was placed on her bedside table and Ivy often paused to inhale its essence. How strange they did not possess that sickly-sweet odor she hated. The wild roses had a different essence, one she found tolerable.
And Sebastian made her laugh. Doubled over with peals of delight, Ivy forgot the ugliness of the past year. Sometimes, she even forgot the earl was Timothy’s cousin and possibly meant her harm.
The Pack seethed in powerless limbo as whispers of her involvement in Timothy’s death receded. Sebastian’s pet name for her was overheard at some point, and there were those who swooned over the romantic aspect of it. The gossips reported if the earl held no misgivings about Lady Ivy Kinley then maybe little validity existed in the horrid rumors she drove a young man to his death. Perhaps Lady Garrett overreacted from the depths of profound grief. After all, she re-entered Society after a rather short mourning period.
It was two weeks of whirlwind bliss but the night of the opera loomed, and questions regarding Sebastian’s motives still plagued Ivy. What were his real intentions when it came to this odd courtship? Did she wish him to kiss her again? Yes. No. She wasn’t sure. Other than the extraordinary incident at the Quinn Ball when he pressed her against the stonewall, Sebastian kept a respectful distance.
Sometimes, he watched her with the most peculiar expression. He would look away, realizing Ivy’s gaze was upon him, and then reconnect his eyes with hers a moment later. Those fleeting instances chilled her, but he would say something to make her laugh, or his hand would catch hers, and her apprehensions would melt. She could not stem the anxious feeling that something momentous was on the verge of happening-something that could never be undone or forgotten. On the night of the opera, when the Ravenswood coach clattered into the Kinley House courtyard, her nerves were wound tighter than a child’s toy top.
“Milady, he’s here.” Her maid drifted in, a vague smile on her ruddy face. Molly voiced her opinion many times over, comparing the earl to what she called ‘the pitiful lot o’ them.' Not a single gentleman in the Pack was worthy of her mistress, but Lord Ravenswood…oh, he was something special.
Grabbing up her cloak from the bed, Ivy regarding Molly in bemusement. The older girl simply smiled back before shaking the cobwebs from her head.
“So sorry, miss,” Molly giggled, settling the midnight blue velvet over Ivy’s shoulders. “I’ve got my heads in the clouds tonight, I do. ‘Tis a fine evening you’ll have with his lordship. Should I wait up for you?”
“There’s no need. It will be quite late when I come home. I’ll manage on my own.”
Reaching the top of the grand staircase, Ivy felt like a sacrificial lamb led to slaughter. Sebastian waited for her descent, gazing up at her with those stormy eyes, his face impassive. He rested one arm on the curved newel post.
He just might be the Devil himself, his hair the color of midnight reflecting the gaslight of the enormous crystal chandelier, the angular planes of his face half in shadows. Sin and heat and power all coiled up and packaged in unembellished, ebony black evening clothes. Only a snowy white ascot and cravat relieved the starkness of his attire. With the power to bore straight to the center of Ivy’s soul, his eyes prompted a shiver. The tiny smirk playing along the corners of his mouth signified he knew all of her jumbled thoughts.
Concentrating on placing one foot before the other in order not to trip and land in a clumsy heap at his feet, she continued down the stairs. Upon reaching the bottom step, his eyes swept her with such heated approval that Ivy actually took a half step back. Intent and desire existed in that look he gave her. Lust…
Taking her hand with a chuckle she suspected was meant to ease her anxiety, the flame in his eyes banked itself to a glow. His lips brushed the material layered over her fingers, his voice a low-slung rumble.
“Good evening, my beautiful little butterfly. Are you ready to depart?”
The heat of him drifted clear through to her backbone. “Yes.” Ivy clenched her jaw tight. She thought her teeth might chatter out of her head.
“Shall we then?” Sebastian tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. His brow lifted in an inquisitive manner to the butler. The man stood gawking at Ivy as though she were a foreigner rather than the girl he’d adored and served since birth.
“Must I open the door myself?” Sebastian muttered aloud in an aggrieved fashion.
Recalling his post, Brody bounded forward to fling open the doors. His face stained a deep crimson, he offered Ivy her pier glasses and the earl his overcoat and hat.
