Taming Ivy (The Taming Series Book 1)

by April Moran

  “Enough, Ronnie,” Sebastian grated out between clenched teeth. Thank God. One elusive boot peeked from beneath a flowing puddle of burgundy-hued velvet drapes. A moment later, its mate was located behind a decorative screen close to the commode room.

  He regained his composure by the time he shrugged into a forest green afternoon coat, one he tossed onto the floor with no care for its exorbitant cost. While checking his appearance at a vanity table, messy with cosmetic pots and perfume vials, Sebastian pulled a tiny box from his coat’s inner pocket, placing it amid the clutter. Running a hand through his tousled black hair to bring it to some sort of order, he was amused by Veronica’s reflection in the mirror. She was pinching her pale cheeks, biting her lips to bring some color to them.

  Sebastian motioned her to come to him, planting a distant kiss to those reddened lips. “Thank you for an enjoyable afternoon.”

  “Will you come again tomorrow?” Her eyes held a shimmer of tears. She already knew his answer but was compelled to ask regardless.

  “You know I won't, Ronnie.” He lifted her chin with a forefinger. “However, we shall remain friends, if you grant me that honor.”

  Veronica accepted the official ending of their affair with admirable grace and pragmatism. “We’ve been friends for so long, something like this cannot possibly jeopardize it. I can give Lord Alimar serious consideration now, I suppose. He’s been quite persistent to make more permanent arrangements. Told me I was foolish to wait for you, but I've had other lovers since you left.”

  Sebastian detested this element of affairs, the final chapter, this closing curtain. Although his mistresses praised his generosity and compassion, garnering accolades for kindness to a woman at the end of his use of her never failed to strike him as rather bizarre. Veronica was taking it better than most, but then again, she had years to prepare herself for this moment.

  “Should you ever require anything, you have only to ask. I can arrange it so you would never…”

  “You needn’t even say it, darling,” Veronica interrupted with a small, sad smile. “I know very well a kind heart exists in there.” The palm of her hand pressed flat to his chest as she sighed. “Somewhere beneath all this glorious wickedness.”

  Their gazes held until Sebastian cleared his throat and turned to gather the remainder of his personal items.

  It was too damn easy to shed the women in his life. A pretty bit of jewelry, a few kind words and he was free to carry on. It was almost embarrassing. Still, relief overrode the prick of shame when he glimpsed Veronica’s dismal face peering down from the second story bedroom window.

  She must believe he could not see her as she stood half hidden behind the wine-red drapes. Sebastian nearly raised a hand in farewell before thinking better of it. The stale air of London was hardly an improvement over the bouquet of sex, bourbon, and faint cigar smoke found within Veronica’s suite of rooms, but it blotted his guilt until it eased. As his luxurious coach merged onto bustling Piccadilly Street, those drapes fell back into place.

  Veronica probably facilitated between giddiness and disbelief over his parting gift. The golden topaz and diamond necklace with matched earrings cost a small fortune, a penance gladly paid for the failure in officially ending their affair four years before. Settling against the leather squabs, Sebastian shoved her from his mind. She was his friend, but also just another woman, one in a long string effortlessly replaced. It was a pattern often repeated in his life; a few coins spent, a meaningless token and an emotionless ‘thank you’ for hours wasted making loveless love.

  Over and done.

  “She’s little more than a high-born, spoiled courtesan.”

  Lady Rachel Garrett’s shrill voice was as ear piercing as Sebastian remembered. Her hands twisted in her lap, making him want to give her something. A ball of yarn, a chicken that needed plucking. Anything to absorb that frantic energy and put it to good use.

  “Perhaps,” he replied.

  “She’ll bewitch you as she did my poor Timothy.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Men foolishly pursue her.” Rachel clasped her gaunt cheeks in distress. “You’ll be one of many.”

  Sebastian just spent the past half hour listening with a calm detachment to his aunt’s histrionics. Now, his lips quirked. It was possible the young countess had done little to entrance his cheerful, romantically inclined cousin, but it did not absolve her guilt. Swirling his brandy, he contemplated various methods of escaping this dreadful meeting.

  “She cares not that he is dead!” Aunt Rachel wailed.

  “That, madam, is most likely true.” Pulling a crumpled piece of vellum from a drawer of his desk, he wondered if Ivy Kinley cared that Timothy was dead. She had killed him, after all. Indirectly of course, but she was the instrument of his destruction.

  Rachel watched him with shadowy eyes, perched on the edge of a leather club chair in Sebastian’s study, her spine painfully rigid. She possessed the air of a small black crow, stricken with grief yet alert with private loathing.

  Sebastian eased out the deep crinkles of the page before pinching the bridge of his nose. Thanks to Rachel’s incessant despair upon learning his intentions, he now had one hell of a headache. And no matter how many times he read this letter, he’d come no closer to understanding his cousin’s disturbing fascination with the Countess of Somerset. Nor to unraveling the mystery behind it. The anger contained within the tear stained ink was as bewildering as Timothy’s chaotic swings between despair and adoration.

  My Dearest Ivy,

  I’ve called upon you countless times and still that damned butler won’t allow me entrance! He treats me as if I’m the lowliest chimney sweep or a piece of rabble seeking your charity. It is unacceptable, but I know full well he only does your bidding.

  I long to hold you, to feel the sunlight of your smile. You know I adore you. You know you are mine. Ivy, I need you. Without you, I am nothing. I feel nothing. Can you understand my simple words? I am nothing without you.

  My sweet Ivy, my heartless, beautiful love. These past weeks have been hell. My headaches grow worse, my medication as useless as sugar water. But I think you do not care. Damn you, goddamn you! Do you see the depths I’ve fallen to? I curse your name and hate myself for it. Your cruelty blinds you to my suffering. Or do you know my torment and find this agony amusing? Does it please you? Knowing this wretchedness has beset me?

  What have you done to me? God, what have I done to you? Ivy, I beg you to see me again. Today. Tomorrow. Now. I don't care. This is torture and I cannot bear it. I am in Hell and you are the Devil’s own angel, but I love you. I know you love me. Your affections could not have lies. Please, before it is too late. What must I do? Tell me how to make you love me again. Because I must have you. I must. I simply cannot live without you.

  I love you. Yes. I love you. But damn you, damn you, you are killing me. As surely as if you twist all these knives in my heart…

  ~Timothy

  His cousin died in his private rooms, here at sprawling Ravenswood Court on Grosvenor Square, his dark head of curls pillowed upon this very letter. A decanter of brandy teetered on the edge of his personal desk, the liquor forming a puddle on the expensive rug. Beside Timothy’s stiff hand lay an empty bottle of laudanum and a bowl of sugar cubes. A writing quill, the silver nib crusted with dried ink, was still clutched within his fingers.

  Lady Garrett’s cries for justice resulted in the bobbies being called in.

  “An unfortunate tragedy,” Inspector Barrett declared. “I’m afraid nothing can be done in the matter, milady. No law exists preventing a young lady’s refusal of a gentleman’s courtship.”

  “An unintentional death,” Old Doctor Callahan determined upon meticulous examination of the suite and Timothy’s body. The official declaration guaranteed his cousin’s final resting place in the family plot, complete with all necessary blessings of the Church. Rumors of suicide escaped nonetheless.

  Sebastian shot his aunt a sha
rp glance when she sniffled. “You must trust my judgment on this matter, Aunt Rachel.” He hoped she would not collapse into sobs again and sighed with relief when she did not.

  “It’s scandalous…this notion you have of courting her. After what she did.” As if realizing the hysterics annoyed him, Rachel stated this in a more restrained manner.

  His aunt was correct; it would be scandalous. But had he been in London, this whole madness might have been avoided. Shouldn’t he bear a bit of the responsibility for the tragedy? From the time he’d come to live with them at the age of four, Timothy idolized Sebastian. In fact, the boy emulated him and in the careless manner of an older brother, Sebastian loved his cousin as well. Much could have been done to alleviate the situation before Timothy harmed himself. How the carefree and jovial young man spiraled so quickly into such a dark pit over a woman was difficult to comprehend. And in just a few months’ time according to Rachel. Damn it, Timothy, you love-struck bastard. Did you not learn anything from my mistakes with Marilee? Now I’m left to deal with your irrational mother, all the damnable gossip. And the heartless little bitch who caused your downfall.

  The uncharitable thoughts of Aunt Rachel caused a stab of guilt. His father’s eldest and only sister was suffering the loss of her sole child. For his father’s sake, and Timothy’s, Sebastian summoned forth his most sympathetic nature.

  “There will be times you question my actions.” His eyes flickered over the woman, evaluating her reaction. “I’ll caution you not to interfere.”

  Rachel’s mouth curved in a tight slash of disapproval. She’d lost a stone in the time he'd been gone. It did not compliment her gaunt face, marking her far older than her sixty years. Her husband’s demise and the impoverished state due to his gambling debts had not aged her as Timothy’s passing had. A haunted expression flitted in her blue eyes whenever she spoke of the girl responsible for her son’s death nine months before and Sebastian thought his aunt’s return to society was far too soon.

  “I want Lady Kinley to suffer for what she did to Timothy.”

  “She will.” The assurance was firm. “In a method of my choosing.”

  After Rachel exited his study Sebastian pondered the latest scandal involving the Countess of Somerset. A popular wager emerged in the gaming hells and private gentlemen clubs during the months following Timothy’s death, a grotesque amusement for those with deep pockets and a sense of the macabre. Some fool, obviously lacking a clever bone in his body, devised the appalling title, Taming the Countess. The objective of the game hinged upon one’s ability to withstand the charms of Lady Ivy Kinley. Ultimate victory was twofold; one could not end up as dead as the unfortunate Lord Timothy Garrett and one must capture the lady’s hand in marriage. Of course, considering the size of the fortune in question, it was not simply the countess herself men were so eager to capture. Survive her or win her…

  His family now the brunt of sordid entertainment, Sebastian had no sympathy for the girl caught in the midst of the scandal. It was incomprehensible the ton, notorious for its fickle nature, was fascinated with her.

  It was seven years before when Sebastian first met the young countess. The day he arrived at the Somerset estate was one of his first social calls following a year of mourning his own father’s death to a sudden illness. His recollection of that afternoon, and memories of a disagreeable twelve-year-old little girl crowned with frizzy brown hair, her face sprinkled with unfortunate freckles, were far from pleasant.

  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…admit it!”

  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 directio
n. 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?