Page 49 of Taming Ivy
When he got his hands on her, it would not be a pretty sight.
“Marriage proposals are tolerated only on this one day. Poor bastards, she refuses them, but they can ask. And the Pack gets it out of their system for a time, at least until the following month. It certainly does the trick. Sara tried doing the same last season until her parents realized it.” Alan refilled Sebastian’s glass with bourbon. “Here, you need something stiffer than brandy. You see, each man awaits his turn and their golden opportunity, then pops the question and makes his case. Which drives her father quite mad. All those eligible bachelors under his roof and not a chance in hell one will be accepted. You realize, as the forerunner this season, you’ll have the first crack at her. Unless you wait at the end of the line. Who knows? By the time Lady Kinley gets to you, she may accept a proposal out of sheer exhaustion.”
Alan laughed, not fully appreciating the fury swirling within Sebastian. “I suppose thetonwas so caught up gossiping about the two of you, it forgot the familiar scandal of the dinner. How she accomplishes it, I don’t know, but it seems not one man is ever discouraged enough to fail to appear the following month, ready to bedevil her anew. Of course, the procedure is not without flaws. Her butler broke up a few scuffles last year. The scandal sheets adored it. Unusually devoted man, her butler,” he mused, examining the contents of his glass before casting a suspicious eye at Sebastian. “You’re not ribbing me, are you, Seb? You truly didn’t know?”
Sebastian was silent. He was so stupid. When had she determined his true intentions? The only person with any inkling of his plan was his aunt, and she’d never betray him.
Ivy played the injured victim so well. How fortuitous to see her today, the exact day of the monthly dinner. She could not have planned it any better. She knew him well enough now, knew how he enjoyed the pursuit, the excitement of it. Onlyhedecided when and if this relationship would end, but her threat today had him panting at her heels. Holy hell, if she sweetly requested he swim across the Atlantic Ocean and back again, today of all days, he would have done so without question.
Was there a better way to foil his plans of revenge, to prove her mastery, than to have the Earl of Ravenswood show up on bended knee alongside the other fools? Her manipulations and tactical schemes were worthy of a seasoned warlord. It was quite brilliant, and now he hovered on a razor’s edge of becoming the laughingstock of London, the very latest of Poison Ivy victims.
He underestimated her, those innocent smiles and breathless gasps of passion playing him straight to a hangman’s noose. A deafening roar filled his head. They laughed over bumblebees and parasols and it felt damned good to let his guard down, to lower the heavy burden of his icy exterior. He’d not laughed like that since before Marilee. Good God, since before his father died…
Alan stared at him. Was it because of the anger shining from his eyes like twin candle flames? Or because the ache of devastation tumbling across his heart could not be concealed?
“Sebastian.” Alan chose his words with care. “Timothy attended those dinners. Undoubtedly, he put forth his share of marriage proposals. It’s said Lady Kinley is gentle in her refusals. I don’t know what happened between your cousin and the countess, I don’t know what circumstances led to his death, but whatever occurred, I do believe she was always kind to him.”
Sebastian swirled the bourbon in his glass, staring into its amber depths. He did not trust himself to utter words.
“Eventually, she must heed her father’s admonishments to select a husband,” Alan said hesitantly. “You obviously care for her. Do you think…?” The half-formed suggestion trailed away when Sebastian’s lips curved into a faint sneer.
“I will indeed have a proposal for the countess.” Eyes flashing dark and unapologetic, he leaned forward, clinking his glass with Alan’s in a hollow salute.
I’ll have her heels in the air and her heart bleeding in my pocket by the end of the evening.
As Sebastian descended from the Ravenswood coach, Count Phillipe Monvair advanced on the sidewalk to shake his hand with vigor. It appeared the count was of a forgiving nature, willing to pardon every instance Sebastian stole Ivy from him.
“Monsieur, so you come to try your luck with our beautiful countess,non?”
“Luck has little to do with it,” Sebastian replied in great irritation.
The dark-haired Frenchman grinned. Garbed in an unfortunate combination of scarlet and emerald green satin, his chest puffed out, Monvair resembled a scrawny Christmas tree, lacking only a candle in both hands to complete the image. “So true,mon ami,so true. But then, one never knows when our lady may find herself at odds and accept a proposal,oui? I have asked many, many times and always the refusal. But,se la vie. I ask once more.”
“And is this your last?” God help him, or damn him, for his curiosity. “Time asking, that is.”
“Mon Dieu, non! I will ask until she accepts or no longer allows our determined requests.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Sebastian took the steps into the house two at a time as Monvair followed, chattering in a cheerful mix of French and English.
Subjecting Sebastian to a thoroughly condescending smile, Brody took their hats and gloves before showing them to the conservatory terrace where twenty or so men waited. The scene reeked of male tension and anticipation.
Accepting a brandy from a passing servant, Sebastian considered the gathering. Jealousy flooded him, leaving him damp with the strength of it. Damned if he understood the Pack’s dogged pursuit of Ivy. If she had yet to accept a proposal, what led any of them to believe she ever would? This farce was nothing but a way of keeping fools under her spell.
God help him, the fact he had become one of these oblivious men nauseated him. Tossing back the brandy, Sebastian grabbed a second from the tray of the same impassive servant. An irritating voice within warned he was drinking too much, too quickly and he ruthlessly stifled it.
Scattered about the conservatory, men rehearsed proposals, their faces earnest as words were recited in their proper order. There was a sad humor in the scene. However, the thought of Timothy practicing, scraping together his courage, made Sebastian’s blood boil in a cold, dark rage.
“Good evening, Lord Ravenswood.”
The gilded blonde man addressing him was the one who took a tumble, champagne tray and all, the night of the Sheffield Ball. What the devil was his name? Ah, yes. Andry…Lord Christopher Andry. Although suffering a minor case of tongue-tied nerves around Ivy, he proved no less diligent in his pursuit. Sebastian had seen him many times, hopping about her with the devotion of an eager puppy, prattling of damned butterflies or dragonflies or some manner of bug, for god’s sake.
“If I may comment, sir, you appear quite miserable.” Christopher took a quick gulp of his brandy.
Snagging yet another drink from the same scowling servant, Sebastian gave Christopher his fiercest glare. He would like nothing better than to slice this young lord, and every other man here, into thin, bloody ribbons. Tossing back the liquor, he realized he had swallowed, in short order, three tumblers to Christopher’s one.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Sebastian drawled, leaning back against the cold plaster wall. Seeing Christopher’s hands tremble the slightest bit, he discovered a tiny shimmer of satisfaction in frightening the young man. These damned fools…it would serve the little witch right if she came in and no one was there to pay court. Yes, he should do exactly that. Terrify them until they all departed. The alcohol seeping through his veins brought a slow, steady surge of hot rashness with it. No one would challenge him. Nor dare stop him.
“You are scowling quite fiercely, my lord.” Christopher was hesitant as he added, “and you do not seem the type to put forth a proposal in this manner.”
