“Are you sure?” Alan shook his head with a bemused smile.

The two men lounged in Sebastian’s library. Having gone over a report on a mining operation considered for investment, the invitation to the countess’s dinner was mentioned in casual passing.

“Of course. She did invite me, after all.”

Alan choked on a laugh, taking a swallow of his brandy. “I doubt you shall fit in very well with the usual company.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Alan’s amusement exasperated Sebastian. What was so comical about dinner? It simply existed as a prelude to the real purpose behind the evening’s agenda. The countess would be his and he was imagining the ways he would have her. Her reluctant admission of a broken heart was the key to unlocking the last door to her surrender. And he grabbed it to force his way inside.

“You honestly don’t know?”

“Enlighten me.”

“It’s the Pack’s monthly dinner.” Alan’s grin was unabashed. “They arrive at Kinley House at the same time, on the same day, once every month during the season. A great to-do since Lady Kinley’s coming out. You missed the grand affair last month when you took off for Scotland to purchase those new racers, but everyone knows- I thought you did as well.”

“You mean, she…” A terrible, dawning fury washed over Sebastian. He’d been deceived. The game, this game of blood and revenge, was hers all along.

When he got his hands on her, it would not be a pretty sight.

“Marriage proposals are tolerated only on this one day. Poor bastards, she refuses them, but they can ask. And the Pack gets it out of their system for a time, at least until the following month. It certainly does the trick. Sara tried doing the same last season until her parents realized it.” Alan refilled Sebastian’s glass with bourbon. “Here, you need something stiffer than brandy. You see, each man awaits his turn and their golden opportunity, then pops the question and makes his case. Which drives her father quite mad. All those eligible bachelors under his roof and not a chance in hell one will be accepted. You realize, as the forerunner this season, you’ll have the first crack at her. Unless you wait at the end of the line. Who knows? By the time Lady Kinley gets to you, she may accept a proposal out of sheer exhaustion.”

Alan laughed, not fully appreciating the fury swirling within Sebastian. “I suppose the ton was so caught up gossiping about the two of you, it forgot the familiar scandal of the dinner. How she accomplishes it, I don’t know, but it seems not one man is ever discouraged enough to fail to appear the following month, ready to bedevil her anew. Of course, the procedure is not without flaws. Her butler broke up a few scuffles last year. The scandal sheets adored it. Unusually devoted man, her butler,” he mused, examining the contents of his glass before casting a suspicious eye at Sebastian. “You’re not ribbing me, are you, Seb? You truly didn’t know?”

Sebastian was silent. He was so stupid. When had she determined his true intentions? The only person with any inkling of his plan was his aunt, and she’d never betray him.

Ivy played the injured victim so well. How fortuitous to see her today, the exact day of the monthly dinner. She could not have planned it any better. She knew him well enough now, knew how he enjoyed the pursuit, the excitement of it. Only he decided when and if this relationship would end, but her threat today had him panting at her heels. Holy hell, if she sweetly requested he swim across the Atlantic Ocean and back again, today of all days, he would have done so without question.

Was there a better way to foil his plans of revenge, to prove her mastery, than to have the Earl of Ravenswood show up on bended knee alongside the other fools? Her manipulations and tactical schemes were worthy of a seasoned warlord. It was quite brilliant, and now he hovered on a razor’s edge of becoming the laughingstock of London, the very latest of Poison Ivy victims.

He underestimated her, those innocent smiles and breathless gasps of passion playing him straight to a hangman’s noose. A deafening roar filled his head. They laughed over bumblebees and parasols and it felt damned good to let his guard down, to lower the heavy burden of his icy exterior. He’d not laughed like that since before Marilee. Good God, since before his father died…

Alan stared at him. Was it because of the anger shining from his eyes like twin candle flames? Or because the ache of devastation tumbling across his heart could not be concealed?

“Sebastian.” Alan chose his words with care. “Timothy attended those dinners. Undoubtedly, he put forth his share of marriage proposals. It’s said Lady Kinley is gentle in her refusals. I don’t know what happened between your cousin and the countess, I don’t know what circumstances led to his death, but whatever occurred, I do believe she was always kind to him.”

Sebastian swirled the bourbon in his glass, staring into its amber depths. He did not trust himself to utter words.

“Eventually, she must heed her father’s admonishments to select a husband,” Alan said hesitantly. “You obviously care for her. Do you think…?” The half-formed suggestion trailed away when Sebastian’s lips curved into a faint sneer.

“I will indeed have a proposal for the countess.” Eyes flashing dark and unapologetic, he leaned forward, clinking his glass with Alan’s in a hollow salute.

I’ll have her heels in the air and her heart bleeding in my pocket by the end of the evening.

* * *

As Sebastian descended from the Ravenswood coach, Count Phillipe Monvair advanced on the sidewalk to shake his hand with vigor. It appeared the count was of a forgiving nature, willing to pardon every instance Sebastian stole Ivy from him.

“Monsieur, so you come to try your luck with our beautiful countess, non?”

“Luck has little to do with it,” Sebastian replied in great irritation.

The dark-haired Frenchman grinned. Garbed in an unfortunate combination of scarlet and emerald green satin, his chest puffed out, Monvair resembled a scrawny Christmas tree, lacking only a candle in both hands to complete the image. “So true, mon ami, so true. But then, one never knows when our lady may find herself at odds and accept a proposal, oui? I have asked many, many times and always the refusal. But, se la vie. I ask once more.”

“And is this your last?” God help him, or damn him, for his curiosity. “Time asking, that is.”

“Mon Dieu, non! I will ask until she accepts or no longer allows our determined requests.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Sebastian took the steps into the house two at a time as Monvair followed, chattering in a cheerful mix of French and English.

Subjecting Sebastian to a thoroughly condescending smile, Brody took their hats and gloves before showing them to the conservatory terrace where twenty or so men waited. The scene reeked of male tension and anticipation.

Accepting a brandy from a passing servant, Sebastian considered the gathering. Jealousy flooded him, leaving him damp with the strength of it. Damned if he understood the Pack’s dogged pursuit of Ivy. If she had yet to accept a proposal, what led any of them to believe she ever would? This farce was nothing but a way of keeping fools under her spell.

God help him, the fact he had become one of these oblivious men nauseated him. Tossing back the brandy, Sebastian grabbed a second from the tray of the same impassive servant. An irritating voice within warned he was drinking too much, too quickly and he ruthlessly stifled it.

Scattered about the conservatory, men rehearsed proposals, their faces earnest as words were recited in their proper order. There was a sad humor in the scene. However, the thought of Timothy practicing, scraping together his courage, made Sebastian’s blood boil in a cold, dark rage.

“Good evening, Lord Ravenswood.”

The gilded blonde man addressing him was the one who took a tumble, champagne tray and all, the night of the Sheffield Ball. What the devil was his name? Ah, yes. Andry…Lord Christopher Andry. Although suffering a minor case of tongue-tied nerves around Ivy, he proved no less diligent in his pursuit. Sebastian had seen him many times, hopping about her with the devotion of an eager puppy, prattling of damned butterflies or dragonflies or some manner of bug, for god’s sake.

“If I may comment, sir, you appear quite miserable.” Christopher took a quick gulp of his brandy.

Snagging yet another drink from the same scowling servant, Sebastian gave Christopher his fiercest glare. He would like nothing better than to slice this young lord, and every other man here, into thin, bloody ribbons. Tossing back the liquor, he realized he had swallowed, in short order, three tumblers to Christopher’s one.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Sebastian drawled, leaning back against the cold plaster wall. Seeing Christopher’s hands tremble the slightest bit, he discovered a tiny shimmer of satisfaction in frightening the young man. These damned fools…it would serve the little witch right if she came in and no one was there to pay court. Yes, he should do exactly that. Terrify them until they all departed. The alcohol seeping through his veins brought a slow, steady surge of hot rashness with it. No one would challenge him. Nor dare stop him.

“You are scowling quite fiercely, my lord.” Christopher was hesitant as he added, “and you do not seem the type to put forth a proposal in this manner.”

“What might that type be?” While noting Christopher’s slight stutter was absent, Sebastian took inventory of the group assembled, measuring each man. Seeing the Viscount of Basford, his rage spiked to even further heights. The man deliberately disregarded the warning to keep his distance.

“Well, my sort, actually. You do not fit in, precisely. I wonder why you are even here. You see, I don’t expect Lady Kinley to accept my proposal, but I never miss the chance to ask her. None of us do,” Christopher admitted with great candor. “But, why should you allow her the opportunity to refuse you?”

“Are you so sure Ivy will refuse me? And, if you know she will reject you, why subject yourself to the humiliation?” His bluntness was offensive, but he didn’t care.

After a moment, Christopher answered, and Sebastian had the distinct impression this young man pitied him. “Surely you know the answer to that, Ravenswood.”

Sebastian knew...he knew exactly why every man was here. The same reason he was here. The chance to possess lightning, to win the game.

To capture and tame a butterfly.

“Rejection is not as crushing as you might believe,” Christopher finally said with a smile. “Lady Kinley is always kind in her refusals. Even I, with my clumsiness and my cursed shyness, am the bigger man for having asked her. She accepts me as she does the others, no more, no less. As an equal. She never fails to treat me as such.” The younger man leaned forward, an eager glint in his brown eyes. “You might not understand, but my status as one of her suitors has greatly impressed a young lady my family has deemed acceptable. There are hopes of making a successful match in the very near future, which my mother believes is due to Lady Kinley. Having been allowed to practice courtship, Mother says we owe Lady Kinley an enormous debt.”

“Practice?” Sebastian scowled. “What the devil are you babbling about, Andry?”

Christopher waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Ah, come now, Ravenswood. We both know Lady Kinley would never wed a man like me. Her advice has been most helpful on how to best to present myself. My father has remarked on more than one occasion that if I possess the courage to pursue the countess, then I should have little trouble courting a mortal woman. And he was quite right.”

Good God. Were other men using Ivy in the same manner? For even worse reasons? Damn. He should have instructed Gabriel to investigate every member of the Pack rather than focusing solely on evidence of her affairs. He had no idea what manner of men pursued Ivy, let alone their secret agendas. Was she even aware of being used?

Sebastian thought of Lord Kessler and Ivy’s assistance to the earnest young lord with hidden archery skills. One of the ladies from Bentley’s country party was now thoroughly enamored of Kessler. They were quite the item, thanks to Lady Ivy Kinley and her subterfuge.

Acquiring another brandy, he nodded toward an older man. “What of Viscount Batten? Does he require the countess’s assistance in courting women?”

Relaxing at Sebastian’s more amiable tone, Christopher shook his head. “Batten courts Lady Kinley out of loneliness. He lost his dear wife and their infant during childbirth two years ago. Perhaps heartache led him here, an opportunity for companionship with no attachment.”

Sebastian mulled this over then pointed out Count Monvair.

“Impoverished royalty.” Christopher’s brow furrowed with quick disapproval. “As part of the Pack, he enjoys greater accessibility to other heiresses. Of course, if she accepted his proposal, he would be overjoyed to spend her fortune. She is far too intelligent for that old trick, but he is witty and charming and amuses her.”

“Viscount Basford?”

“Thus far, he is the only one capable of winning her hand. Excluding you, of course.” Christopher amended with an apologetic smile. “Basford has convinced himself, and others, Lady Kinley will marry him. I admit I suspect him responsible for keeping that terrible rumor circulating, the one regarding your cousin and, forgive me for repeating it... Poison Ivy.”

Sebastian grimaced at the reminder of Ivy’s notorious nickname. “Is there evidence to back your allegations?”

“No,” Christopher sighed. “Only a feeling. But, oddly enough, every time the rumors reach a peak, the viscount becomes the favorite. At least until you entered the race. I cannot discount the happenstance of it all. Such a shame. I never believed Lady Kinley to be the catalyst for….” his words trailed off, unsure how to speak his opinion on the matter.

“Pray, continue,” Sebastian drawled, taking a sip from his glass.

Christopher took his own healthy gulp of brandy. “She is always thoughtful. Even when angry or ignoring us, she remains kind. I cannot believe she would intentionally harm someone.” Giving Basford a disapproving glare, he murmured, “I pray the viscount will not ever win her hand. He would not be good to her. There are rumors of his cruelty, of certain unsavory interests, despite his excellent name and courteous nature. He would not have her best interests at heart. No…he would not be good for her.”

Ivy entered the room, eliciting a flurry of activity. Men rose like a flock of multicolored ravens but she seemed not to notice, staring through them, searching the conservatory until she located Sebastian leaning against the far wall. He could not bring himself to return her warm smile.

Tomorrow it would be all over London he had attended one of these notorious dinners, presumably to ask for her hand. Beside him, Christopher smoothed his black evening coat with a nervous hand, standing straighter, narrow shoulders squaring as Ivy glided toward them.

What a piece of work Countess Ivy Kinley was. No one could be that kind and good. So innocent and sweet of nature. There wasn’t a woman alive capable of being the angel Andry depicted. Yes, she might help the Pack find wives, but only so a new victim could fill the vacant spot left behind. Her deeds came from boredom, not benevolence. It was an opportunity to play men so she possessed a never-ending supply of fools, lined up in worship for as long she liked.

They all deserved each other, Sebastian thought. Fury rose in a choking wave until he had to swallow past it.

Every man present had his own ulterior motive, but no one was there to destroy her as he intended.

“Lord Andry,” Ivy addressed Christopher first and he lit up with adoration. “Is it true you’ve discovered a new species of butterfly? How fascinating. I’m looking forward to a discussion on the subject.”

His chest puffed with pride. “I’ve recently had that specimen mounted and readied for viewing, should you care to see it. But tell me. Is it your opinion I should share it with Lady Lindsey?”

Ivy reached to squeeze his forearm. “You must! She’ll be astounded you found such a remarkable creature. And you must tell me her thoughts on the subject.”

“It will be my pleasure.” Christopher turned to Sebastian with an explanation, “Lady Anne Lindsey and I have much in common, for which I can thank the countess.”

“I cannot take too much credit, Lord Andry. You two would have discovered your similar interests eventually. But I would ask you a question. Might you have any information regarding bumblebees and their habits?” Flashing Sebastian a conspiratorial grin, Ivy missed the dangerous gleam in his iron-grey eyes while Christopher cocked his head, stuttering some scientific fact to which no one paid the slightest heed.

The sight of her captivated every man in attendance, her skin glowing with the richness of fresh cream when contrasted to the warm apricot hue of her gown. With a bodice low enough to fuel the imagination, the silk fabric skimmed her body before flowing out in a graceful circle. Sebastian glanced at his hands. They itched with the need to pull her to him. Lust, anger, brandy and jealousy whipped within him to create a poisonous, boiling stew.

She believed he had come to beg for her hand on bended knee.

Bended knee? She’d get his knee alright…she’d find herself thrown over his, her curvaceous bottom punished for daring to make a fool of him. He’d spank her to within an inch of her life and relish watching her prettily apologize with tears and soft kisses before he took from her flesh what was his by right of revenge.

Swallowing the rest of his brandy, he handed the glass to a servant before he cracked it.

She tricked him, tangling him with these worshiping fools. But now, with witnesses to her downfall and to her heartache, the time had come to destroy her. It was time to take the final payment.

“My lady, you are ravishing as usual.” Taking her hands into his much larger ones, Sebastian raised them to his lips. She wore elbow length silk gloves. Remembering the scar on her left hand, he again pondered which of these men might be responsible. And why Ivy protected his identity.

Flushing with uncertainty at the coolness of his tone, Ivy’s gaze skittered away. When she attempted to tug free, he did not release her. The others grumbled but Sebastian did not care.

“I must have a word with you. It is a private matter.”

“Later, after…” Her smile was suddenly wide and warm. As if she knew, knew what he wanted to do and found it agreeable.

“Indulge me.”

“Ravenswood, if you would only-”

Taking her by the elbow, he propelled her through the crowd, ignoring comments he’d best wait his turn. With great difficulty, he held the urge to punch the nearest belligerent face daring to voice an objection. The only thing restraining his fists was the reluctance to become one of the numerous scuffles Alan previously described. That pompous butler Ivy employed would appreciate any reason to toss him into the street.

Entering the oval foyer, Sebastian placed a firm hand on the small of Ivy’s back and guided her down the hall. Furthest from the conservatory was her father’s private study.

Jonathan Kinley was in Ireland and would not be present to save his only daughter. Which was most fortunate. Sebastian did not intend to allow anyone or anything to stay him from the course set two months prior. Shutting the door, he turned the key. The soft click of the lock tumbling into place echoed in the room.

Ivy backed away until her father’s desk bumped her hip, bringing her up short. The spark of abrupt panic in her eyes gave Sebastian a small twinge of enjoyment.

“Surely you are not afraid of me, Ivy,” he murmured, and her chin jerked up at the unexpected taunt. Advancing until any chance of escape was blocked, he eventually caged her against the desk. “I’m curious why you invited me tonight?”

“I wanted to see you.” As if searching for something deep within him, her gaze probed his. “This afternoon you gave all indications you wanted to see me. I don’t understand why you are angry. I’m sorry...” Puzzlement mingled with radiant hope in her sea green eyes. Of course, she was confused. She was accustomed to men blindly pledging their devotion, not questioning her tactics.

“Sorry.” He mocked her words so she winced to hear them on his lips. “Are you sorry you’ve tied me to those other fools dancing a merry jig to the tune you play?”

His hands rested on either side of her hips, bracing against the desk. Leaning into her, his breath blended with hers. He was so close the golden freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose could be counted. But he had no wish to count them. Damn it, he wanted to kiss them. Each one.

“What are you talking about, Sebastian? I don’t understand.” Baffled by the accusation, her brow knitted. Trying to determine the thread of the conversation, she supplied in tentative explanation, “It’s the monthly dinner…”

Although his voice retained a level of admirable control, Sebastian clutched the edge of the desk, his nails digging into the oak. He did not trust himself to touch her. “The goddamn monthly dinner. Damn you, I’ll not play your games, Ivy.”

Seeing his knuckles turn white, she slumped in abrupt understanding.

“Oh, Sebastian,” she said in a strangled whisper. “Do you believe I would toy with you in such a manner? There are those placing wagers on who shall emerge the victor in this battle. But this is not a game. Not to me. Never to me.”

“Isn’t it, Ivy?” he said flatly, leaning forward to brush her lips with his own, the flick of his tongue teasing the sensitive corner of her mouth. It was the only part of her he allowed himself to touch, and even that left him reeling with desire. “This is all a matter of battle lines, after all. You schemed and plotted and planned, haven’t you? Now, you think you have me, a prisoner of war, like every other bastard out there. I nearly gave you what you wanted most. Me. On my knees. Another victim for your damned collection.”

“No, no, that’s not what I wanted,” she cried out, eyes wide with the ugliness of his words. “I only want you. You, Sebastian. I want to be with you the moment I wake in the morning, and I miss you when I finally fall asleep at night. Nothing else matters, nothing other than you and me.”

“Oh, butterfly. Can’t you tell me the truth?” Sebastian nibbled her lips. When she gave a little sob of pleasure, he did it again, hating himself for enjoying it as much as she did. If she possessed a single ounce of self-preservation, she would be terrified. But Ivy was captive to the emotions he aroused within her, still willing to let him in, still hoping he meant her no harm. “There is so much more than desire between us, isn’t there? History and secrets.” He referred to Timothy, but she failed to make the immediate connection. “Tell me, Ivy. There is something you want from me, isn’t there? Come on now, tell me the truth.”

“I am telling the truth, I swear it! Only, I thought-”

“What?” When she hesitated, he nipped her ear, demanding, “What did you think? What do you want? The same you require from the others? Complete and utter devotion until I die? Or just until you tire of me?” The words were a hiss of condemnation.

“I thought you cared for me,” Ivy whispered, her arms winding about his neck. “I-I wanted you to keep the Pack at bay, so they would lose interest in me. When we formed a relationship, I hoped it would be understood I’m not a threat. Or a challenge to be won. I know it was wrong to use you like that…I tried to tell you, the night of the opera. Do you remember? But you said, you said you did not care. You said nothing would keep you from me.” Her words caught on themselves, unsteady and high pitched with desperation. “Oh, Sebastian, you do care for me. You must… after everything…”

The words, “after everything I let you do,” went unspoken but Sebastian heard them as loudly as a scream.

His hand ran up the outside of her leg to her hip, skimming along the silk of her skirts to come to rest in the small of her back. The partial confession infuriated him even as the night of the opera haunted him. My intentions are not entirely honorable... she told him then. He ignored that warning.

She tricked him, but he allowed it, blinded by his craving for her. She thought she won the game. Fury drummed in his veins. With a sudden dizziness, Sebastian realized he was capable of physically hurting her.

“Were you expecting a proposal? Don’t lie to me, damn you.” The kisses he pressed along the edge of her voluptuous mouth were deceptive in their gentleness.

“N...no,” she choked out.

She was a liar. She lied straight to his face. She expected the Earl of Ravenswood on his knees. Her victory stung with the pain of a thousand nails driven into his flesh all at once.

“Liar. You don’t wish for me to propose?”

“No…yes. I don’t-Sebastian, please.”

His lips stretched into a thin line of cruelty. “I do have an offer for you, sweetheart.”

Her breath escaping in a shaky puff of relief, Ivy immediately relaxed in his grip. He bit back a laugh at her astounding vanity. She still believed he meant to ask for her hand. Instead, she delivered the instrument of her downfall.

He liked the way her breath came in soft gasps. He loved her hands sliding through his hair, how she pressed against his chest in thankful submission. It would be so easy to toss her skirts, to take her right there. He had carried this lust for an eternity. It was part of his soul; this incessant want and desire part of the fabric twining the two of them together. To rip everything to shreds, he needed only to claim her.

This, this would be his victory, the moment he snatched triumph from her, made her pay his price. His path lay clear and open, waiting for him to seize it without mercy.

With one hand, Sebastian swept the neat and orderly desk clear of items. This was what he’d dreamed of, what he desired and craved from the moment he clapped eyes on this deceitful, cunning, bewitching little countess. Every delectable inch of her would finally belong to him.

He lifted her, depositing her on the edge of the desk while hiking her skirts at the same time. Pushing apart her knees with rough hands, he positioned himself between her legs. She did not fight, did not cry out in horror or even seem frightened by his sense of urgency. The mere mention of a proposal untwisted doubts and melted any resistance. She unbent and opened as Sebastian pressed his arousal against her. Cupping the back of her neck, she was a willing prisoner while his mouth crashed upon hers in a seething flurry of dark desire.

Devouring the sweetness of her lips was not enough. He needed more.

Her skirts were twisted higher. Brushing past the flimsy barrier of her drawers, he eased a finger inside her intoxicating heat. Swallowing her startled sigh, he caressed the point of her womanhood with the pad of his thumb until she grew damp and restless. Forcing her to the edge of the cliff, he made sure she was trembling and ravenous before letting her plunge over. Erratic but steady, her climax pulsed against the palm of his hand and Sebastian greedily wanted every tiny shuddering beat to belong to him.

He wanted to move over her, replace his finger with his body. He wanted to thrust his way into her softness until she cried out his name in pleasure. Unbuttoning his breeches, pushing at her, rubbing against her sex, not quite entering her, he allowed his shaft to become slick with her moisture. Her climax left her hungry. She was desperate for his caress, mindless for it, almost incoherent from pleasure, and although his touch was rough, his grip harsher than any time in the past, Ivy was beyond caring. Caught in the whirlwind, she could not distinguish his wrath from passion. Sebastian knew it. He took full advantage of it.

“Yes, Sebastian, please, please.” She tried pressing her lips to his and he evaded her.

Because he could not bring himself to kiss her when she was like this. He would willingly drown in her, losing sight of his ultimate goal if he gave in. To keep his wits about him, he must drag her to the brink of insanity before giving into her.

Yanking at the bodice of her gown, he pushed at the light corset until she was fully exposed. Crudely cupping one breast with his palm, he raised it to meet his voracious mouth, groaning at the taste of her sweetness. He clasped the rounded swell of her bottom, jerking her closer to the edge of the desk. His fingers dug painfully into the flesh of her buttocks as his erection quivered at her body’s entrance.

Her low moan was a siren’s call, her hips lifting in an ancient invitation. Rolling her nipple around in the wet heat of his mouth, his teeth raked it until it hardened into a tight little rosebud. Then he bit her, a sharpness that made her jerk and press closer to him. Between her legs, she grew even wetter, the damp flesh against the tip of his shaft nearly unmanning him.

“Are you mine, Ivy?” His whisper demanded truthfulness. “Are you? Answer me, damn you, answer me.”

“Yes, Sebastian, I love you, I love you. You- only you. Please, oh God, Sebastian, I don’t know what to do. I need you…. inside me…inside...please. Don’t stop.”

Hearing the words, tumbling from her beautiful lips in needy gasps, drove Sebastian to the depths of a gruesome brutality. The very last piece of her fell into his hands.

Her body was his. Her heart, her wicked soul. All his.

With no warning, he thrust, impaling her with one quick stroke. His head reeled with such unbearable sensations he barely comprehended that her cry sounded different from before.

Pain or pleasure?

Did it matter? Pinpricks of heaven, glittering and terrible, bombarded him. Sliced without mercy into his brandy-fueled, revenge induced haze. He melted into her.

Ivy was hot.

Slick.

Glorious.

Tight.

A beautiful creature he had no right to possess.

Tangling a hand in her hair, Sebastian forced her head back while keeping the other clasped on her rear. Ivy shifted, adjusted to the pressure. When he surged forward, she did not push him away. Instead, with a strangled whimper, she pulled him closer, her fingernails biting through his coat and shirt. A strange rigidity within her gave way to his invasion and torrents of pleasure flooded his veins as she opened to him. He glided into silken depths he never wanted to escape.

Goddamn you, Ivy-how, how will I live without you? How? How did this happen? That my soul entwined with yours?

Soft flesh encompassed his, holding him a tight hostage, pulsating and hot. All around him, her heartbeat fluttered with the delicate energy of hummingbird wings in slow motion. Sebastian buried deeper, then deeper still, until he was within her to the hilt and could go no further.

“You are mine at last, the devil take us both,” he muttered against her pretty shell of an ear.

“Yes, yes.”

Mine…mine.

Mine forever.

Again, and again, he thrust, stealing her muffled pants and gasps with quick, ruthless kisses. Grinding, slow at first, then almost frantically, unable to understand how incredible, and how horrible, it felt to make this a reality.

Ivy’s fingers laced through his hair. Offering everything to him, her head lolled, her back arching.

“My god,” she breathed in awe. “I didn’t know it could be…yes, Sebastian, yes, yes. I’m yours, yours...”

An out of control wildfire, she burned him, her lushness coiling about him, squeezing tight as a vise. She hovered on the verge of peaking again; if he kept his pace, kissed her thoroughly with gentle, persuasive lips, she would discover ecstasy once more. And Sebastian knew he could not withstand her if this happened while inside her. His very soul would be lost.

If revenge was unnecessary, he would kiss her instead of breaking her...

Paradise this magnificent was not promised. The task hung over him, as heavy a burden as iron chains. Maybe it was a sign of his inner weakness or something born of shame, but when he finally spoke, his voice quivered. Whatever it was, he shoved it aside. His words, the actions, his body- they were all instruments of his vengeance.

“I want you every night.” With each heated whisper of a word, he bit the flesh of her throat, thrilling to her moans of agreement. “Every goddamn night.” His thrusts slowed. The giddy combination of heat, soft perfume and the brandy consumed earlier was making his head swim. Possessing Ivy was akin to drowning in an opium den, the sensations overwhelming and disorienting, the room swirling as her sweet softness drugged him.

“I want you available when I have need of you. In my bed, on my desk, in my coach, my library, my goddamn dining room table if I have the notion to fuck you there…I want to bury myself in you whenever and wherever I want.” His sharp teeth nipped her ear. “Do you understand me, Ivy?”

“Yes, Sebastian, yes.” Her murmur came apart when he ground harder against her. Slick with arousal, oblivious to his brutal words, willing to accept anything he did, she tried to answer him. “Anything…as your wife, I will do anything…tell me, show me. I love you so much...”

“Wife?” The harsh laugh was punishing. “You misunderstand me, butterfly. Goddamn. No, not my wife. Never that. I want you as my mistress. Don’t you understand? My mistress. My own lovely, little whore to be used when and where and however I like.”

Had Ivy heard him? Maybe she could not comprehend his meaning. Gliding in and out of her heat, Sebastian’s brain vaguely registered every explosion of rapture while waiting for the words to penetrate. Another minute and he would forgive her, take her with tenderness. He would kiss her and care for her pleasure. Beg her forgiveness.

That could not happen. Sebastian focused on revenge. Revenge. Remember, this is for Timothy. Remember, she is heartless…she caused his death…remember, you don’t love her. You can’t love her. You… cannot.

A heartbeat passed. A second. A lifetime. An eternity.

In one huge gasp, Ivy sucked in her breath. She locked up in his arms.

There was a roaring within Sebastian to stop, but it was impossible. This business of destroying her would certainly kill him too; the tidal wave, once it overflowed, rushed forth to extinguish everything in its path.

“Your mistress? Your...whore.” Stumbling on the words, her hands, encased in pristine white silk, braced against the wall of his chest. “Sebastian? I don’t understand. I don’t…you- you don’t want to marry me? You don't want…?” She stared uncomprehendingly as Sebastian methodically ripped apart her soul with everything brutal inside his own.

She said she loves you.

“What man wouldn’t want you?” Pressing tiny kisses to the outermost corners of her lips, his body continued its seductive assault, punctuating words with unending thrusts of his hips. Ivy’s eyes were unfocused, as if she could not understand what was being said; as though his words were a foreign language she had yet to learn. “Heartless little butterfly. Did you actually believe I would take you as my wife? Marriage isn’t quite the thing for a woman like you. Not with your reputation. Not with your black, empty soul.”

He was unprepared for the stinging slap across his face, but he half expected it. Like a heated sword slicing through flesh, it cut through his woozy pleasure.

“How dare you!” Ivy choked. “You- you bastard.”

She shoved him, but with Sebastian between her thighs and her feet dangling above the floor, it was impossible to move more than a few inches. When she managed to wiggle so a heartbeat of a space opened between them, he grabbed her upper arms, giving her a rough shake. The fact their bodies were still joined heightened the barbarity.

“How dare I?” His fury was both hushed and terrifying. “Don’t you realize I won the game?” The buttons of his evening coat bit into the bare flesh of her breasts, the gold metal branding full moon patterns on her white skin. How bizarre he had not removed a stitch of clothing. Destroying her required only the unbuttoning of his breeches.

“Ah, little, treacherous Ivy…breaking you, taming you, is why these men gather here. And it is just a game, because no matter how many come and go, we all want the same thing. To tame you. Each one of us wants to claim the victory, the opportunity to smear it in the face of the others.” His voice dropped to a scornful snarl. “You drove Timothy to his death. He adored you, worshiped you, and you ground that devotion to dust beneath your heel. He took his life because of you. He chose to die because you, with your petty, selfish actions, rejected him. Does it excite you? Knowing that men take the risk of courting you, placing their bets they will survive you? Does it? Well, now there are wagers to pay, by God. Scores to settle. And it is my right to collect first.”

Ivy whimpered at the mention of Timothy and the stakes placed on her head, but Sebastian ignored her distress, savage as a winter storm in his march across her heart.

“As for you and I, you’ve teased, tempted and enticed me. Truly, you led me on a merry chase, but this has been my game from the very start. There is not a man alive in London, in all of England for that matter, who can deny I’ve successfully tamed the sweet, deceitful, Poison Ivy. It shall be on everyone’s lips come morning… Ravenswood survived the Countess! To your credit, my sweet, it’s been a most entertaining ride.” His hips rotated crudely, a stark reminder he had not finished mauling her pride and her soul.

A strangled moan of anguish escaped Ivy with the use of that vile moniker, a reminder of the ton’s viciousness. The sound was almost animal like, the level of torment so deep Sebastian wavered. Even as whispering demons whipped him on, demanding he finish her, shame stabbed his gut at his own maliciousness.

“Breaking you has been pleasurable for us both and I don’t intend for it to end. I still want you, deceitful, wanton whore that you are,” he muttered roughly. “And you want me too. Your body cannot hide that from me.”

Choking back another helpless whimper at the ugly words, Ivy renewed her struggles. Sebastian closed his eyes, silent, immobile as a wall of granite, allowing it until she finally hung limp with exhaustion in his punishing embrace.

Gulping for air, damp with perspiration, Ivy shivered against his chest. Locks of hair tumbled from her coiffure to cling to his neck and chin with the tenacity of a delicate spider web. Releasing the grip on her arms, Sebastian spanned his palms on either side of her hips, breathing heavily. Now that she was still, a dawning consciousness speared him with jabs deep enough to draw blood. The room spun with the crazed velocity of a kaleidoscope. He wanted desperately to shake his head, to clear the fog of lust and anger and brandy, to be able to think clearly.

The magnitude of his actions, the monstrosity of it all, seeped in. Slumped in defeat, Ivy wept quietly, wounded angel tears soaking through his shirt to cool the blistering heat of his skin.

Several things battered his intoxicated vengeance…the tight resistance to his invasion, the phantom sensation of a flimsy barrier giving way in the path of conquest. That haunting cry shadowed by the convulsive clenching of her legs as she held him tighter, her fingernails biting painfully through cloth and into the flesh of his shoulders while her body sucked him in deeper. Her reaction to his possession was baffling, but the trickle of comprehension clawing at his brain screamed for attention. Bloody hell, it was not possible.

You goddamn fool. You goddamn, heartless, stupid bastard. She’s an innocent. A virgin…she’s a virgin.

She couldn’t be. She’d fucked half the men waiting in her conservatory with their pathetic rehearsed proposals. Hadn’t she?

Sebastian rocked away, grabbing Ivy by the nape of her neck to stare down into her face. The golden cartwheel of freckles glowed in stark relief against the ivory paleness of tear-streaked skin. Darkened to the shaded dimness of a stormy sea, she gazed back with eyes wide and hazy. Truth was a harsh master, lashing him with every breath. It was not possible. It could not be. She could not be...

Pure.

Virgin…

Bitter regret washed away the scarlet mist of fury, turning him abruptly cold and instantly sober. What he had done? He hurt her. This...this was the act of a madman. An evil that could not be undone. This might be worse than rape. He tricked her into offering a precious gift then ripped it from her hands. Oh, God. What kind of monster am I?

“Ivy...” His hands dropped as if she were a lit flame burning his palms. “Sweet Jesus, what the hell have I done?”

Ivy’s fist slammed his jaw with such uncanny precision and force that his teeth clicked together with a loud snap. Sebastian reared back, the salty tang of blood in his mouth. He’d bitten his own tongue. As he processed that, a tiny foot struck him, the wooden heel of her shoe finding his groin as if she’d practiced the defensive maneuver for years. Sebastian’s body exploded in excruciating pain. “Goddamn…” Grasping the vicinity of his manhood, he stumbled away.

The space between them was just enough for Ivy to slide off the edge of the desk and regain her footing. Snatching her dress up to her shoulders, she darted to the side while Sebastian doubled at the waist, his hands braced on his thighs. He sucked in deep breaths, fighting the alcohol when it rose in his throat, a thick and obstructive tidal wave of nausea battering for release. Eventually, the pain eased to a point so it was possible to stand without retching. Ivy’s sobs echoed throughout the room, a swirling cacophony pounding at his head, leaving him a bit wobbly on his feet. There was a flurry of rustling silk behind him, the sounds of metal against metal. She struggled to unlock the door, her fingers clumsy with blind panic.

Sebastian fumbled with the buttons of his breeches, gazing dumbly at his hands when they came away slick with fresh blood. The red smears confused him. Were the heels of her shoes that damned sharp? Had she cut him somehow?

Do you honestly believe that is your blood? An internal voice mocked his stupidity. It’s hers, you bastard. Her blood. Ivy’s blood.

Virgin blood. Sacrificed for his cousin’s life.

The click as the key turned was loud as a thunderbolt. She was fleeing him, as though he were a demented beast, a twisted evil from the depths of hell. He reached to grab her, but even he was unsure of his motives. “Ivy. Holy hell.”

Was it possible to beg forgiveness for the unforgivable?

With a nimbleness born of terror, Ivy evaded him. When she bolted into the hall, Sebastian stumbled after her, falling against a table. A priceless vase teetered, crashing to the floor in an ear-shattering explosion of porcelain. The sound would undoubtedly draw all guests to the foyer. But he must stop her. He must explain, catch her, even if there was little hope of undoing the damage.

A fleeting glimpse of apricot silk flying up the stairs was the last he saw of Ivy Kinley and his pursuit ended at the bottom of the polished marble steps. Not even he, the Earl of Ravenswood, who dared almost anything, risked following her up those stairs, not here in her father’s house and with witnesses no less.

She loves you.

Struggling to compose himself, Sebastian gripped his chest. Overwhelming pain throbbed in relentless thumps. Such a strange feeling it was, to have one’s heart shredded while it still beat steadily. Silent and sick, the horror of his actions washed over him anew to see his hands marked in startling red.

Slowly, he pulled a handkerchief from an inner pocket on his suit coat, using it to wipe the blood away, blotting at the miniscule stains on his coat where he’d touched his chest. Forcing the most arrogant expression imaginable to his features, stamped there by sheer willpower alone, Sebastian faced the men steadily gathering. Confused expressions exposed their thoughts: What happened to our darling countess? What in God’s name did you do to her? Why does the sound of her weeping linger in this hall?

Sebastian did not think he would ever feel anything again. He became the cold, collected earl once more, the numbness a welcomed blessing.

Christopher Andry scowled, as if Sebastian were the Devil himself inexplicably landing in their midst, with great black wings beating the air. The other men mumbled, shuffling about, wondering what should be done to the creature before them.

How he stood, when his very knees threatened to buckle beneath him, was mystifying. To hide the weakness, Sebastian placed a casual hand on the balustrade of the stairs, sliding it up to grasp the finial of the newel post. The delicately carved wood miraculously supported his weight.

With the goal accomplished, the actual horror of what he’d done was slicing him to ribbons. Ivy was ruined. At the cost of destroying his soul. And hers. He carefully selected his words to inflict the most damage. And pain.

“The countess has taken issue with the ending of our association.”