by April Moran
More than two hundred conveyances waited patiently for their charges, a hopeless crush, but the Kinley coach stood near the front of the que. Once inside the dark confines of the coach, Ivy choked on a hysterical laugh. Her poor servants, she thought, recalling the alarm on the footman’s face as he handed her up into the vehicle. She probably frightened them half to death, the way she rushed forward, pleading to be taken home immediately.
Oh…what was she to do? Ravenswood had returned. The earl’s self-imposed exile from English soil was over. Because of her. He sought her out, taunted her, then with disgusting ease, left her in pieces. Lacerated by his cruel barbs.
With hands that shook, Ivy stripped off her white gloves. As the coach clattered along London’s uneven streets, she stared at the half-healed puckered scar slicing her left hand into halves. Beginning in the valley between thumb and forefinger, a faint, blush-pink road tracked the hill of her palm before dipping to the paper-thin skin just above her wrist.
Ten petite dashes of thread. Thread that once held the sliced edges of her flesh together. Thanks to her butler’s skill with a needle, eventually only an ivory-hued slash would exist as a reminder of Timothy Garrett’s betrayal. If only she could explain to Lord Ravenswood the events leading up to the tragedy. If only the earl might listen. If only he would believe her….
Common sense said he would not dare follow, but Ivy’s stomach roiled with nauseating uncertainty. The lengths the man might go to avenge Timothy’s death were uncertain. Those ruthless gray eyes did not lie; the Earl of Ravenswood meant to destroy her. She’d be a fool to ignore the danger.
Ivy made her way to the dining room, cursing her mistake in oversleeping. Considering the lack of bravery the previous night, she refused to cower in her room. If she were fortunate, her father would already be gone and about his business for the day, unaware of the encounter with Ravenswood.
A peek into the vast room confirmed her worries. Hidden behind a sheaf of freshly ironed morning papers, Jonathan Kinley sat at the head of a lengthy rosewood table, a steaming cup of tea at his elbow. He’d finished his breakfast and awaited her arrival.
With a deep breath, Ivy approached the side buffet. Thomas, one of the underbutlers, stepped forward to assist but she waved him away.
Once, long ago, she and her mother shared breakfast with the earl in this very room. Once, long ago, her father swept Ivy into his arms, tickling her until she squealed in delight. “You’ve sprouted overnight, like the weed you’re named for!” Jonathan would bellow in laughter while his wife frowned in mock disapproval.
“Jonathan,” the countess rebuked in her sweet, even-tempered manner, “it’s most unseemly for Ivy to shriek in such a tone. And even more so for you to cast her so high in an attempt to touch the ceiling.”
“But Mama, I can touch the sky if I want to! Papa says so!” Argumentative even at the tender age of four, she wrapped her arms around the earl’s neck, begging to be tossed even higher while Jonathan whispered they’d best give Mama many kisses as a distraction. Dipping his daughter toward Caroline, Ivy gave the countess the sort of resounding smack on the cheek children give as kisses. Then the earl gave his own kiss to his wife, which caused Ivy to sigh with impatience because that kiss lasted much longer and involved whispers and soft laughter she did not understand.
It was that way for the first six years of Ivy’s life until matters drastically changed. She never learned the exact details, but she recalled her mother mentioning “bad investments and creditors,” and perhaps she shouldn’t pester her father to play with her. The earl was very busy, Caroline explained.
At that age, Ivy did not know what bad investments and creditors were. She only knew that her father, upon whom the sun rose and set, and who always had a smile for her and her mother, became short-tempered and impatient. The earl had no time for either his daughter or his countess. There were no more afternoon picnics or quiet evenings spent fireside. He was absent on business more often than he was at Somerset and when she and her mother came to visit him in London, they were virtually ignored. Caroline was left to her own devices while Ivy drifted about the partially unfurnished townhouse like a little ghost.
For unexplained reasons, Ivy did not comment upon the disappearance of the furnishings and the lovely paintings. Even when her toys vanished, she said nothing. When several carriage horses and her favorite pony were suddenly absent from the Somerset stables, she dared not question that either, although she cried for weeks over the loss of Zeus, her smart little chestnut gelding.
On rare occasions, the family shared a meal, her father at one end of the huge table, her mother at the other. Since her nanny’s discharge many months prior and the staff’s operating at a bare minimum, Ivy often joined her parents rather than be banished to the nursery. She would sit perched in the middle, stiff and proper, a tiny buffer between two adults once madly in love but now only sharing an awkward kiss on the cheek upon entering or leaving a room. Caroline mustered encouraging smiles, but Ivy recognized every teardrop of her mother’s silent anguish. Entire meals passed with Jonathan failing to acknowledge his lovely wife and daughter were even present.
This morning, Ivy wished her father would resume such habits. She slid into a chair several places away as Jonathan laid aside the papers, his vivid blue gaze sweeping her. His frown contained a shadowy concern.
“So, Daughter. What have you to say for yourself?”
“Good morning, Father.”
“Do not avoid the subject.”
“I’m afraid I’m unaware of the subject,” Ivy cheerfully retorted, accepting the cup of tea Thomas handed her.
At fifty-two years of age, her father was an attractive man, his full mane of chestnut hair streaked with gray and a face that had weathered well. Women, some hardly older than Ivy, still hoped to become his next countess. Why he never remarried, she did not know. She could only assume he had no interest in another’s needs outside of his own.
“What is this business between you and Ravenswood? I’ve been told you spurned his suit.”
She choked on a sip of tea. “His what?”
“The gossips say he wishes to court you.”
“That is far from what that man wishes,” Ivy muttered. The earl craved nothing less than an opportunity to rip her to shreds. His aunt’s very public social cut was painful enough, but Ravenswood, oh, the man was a veritable master of the game. He truly slashed for blood.
Her laugh was scornful. “The situation was comically misconstrued, Father. It’s true Ravenswood introduced himself, but he conversed with Sara far more than me.” The blueberry scone she nibbled on gummed about her teeth and suddenly tasted as dry as a chunk of wood. It was stretching the truth, but the man did speak to Sara first.
Before launching his attack…
A strange light entered Jonathan’s eyes. “They say you fled the ballroom. Sobbing, no less.”
Why her father sounded so oddly protective was unfathomable. Ivy gave an unruffled façade of a shrug. “How absurd. They have an overactive imagination.”
Her nerves trembled like leaves in a high wind. How foolish to react so impulsively to Ravenswood’s barbs. If only she’d kept her wits about her. Flung a witty retort in his handsome face instead of fleeing. For God’s sake, it was surely on everyone’s lips this morning. It’s true! Poison Ivy weeping!
“Perhaps you are right. I cannot imagine you shedding a tear in public. As to the matter of Ravenswood and his courtship,” Jonathan shook a warning finger as Ivy gave him a blank stare. “Will you ruin it as you have the others?”
“Will you never stop these tragic attempts at matchmaking?”
“I suspect you’ve tipped that pretty nose of yours up at every eligible gentleman in London, including those I’ve not personally selected. If the earl deems you worthy of his attention, you will think twice before discouraging him.” Jonathan’s fingers drummed the chair arm while considering his mutinous daughter. “His is an excellent bloodline.
And Ravenswood is hardly the worst of the lot. There was that unfortunate business with the Earl of Landon, but men do foolish things when women are involved. I was friends with old Ravenswood and your mother was very fond of the countess.”
“I was unaware you possessed friends.” Another bite of scone promptly turned to sawdust in her mouth. “Just unfortunate souls you’ve taken advantage of.”
Despite the taunting, Ivy’s curiosity was aroused. Jonathan employed spies all over the country for various purposes. Should anyone be privy to the mystery of Sebastian Cain’s flight from England four years before, her father would know the details. But there was little point in quizzing him. He would misconstrue it as a sign of her interest in the earl.
Ivy’s head tilted. “And how would you know whom Mother was fond of? You rarely took note of her, except to check the profits of her estates. Or when it came time to pay the florist.”
“Watch yourself, little miss.”
Jonathan’s voice trembled; whether from anger or shame, Ivy did not care. They were forever at cross-purposes, the chasm deepening with each battle. Her father’s chief interests were twofold - to see his daughter advantageously wed, and to increase his wealth and power beyond the obscene levels already attained. He would never understand her aversion to matrimony for he firmly believed in contracts and dowries and gains. He married Caroline for love, but her mother’s estates proved a strong lure as well. In his view, love marched a distant second to position and power.
Following Timothy’s death, Jonathan allowed Ivy to come and go as she wished. On occasion, she must answer his probing questions, but those inquisitions were shallow. Matters soon reverted to their previous state; her father away on estate business, mercifully absent and Ivy doing as she pleased with a blessed lack of supervision. His attempts at steering her toward marriage were strangely lacking these past eight months and Ivy imagined her whispered involvement in the scandal over Timothy’s death cooled his enthusiasm. It appeared that reprieve was over.
She sipped her tea in silence. Her father believed she’d rejected many of England’s most eligible bachelors, but if he knew how close she’d come to being married into the Ravenswood family, he would have stopped at nothing to make it a reality. Oh, he knew something occurred with Timothy; after all, it was the gossip of choice even now. It was impossible he could know the full extent of the matter, regardless the number of spies he employed. Neither she, Sara, nor Brody would ever speak of it.
Nor Timothy, for that matter.
“Maybe the tattlers have it wrong, but all the same, you shall not refuse his courtship.” Jonathan’s fist pounded the rosewood table in an unexpected burst of frustration. Delicate teacups clattered upon their saucers in noisy protest while from his post at the sideboard, Thomas slanted the earl a faintly exasperated stare. “Damn it, girl! You’re nearing twenty years of age…. will you wind up an old maid to spite me?”
Ivy slid from her chair, gripping the back of it as if it were a necessary shield. “I have a dress fitting at Madam Jocelyn’s this morning.”
“Do you understand me, Ivy?” Jonathan scowled.
“Rest assured, Father, Ravenswood has no intentions of vying for my hand. His interests are far too bloodthirsty for such trivial matters.”
Ivy swept from the room before Jonathan responded and upon entering the center hall, nearly collided with Brody. He carried a large bouquet of ivory-hued wild roses arranged with artful meticulousness in an expensive crystal vase.
“My lady, the lad delivering this informed me he could not, under any circumstances, have them refused. He proved so distraught, I had little choice but to accept.” Brody’s brow lifted in bemusement as he shifted the weight of the vase from one arm to the other. “Poor tyke. I wonder what manner of punishment he might have received if his mission failed.”
Ivy grimaced in dismay. London’s male population loved to send flowers and French bonbons to the opposite sex, especially to the women spurning their advances or to whom they offended in some way. During the final year Mother languished, her father had fresh roses delivered to her bedside every day. Even when he was away, the roses came without fail. Her mother adored them; the romantic blooms overflowed the grounds of Somerset Hall, the gardens inundated by them.
Ivy hated them.
They caused her head, and her heart, to hurt. She could barely stand to look at or smell them. But a crushing sense of betrayal swamped her anytime she considered having the flowers ripped out. She simply could not do it, knowing her mother’s love for them.
“It’s alright, Brody. There must be some way around this latest tactic of florists and foolish men.”
Brody sniffed in agreement. “Shall I place them in the drawing room or the music room?”
“The music room, I suppose.” Trailing behind, Ivy watched as he placed the vase atop a gleaming black pianoforte. The roses were flawless but uncultivated. Where exactly did one find wild roses in the heart of London?
“There is a card.” The unconventional bouquet earned the servant’s full disdain. “Should you care to read it, milady.”
“If only to inform the gentleman not to bother in the future.”
Brody reached into the flowers and drew back with a muttered curse. The square of creamy vellum fluttered to the floor.
“Whatever is the matter?” Ivy exclaimed in bewilderment as the butler examined his fingers. “Does a bee still make his home there?”
“Thorns, milady! They neglected to remove the thorns! It’s fortunate you were not harmed by their stupidity.”
Ivy inspected the damage; a few minor punctures to Brody’s fingertips and a scratch across the top of his wrist. Dabbing at the drops of blood with a handkerchief tugged from his coat pocket, she said, “I’m sure it was an oversight.”
Brody allowed her ministrations then took the cloth from her, muttering in agitation, “My best silk handkerchief. How the devil shall I get these stains out?”
Inside the envelope was a letter instead of the usual florist card. Ivy’s gaze went to the scrawled signature. What bloody game was the man playing with her? Eyes narrowing, she unfolded the paper completely and began to read.
My dearest Countess,
Please accept these roses in humble apology for my abysmal behavior last night. In light of such boorish behavior, I cannot fault you for seeking to escape my company. Please understand had no desire to wound you. Although this is a paltry- and commonplace- offer of a treaty, it is one I offer just the same.
I shall call at two o’clock this afternoon to convey my sincerest apologies in person. If you wish not receive me, I will understand.
~ Ravenswood
The thorns were no mistake. They were a restrained cannonball in a burgeoning war. Her fists clenched with apprehension. Oh, this was going to get quite messy.
“An undesirable acquaintance, milady?” Brody asked, still disgruntled and now frantically blotting at the stains on his handkerchief with a cloth he’d found near the fireplace. “Obviously provincial, judging the manner in which he sent these roses. I wish to know the florist he used. I intend on sending a strongly worded letter. With your permission, of course.”
“Undesirable, yes. Provincial, no.” The delicate fragrance of the creamy blooms prompted memories of death and sorrow, stark reminders of her mother’s illness and the long-standing rift with her father. “I don’t believe he used a florist.”
The roses were stunningly beautiful. There was something quite arresting about them, something intriguing. Perhaps because they were so different from what she typically received. As well as the manner received. Ivy almost smiled. “The Earl of Ravenswood wishes to call today. At two o’clock.”
Brody’s gray eyebrows flew upwards in disbelief. “The devil you say.”
“The devil, indeed.” How ingeniously the earl worded his challenge. He did not request permission; instead, he left the decision in her hands. If she refused, she’d be forced to act the coward, and he bl
oody well knew it. Ravenswood practically dared her not to receive him - a brilliant tactical move. One she might admire if it did not pose such impending danger. “I have no alternative but to accept.”
“The scoundrel,” Brody breathed in grudging admiration before continuing with precise briskness. “I shall remind your father of his club meeting this afternoon. Will you wish to receive Lord Ravenswood here? Or the front parlor?”
“This will be fine, Brody. Thank you.” Ivy folded the letter, smiling when the butler chucked her under the chin. Such familiarity between servant and employer might be grounds for immediate dismissal in another household, but Brody enjoyed a highly trusted status.
“Do not fret, milady. I daresay His Lordship has met his match in you.”
Chapter 4
Antagonizing Ivy Kinley with such blatant animosity was a tactical blunder. And short-sighted. The path laid with such carelessness must be erased, and set again, this time with roses and persuasion. How could he claim victory if he hacked at her with such brutality? He must gain Ivy’s trust and affection, all while maintaining distance. Not a drop of empathy for the countess was possible, not when her destruction was the goal.
Sebastian knew why things went awry. Her beauty caught him off-guard. She wore an air of sweet vulnerability like a warm cloak. Used to great effect, it made a man want to protect and shield her from all harm. She blinded him. For a moment. But, not now. Oh, not now. He knew what must be done, and he steeled his heart for the battle ahead.
He was prepared this time. She wouldn’t see him coming until it was too late.
The clock struck half-past two o’clock with dual, solemn tones and along with it, the heavy notes of the Kinley House’s door chimes echoed.
Standing on the front steps of the elegant townhome in Mayfair, Sebastian frowned when the doors did not swing open to admit him at once. Granted, he was a half hour late, but the butler should have been in attendance. There were the muffled sounds of footsteps moving away, the murmur of low voices from deeper within, and the tattoo of rapid, heavier footsteps hurrying toward the front of the home. They slowed to a measured pace, but several seconds passed before entrance was granted.