Page 4 of Taming Ivy
The visit was made with considerable reluctance, an onerous duty owed in part to the friendship his father shared with the Earl of Kinley. Sebastian came to pay respects on the recent passing of Kinley’s wife, Caroline. Since Kinley held many of Britain’s influential men in the deepest, darkest wells of his pocket, failure to convey personal condolences would have been considered a grievous insult. Having just turned twenty-two at the time, the reins of the Ravenswood earldom newly in his hands, Sebastian could not risk offending so powerful a man.
A dark-grey haired butler operating in a dazed fog failed to collect his coat and hat, leaving Sebastian awkwardly holding the items in his hands. Kinley’s entire staff appeared stunned by the death of their lady. As the butler silently led the way down the hall, two downstairs maids wept into their handkerchiefs, not bothering to pretend otherwise when Sebastian’s gaze swept over them. The house possessed an air of despondency, with dark gleaming furniture in want of dusting, the curtains drawn tight against the brilliant sunshine.
When Kinley joined him in the west drawing room Sebastian became privy to the unnerving spectacle of a notoriously self-composed man downing several tumblers of brandy. It was a peek into a private world not meant to be seen, the earl dropping the acerbic manner cultivated since his brush with financial ruin years before. This Kinley staggered about in a haze of grief. Lady Caroline’s death was not surprising, having been ill for the past two years, but the earl’s composure was one of a devastated man.
An hour of stilted conversation crept passed before Sebastian deemed it safe to depart. Kinley stared with blank eyes for the majority of the visit while his guest said all the necessary things and fidgeted at the slow passing of time. Checking his watch with a relieved sigh, Sebastian murmured his farewells, pausing when raised voices rose in the hall. Something heavy and probably very expensive crashed to the floor just outside the door just as a whirlwind of velocity burst into the room. An interloper, clad in dirty breeches and a yellowed linen shirt, slammed the door with such force the walls shook.
His dignified exit ruined, Sebastian sank into his chair by the fireplace.
“Were you going to tell me? Did you plan to roll me up in my bedsheets? Dump me in a coach to take me away? Without even a word from you? Is this what you planned?Answer me!” A shabby, gray tweed cap obscured any discernible features; the tattered bill yanked down so it hovered above the bridge of the wearer’s nose.
Damn.A disgruntled servant had come to exact revenge against the earl. Or could it be some unfortunate soul from the nearby village who managed to barge his way into the house? Where were Kinley’s servants? They ought to be rushing in to remove the intruder at any moment.
Kinley stumbled back against the sideboard. Reaching for the decanter of brandy, his hand quivered. “My intention was to inform you this afternoon.”
Carefully crossing a leg over the other, Sebastian’s eyebrow rose in faint horror. Kinley might be accustomed to strangers invading his wife’s ancestral home but this ragged trespasser spoke with painful familiarity.
“You planned this. Weeks ago.” The accusation was snarled. “Before Mama even died…admitit!”
The ragged creature possessed a feminine voice. Hoarse, broken but undeniably female. Ah, it was easy to see if one bothered to look close.
She scowled in fierce disapproval at the decanter in Kinley’s fist. A scrap of black ribbon gathered a mop of brown hair at the nape of a sweaty, dirt streaked neck. Those knotted curls could use a comb and soap. For that matter, she needed a good scrubbing all over.
Failing to notice the third party observing the quarrel, her full lips lifted in a sneer. “It’s not even noon, Father.”
At the thread of violence in the girl’s tone, Kinley spilled the majority of the brandy down his leg. Taking up a cloth, he blotted at the stain as something resembling gratitude flashed across his features. He waved a hand toward the fireplace. “My dear…the Earl of Ravenswood has come to offer his condolences. May I present my daughter? Lady Ivy Elizabeth Kinley. Now, Countess of Somerset.”
Sebastian silently groaned. Escaping unnoticed from this little drama, or whatever one wished to call it, was impossible now. When she pivoted toward him, a whirlwind of feral heat, the tiny ripple of unease he felt embarrassed him. She was a child. Unable to do any real harm, but her battle stare rivaled that of a seasoned knight. Rising from his chair, he clasped his arms behind his back in afterthought. A simple precaution, in case the girl’s teeth snapped in his direction. After all, it appeared wolves had raised her.
He bowed. “Lady Kinley.”Such a shame the old and esteemed title is wasted on this ill-mannered creature.
Her spine jolted into a rigid line. Delicate hands with dirt tinged fingernails fluttered to the cap on her head before she reached back to smooth the frizzy tangles bunched at the nape of her neck. Indecision flickered in gold-flecked aqua eyes while she trembled with the panic of a cornered fox. She blinked. And blinked again.
Slowly, a devilish gleam lit those fascinating eyes, the corners of her full mouth twisting with slow contempt. She ripped the bedraggled cap from her head. Two russet-colored leaves drifted to the floor to blend with the intricate golden hued pattern of the Aubusson rug.
Her father winced, swallowed his brandy in one huge gulp and refilled the glass to overflowing with an even shakier hand.
The curtsy executed by Lady Ivy Elizabeth Kinley, the new Countess of Somerset in her own right and all of twelve years of age, was a rude mockery, made more so by the rough garments she wore. A flick of her wrist sent the cap sailing through the air to land on a marble bust of a nameless Greek god residing atop a marble pillar in the corner. The ragged piece of tweed swung three precarious circles before coming to rest at a haphazard tilt to obscure one vacant staring eye with rakish flair.
Her mouth formed a silent “oh!” of astonishment at the unintentional perfection of het aim and some devil within Sebastian longed to dare her to try such a trick again. It was a struggle to hold his tongue. The chit would no doubt delight in challenging him to a hat-throwing contest. And she would likely win.
With methodical preciseness Lady Ivy Kinley proceeded to scrape her battered riding boots against the beautiful rug, leaving a multitude of pungent smears. Was that dirt or something else? Did he really wish to know?
“Lord Ravenswood, is it?” Ivy’s eyes flared in silent triumph at leaving him and her father speechless.
She managed to make his title sound like a curse word. Her manners were atrocious. While Sebastian did not usually condone such drastic measures, if Jonathan Kinley did not take a strap to his daughter’s well-titled backside, it would prove an admirable exercise in restraint. A bit of discipline would do her a world of good.
Gaining her mother’s inheritance, now a countess in her own right, Ivy surpassed her father in status and titles. A complete lack of parental guidance existed in this girl’s upbringing; the formidable Earl of Kinley apparently had no bloody clue on how to handle his daughter.
Ivy swung toward her father, dismissing Sebastian while he continued examining her. Like bejeweled ornaments, a few burnished leaves hung ensnared in the web of her plain brown hair. Despite those god-awful muck-encrusted boots and her disinterest in soap, Ivy somehow carried the freshness of a summer storm sweeping through a meadow, the outdoors on and around her. The pungent earthiness of horse sweat accented the mix of contradictions. Shoving her into the usual pigeonhole assigned to children of nobility would be an impossible task. He wondered how past governesses might have dealt with the girl, for she was surely an apt student and one difficult to control.
As for her features, she was neither an attractive child nor an ugly one. Like a puzzle with missing pieces, leaving it impossible to create a pleasing image, nothing about the young countess fit together. With awkward arms and elbows, surprisingly long, coltish legs and a fat, frizzy ponytail of hair she kept tossing to one side as though it aggravated her to no end, she was at odds with herself. Her lips were too full in a face still round with the remnants of a baby’s chubbiness. A smattering of buff-colored freckles danced across a raw, arrow straight nose; an unbecoming flush of crimson splotched her pale cheeks. Haunting blue-green eyes touched with gold were swollen and red-rimmed, but eyelashes resembling sable-hued spikey feathers lent a doe-like appearance. Streaked with dirt and faint tracks of either tears or sweat, her chin jutted out in a most stubborn manner. No, everything did not fit together in the girl’s face, strong hints of maturity clashing with the features of an obstinate child.
Realizing she was under scrutiny, the girl swiped an arm over her face. The grimy shirtsleeve blotted the wetness away but added to the stains marring her cheeks.
“You’ve arranged to send me to that horrid place and Mama’s dead scarcely a month.” She no longer shouted and the clipped, moderated tones of her voice were pleasant to the ear. It was the voice of an adult trapped within a youth, a child left to fend for herself for far too long. “I need more time, I can’t-” Chewing her bottom lip until it was crimson and plump, her eyes swelled with incriminating moisture. She inhaled, held it, before allowing the breath to whoosh out almost silently. “Father, I cannot go. Iwillnot go.”
With remarkable aplomb, she wrangled her emotions into check. Sebastian shifted his feet, uncomfortable with a sudden comprehension. She wouldn’t cry. Not this one. Not in front of others. An element of ice lay inside her. This girl was strong. Perhaps more than her perplexed father could even begin to contemplate.
