She was broken. Shattered into so many tiny pieces it did not seem possible she would ever be whole again. A burning hurt screamed within her heart, Sebastian's betrayal diminishing her into a creature she did not recognize. But even as she wept, something grew, something hard, something sharp and black. Razors replaced the softly feathered wings of innocence.

Ivy pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. They stung from incessant weeping and the frost encasing her heart. All the fractured, scattered splinters were slowly contracting together, mending to create a glittering shell of a girl, capable of functioning without care or feeling. What had once melted so easily in the warmth of Sebastian’s arms began to freeze again, and she did not care to stop it from taking place.

She would become something none of them expected, least of all the Earl of Ravenswood.

A butterfly metamorphosing into a wolf. Her ice-covered soul would make so.

* * *

“If I am to help you, tell me what has happened, Ivy.” Jonathan Kinley’s brow furrowed. He’d not taken the time to clean up from his travels, arriving at Somerset Hall within days of his daughter fleeing the city. His arrival was unexpected, having only recently returned from Ireland. Shocked to see him standing in their country estate’s library, Ivy foolishly wanted to weep in her father’s arms instead of the anger she should have felt at his intrusion.

“Do not concern yourself, Father. It is of little importance.”

Jonathan’s lips tightened. He pulled a chair to the divan she sat curled upon.

The light in the library was soft and shadowy. Dusk would fall soon. The servants would ignite the chandeliers and sconces inside the oak paneled room. Huddling further into a cream-colored blanket, Ivy turned from her father’s penetrating stare.

“It’s all over London. Regardless what you may think of me, my dear, I’m no fool. Now, tell me. Will he marry you? Or must he be forced to it?” Jonathan reached for her hand bearing the faint scar. Holding it gently while she sat stiff with distrust, he said, “I cannot allow this to be the second time someone from that family has attempted to ruin you.”

Ivy’s cheeks flushed. “I don’t know what you mean, Father.”

His eyes bored into hers. “I know full well the story behind this injury and Timothy Garrett’s part in it. Make no mistake. Because I did not force the issue then does not mean I shall not force it now. I do not know the circumstances behind this rift with the earl, but it is something significant. I’ve heard he has broken your heart. That your chances for a successful marriage are destroyed. I’ll not allow this to happen, to stand idle while you are ruined in such a fashion. Ravenswood will marry you, if what is being bandied about holds any truth.”

Ivy tugged her hand from her father’s warm grasp. Why did he have to sound so reasonable, so…fatherly? Despite fierce promises she would no longer cry over him, that heartless scoundrel, tears sprang to her eyes. The subject of Sebastian and his betrayal must be avoided at all costs. It was too painful to address. “What of Timothy Garrett? If you knew of his actions, why did you not demand we wed? It was the perfect opportunity. I would not have been able to live the scandal down.”

Her father regarded her sadly. “Did you think I would force you? I promised your mother you would marry for love and you would not have found happiness with Lord Garrett for a husband. All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

“You tossed every bachelor in London at me,” Ivy accused in quiet disbelief. “You’ve harassed me to distraction, to make a choice, to wed. Forgive me if I do not believe you only desired my happiness.”

“I was mistaken,” Jonathan shrugged his shoulders. “You needed choices, eligible men you might not have considered otherwise. But, and this I swear upon your mother’s grave, I never meant to force a marriage you did not want. Your mother wanted you to make your own decision, and I vowed I would abide by her wishes.” He recaptured her hands. “I loved your mother. I still do, God rest her soul. Not a day passes when I do not wish I’d done things differently. You probably are not aware, for you were only a child, but we hovered on the verge of losing everything. How foolish I was then to believe I was only losing land and possessions. I made some appalling business decisions, lost a great deal of money and overcoming my mistakes, replenishing your mother’s estates so you would have her inheritance as well as mine, was difficult. My intent was to secure our future so we would never face that threat again but in doing so, I lost two of the dearest people in the world to me- your mother and you. I do not expect you to forgive me. I only beg for it and hope someday you understand.”

He smiled ruefully. “You are a smart girl, Ivy. I trust you to decide your own path, but do not think I lack the power and the means to force Sebastian Cain to the altar. With one word, he has no choice. If you want him, tell me and I shall make it so.”

Despite herself, despite the effort to be brave, to remain resolute and unwavering, Ivy began to sob. She thought there was nothing left within her, no tears left to cry, but her father’s support, when she least expected it, his explanation of the events detaching him from their family, overwhelmed her. Without warning, she flung herself into his arms, grateful for his embrace wrapped tight about her.

“Mother loved you so much, and I do too. How you must have suffered when things were desperate and money was the only thing you believed would save us. You did what you thought best, I only wish you had told me sooner. It is in the past…let us move forward from it.” Stifled by his overcoat, her breath escaped in a shuddering gasp as she admitted, “As for Ravenswood, he will not marry me. He despises me, blames me for Timothy’s Garrett’s death. I’d rather go into exile and never again show my face in society than face a lifetime with a man who hates me as he does.”

“There must be consequences for his actions.” Smoothing her mass of hair, Jonathan stroked the curls as though she were still a child. “And you must give the impression the gossip means nothing to you. You’ve always been a strong one. God knows you have shown me your stubborn side for years. They cannot see your weakness now.”

Ivy remembered the fierce promise made the night of Sebastian’s betrayal. She disintegrated into a million pieces that night, those pieces scattered about. The blood on her thighs, the ache between her legs, her virginity stolen by a man whose chief objective was to destroy her, she had wept until she was ill. No one must know. Especially her father.

No, she corrected bitterly. Sebastian did not steal it, my innocence. Nor my heart. I gave everything to him, wrapped in ribbons. A gift. Of love.

Sebastian once boasted of his patience, and to have his revenge he needed only to bide his time. She recalled the analogy Sebastian gave her, of waiting for a butterfly to land before casting the net, of hunting beauty by remaining still and waiting until it ventured close, close enough to be easily captured. How skilled he'd proven himself at the task. How easily he ripped apart her wings.

* * *

Sebastian was sure of it. He was a monster. Faced with the cold proof of his barbarity, there was little doubt of the evil inside his heart.

Thank God, Ivy ended the assault before he climaxed inside her, although even now he ached with a yearning it seemed impossible to survive. How had he missed all signs of her innocence? Why had he failed to recognize the purity of her kisses, the awestruck wonder in her eyes every time he brought her to the peak of satisfaction? Bloody hell, when she melted on his fingertips, it was because he was the first man to touch her so intimately.

I’m a fool. A blind, arrogant fool…

She would never forgive him. How could she? His plan to ruin her was successful. He could not forget the terrible hatred in her eyes. There was no satisfaction in taming Poison Ivy and revenge, once the sweetest of goals, left a sour taste in his mouth. No amount of alcohol could wash it away.

Sebastian departed the city the following day, stopping at Beaumont before traveling to his far-flung estate on the Scottish border. Unable to erase the self-loathing, he promptly buried himself in the cold, drafty castle rising up out of the moors.

A month slipped by before he could consider returning to London. Remaining at Kleychord Keep posed the very real possibility he might drink himself into oblivion. Or become lost in the mists for all eternity as he indulged in hours of aimless wandering of the desolate, barren heaths stretching to the east of the castle. The servants, superstitious and fearful for their master’s wellbeing, whispered of the earl’s despondency, his tendency to roam both day and night. It would leave him a victim of one of the brackish, ebony lakes dotting the land. The dark bodies of water often took man and beast unawares, swallowed whole and never seen again.

“If it ‘appens,” the housekeeper said, with a hastily signaled sign of the cross, to the cook, who also crossed herself with a shudder, “His Lordship ‘ill be nae but a ghost ‘o the moors, ‘auntin’ Kleychord Keep for all eternity in search ‘o peace.

Sebastian did not scoff the prediction. It held far too much truth to disregard. He already felt like a ghost, and peace was damnably elusive. It could not be found on the moors nor at Beaumont, or any of his lesser estates. It was elusive in sleep, in his waking moments and he’d searched for it at the bottom of countless bottles of bourbon. Ivy’s pale face, as he cut her with words and destroyed her with actions, haunted him at every turn. Never had he forced his attentions on a woman before. How badly had he hurt her? How much did she hate him? How could he live without her?

Because he could not stay away from her.

He would encounter Ivy in their social circles, unless he left England as he’d done before. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. She was as essential to his survival as air, but it was pathetic that the prospect of a confrontation with her was both dreaded and anticipated.

Filled with trepidation, Sebastian arrived in London, accompanied by his silently suffering valet. William found employment with the Earl of Ravenswood to be an exercise in patience. However, the elderly man dealt with his lord’s moody fits with a tolerant smile and a quick and ready wit. The nights Sebastian drank himself into a stupor, his expensive clothes hopelessly wrinkled and often torn during attempts to undress, William met with aplomb and murmured assurances everything would be put to rights.

Ensconced in his study at Ravenswood Court, a bottle of bourbon on the desk between them, Sebastian motioned for Gabriel Rose to begin. It was his first day back in London and the city buzzed with news of his return and Ivy’s possible reaction. It made him weary.

“Do you want the news sober or after a few?” Gabriel asked calmly, eyebrow raised.

“Is it as bad as all that?” Sebastian scowled when the other man tilted his head. “A couple of drinks then, if you don’t mind the wait.”

“If it’s not to excess again.” His friend grinned. “It’s only a month past that I met you at Beaumont before you left for Scotland. You were drunk out of your mind, if you do not recall my visit. You stayed foxed for the better part of a week. Bloody hell, one night you dropped your breeches and proceeded to piss on the fire in the drawing room. Another, well, I know you don’t recall, but you shot the eyes out of nearly every mounted game in the billiards room before I managed to take those damned pistols away from you. You insisted the beasts were accusing you of -”

Sebastian winced, holding up a hand. Leave it to Gabriel to bluntly remind him how spectacularly smashed he was. “There were other factors in play.”

“Ah, yes.” Gabriel nodded. “I gathered that from the scolding Lord Bentley gave you. I had such hopes you would come to your senses, but the moment he left, you decided I must continue my watch over the girl you claimed to care nothing for. That same night, sometime after midnight if memory serves correct, you decreed in a drunken fit of rage that I should repack and return to London at once. There was no arguing the journey could wait until morning. Just so you would think I had departed, I was forced to sleep in the stables.”

It was neither particularly surprising nor outrageous that the man spoke with such blistering candor. Although Gabriel was not recognized as being of nobility, despite being the bastard son of an unknown lord, the two of them had become close as brothers during their travels. He was an equal, a close friend and confidante, and free to speak his mind with Sebastian.

“I apologize for my abhorrent behavior. What did you discover during my absence, my curious, insolent friend?” Sebastian muttered.

“Two sets of opinions, mind you. The first being you ruined a countess. The second, that a countess ruined you. Of course, when you initially set me to the task three months ago, I placed my own wagers and won quite handily.” Gabriel’s smile was serene. “Tell me. Did you anticipate it being so painful?”

Sebastian stiffened. “You overstep your bounds, Rose. I’ll not discuss a private matter between myself and Lady Kinley -”

Gabriel laughed out loud. “Good god, man! What do you take me for? I meant you! Did you imagine your ruination to be this agonizing torture? The amount of money I won indicates it was.”

“You placed bets. Against me. Why, may I ask? I accomplished my goal. I destroyed her. Without hardly trying, I might add.”

“Ravenswood, I’ve known you for nearly four years and never have I seen you destroyed. I’ve never seen you besotted by a woman, worry about her, worry for her. Drink to oblivion because of her. She haunts you. Ruined you, no matter the lies you tell yourself.” Gabriel shuffled his papers and took a sip of his bourbon. “Now that I’ve diagnosed you, finish that drink and I’ll fetch another bottle. You’re going to need it, although there is a bright side to the information I’m about to share.”

“And that is?” Sebastian growled, tossing back the liquor. Then ignoring the civility of a glass, he grabbed the nearly empty bottle to drink the last of its contents straight from the rim.

Gabriel shook his head in bemused resignation. “As before, there is no evidence Lady Kinley has taken any lovers. Her choice of companions, however? Troublesome, to say the least.” Leaning forward, his brown eyes flashed with ill-concealed sympathy. “Settle in…and do try to control that unfortunate temper of yours.”

* * *

Sebastian’s presence at Whites triggered a comical flurry of activity. In the main salon, various gentlemen either tripped over themselves to greet him or studiously avoided his gaze. It was difficult deciding which was worse, as he suffered claps on the back and congratulations on his victory. Destroying Ivy resulted in quite a few tidy sums collected, but some losses were suffered simply because of bets placed against members of the Pack. A glance at the wager books was impossible; to view the list of winners and losers would rip apart whatever heart Sebastian thought he still possessed.

Everyone carried a tale or two of the countess’s exploits. He almost wished Gabriel had not related everything, his blood racing to learn of the activities Ivy was indulging in. Dangerous things. In dangerous places. With dangerous men.

Slipping inside one of the numerous card rooms, his presence went mercifully unnoticed. Men huddled over tables cluttered with a varied collection of glasses and cigars, a lively discussion holding their rapt attention.

“I tell you, it was Lady Kinley at Gentleman Jim’s two nights past. I would recognize those lips anywhere. And she wore roses in her hair. White roses with one red, mind you.” A young rake vowed over a forgotten game of hazard. Several gentlemen snorted in disbelief.

Sebastian froze. That first afternoon he called upon Ivy to set his revenge into motion flashed in his mind. The Thomas Carew poem...

“Read in these roses the sad story, of my hard fate and your own glory. In the white, you may discover, the paleness of a fainting lover; In the red, flames still feeding, on my heart with fresh wounds bleeding.”

He was so goddamn arrogant reciting it to her, so confident in predicting her downfall. Now, she mocked him with it. She hated roses…

No. She hated him. Enough to wear the flowers as a reminder of treachery.

“Every damned woman in London is wearing roses in her hair, you fool. And you’ve not been close enough to Poison Ivy’s lips to tell them apart from your own blooming mother’s.”

A round of uproarious laughter swept the room as the first man scowled in rebuttal. “We danced the waltz last week. I can assure you, I know her lips. Venturing into the gardens, I had the chance to taste their sweetness as well. If my stupid, meddlesome brother had not intervened with three other friends to drag her away for a bloody game of Queen of Sheba, dear gentlemen, I could relate much more.”

“Yes, yes and you would have been discovered the very next morning in those same gardens. A solid block of ice. The countess has real snow in her veins now, that she does. She was merely toying with you, Blackton,” Baron Millerson said, a gentleness underlying his gruff nature. “Now that the Pack’s done for, she’s learning a new craft, running with Clayton and Danbury’s set. Discovered how amusing it can be to play with her victims, especially the naïve ones. Don’t be a fool, man.”

“That’s not true,” Blackton stated heatedly, staring at the cards in his hands, remembering the moment shared with Lady Kinley. “I’m hardly innocent and the countess, she was kind and sweet. And so fragile, like the butterfly Ravenswood called her…”

“As fragile as when you saw her cheering on two men pounding one another to bloody bits in the ring?” Someone piped up to even more laughter.

“Best to stay away from the Butterfly Countess, Blackton. Save for one purpose only, if you understand my meaning. Unless you wish to end up as Ravenswood haunting the empty moors like some damned dark ghost.” Tossing down his bet, Millerson nudged the man beside him to do the same.

“Or ten toes up like Timothy Garrett.” Tristan Buchanan, the Viscount of Longleigh, offered from the back of the room. Murmurs of agreement echoed his dry comment.

Hearing these men speak of Ivy in such familiar tones made Sebastian’s heart contort with guilt and ugly jealousy. How quickly the tables turned. It seemed he was one of her victims after all. People whispered of him, how she brought him to his knees, while in the same breath they marveled how he tamed her. Their mutual downfall and triumph was beautifully twisted together in the most grotesque fashion.

Backing away in haste he nearly bowled over a barmaid delivering the next round of drinks.

“Pardon, milord,” she exclaimed as two glasses jostled, sloshing over the tray to create a puddle on the lush carpet. “I thought to slip behind you.”

All eyes turned Sebastian’s way, a hushed, awkward silence falling over the smoky room. Men nudged one another, murmuring low while Blackton flushed scarlet. Solemn, pitying glances passed from man to man, and before Sebastian knew what was happening, they surrounded him, hands clasping his shoulders, his ears filled with apologies and supplicating words meant to appease him. One phrase uttered by a faceless bastard echoed repeatedly in his brain.

She deserved it, she did.

Only Longleigh, calmly sipping his brandy, did not rise to join the others.

It was too much. Shoving his way through Sebastian could not escape the club quickly enough. She deserved it… Deserved his cruelty ripping her apart? Did she deserve the same wrenching pain he suffered? Ivy’s suffering was surely a hundred times more brutal…and at his own hand.

Stumbling out into the moist foggy air of a London late spring night, Sebastian did not stop until he reached his waiting coach. Gripping the back wheel for support, head hanging low near the gutter, he became violently ill.

* * *

“I don’t understand your melancholy,” Rachel remarked in the unsettling silence of the vast dining room.

Sebastian stared at his plate of untouched food. He agreed to dinner as a necessary illusion of normalcy, necessary to hide the fact his perfectly planned world was falling to pieces around him, his legendary control reduced to rubble. Broaching this particular subject was unexpected on his aunt’s part. Madness, actually. Could she not see he was on the verge of becoming unhinged?

“Leave it be.” His voice was dangerously soft.

“If you should feel the slightest pity for her, do not bother. Like a wicked little cat, she lands on her feet.” Rachel tipped back the remnants of her wine, an unsteady gleam in her eyes.

Shifting in his chair, the unnatural level of animosity his aunt leveled toward Ivy struck Sebastian. Something sizzled in his brain, a flash of mystery. For the first time ever, he pondered a novel question. Why did Ivy cut Timothy from the Pack?

What did Timothy do to her?

“Did you not hear me, madam?” The brandy was going down much too smoothly. It was damned difficult not to drink so much, and Sebastian was trying so hard not to. He wanted to drown himself in the numbing shroud of it and forget everything he’d done. Forget everything, forget her while he drowned in misery.

Rachel sneered. “Do you believe she’s suffered? She has attended every ball and soiree held this past month. A new escort each night and never the same twice. She even has a new title.” The laugh was ugly. “The Unbroken. They are all calling her that, although some refer to her as the Ravenswood’s Curse, now that you’ve become a victim. And God knows, the ton does love a victim. Especially when it runs in families.” Slamming her empty goblet down, she motioned to the footman. With an apologetic glance at Sebastian, the servant refilled it. “You didn’t ruin her, Sebastian, you emboldened her. The chit had the impudence to give me the cut direct, laughing at me while Danbury and Clayton urged her on-”

“Enough,” Sebastian growled, standing so abruptly his chair crashed to the floor. His head pounded with guilt, jealousy and a whole host of other emotions too unbearable to confront. Eventually another man would have her in his bed, but Sebastian knew he held no say in her actions. That right was lost the moment he broke her heart and crushed her soul on her father’s desk.

Rachel’s words followed him as he stalked from the room.

“She won, Sebastian. A century ago, she would have burned at the stake, for she is a sorceress sent to bedevil men. Witless puppets dancing to her every whim, all of you. You did not make her pay as you said you would. Now all of London knows the truth. She beat you at your own game.”