Page 27 of Taming Ivy
Ivy laughed at a witty observation by Lord Whitmore while Sebastian felt every nerve and tendon within him tighten at the bright, rich sound of it. A crushing desire to have her smile at him, with him, because of him, for him, swamped him.
And there lay Ivy’s true power.
Entering the Ravenswood private balcony, he saw Alan and Sara from across the loud, glittering space. From Bentley’s private box, Sara’s concern conveyed itself across the expansive theater. She was too far away to rescue Ivy. Not that Sebastian would allow it. He had no patience for such nonsense tonight.
Removing their cloaks, he helped Ivy into a brocade and gilt chair, noting with distinct male pleasure how her skin glowed in the softened gaslight. How would the flesh concealed beneath the modest bodice of her gown taste? Would it possess a different flavor than the delicate line of her neck?
Ivy’s smile turned self-conscious. “Is something amiss, Ravenswood?”
“No.” Masking his hunger, he settled into his seat. “And you are to call me ‘Sebastian,' remember?”
Below the balcony’s ornately carved plaster wall, he used the tip of his finger to stroke the underside of her arm, tracing an indiscernible pattern on the patch of skin exposed below the gown’s capped sleeve. His gaze drifted to her lips.
It was foolish, succumbing to the need to taste her mouth inside the coach. Not once, but twice. He wanted to taste her again. It was damned difficult to steel his reactions. Once alone, he was afraid of his actions in the face of such temptation. Now that she had granted permission, all he could hear was her soft voice urging him on.
Moving so quickly was unwise. Before taking his full revenge, Sebastian wanted Ivy completely infatuated. Having sex was not enough. It would make him no different from her other lovers. No. She must be hopelessly, madly, in love with him and this meant wooing her.
His eyes shadowed, he said, “I was wondering…”
“Wondering…?” Ivy prodded.
“If your skin should taste of warm cream or fresh honey.” His words, edgy with erotic tension, wrapped about her. Ivy sucked in a breath. “Both, I imagine. I look forward to discovering the answer and you will too. Shall I tell you my findings later?”
The lights went down for the first act. Her breath came in quick, shallow pants and biting back a small laugh, Sebastian decided it was unfair to use his expertise against her. Resting his arm on the top line of her chair, his fingers stroked the delicate curvature of her throat and collarbone. Disobedient curls at the nape of her neck twirled around his fingers with sly eagerness, as if impatient to be trapped within his hands. From that point on, he merely toyed with those curls.
Ivy seemed determined to follow the plot of the opera, but Sebastian’s attention and that of the boisterous crowd made it difficult. Avid spectators seemed far more interested in the scene presented in the Ravenswood box. Several attendees peered through their opera glasses in the countess’s direction only to hastily look elsewhere when the earl’s stony visage manifested in their viewfinders instead.
By intermission, he had his fill of being gawked at by friends and strangers alike. Until Ivy shared her speculations as to what might happen during the next acts, he considered throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her out of there like a bloody caveman. Now, he dreaded spoiling her enjoyment of the play, and that irritated him too.
Resigned to another couple of hours in hell, Sebastian left her beside one of many pillared columns adorning the grand lobby. Formal waiters could not keep pace with the demands of the large crowd, and at Ivy’s smiling request, he was off in search of refreshments. How quickly he fell into a servient pattern; one set by the Pack and sweetly governed by her whims.
Returning with two goblets of champagne, he paused to exchange brief pleasantries with an old friend of his father’s.
“You do understand the lady cannot help it. We all had a part in making her the epicenter of attention.”
The familiar drawl snapped Sebastian’s head about.
Nicholas August Harris March, the Earl of Landon and imminent heir to the Duke of Richeforte, stood as part of a group of two other men and three women. With his darkly gold, tousled hair and glittering green gaze, he commanded attention. Two of the women applied themselves enthusiastically to the task. A flame-haired beauty dangled on one arm, a hopeful expression carved upon her face, while the other, a pretty brunette sipped champagne. Tristan Buchanan, Viscount of Longleigh, watched in bored amusement, his arm wrapped about the waist of an ebony-haired infamous actress.
“She’s quite the challenge, if you don't mind that sharp tongue of hers,” Lord Marcus Connell remarked.
Nicholas’s eyes twinkled. “I happen to have quite a fondness for the female tongue. Sharp and otherwise.”
“Really, Landon,” the redhead pouted, ice blue eyes flashing. “If I did not know you better, I’d believe you are considering joining the Pack.”
“Darling, you actually do not know me at all. I have reasons for keeping my distance from the lady, stunning though she is.” Nicholas squeezed the pretty baroness while slanting a glance toward Sebastian. “You see, I should hate to lose your scintillating company. Not to mention the field around the countess is always a bit congested.” A contemptuous smile lifted his beautiful mouth. “And recent participants do not play well with others when a lady’s treacherous heart is concerned.”
The two men locked gazes, Sebastian’s stonily accusing, while the man he once called ‘brother,’ boosted a brandy snifter in a restrained salute.
Sebastian struggled to keep his attention on the prattling conversation of his father’s friend, but old resentment rose to choke him. Excusing himself with a feeble excuse, he spun fully toward Nicholas.
Nick’s eyebrow rose. Emerald eyes luminous with an almost cruel light, his voice vibrated with delight in recognition of his new audience.
“Of course, the worst of it is, the moment one turns his back, a fresh victim slips into the vacant spot,” Nicholas chuckled softly. “How troublesome it must be to those so very dedicated in their pursuit! Everyone knows I’m not one to suffer fits of jealousy and I most certainly do not follow the Pack. After all, what a lady does, and with whom, when she’s not entertaining me is none of my concern. As long as I find my pleasure, what do I care?”
The others laughed, excluding the baroness. Unamused, her fingernails dug into the muscles of the earl’s forearm, and with the elusive grace of a seasoned bullfighter, Nicholas extricated himself until he stood a few paces away. To regain her grip, the baroness needed to reach out, making it obvious the distance was intentionally placed. A clever trick, designed to embarrass a lady with her own boldness.
Nicholas’ glance found Sebastian’s. For the space of a heartbeat, the two men shared a memory. As young men, with Alan’s enthusiastic input, they perfected this move to avoid the clutches of overly eager females.
