He did, regarding her warily.
“Your work is excellent, I am not here to relieve you of your duties or anything,” she said.
His expression eased. “So what do you want to talk to me about?”
She made a noise of frustration, gesturing between them. “This. This awkwardness that we can’t seem to get over. It was just a kiss!” she exclaimed, as much to herself as to him.
He rose at her words, walking slowly and assuredly toward her. Giving her time to stop him, only she couldn’t. She could just watch, feeling her breathing speed as he approached.
“It wasn’t just a kiss,” he replied, sounding regretful. “I wish it were, or I’d have been able to forget it.” Now he was standing directly in front of her. She could see where he’d cut himself shaving. Perhaps he did need assistance, after all. “I’ve tried, but I can’t.” His gaze settled on her mouth, and it felt as though he was already kissing her. “I keep recalling your taste. How you dug your fingers into my hair. How you responded when I caressed you. What your breasts felt like under my palm.” His voice was growing more ragged, and she found herself leaning in to him, her own breath growing shorter, her whole body feeling prickly, but in an exciting, sensual way.
“Oh,” she sighed. “I can’t forget either.” She tilted her face toward him in an unmistakable invitation, and he reached to slide his fingers to her jaw, stroking the skin there. She couldn’t help herself, she bit her lip at his touch, and he growled as he lowered his mouth to hers.
He paused, just for a moment, long enough for her to refuse him if she wanted to.
But she did not want to.
Instead, she arched up to meet him, grabbing his hand at her face and drawing it down to her waist, putting her other hand on his back to pull him into her.
He wrapped his other hand around her, tugging her up so their mouths were firmly pressed together, the only sound in the room their breaths. And then he opened his mouth, and she slid her tongue inside, unable to suppress the moan she made deep in her throat.
She felt his hardness against her, and she shifted so she could press that part of her that was aching against his leg. He deepened the kiss, and she surrendered to the sensation of his tongue tangling with hers, his hand now at her waist, sliding up so his fingers were just under her breast.
She felt as though she was about to burst, she craved his touch, craved him everywhere, if she was being honest. He placed his palm on her breast and squeezed, making her feel a vast want all over.
He drew his mouth away to press his lips at her neck, drawing the tender skin into his mouth and biting gently. She made a soft noise, and he chuckled. She could feel him tugging on her gown to draw it up, and she felt the air on her ankle, her calf, until the fabric was up over her knee.
“Oh,” she moaned, and rubbed herself against his leg, shameless in her desire. He responded by sliding his fingers up and then down into the neckline of her gown, warm against her skin, searching for something.
“Ahh,” she said as his fingers stroked over her nipple. She had had no idea that would feel so good. And then he pinched it between his fingers, and the slight sting sent skittering sparks through her, and she twisted in his embrace, pulling him against her as she leaned back on the desk.
He moved his mouth from her neck to her upper chest, and she felt his fingers working on the fabric until her breast was exposed. He made a savagely primal sound before covering her nipple with his mouth.
She gasped as he licked her there, his fingers pressing into her skin, his other hand on her thigh under the skirts of her gown.
Her hand went to his waist, and then she curled her fingers into the waistband of his trousers, biting her lip as he continued to pleasure her.
She uncurled her fingers, flattening her palm to skim down, over his hardness, brushing it up and down until she grasped him through the fabric. He shifted, giving her better access to him, and she gripped him, caressing his length as much as she was able.
She had never done any of this, but she’d been a ruined lady running a gambling establishment for six months now; there were things she had heard about, and she was grateful she had paid attention through her embarrassed haze.
She had never felt more gloriously in control, nor had she ever felt so remarkably passionate.
She wanted to devour him, to have him do the same to her, to discover what it felt like when the passion crested.
“Miss Ivy,” he said, his voice a rough whisper.
“Just Ivy,” she replied, a smile curling her mouth at his adhering to politeness despite what they were currently engaged in.
“Ivy, I want to bury myself in your softness. I want to strip you of this gown and take you on top of this table.”
Each word made her feel as though she was on fire. She squirmed on the table, wanting more, wanting all of it.
“But we have to stop.”
And he gave her nipple one last, regretful look as he removed his hand from her thigh, stepping back from between her legs.
“Why?” she asked. Her voice was husky.
“For many reasons, not least of which is that I wouldn’t want your first time to be on top of a wooden desk,” he replied in an amused tone.
She sat up, pushing her disheveled hair back over her shoulders. “How do you know this is my first time?”
His eyebrow arched, and he gave her a wry grin. “It’s either your first time, or I am extraordinarily good.” His smile deepened. “And while I have been known to be rightly proud of my skills, it is more likely to be the former.”
She laughed as she shook her head. “You truly are proud.” Well deserved, she wanted to add. Her whole body tingled from his touch. “But yes, my first time on a desk doesn’t sound appealing, once you put it that way.”
He held his hand out, and she took it, sliding off the desk to stand on the floor, shaking her skirts back down. She kept eye contact with him as she put her bodice to rights, tucking her breast back into her shift and gown.
“So what now?” she asked, raising her chin.
His gaze raked her up and down, and she trembled in response. “I like this game, Ivy. This might be the most pleasurable pursuit under your roof. Although I wouldn’t want just anyone to play.”
She stepped forward, grasping him by the neck. “No. It should be just us.” For as long as you’re here.
“So shall we continue to play?” he murmured. He was still under her hold, as though ceding control.
She liked how that felt.
“Yes,” she replied, lifting up to press her mouth against his. “But now we have to prepare for tonight.”
“As you wish, Miss Ivy.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say, Your Grace.”
The club looked spectacular. The windows, which were normally discreetly shaded in dark curtains, had been redone in gold and red fabric, black masks on the finials. The chairs were covered in gold fabric also, black masks tying the fabric together at the back.
The staff had outdone itself with cleaning, as well. The wooden floors gleamed, every surface was dusted and polished, and the staff themselves looked impeccably groomed.
The food—all disguised as other foods, as Ivy had suggested—was served on trays that had been covered in green felt, matching the gambling tables. The staff were all wearing masks, although theirs were black, while the guests wore gold.
She’d also taken extra care with her own outfit—usually she chose gowns that were subdued. She didn’t want to attract any more attention than she already would, given that she was the lady proprietor of a gambling house. But tonight she’d deliberately picked one of her more daring gowns, cut low in a dark red color, with darker ruffles at the bottom of the skirt. Would he admire it? she wondered. Would he even notice?
Even with a mask on, Ivy could pick out Sebastian. First there was his height, which made him stand out from the rest of the gentlemen in the room. And his clothing was impeccably fit, molding to his long, lean lines
. Clearly costing far more than nearly everyone else’s, a vestige of his former duke days. And then there was his hair, which glinted gold in the candlelight, literally drawing her eye.
But since she was apparently generally obsessed with him, she’d still be looking at him if he were standing in the corner with a bucket on his head.
So there was that.
He didn’t belong here. He wouldn’t be here for long, but in the meantime, she could stare to her heart’s content.
As she watched, she saw another tall gentleman draw near, and recognized him as the gentleman she’d first met him with—the Duke of Something, she couldn’t remember what. But a duke was once again in her establishment, and that was reason enough to call the evening a success.
The customers all seemed to be enjoying the Masked Evening, and unlike most evenings, when the clientele segregated themselves by class, as indicated by their speech and clothing, tonight they were deliberately choosing to sit with people not of their world. Nobles sat next to merchants, solicitors sat alongside actresses, and ladies were beside ladies’ companions. It was as though they were playing the game of anonymity as well as games of chance.
Henry had asked for additional security for the house bank this evening, which Sebastian had taken care of before Ivy had even heard of it. Henry had been thawing toward Ivy’s newest employee of late, although Samuel still remained skeptical.
The club was making money, and people were having a good time, two things that were often mutually exclusive. The drama of the evening, the audacity of deciding to play cards or dice with someone you would not normally acknowledge—that added an extra luster to the night.
Her body tightened as he walked toward her.
“Are you pleased?” Sebastian asked, his voice low. He stood at her elbow, just behind, as though aware of his position in relation to hers.
That shouldn’t mean as much as it did to her, but it absolutely did.
She turned to him. He wore a black mask, as she did, making him look even more rakish, if such a thing were possible. “I am. This is good work.” She hesitated, then added, “Sebastian.”
“Thank you.” A pause, then a chuckle. “Ivy.”
“Is it your thought that we will institute these evenings regularly?”
He shook his head. “I think it will have more impact if it is a surprise—if, when the patrons arrive, they are given masks, and won’t know what evening it will happen.”
“Unexpected anonymity. I like it.”
“You do?” he replied in a husky tone.
Suddenly, the room felt as though it contained just the two of them. Him, standing close so they could hear one another. His gaze through the mask fixed on her. She felt all his primal energy, as if she could feel his desires. Likely because she felt those desires herself.
But— “Now is not the time for flirting,” she said in a low voice. “We are supposed to be working. Ensuring everything goes well this evening.”
“I can both flirt and ensure everything goes well.” He accompanied his words with waggling eyebrows, making her laugh.
“Can you—?” she began, only to stop when they heard a loud noise a few tables away.
He was already rushing over when Ivy identified what it was—an unsteady patron, likely the imbiber of too much of her excellent wine, had tipped a chair over and was staring belligerently at Samuel, who was staring just as intensely back.
Oh no, oh no, oh no. And the night was going so well. These things happened on occasion, of course. Usually Ivy and her staff were able to identify a potential problem. But tonight’s increased activity and unusual atmosphere meant they were more likely to miss something. Which, apparently, they had.
“Gentlemen,” she heard Sebastian say, his hands out in a placating manner, “let us discuss.”
“Your dealer is cheating!” the gentleman replied, pointing a finger at Samuel.
Many of the patrons gasped—cheating was a serious accusation, and if it were thought to be true, the club would lose business. And it did not escape Ivy’s notice that the gentleman had chosen to accuse a man of color.
Samuel folded his arms over his broad chest. “He put his bet on red. The wheel came up black.”
“Ten times?” the gentleman retorted.
Samuel shrugged. “Not my fault if the wheel is not in favor with you this evening.”
“My good sir, perhaps I can interest you in playing at another table?” Sebastian placed his hand on the gentleman’s shoulder, effectively steadying him. He began to walk away from Samuel’s table, steering the gentleman.
Ivy was about to exhale in relief when the gentleman shrugged Sebastian’s hold off him, then took his own mask off, discarding it on the floor.
Ivy recognized him—a young lord who was arrogant even without the benefit of alcohol. Then she watched as he reached forward to Sebastian’s face, yanking his mask off.
“I knew I recognized you!” the gentleman said accusingly.
Sebastian nodded, taking the mask from the gentleman’s hands. “Yes, my lord. We have met.” He spoke in a terse tone, but his expression remained calm.
“You’re the one whose mother lied. A once mighty duke, now a bastard working here.”
His jaw clenched, and she saw his friend the duke start to move toward them, only to stop when Sebastian flung his hand up. “Nash,” he said in a warning tone, his gaze never wavering from the tottering lord.
As far as she knew, he hadn’t seen many people from his former world. At least not in the club; she presumed he’d been speaking with some of them, since he was working toward the bonus they’d negotiated. Had he even dealt with his feelings and reaction to his change of circumstances? If she thought about it, it seemed as though he’d buried himself in work and walking. Certainly Octavia would have told her if he had spoken about it at all. He hadn’t been to visit his sister, nor had she or the intense military man made a reappearance.
She’d wondered about that, but it wasn’t her business. Especially since she’d been struggling to keep their lives from intersecting through personal connection.
Which, as her bruised mouth and awakened desire could attest, had not gone all that well.
She held her breath as he opened his mouth to speak.
Chapter Twelve
Sebastian squelched his urge to punch young Lord Linehan in the jaw.
Not that it wouldn’t feel good; it would.
Not that he didn’t deserve it; he did.
But he could see what would happen if he did, and none of the results would make it worth the satisfaction. Sebastian would get a reputation as a bitter hothead, Miss Ivy’s would be known as a refuge for said hotheads, and the aristocracy would chatter amongst themselves that Miss Ivy’s was not a safe place for people like them.
So no, he couldn’t punch him.
“My lord,” he began, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself, “it is true that I have recently suffered a change of circumstance.”
The club had quieted, and it seemed as though most everyone there—patrons and staff—were waiting to hear what he was going to say.
For that matter, he was waiting to hear what he was going to say. He didn’t have the slightest idea, since telling Lord Linehan he had decided not to punch him in the jaw was probably not a winning diplomatic strategy.
Lord Linehan wobbled before replying, “A change of circumstance?” Only, because he was slurring, it sounded like, “A shange of shircumstance?” Sebastian looked at him, shaking his head.
There would be no point in punching him. He was young, and drunk, and likely feeling overwhelmed by the many varieties of people in the club. So he was putting on a bravado he likely didn’t feel, aided by wine, and it would be beneath Sebastian to do anything but try to resolve the situation.
Besides which, he thought Miss Ivy might like it if he did.
So he wasn’t entirely altruistic.
“Do you need me to hit him, Seb?” Nash asked i
n a low growl.
“No, I’ve got this,” he replied, nodding at his friend.
Nash nodded, then his lip curled as he cast one last look toward Lord Linehan, who was starting to look truly frightened—no doubt because the Dangerous Duke had him in his sights.
“Go somewhere and try to look less intimidating,” he added. Nash chuckled in surprise, then returned to his table, gesturing for more wine as he did so.
“My lord,” he began, pulling a chair from a nearby table and dragging it toward Lord Linehan, “you are so fortunate.” He nudged the swaying gentleman into the chair. “You can go anywhere and be admitted because of who you are.” He gestured to one of the members of the staff, who walked over to him. “Coffee, please,” he said. The staff member nodded, then walked toward the kitchen.
Sebastian dragged another chair next to where Lord Linehan sat, straddling it backward to face him. Lord Linehan was blinking heavily, and Sebastian thought it was just a matter of time before he fell asleep. “I know you didn’t mean to be rude in Miss Ivy’s establishment. An establishment that welcomes all, regardless of who they are.” The patrons who were listening nodded, and Sebastian knew that at least some of them felt as he did. “I would urge you not to take anything for granted—not your position, not your wealth, not anything. You never know when it will be taken away.”
Lord Linehan regarded him through bleary eyes. Had he understood anything? Likely not, but the more important point was that the room’s other inhabitants had.
“Don’t want it to be taken away,” Lord Linehan mumbled, his head swaying forward.
Sebastian gestured to Henry, who strode toward him. “Can we get Lord Linehan a hansom home? And pay the driver in advance so he won’t have to?”
“Excellent idea,” Henry said, not sounding as begrudging in his praise as Sebastian might have expected.
“Didn’t mean anything,” Lord Linehan continued. “Sorry to be—” And then he stopped speaking, his head bobbing onto his chest.
“He’s out, I think,” Sebastian said to Henry. Henry didn’t reply, just stepped forward and picked him up with no appearance of effort. He tossed the young lord over his shoulders and walked out, a cluster of guests murmuring as he did so.
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