by April Moran
“Lord Ravenswood, is it?” Ivy’s eyes flared in silent triumph at leaving him and her father speechless.
She managed to make his title sound like a curse word. Her manners were atrocious. While Sebastian did not usually condone such drastic measures, if Jonathan Kinley did not take a strap to his daughter’s well-titled backside, it would prove an admirable exercise in restraint. A bit of discipline would do her a world of good.
Gaining her mother’s inheritance, now a countess in her own right, Ivy surpassed her father in status and titles. A complete lack of parental guidance existed in this girl’s upbringing; the formidable Earl of Kinley apparently had no bloody clue on how to handle his daughter.
Ivy swung toward her father, dismissing Sebastian while he continued examining her. Like bejeweled ornaments, a few burnished leaves hung ensnared in the web of her plain brown hair. Despite those god-awful muck-encrusted boots and her disinterest in soap, Ivy somehow carried the freshness of a summer storm sweeping through a meadow, the outdoors on and around her. The pungent earthiness of horse sweat accented the mix of contradictions. Shoving her into the usual pigeonhole assigned to children of nobility would be an impossible task. He wondered how past governesses might have dealt with the girl, for she was surely an apt student and one difficult to control.
As for her features, she was neither an attractive child nor an ugly one. Like a puzzle with missing pieces, leaving it impossible to create a pleasing image, nothing about the young countess fit together. With awkward arms and elbows, surprisingly long, coltish legs and a fat, frizzy ponytail of hair she kept tossing to one side as though it aggravated her to no end, she was at odds with herself. Her lips were too full in a face still round with the remnants of a baby’s chubbiness. A smattering of buff-colored freckles danced across a raw, arrow straight nose; an unbecoming flush of crimson splotched her pale cheeks. Haunting blue-green eyes touched with gold were swollen and red-rimmed, but eyelashes resembling sable-hued spikey feathers lent a doe-like appearance. Streaked with dirt and faint tracks of either tears or sweat, her chin jutted out in a most stubborn manner. No, everything did not fit together in the girl’s face, strong hints of maturity clashing with the features of an obstinate child.
Realizing she was under scrutiny, the girl swiped an arm over her face. The grimy shirtsleeve blotted the wetness away but added to the stains marring her cheeks.
“You’ve arranged to send me to that horrid place and Mama’s dead scarcely a month.” She no longer shouted and the clipped, moderated tones of her voice were pleasant to the ear. It was the voice of an adult trapped within a youth, a child left to fend for herself for far too long. “I need more time, I can’t-” Chewing her bottom lip until it was crimson and plump, her eyes swelled with incriminating moisture. She inhaled, held it, before allowing the breath to whoosh out almost silently. “Father, I cannot go. I will not go.”
With remarkable aplomb, she wrangled her emotions into check. Sebastian shifted his feet, uncomfortable with a sudden comprehension. She wouldn’t cry. Not this one. Not in front of others. An element of ice lay inside her. This girl was strong. Perhaps more than her perplexed father could even begin to contemplate.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Kinley muttered in a gruff voice. “It’s already arranged.” He stared into his drink as if to find fortitude at the bottom of the glass. When he rubbed his eyes, Sebastian recognized the gesture of extreme weariness. He’d seen his own father do the same many times,
Tossing back his brandy, Kinley suddenly pinned Ivy with a bright blue gaze. “I’ve business to attend in Ireland over the next few months and you will not remain here with no female supervision. You shall love Miss Chase’s Seminary for Exceptional Young Ladies. During breaks you may come here when I’m in residence, or you may visit Kinley House if I am in London. Now, might I suggest you pack a few of your personal things? You depart first thing in the morning. The stable master will have your mare delivered there by the end of the week. Or Heather can remain at Somerset. Regardless, you shall be at the seminary next week.” A few spoken words and Jonathan Kinley regained control of the situation, his daughter and himself.
Ivy deflated, becoming very small and very young very quickly. She was no match for a father who’d outwitted and outfoxed far more cunning opponents than one defiant, awkward daughter with horrid manners. The dizzying swiftness of Kinley’s actions, using a pony as leverage, left no doubt his reputation was well earned. His brutality truly did extend to his own flesh and blood.
When the earl cleared his throat as a pointed reminder, his daughter offered a beautifully executed curtsy with downcast eyes. She might still plot revenge with the cunning of a well-seasoned royal courtier behind this dispirited façade, but she hid it well.
“Pardon my interruption, Lord Ravenswood.” The cap was retrieved from the morose Greek god, smashed back onto the girl’s head.
The door closed behind her with a soft click and Kinley’s gaze shot to Sebastian. “The young have no idea what’s best for them. Caroline’s death has been very difficult for Ivy.”
Sebastian waited for him to continue but Kinley stared off into the distance for a long moment. Maybe he contemplated the challenges faced in raising an ill-tempered, frizzy-haired daughter without a mother’s tender guidance.
“I thought it best she spent some time with girls her own age. You see she possesses an uncompromising nature.” Kinley gave a rueful bark of laughter. “Other than her beauty, I fear she bears none of her mother’s gentler traits.”
Lady Caroline Kinley possessed an enchanting loveliness her daughter failed to inherit. Apparently, the earl saw something only a father might. Sebastian nodded politely. “She is most certainly her father’s daughter.”
With an unusual gift for remembering details, he pondered his recollection of that day. He recalled his uncomfortable position in the chair, the tired despondency on Kinley’s face. The desperate wildness of the childish, obstinate countess. Little suggested the girl would one day become the darling of London, nothing to hint Kinley’s daughter would become a great beauty, twisting hearts about her tiniest finger until a man believed he must possess her or die trying. A woman held power with sex or the promise of it. Lord Kinley used his wealth to manipulate men; his daughter applied sex to the same effect. Was it the promise of satisfaction or the refusal of further encounters that spurred foolish Timothy to his demise?
Sebastian would not stand idle, could not allow yet another deceitful woman to make a fool of him or his family. Could not allow Timothy’s death to go unavenged. Unfortunately, his gullible cousin followed Sebastian’s own path when it came to falling in love with a heartless woman and had paid the ultimate price.
The memory of a forlorn, fierce little girl grieving her mother pinched him again. Sebastian shoved it aside. His hardened heart held no room for pity. Ivy Kinley’s ruination was a necessity and would provide an amusing pursuit. Women were impatient to be used by him and like others, she would tumble into his bed. Revenge for Timothy’s sake would be found between the countess’s thighs. He’d find a bit of pleasure for himself there as well. If he were fortunate.
He would collect pieces of her, fragments held in his hand until nothing remained of the countess but an empty shell. At the end of the game, the tattered collection would be crumpled and discarded. Not in his usual manner, with kind words and an expensive trinket presented for time spent between the sheets. No, this would be different. When he finished with her, Lady Kinley would be acceptable only to the palest fringes of Polite Society. She would not be anyone’s “Darling.” There would no longer be sonnets to her beauty, no accolades of adoration. No more eager suitors vying for her heart and hand. She would be ruined and tamed and Sebastian would delight in the destruction.
I'm coming, Countess. Get ready for me.
Chapter 2
“He’s here!”
“-actually came. I can’t believe it -”
“Ravenswood is on the hunt
for Poison Ivy.”
Panic battered Ivy, her heart pounding with the violence of it. Like a wildfire sweeping over her, the roar filled her ears until she could hear nothing else.
It was rude. It was deplorable. But if she did not get a breath of blessed fresh air, she would throw up all over her new dancing slippers. Or perhaps those highly polished Hessian boots Brandon was so bloody proud of. She abandoned the viscount, mouth agape in stunned annoyance, in the middle of the black and white marble floor, gaily-dressed couples swirling about him.
Open curiosity and murmurs of scandalized outrage rippled outward from the center of the ballroom. Ivy’s pace increased as she reached the edges of the floor. A cluster of girls, clad in the identical white of freshly introduced debutantes, tittered behind pristine gloved hands, whispers mingled with their giggles. Those multiple-hued heads dipped together, while words so thick with cruelty they almost formed a cloud, drifted in Ivy’s wake.
Gossip was her constant companion now, a bedfellow difficult to ignore. The miserable sting in Ivy’s chest every time a barb found its mark was a harsh reminder she was far from immune. It hurt, but no one needed to see how deeply the arrows wounded her.
A few more steps to the nearest terrace doors and freedom would be hers. With stoic grimness, shoving through the maze of elbows and satin skirts, Ivy plotted escape. From the terrace to the gardens and from there to the front steps of the mansion. She could simply locate her coach, allow it to whisk her away. The curved handles of the terrace doors lay at her fingertips…
“Ivy Kinley, don’t you dare run.”
“I’m not running.” Ivy’s stomach flip-flopped with the denial. When champagne tinged bitterness rose in her throat, her teeth clenched against the choking tide. She would be sick, right there, in front of God and everyone. “I was-”
“You would make an excellent thief, darling.” Linking their arms, Lady Sara Morgan spun Ivy away from the terrace doors. “Your abilities to escape are remarkable.”
“You’ll wish you’d let me go when I ruin your slippers as well as my own.” Ivy pressed two trembling fingertips to her lips. “I feel quite ill.”
Sara’s blonde head tilted. She assessed Ivy then ignored the dismal confession, surveying the ballroom.
“Oh, dear. There’s Count Phillipe Monvair. Someone ought to remand that man’s valet to Newgate. Those color combinations are simply criminal. A violation to all the senses, don’t you agree?”
Jostling his way through the crush of some three hundred odd people attending the Sheffield Ball, the dubiously dressed count held two goblets of champagne balanced high above his head. By the grim smile of determination splayed across his hawkish, bearded face, his path was evident.
Sara swallowed another laugh. “Such a gaudy little peacock. I’ve never seen a man strut with such a complete lack of humility.”
“I rather like how the count dresses.”
“Only because you believe it takes attention away from you.” Sara stood on her tiptoes; the better to scan the entire ballroom.
“If I thought it would help my cause,” Ivy grumbled, “I would gladly sponsor his tailor.”
Rocking onto the balls of her feet, Sara shot her an exasperated glance. “Attempts to disappear only makes others that more rabid to seek you out. You might as well hang a sign about your neck begging people to poke and prod at you.”
Ivy said nothing. Sara could not fathom the depths of her desire to escape, to become invisible to the threat stalking the elegant ballroom. Despite the feeble attempts at lightheartedness, dread prodded her. She should rip away from her friend’s grasp. Run as though the devils of hell chased her. One hunted her now. What would she do if he caught her?
Her free hand twisted the folds of her skirt. Nervous energy brimmed and bubbled inside her, causing her stomach to rope and twist into hangman knots.
Candle light blazed from every available corner while high overhead enormous chandeliers illuminated the vast room in a romantic glow. Glittering people filled the space; some danced, while others stood in clusters, sharing on-dits of gossip. Liveried servants in red and gold slipped in and out of the crowd, trays of champagne held high overhead. In the midst of it all, the Earl of Ravenswood waited to materialize.
“Do you realize who is here?” Ivy muttered. Rumors galloped in wild abandon from one end of the ballroom to the other. It seemed impossible Sara did not know.
“Perhaps not…”
“Oh, he is. Somewhere. Much like the plague. Just because one cannot physically see the disease does not negate its existence.” Ivy’s foot tapped in agitation.
“That’s hardly complimentary of you,” Sara laughed softly. “While true he’s not a man to be crossed, I doubt Lord Ravenswood has anything in common with infectious diseases.”
“I’m not so certain. The rumor is…”
“I’m well aware of the rumors and you, darling girl, will not run. You have done nothing wrong. If you show even the slightest weakness, these heartless vultures, otherwise known as our friends, will rip you apart.” A mischievous grin spread across Sara’s lovely features when Ivy’s tightly pressed lips acknowledged the wisdom of her words. “Besides, those doors there are locked. I witnessed three -” Sara held up three fingers, ignoring Ivy’s tiny groan of frustration, “three -mind you, love-silly couples discretely attempting to pry them open. Just within the last five minutes. Lady Sheffield always locks them, remember? Lord, she is an eccentric creature, although I wonder how we might escape a fire or some other disaster.”
“Locked terrace doors certainly impede our chances of survival,” Ivy sighed. “Although such a distraction, while quite tragic, would be welcomed.”
Sara’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s said she hides the key in the depths of that ample bodice of hers. No one, not even Lord Sheffield, dares any attempt to retrieve it.”
Ivy’s lips twitched with a reluctant grin.
Sara giggled. “See? A bit of humor exists in this deplorable situation. Now, chin up, darling. And won’t you smile even a little for the poor count? Oh, blast it. Smiles for the entire Pack, for here they come running. I vow they track you with the bloodlust of a passel of prized foxhounds.”
“Given a chance, I fear they would tear me apart and fight over the pieces.” Smoothing her features into a cool mask of pleasant acceptance, the smile Ivy granted Count Phillipe Monvair was one that gossip columns recently declared to rival the sun. Which was utterly ridiculous. This smile was the same as her others. Only romantic fools saw a difference. “And does it matter if I smile? The entire lot of them can’t seem to raise their eyes any higher than the area of my chest.”
“That’s not completely true.” Sara grinned when Ivy’s turquoise eyes narrowed. “Why, just the other day, I heard Lord McLemore comment what a lovely shade of gold your eyes are. Or perhaps he was speaking of your inheritance?”
“Mon chers, I bring refreshments,” Monvair exclaimed in his thick accent. He ignored the stoic servant standing nearly shoulder to shoulder beside him holding a full tray of beverages.
Ivy and Sara exchanged annoyed glances. The garishly dressed count proudly bore champagne as though it were fresh water in the depths of an endless desert. Six other men quickly completed the circle surrounding the girls, including the previously abandoned, fiercely frowning Viscount Basford. Since Brandon rarely moved at a pace beyond a dignified stroll Ivy knew he was truly vexed to have reached her in such haste.
The Pack overtook the conversation as Ivy accepted the glass Monvair offered.
“My lady, might I be so bold to request the next waltz when the orchestra returns? The viscount must have stomped your toes. I vow I shall not.”
“Will you sing for us, Lady Kinley? Your voice is much sweeter than Lady Tremayne’s daughters, lovely though they are.”
What a boldfaced lie. Ivy knew full well she sang like a canary with tail feathers set aflame.
“You must honor me with
your company at supper. Please, do not say no. You’ve denied me the last three times-”
“Lady Kinley, a bit of cake, perhaps? Some fruit? Champagne?”
Ignoring them, Ivy wiggled her toes, resisting the urge to pour champagne over the head of the man foolish enough to suggest more champagne. Maintaining a bland smile meant she was about to chew the insides of her cheeks raw. Lord, but these new slippers were a dreadful torture. She should make her way to the ladies’ retiring salon to slip them off while the musicians took a moment to retune their instruments and the Tremayne Twins demonstrated how singing might possibly net one a husband.
A smile twitched the corner of Ivy’s lip. What a perfect excuse to escape this madness. Even Sara would not suspect. Yes...she should do just that. After all, what choice did she have? Wait to be slaughtered by Ravenswood? Oh! What was she thinking, coming to this ball? Knowing the danger, knowing the earl would most likely attend, she should not have come tonight. She could not say why she had.
But that wasn’t true. Curiosity and a perverse desire for punishment demanded attendance. Sooner or later, they would encounter one another. It was far better to face the man in this theater of war, where polite murmurs and courteous battle wounds could be exchanged in a civilized manner. At least in this setting Sara provided a shield against any unexpected assaults.
Only now, stomach roiling, hands sweating inside elbow-high silk gloves, Ivy wished she’d heeded her vastly intelligent inner voice. Her scar tingled where the silk clung to the moist surface of her palm and she resisted the urge to scratch it. Yes, she should have stayed home.
Someone pressed a second glass of champagne upon her. Imbecile. In a single fluid motion, Ivy’s hands rose high, only to find both goblets snatched away.
Giving the glasses to a passing servant, Sara shook her head, frowning in amused exasperation while Ivy shrugged. To see the Pack scatter, yelps of confusion at the unexpected soaking would have been a welcomed distraction and a missed opportunity to disappear in the confusion.