Page 58 of Taming Ivy
“Do you not think the diamonds are overmuch?”
“Oh no, milady! You look right beautiful.” The servant winked. “A gent might go blind just lookin’ at you.”
“Molly!” Ivy adjusted the three-tiered diamond necklace gracing the swell of her breasts before tucking in one of the roses woven through her hair a bit tighter.
The ball gown, a silver hued silk shot with glittery satin strands, twinkled with shimmery iridescent lights every time she moved. The dressmaker said it would appear she wore a gown spun from fairy wings and no truer statement was made. Ivy wanted the magical confection the moment she saw it, although it was only half constructed at the time. The silk was the exact color of Sebastian’s eyes when he kissed her the first time in her music room. Long before he broke her heart.
Madam Jocelyn was very convincing in arguing the cut of the gown should be a bit more daring. Such a unique piece of fabric, she insisted, simply cried out for an adventurous style. Admittedly, the petite French seamstress was correct, but the gown now skated on the verge of scandalous. It dipped lower than anything else Ivy owned. She felt the need to keep tugging the edges of it upward. Trimmed in delicate vines of pale shimmery green, an ivory corset pushed her breasts up into twin mounds of creamy flesh. One deep breath and she might actually overflow its confines. But it was the design of the gown’s back where Madam Jocelyn earned her outrageous fees.
From tiny cap sleeves barely skimming the tops of her shoulders, the dress curved in a dangerous dance along the edges of her shoulder blades, leaving Ivy’s entire back naked to the waist. This vast expanse of skin was most concerning. By necessity a dance partner would place a hand upon the bare flesh of her lower back to guide her. Such intimacy bordered on the outrageous.
Molly had threaded several roses throughout the loose braids of hair grazing the top of Ivy’s shoulders. All snowy pristine white save for one, the roses existed as a silent stab athim, intended to prove his existence meant nothing to her all along. Each bloom began as a bud. As the night wore on, the petals unfurled in the warmth of the ballrooms and the late spring air until all became lush and full. The flowers were now a signature; worn to every social event. At the end of the evening, as Ivy departed, each was tugged free, tossed to whoever cared to catch one. There never seemed to be a shortage of men scrambling and frantic to catch a favor from The Unbroken.
One rose was never white. Always placed above her left ear, the side of her body where her frozen heart thumped, that rose was red. Bloody, scarlet, brazen red.
It received special treatment. Petal by petal, Ivy would destroy the perfect bloom to the crowd’s delight. Oftentimes the petals showered her last dance partner. Sometimes the recipient was her escort or a lucky fool chosen at random. The most anticipated nights were those when, in a subtle erotic gesture captivating any man fortunate enough to witness it, Ivy kissed each petal before releasing it so it drifted in her wake. Many heads shook in scandalized disapproval, but she did not care. Every red rose ruined was the earl’s treacherous heart, ripped to pieces in her bare hands.
Ravenswood had returned to London and was rumored to be attending the Faringdon’s Ball tonight. Ivy hoped it was true. He would see men waiting to dance with her, plying her with champagne and begging to accompany her along garden paths in the moonlight. Her broken heart wanted nothing less than Sebastian Cain to see others pursuing the woman he had so callously discarded.
Most of all she wanted him watching as she destroyed her roses, the blossoms ground to dust beneath her heel. Wanted him to know they meant nothing to her. That he meant nothing to her at all.
But, then again, it would be wise to tread cautiously. Ivy intentionally sought the company of society’s rakehells, knowing the outrageous exploits would reach Sebastian’s ears. Her choices were dangerous, although she discovered a perverse pleasure in navigating this narrow tightrope. These particular wolves toyed with her, biding their time for the right moment to pounce, but Ivy enjoyed outmaneuvering them.
She whirled through the nights alone even when she had an escort. Sara pleaded with her in vain, distancing herself when Ivy ignored her. Her father, frozen with indecision as she spiraled away, came to realize any attempt to pull his daughter from the cliff's ragged edge was futile. Their newly mended relationship was too fragile to keep Ivy from drifting alone in her sea of heartache.
And so Ivy spun. She danced. She teased and kissed. She allowed embraces filling her to the brim with freezing rain and still...
There was no escaping Sebastian.
"It's not fair,” she muttered, forced to compare new caresses and kisses to those he gave her. It wasn’t fair that in the midst of dancing and socials and operas and clandestine boxing matches, her thoughts filled with him. When a man smiled or laughed, or took her hand to press a kiss, Ivy automatically compared him to Sebastian. Tonight, his memory and his kisses would hold her hostage no longer. She would break free of him somehow. She would erase him from her mind.
With a grim smile of determination, Ivy caressed the scarlet rosebud with gentle fingers. She could erase him from her heart. Even if the required price was that of her own soul.
Ivy laughed and flirted. She danced until her feet surely ached. The goblets of champagne consumed were too numerous to count. She teetered with charming sweetness, leaning against one man or another and those surrounding her perked up like predatory beasts trailing a wounded doe.
Icy anger settled over Sebastian. He watched from a shadowy alcove near the garden entrance, miraculously hidden by numerous plants. Lurking like a nefarious criminal. It was disheartening, the depths he had sunk. He literally hid behind potted palms in an attempt to spy on her.Potted palms, for Christ’s sake.
The Earl of Clayton pressed another glass of champagne into Ivy’s hand. Notoriously dissolute, Clayton held a decided taste for virgins. The man’s dark eyes roamed with insolent enjoyment over Ivy, touching with appreciation on the twinkle of diamonds framing her magnificent breasts, breasts which threatened to overflow the confines of the ball gown. If she took a deep enough breath, they would. And those damned roses sprinkled like fairy dust in her hair…they taunted Sebastian. A reminder of all he lost when she slipped through his fingers.
Damn her. Did Ivy have any idea of the danger she was in?
Is the risk from these other men? Or from myself?
When she turned to thank Clayton for the champagne, Sebastian almost choked.
Bloody hell!
Ivy’s naked back gleamed like warm silk, the gown swirling around the lovely curve of her hips. With impotent fury Sebastian watched Clayton’s hand drift to rest in the shadowy hollow of her lower back. Those blunt fingers of his lightly stroked the indentation of her bare spine as if he already owned her. Clayton obviously discovered a recent preference for fallen countesses. He boldly staked a claim but his possessive efforts did little in warning others off. Some old members of the Pack were already edging in, including Basford who appeared apoplectic with the need to rescue Ivy.
Sebastian’s gaze dropped to his hands. They shook. Hoping to calm the murderous blood racing through his veins, he sucked in a deep breath.
Lord Danbury leaned close, his mouth beside Ivy’s cheek while she laughed at his whispered comment. The melodious sound echoed, high and brittle to Sebastian’s ears. Ivy Kinley was a glittering, dazzling creation. Almost too stunning to gaze upon, an air of mystery shimmering about her. Enticing, bewitching and unattainable. Before he ruined her, that innocence lured men; now an elusive wickedness tempted and teased. This was not the Ivy he knew. This…this was a creature fashioned from his own cruelty.
She smiled too brightly, hands resting much too casually on the gentlemen’s arms congregating about her. Each glass of champagne pressed upon her swallowed with astonishing quickness. She was well on her way to being thoroughly intoxicated if she was not already. When she swayed again on unsteady feet, Danbury flashed a triumphant grin. Knowing glances flew between the five men huddled in the dimly lit corner.
A dark fire lit Sebastian’s eyes.
Nicholas March, the Earl of Landon, sauntered up to the outskirts of the group, his golden head tilted in contemplation. He seemed to debate joining the men gathered around the countess or remain on the fringes as an observer. However, he did not intercede.
