by April Moran
No one ever dared kiss her in such a way. In such an all-consuming, possessive sort of way. She was far too eager for it to continue. The need for his mouth upon hers made it difficult to form coherent words and string them into complete sentences.
His dark brow rose. “I shall not offer again. Last chance and I must warn you, I do not play fair.”
“All’s fair in love and war,” Ivy whispered. She was drunk on that kiss he gave her, shuddering, intoxicated by it.
“A sentiment usually touted by the victor, wouldn’t you agree?” His eyes glittered.
Where might this dark path lead? Whatever ensued from this point on was as much in her control as it was his. Resisting him was useless. It would probably damn her soul to hell, but Ivy did not care. If he were dangerous, she would deal with the consequences later.
Her hand slid to his cheek, applying gentle pressure until he faced her. The distance placed between them was erased as the soft rocking of the coach invariably moved them to closer proximity. If he were to turn just so, move over her, pull her closer, just a little more, he’d be between her legs. What might happen once he was there?
“I should slap you.” Her voice was shaky.
“But you won’t, will you?” His lips curled into that wolf-like grin. They both knew complete surrender was at hand.
“Why is that?” Ivy’s brow furrowed.
“Because I’m going to kiss you the way I wanted the moment I laid eyes on you. And you want me to do just that. I can see it in your eyes.” The harshness of his tone indicated he held onto his desire by a mere thread. But still, he waited for her permission. If she gave it…
“Yes.” Although her words were shy, she bravely met his gaze. “Yes, please kiss me.”
Sebastian did so with a thrilling ferocity, his tongue thrusting to mate with hers. The banked fires within Ivy roared to blinding life. His roughness should have shocked her, but it did not. She did not understand the need to be closer; she only knew it must be so. Whatever he wanted, whatever he asked of her, she would gladly give him, everything if only he continued kissing her. Dear God, she wanted more. Needed more…needed something…something only he could show her…
Sebastian devoured. He claimed. He licked and teased until Ivy was faint with breathless excitement. Deep inside, where she hid from the world, sensations burst into full bloom, desire stamping out caution. There was no protection from his advances or the threat of inevitable misery. Her moans of pleasure silenced the last of the alarm bells.
At last, he seemed disconcerted by her. He felt the same madness after all, for an agonized groan escaped him; his hands moving from her upper arms, to her waist, then higher beneath the cloak until he cupped the underside of her breasts. Her shuddering pant of response caused them to swell near to overflowing the gown’s midnight blue edge.
I want your mouth there, on my skin. If he stopped plundering her mouth, Ivy would utter the command aloud. But his kiss was too deep, too greedy, too ravenous and without mercy for any words to rise between them. One hand roughly weighed the fullness of her breast, his palm burning and hot through silk and leather while she wished not a scrap of cloth existed to bar the earl’s touch. Arching into his palm, a mystifying urge to be petted and stroked drove her almost mindless. Whimpers of frustration escaped her, and Sebastian growled in complete male response, a conqueror ready to claim his prize. He jerked her closer, fingers curved in readiness to pull the bodice of her gown low so tender flesh would be bared to his mouth.
The coach came to a stop, jolting them to awareness, shaking them apart.
An awkward silence crept in, time dripping steady as raindrops as they stared at one another. Their breaths, heavy in the warmth of the coach, combined with the chill of a spring night in London to leave a foggy condensation on the leaded windows beyond the drawn curtains.
Sebastian, with a marked lack of haste, removed his hands from her body. Like a beautiful jungle cat, he unfolded until he no longer reclined against her, no longer between her thighs where Ivy wanted him so fiercely for reasons she could not begin to comprehend.
He gave her a rueful smile. “We’ve arrived, my dear.”
Brushing aside her fumbling hands, he realigned the frogs of her cloak, holding her gaze with a hypnotic force. Her pearls were readjusted, stray curls tucked back into her coiffure, then, with exquisite tenderness, he trailed one finger across her cheek. It was the barest of touches, but it sang straight to Ivy’s soul. Eyes fluttering shut, her head tilted back, lips parting to receive a kiss that never came.
Her eyes snapped open as the grinning footman swung open the door and the world intruded with a rude, bustling intensity into the charged, steaming interior of the coach.
Taking a deep breath, Sebastian stared at Ivy as though she were something quite dangerous and very rare. His words, so softly spoken, held a touch of regret.
“Never have I despised the opera as much as I do this very moment.”
Chapter 6
Sebastian anticipated a curiosity regarding his escort of the countess. It was expected the first time he appeared in public with her officially upon his arm. People would whisper and point, speculating on their relationship and what it possibly meant when the Earl of Ravenswood spent every possible moment at Lady Ivy Kinley’s side.
Reality was Society’s fanatical need to witness it firsthand. The enveloping chaos as they descended from the coach was overwhelming. Snippets of conversation strung out in their wake in the struggle to gain the entrance of the opera house. One statement in particular, stood out from the rest.
“One must wonder, who will ruin whom?”
Ivy surely heard the taunts. Her tranquility amazed Sebastian. Perhaps it was why she surrounded herself with the Pack. They provided a dubious insulation from the daunting cruelty of the ton’s larger predators.
“Introduce us, Ravenswood!”
To his great annoyance, while Ivy grinned, he found himself doing just that. A ridiculous undertaking, as most were already familiar with the countess. Sebastian ground his teeth at their little games. Many of his old friends were a dissolute bunch, with more than a fair portion of debauched exploits, some he initiated. Watching as she interacted with them left him a tangled mess, burning with an impotent desire to prove his possession of her.
It was difficult to say from where this violent strain of jealousy erupted. It inched along Sebastian’s veins with insinuating stealth until he nearly strummed with it. He waited with clenched fists to witness the alleged exercise of Ivy’s feminine wiles, but those artifices were missing here too, as they had been for the past two weeks.
It defied explanation, but a surprising edginess existed within the countess. He discovered the more enthusiastic a man’s pursuit, the more remote Ivy’s demeanor became, a faint air of unattainability swirling about her like an exotic perfume. That aloofness carried an enticing magnetism, her cool half smiles drawing male attention with a perplexing lack of effort. Every time she spun away in another’s arms, men twisted in her wake, mute with longing. Did she know her casual indifference could drive a man mad with the need to tame her? Or did she not care?
Ivy laughed at a witty observation by Lord Whitmore while Sebastian felt every nerve and tendon within him tighten at the bright, rich sound of it. A crushing desire to have her smile at him, with him, because of him, for him, swamped him.
And there lay Ivy’s true power.
Entering the Ravenswood private balcony, he saw Alan and Sara from across the loud, glittering space. From Bentley’s private box, Sara’s concern conveyed itself across the expansive theater. She was too far away to rescue Ivy. Not that Sebastian would allow it. He had no patience for such nonsense tonight.
Removing their cloaks, he helped Ivy into a brocade and gilt chair, noting with distinct male pleasure how her skin glowed in the softened gaslight. How would the flesh concealed beneath the modest bodice of her gown taste? Would it possess a different flavor than the delicate line
of her neck?
Ivy’s smile turned self-conscious. “Is something amiss, Ravenswood?”
“No.” Masking his hunger, he settled into his seat. “And you are to call me ‘Sebastian,' remember?”
Below the balcony’s ornately carved plaster wall, he used the tip of his finger to stroke the underside of her arm, tracing an indiscernible pattern on the patch of skin exposed below the gown’s capped sleeve. His gaze drifted to her lips.
It was foolish, succumbing to the need to taste her mouth inside the coach. Not once, but twice. He wanted to taste her again. It was damned difficult to steel his reactions. Once alone, he was afraid of his actions in the face of such temptation. Now that she had granted permission, all he could hear was her soft voice urging him on.
Moving so quickly was unwise. Before taking his full revenge, Sebastian wanted Ivy completely infatuated. Having sex was not enough. It would make him no different from her other lovers. No. She must be hopelessly, madly, in love with him and this meant wooing her.
His eyes shadowed, he said, “I was wondering…”
“Wondering…?” Ivy prodded.
“If your skin should taste of warm cream or fresh honey.” His words, edgy with erotic tension, wrapped about her. Ivy sucked in a breath. “Both, I imagine. I look forward to discovering the answer and you will too. Shall I tell you my findings later?”
The lights went down for the first act. Her breath came in quick, shallow pants and biting back a small laugh, Sebastian decided it was unfair to use his expertise against her. Resting his arm on the top line of her chair, his fingers stroked the delicate curvature of her throat and collarbone. Disobedient curls at the nape of her neck twirled around his fingers with sly eagerness, as if impatient to be trapped within his hands. From that point on, he merely toyed with those curls.
Ivy seemed determined to follow the plot of the opera, but Sebastian’s attention and that of the boisterous crowd made it difficult. Avid spectators seemed far more interested in the scene presented in the Ravenswood box. Several attendees peered through their opera glasses in the countess’s direction only to hastily look elsewhere when the earl’s stony visage manifested in their viewfinders instead.
By intermission, he had his fill of being gawked at by friends and strangers alike. Until Ivy shared her speculations as to what might happen during the next acts, he considered throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her out of there like a bloody caveman. Now, he dreaded spoiling her enjoyment of the play, and that irritated him too.
Resigned to another couple of hours in hell, Sebastian left her beside one of many pillared columns adorning the grand lobby. Formal waiters could not keep pace with the demands of the large crowd, and at Ivy’s smiling request, he was off in search of refreshments. How quickly he fell into a servient pattern; one set by the Pack and sweetly governed by her whims.
Returning with two goblets of champagne, he paused to exchange brief pleasantries with an old friend of his father’s.
“You do understand the lady cannot help it. We all had a part in making her the epicenter of attention.”
The familiar drawl snapped Sebastian’s head about.
Nicholas August Harris March, the Earl of Landon and imminent heir to the Duke of Richeforte, stood as part of a group of two other men and three women. With his darkly gold, tousled hair and glittering green gaze, he commanded attention. Two of the women applied themselves enthusiastically to the task. A flame-haired beauty dangled on one arm, a hopeful expression carved upon her face, while the other, a pretty brunette sipped champagne. Tristan Buchanan, Viscount of Longleigh, watched in bored amusement, his arm wrapped about the waist of an ebony-haired infamous actress.
“She’s quite the challenge, if you don't mind that sharp tongue of hers,” Lord Marcus Connell remarked.
Nicholas’s eyes twinkled. “I happen to have quite a fondness for the female tongue. Sharp and otherwise.”
“Really, Landon,” the redhead pouted, ice blue eyes flashing. “If I did not know you better, I’d believe you are considering joining the Pack.”
“Darling, you actually do not know me at all. I have reasons for keeping my distance from the lady, stunning though she is.” Nicholas squeezed the pretty baroness while slanting a glance toward Sebastian. “You see, I should hate to lose your scintillating company. Not to mention the field around the countess is always a bit congested.” A contemptuous smile lifted his beautiful mouth. “And recent participants do not play well with others when a lady’s treacherous heart is concerned.”
The two men locked gazes, Sebastian’s stonily accusing, while the man he once called ‘brother,’ boosted a brandy snifter in a restrained salute.
Sebastian struggled to keep his attention on the prattling conversation of his father’s friend, but old resentment rose to choke him. Excusing himself with a feeble excuse, he spun fully toward Nicholas.
Nick’s eyebrow rose. Emerald eyes luminous with an almost cruel light, his voice vibrated with delight in recognition of his new audience.
“Of course, the worst of it is, the moment one turns his back, a fresh victim slips into the vacant spot,” Nicholas chuckled softly. “How troublesome it must be to those so very dedicated in their pursuit! Everyone knows I’m not one to suffer fits of jealousy and I most certainly do not follow the Pack. After all, what a lady does, and with whom, when she’s not entertaining me is none of my concern. As long as I find my pleasure, what do I care?”
The others laughed, excluding the baroness. Unamused, her fingernails dug into the muscles of the earl’s forearm, and with the elusive grace of a seasoned bullfighter, Nicholas extricated himself until he stood a few paces away. To regain her grip, the baroness needed to reach out, making it obvious the distance was intentionally placed. A clever trick, designed to embarrass a lady with her own boldness.
Nicholas’ glance found Sebastian’s. For the space of a heartbeat, the two men shared a memory. As young men, with Alan’s enthusiastic input, they perfected this move to avoid the clutches of overly eager females.
The flash of former friendship was brief.
Sebastian looked away in a haze of anger, Nick’s words slowly registering. “...the moment one turns his back, a fresh victim slips into the vacant spot.”'
His eyes searched for the spot where he left Ivy. She was not there.
“So damn vague of you, Landon,” Viscount Longleigh chuckled. “I thought you avoided the debutante set like the damned plague they are. Will you share details?”
“Come now, Longleigh. There are ladies present.” Nicholas tipped the chin of the quiet brunette, earning her sultry smile. The flame-haired baroness silently fumed as attention was lavished on someone else. “In a private setting, I might divulge such information. As it is, we are all aware an affair is one thing, claiming a woman as your own is quite another. Rest assured, if I were ever inclined to stake a public assertion of sole possession, on the countess or any woman, she would not find herself left alone to fend off those who are, shall we say, a bit overzealous. Careless and loose my affections might be, a man would certainly face my wrath if caught trespassing upon my claim.”
Sebastian stalked away, gritting his teeth as a roar of laughter accompanied Nick’s next words, “But then again, our lovely countess probably objects to being staked and claimed. One must be extraordinarily careful, considering her reputation.”
Beyond the last of the pillars, he found her. Relief flooded him, fighting for space with a tide of jealousy.
Ivy’s back pressed against one of the last marble columns in the hall. Bleeding into the dark edges beyond the gas-lit brightness of the lobby, it was a perfect spot for lovers to steal a hasty kiss or two. Viscount Basford held her arm, the angle making it difficult to determine her reaction. Neither heard Sebastian’s approach.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Brandon’s tone was peevish.
“Oh yes! The performance is quite incredible, don’t you think?”
; Brandon seemed poised to give her a rough shake. “You know that’s not what I mean, Ivy. Him. Are you enjoying yourself with him?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Ivy’s head tilted. “Ravenswood and I have many things in common. I enjoy his company very much.”
“You have but one thing in common…” The viscount bit out.
Sebastian scowled. The damned fool had one thousand pounds riding at Brookes he would be the one to tame Ivy Kinley. Basford’s hold was tenuous at best; the countess was slipping through his grasp as quickly as his recklessly wagered money.
“Be very careful, Ivy.” Brandon’s head dipped toward hers. “You have no idea what Ravenswood is about, although I confess a particular admiration for his methods. He ought to be ripping you to pieces for that business with his cousin. It’s quite brilliant how he’s managed to disguise his intentions thus far. Devious, actually. I’ve no wish to see you hurt.”
“Basford,” Ivy warned in a sharp voice, “you’ve no right to speak of Lord-”
“I’d much rather rip you to pieces,” Sebastian interrupted.
The viscount dropped Ivy’s arm as if forged of hot iron. Smoothing his cravat, he quickly recovering his bearings. “I only repeat the same observation others have made, Ravenswood.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug, his gaze narrowing as Sebastian approached. “Am I in danger simply for extending greetings to Lady Kinley?”
“Not in present company.” Sebastian’s eyes gleamed with the yearning to exterminate Basford, on the spot. How inconvenient for the man to caution Ivy of his intentions. Were he not holding two goblets of champagne, he might actually punch the other man in the mouth.
But this called for a different tact, one excluding a brawl at the elegant opera house. With slow deliberateness, Sebastian remarked, “I imagine my behavior at the Sheffield Ball seemed odd, but I was in a peculiar mood that evening. In atonement for my dreadful conduct, I’ve placed myself in Ivy’s service and shall accompany her to any social event she desires.”