Page 9 of Taming Ivy
To the countess’s left stood a dark blonde gentleman. Brandon Madsen, Viscount of Basford, considered himself the forerunner for Ivy’s hand. Sebastian wondered how disappointed the man might be when her ruination was complete. The viscount appreciated the appeal of a fallen woman, doing his best to keep them occupied, although in the most secret of fashions. Quite a bit of the Basford inheritance was expended cleaning up behind the viscount and his pleasures.
Upon reaching the terrace, Sebastian did the opposite of what was expected. He promptly directed his attention to Sara as she yanked her hand from Ivy’s tight grasp. Alan gave an exasperated shake of his head and politely greeted the countess.
“Lady Morgan.” Sebastian brushed an impersonal kiss across Sara’s gloved knuckles. “Lord Bentley’s claims of your beauty have not been exaggerated.”
Sara dipped a quick curtsy. “Such kind words, Lord Ravenswood.”
“The truth is not always kind, but in your case, Lady Morgan, it is wonderfully so.” He kissed her hand again before allowing her fingers to slide from his.
The moment Sebastian released Sara, Alan brushed past him. Placing his own kiss to her gloved fingers, Alan pulled her to him and that tiny bit of space enabled a different man to slip next to Lady Kinley.
Sebastian’s gaze swept over his target, two gentlemen now flanking her sides. Like palace sentinels, they watched with mistrustful eyes while Ivy stood so rigid between them a slight breeze might snap her in half.
She studied the orchestra’s loft with great intent. Indeed, her eyes traveled everywhere other than his direction. When she tired of staring at the musicians as they settled into their seats, her gaze drifted to various members of the Pack. Sebastian frowned. Should he be irritated or gratified? Was she frightened to death orignoringhim? She dare not snub him, not when half the ballroom just followed him to her feet. No. She was unquestionably terrified. An excellent start to things. She must be quivering with dread, although truthfully, she seemed merely disinterested by his presence.
Half the ballroom followed you to her feet…Sebastian’s smile froze.Goddamnit.
In the haste to launch the first volley, he committed a grave misstep. He bloody well sought her out, like every other fool gathered so hopefully in this corner of the ballroom.
Basford leaned into Ivy, speaking low in her ear, his gaze locked on Sebastian. Sebastian ignored the viscount’s challenging air, choosing instead to join Alan as he engaged Sara in casual banter. This allowed him to study Ivy and he took full advantage of the opportunity.
The top of her head would only reach the center of his chest should they stand face to face. It irritated him that she was not plump. Instead, she was lushly slender, with skin the color of cream roses, her cheeks the exact blush shade of her gown. The faintest of freckles lay scattered across her straight nose.
Sebastian nearly snorted aloud in disgust. Any other woman would move heaven and earth to be rid of that gold dusting. At the very least, she should pat her face with rice powder to conceal their existence. How could she appear sweeter with those freckles rather than hopelessly blemished?
Pinpointing her based on hair color alone would have given him a devil of a time. It was not the mousy brown of his memory, but a gloriously thick mass of chestnut, rich and glossy, brimming with hints of golden sunshine. Twisted into a stylish tumble, one silky ribbon of a curl trailed over a bare shoulder to grace the top of her décolletage.
And sweet fires of Hell, Ivy Kinley was blessed with curves no woman had a right to possess; all intriguing hollows and bends created for a man’s pleasure. Sebastian’s hand itched to touch the dip of her lower back, where the skirt of her gown flared away from a tiny waist. The modestly low bodice of the dress seemed to have no need for the additional padding some ladies used to enhance nature’s gifts. Her breasts mounded above the neckline, tempting morsels he wanted suddenly to trace with his tongue. He wanted to push that neckline down, to expose her. Taste her. Claim her.
It felt as if bonfires were lit all around him. Sebastian wondered if he could be the only one suffering the overwhelming, sweltering heat of the room. Was sweat beading up on his brow?
Viscount Basford touched the countess’s elbow, a possessive brush of his hand she did not seem to mind. She smiled, her gaze shifting to Sebastian before darting away.
Sebastian’s focus narrowed to a pinpoint. Everyone and everything faded until only Ivy stood before him. The other guests, the music, the sights, all sounds bleached into the background. There was onlyherand the unexpected flashing image of the countess pleasuringhim,that beautifully full mouth wrapped abouthiserection, skimming uphisnaked body until their lips met in a heated kiss. The images searing his brain dazed him. Did other men contemplate similar fantasies? He almost could notbreathefrom the heat suffocating him.
A muscle ticked in his jaw, his glare turning to one of condemnatory fury. Of course, they did. They must be insane and blind if they did not. The girl was a contradictory mix of innocence and wickedness; judging from the disdainful tilt of her chin, she knew her power and gloried in it. Just when Sebastian thought she might be immune to the lightning crackling between them, the countess made an inarticulate sound and shifted her feet.
The countess was no humble bee. Far from it. Shewasa butterfly. Exquisite and bright, surrounded by male prowess and anxious to escape. To be elsewhere. These men hunting her could not capture or tame such beauty without crushing her wings beyond all repair.
But he would.
The Pack chattered on, oblivious to Ivy’s discomfort. Sara and Bentley were so immersed in one another the earth might crack apart to swallow them whole with neither giving a murmur of protest. Lady Kinley’s edginess was detectable only by him and Sebastian felt a small measure of his control easing back into his body, his blood cooling the tiniest bit. Enough so he felt more like himself, anyway.
He could seize her by the elbow, if he wished. Drag her from the guard dogs stationed at her flanks. While Sebastian contemplated the possibilities, that silly fop of a Frenchman nearly buried himself in the curve of her neck. Ivy’s head inclined toward the count, eyelashes sweeping down.
Monvair’s whisper went on and on.Good God, what the hell is the bastard saying to take such a ridiculous amount of time?A mysterious half-smile played across Ivy’s rose hued lips, and her eyes, those huge, aqua colored eyes, smoldered. Any rational man, seeing her lips caught between her teeth to suppress a gasp, seeing those creamy cheeks blushing a particular shade of pink, might envision the countess sprawled across his bed. Flushed with desire, biting back cries, writhing. Moaning for more and more...
Sebastian wanted like hell to be the one providing that pleasure... He’d give her more. More than she’d ever had in her life, and he’d make damn sure she crawled back to him, begging for even more than that...
Again, Ivy glanced his way and averted her eyes, the turquoise depths flashing with something that would have looked like shy curiosity on any other woman. On her though - it was a blatant invitation. A tiny smile lifted the corner of her lips.
Something murderous flared within Sebastian. Something never experienced before. Something twisted and confusing. A flash of uncertainty he did not like.
“What is so damned amusing, Lady Kinley?”
The crack of his voice split through the chatter. The Pack, as one entity, turned to stare. While they gathering themselves, bristling and growling, Sebastian bared his own wolfish smile. Did this little viper of a countess require pups as protection?
Ivy’s startled gaze flickered to him. “A private comment, my lord.”
