by April Moran
Ivy insisted such gifts were highly improper; he should refrain from giving her any others. Sebastian only smiled and murmured, “I do as I please, Countess. Have you not discovered that yet?”
Again, he brought her roses; dark pink ones smelling of lemons, with petals soft as velvet.
She should have told him of her aversion to the blooms, but he disarmed her in the most devious of ways. Roses were a favorite of his mother’s, Sebastian said. Their scent reminded him of her and the similarities, although for vastly different reasons, tugged at Ivy’s heart. She lacked the strength of will to send the flowers to the church cemetery. That bouquet, like the first, was placed on her bedside table and Ivy often paused to inhale its essence. How strange they did not possess that sickly-sweet odor she hated. The wild roses had a different essence, one she found tolerable.
And Sebastian made her laugh. Doubled over with peals of delight, Ivy forgot the ugliness of the past year. Sometimes, she even forgot the earl was Timothy’s cousin and possibly meant her harm.
The Pack seethed in powerless limbo as whispers of her involvement in Timothy’s death receded. Sebastian’s pet name for her was overheard at some point, and there were those who swooned over the romantic aspect of it. The gossips reported if the earl held no misgivings about Lady Ivy Kinley then maybe little validity existed in the horrid rumors she drove a young man to his death. Perhaps Lady Garrett overreacted from the depths of profound grief. After all, she re-entered Society after a rather short mourning period.
It was two weeks of whirlwind bliss but the night of the opera loomed, and questions regarding Sebastian’s motives still plagued Ivy. What were his real intentions when it came to this odd courtship? Did she wish him to kiss her again? Yes. No. She wasn’t sure. Other than the extraordinary incident at the Quinn Ball when he pressed her against the stonewall, Sebastian kept a respectful distance.
Sometimes, he watched her with the most peculiar expression. He would look away, realizing Ivy’s gaze was upon him, and then reconnect his eyes with hers a moment later. Those fleeting instances chilled her, but he would say something to make her laugh, or his hand would catch hers, and her apprehensions would melt. She could not stem the anxious feeling that something momentous was on the verge of happening-something that could never be undone or forgotten. On the night of the opera, when the Ravenswood coach clattered into the Kinley House courtyard, her nerves were wound tighter than a child’s toy top.
“Milady, he’s here.” Her maid drifted in, a vague smile on her ruddy face. Molly voiced her opinion many times over, comparing the earl to what she called ‘the pitiful lot o’ them.' Not a single gentleman in the Pack was worthy of her mistress, but Lord Ravenswood…oh, he was something special.
Grabbing up her cloak from the bed, Ivy regarding Molly in bemusement. The older girl simply smiled back before shaking the cobwebs from her head.
“So sorry, miss,” Molly giggled, settling the midnight blue velvet over Ivy’s shoulders. “I’ve got my heads in the clouds tonight, I do. ‘Tis a fine evening you’ll have with his lordship. Should I wait up for you?”
“There’s no need. It will be quite late when I come home. I’ll manage on my own.”
Reaching the top of the grand staircase, Ivy felt like a sacrificial lamb led to slaughter. Sebastian waited for her descent, gazing up at her with those stormy eyes, his face impassive. He rested one arm on the curved newel post.
He just might be the Devil himself, his hair the color of midnight reflecting the gaslight of the enormous crystal chandelier, the angular planes of his face half in shadows. Sin and heat and power all coiled up and packaged in unembellished, ebony black evening clothes. Only a snowy white ascot and cravat relieved the starkness of his attire. With the power to bore straight to the center of Ivy’s soul, his eyes prompted a shiver. The tiny smirk playing along the corners of his mouth signified he knew all of her jumbled thoughts.
Concentrating on placing one foot before the other in order not to trip and land in a clumsy heap at his feet, she continued down the stairs. Upon reaching the bottom step, his eyes swept her with such heated approval that Ivy actually took a half step back. Intent and desire existed in that look he gave her. Lust…
Taking her hand with a chuckle she suspected was meant to ease her anxiety, the flame in his eyes banked itself to a glow. His lips brushed the material layered over her fingers, his voice a low-slung rumble.
“Good evening, my beautiful little butterfly. Are you ready to depart?”
The heat of him drifted clear through to her backbone. “Yes.” Ivy clenched her jaw tight. She thought her teeth might chatter out of her head.
“Shall we then?” Sebastian tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. His brow lifted in an inquisitive manner to the butler. The man stood gawking at Ivy as though she were a foreigner rather than the girl he’d adored and served since birth.
“Must I open the door myself?” Sebastian muttered aloud in an aggrieved fashion.
Recalling his post, Brody bounded forward to fling open the doors. His face stained a deep crimson, he offered Ivy her pier glasses and the earl his overcoat and hat.
Once they settled in the lustrous dark blue lacquered coach emblazoned with the Ravenswood crest, the coach door shut with a decisive click then jerked forward with a crack of the whip. In the gathering twilight, it clattered across the cobblestones of Mayfair’s pretty streets before turning toward the theater district.
The surprisingly roomy interior of the vehicle shrank to one of disquieting intimacy. Sprawled like an opulent king against the dense squabs of the ivory leather opposite Ivy, Sebastian’s long legs invaded the open space between the bench seats to brush against her skirts. “Comfortable?”
His wolfish smile was one Ivy had never seen before. She suddenly felt like a meal. His breakfast, supper and dinner, all in one, and the Earl of Ravenswood watched her as if he was starving.
“Yes, thank you.” She licked suddenly dry lips. She was far from comfortable. He knew it.
“You’re flushed. I hope you are not taking ill.”
Could her cheeks get any hotter? Her heart thump a little slower? Over the course of two weeks, she’d laughed in amusement with this man, twirled in his arms, sipped champagne while debating legislation, Parliament, literature and the arts. She drank tea and performed numerous piano arrangements for him in her music room. There was little to be nervous about.
But you were never quite so… alone… with him all those times, were you?
Ivy slammed shut her internal dialogue.
“I’m fine.” She touched the strand of pearls encircling her neck. Inside her gloves, her hands were clammy, her cloak far too warm for the closeness of the coach. The indigo velvet felt incredibly heavy upon her shoulders. How she wished to undo the frogs at her throat, to rip the garment away. The manner in which Sebastian scrutinized her stopped her. It was as if he waited for such actions. He quivered as if on the verge of pouncing, fingers curling and uncurling in anticipation for a bit of flesh to reveal itself.
Twin leaded crystal lanterns bracketed the benches, the low light casting the interior in a golden glow as the daylight eased away. The cushions were luxurious; the expensive vehicle well sprung. It floated over the irregular thoroughfare, and his coachman was an expert at controlling the horses. The evening was filled with the resonances of typical London traffic; the deafening clatter of wheels against rough cobblestones, the cries of coachmen for others to move aside, the snaps of whips, dogs barking and the whinnies and snorts of horses. Inside the vehicle, those noises were subdued, and the hush between Ivy and Sebastian swelled.
“You are very beautiful.” The flash in Sebastian’s eyes darkened to something mysterious.
The words, warm and disarming. curled around Ivy. She swallowed a nervous laugh. “Thank you.” The anticipation strumming through the earl was magnified a hundred times over once it transferred to her. She felt coiled so tight, she might burst into a million
shards of light if he dared touch her.
“I hope you’ve not reconsidered my escort.” Crossing one leg over his knee, the motion moved him a few inches away.
Ivy exhaled in relief. It was difficult to think clearly with the earl so near, even if only his knee brushing her own caused her brain to dissolve into complete mush. “I thought you might reconsider the invitation.”
“I confess,” Sebastian’s teeth flashed white. “I’ve anticipated this for days. Time moved with vexing sluggishness. Until now.”
“Patience is not one of your virtues?”
“On the contrary.” His reply was a measured drawl. “At times, I’m very patient. Lately, I’ve demonstrated ungodly amounts of it.”
Ivy’s head tilted. “What might cause a loss of tolerance?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
“You are teasing me,” she laughed. “Someone surely told you I’m known for my rather impetuous manner. Patience is an admirable quality I’m afraid I possess not a fragment of.”
“I’ve been forewarned. It will be pleasurable to postpone certain events when I deem it necessary.” His smile was faint, a tense undercurrent flickering in his words.
“And your temper? Is it easily lost?” Ivy referred to the notorious duel with the Earl of Landon. Other than the fact it originated over a woman, the particulars still remained secret. Did he still long for her? Regret her loss?
Sebastian smiled again, tenderly but with enough cruelty to make Ivy regret posing such a reckless question. “Losing one’s temper is for fools, hotheads, and children. At some point, I’ve been all three. Make no mistake, test my temper and you will find the penalties and punishment unpleasant, but I seldom, if ever, lose it. Or anything else for that matter.”
A warning, perhaps? There was no explaining her increasing fascination with this man. Like swaying near a rampant fire on a winter’s night; should she get too close, she might be incinerated by flames, but the urge to draw near the intoxicating heat was beyond her control.
“We shall cause a disturbance this evening,” Ivy pointed out.
Sebastian’s broad shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “I’m no stranger to gossip. It does not change, regardless of the city or country.”
Sebastian’s frame of mind was not considered when it came to the chatter they spawned together and the new storm to be stirred. It was one thing to whirl a few waltzes in the midst of hundreds, having Ravenswood’s exclusive escort quite another. Guilt plucked at Ivy. Hiding behind him, taking asylum in his strength, and his ill-advised belief in her innocence, elevated her no higher than the Pack. Using him benefited her situation. The whole situation was wrong. So very wrong.
Dropping her gaze, she examined the material of the earl’s trousers. It was a fine, dove-gray wool, an expensive fabric. Irish, if she didn’t miss her guess. From the knees down, he sported jet-black boots much finer than the Hessians London’s gentlemen currently favored. Italian leather, luxurious and buttery soft. Her reflection flickered in the glossy blackness of those boots, mirrored back in the reddish glow of the leaded lanterns. Caught in a flash of hysteria, Ivy giggled. Sucking in a proper breath of air was impossible but here she sat, contemplating the earl’s exquisite taste in men’s fashion.
“Sebastian…this is a mistake.” Her heart punched with increasing bangs within her chest, a frantic drumbeat of warning. She did not lift her eyes from his boots. She felt him stiffen, his body remaining in its negligent position. No. It was not safe whirling close to this particular fire.
“Whatever do you mean, Countess?”
“I- I’ve done you a disservice. My intentions are not honorable.” Somehow, she forced her gaze up to his.
“And mine are?” His smile was devastating.
“You’re teasing me again,” she whispered in anguish.
With one smooth movement, he was at her side. His hands, encased in the finest kid leather black gloves, clutched her arms through the velvet cloak. Rotating her toward him, he began stroking the material as if it were her flesh.
Ivy melted at the hypnotic rhythm. Heat spread through her veins with the molten smoothness of honeyed whiskey. Alarm bells rang with a frantic clamor in her ears. When she tried to speak, Sebastian pulled her to him, and she forgot what she wished to say. He had never held her so close before. Something wild sparked within her.
“Be quiet,” his voice was rough. “I’ve no interest in your damn confession. It will not keep me from you, or save you from me. You cannot know how I’ve obsessed over this moment when we would be alone.”
“But I-”
Sebastian slid his hands from her arms to her throat. As he cradled the sides of her neck, all coherent thought vanished. With the slightest effort, he could end her life with his bare hands. Once, she might have thought that to be a distinct probability, but not now. She did not believe he would hurt her.
His fingers laced at the back of her head while both thumbs coasted with nerve-wracking deliberateness, from a delicate spot on the underside of her chin to the hollow of her throat. Could he feel her pulse race through the leather of his gloves? The blood quickening below her skin? Ivy plummeted into a disorienting bog of instinct. It demanded she dissolve and thaw. Her head tipped back. Her eyes grew heavy. Let the earl do what he will. Open to him; lift your mouth to his. Kiss him. Let him kiss you…
His hands skated up until his palms cupped her face. Like silver fire, his eyes burned in the dimness of the coach. Different from the golden radiance of the lantern light, but warmer, somehow. A foreign tingle pulled from the pit of Ivy’s stomach when his hands remained on either side of her jaw, holding her prisoner. Their eyes locked.
“I don’t understand what is happening.” She did not intend to whisper her confusion aloud, but the words incited Sebastian. Dark, primitive need flared in his gaze.
“Listen to me, Ivy. Be very quiet, very still and listen to me. Whatever you say, whatever you do, any attempt to stop me, will not work. I will take what I want and you will let me.”
“I will?” What did he wish to take? Her soul? He could have it. Her body? That too. She was drowning in him, and God help her, she loved it. She wanted more. She could not tear herself away from him. She did not want to. “What...what do you want?”
“You. I want you. Ivy, you will crave it, these things I intend to do. You will beg, yes, beg me and I will do these things. To you. With you. For you. You will not stop me. Indeed, you will not want to stop me.” His hands tightened on her jaw, keeping her steady, the leather suddenly hot against her skin. As if he were made of fire beneath the gloves. “Are you ready, Ivy? Because I must taste you before I go mad. Say yes. Say, ‘yes, Sebastian, please taste me’”
She stared at him, and as if in a dream, she repeated the words in a voice so husky, she did not recognize it as her own. “Yes, Sebastian. Please...taste me.”
Sebastian’s lips curved. His lashes dropped, hiding his eyes. “Good girl.”
The kiss was like nothing Ivy imagined it would be. This kiss was so achingly sweet and so captivating, it sent her soul soaring. His mouth coaxed hers to open even more. Cinnamon. And the spicy sharpness of bourbon flooded her mouth. The two flavors created an intoxicating fusion. Everything inside her somersaulted. Melted. Burned. What was wrong was suddenly right, the forbidden instantly allowable. Long held boundaries erected by society, by the world, even her own self-imposed confines, were promptly reduced to cinders. The fluttering ashes of restraint drifted away on a moan.
Ivy was giddy with confusion, with the need to belong to him. No words existed to stop him, not when his hip pressed her leg, not with his mouth upon hers, not with his hands holding her so tight. Sebastian traced the shape of her lips, and when she inhaled in delight, the kiss deepened to one darker, hungrier. His tongue delved in slow, deliberate sweeps before dancing away in a teasing manner. He was testing her, to see if she would follow.
Allowing the butterfly come to him.
&n
bsp; She would. She did.
Her nerves sparked, liquid and hot. Blindly, Ivy sought Sebastian’s mouth again and again. She let him kiss her until she was melting into the cushioned seat. Her hands fluttered across the broad expanse of his chest, his pulse thumping beneath the pads of her fingertips. In the haze of foreign sensations, there was a realization the earl’s heart did not keep time with the pounding of hers. No, his heartbeat was slow, methodic. Controlled. How was that possible? Why was he unaffected by the turmoil of emotions cascading around them? How could the swirling chaos inside her soul not devastate him too?
Her face still cradled in the palm of his hands, Sebastian’s fingers inched upward, threatening to entangle in the elegant upsweep of her coiffure. When she groaned her pleasure, he abruptly pulled away, removing his hands and allowing a bit of space between their bodies. He remained between her legs, but her skirts kept him from direct contact with her body. Wanting his heat and hardness to scorch her, she arched against him.
His head twisted, presenting his cheek. “Right here, if you please.”
Ivy made no move, her eyes drowsy and full of wonder at the burning world he just inducted her to. Tendrils of desire tangled about her limbs. Why did he stop? Why was he talking instead of kissing her?
“You should slap me quite soundly for my actions.” He waited for the palm of her hand to connect with his flesh. “Especially for what I made you say.”
His statement seeped in, slowly making sense in a languid world.
Sebastian wished her to strike him.
With a resounding wallop, a proper young miss would remind Lord Ravenswood that such valuable liberties were hard pressed to be won. Her easy capitulation to his advances flashed in Ivy’s frazzled mind. Would he think the worst of her for allowing such a kiss? Would he believe this to be a common occurrence? That she routinely granted such intimate favors to members of the Pack? Her cheeks burned, recalling the words she repeated at his command. Taste me…