Molly stepped back and with a sigh of contentment gave the shining curls one last pat. “You look like a princess in a fairytale, that you do!”

“Do you not think the diamonds are overmuch?”

“Oh no, milady! You look right beautiful.” The servant winked. “A gent might go blind just lookin’ at you.”

“Molly!” Ivy adjusted the three-tiered diamond necklace gracing the swell of her breasts before tucking in one of the roses woven through her hair a bit tighter.

The ball gown, a silver hued silk shot with glittery satin strands, twinkled with shimmery iridescent lights every time she moved. The dressmaker said it would appear she wore a gown spun from fairy wings and no truer statement was made. Ivy wanted the magical confection the moment she saw it, although it was only half constructed at the time. The silk was the exact color of Sebastian’s eyes when he kissed her the first time in her music room. Long before he broke her heart.

Madam Jocelyn was very convincing in arguing the cut of the gown should be a bit more daring. Such a unique piece of fabric, she insisted, simply cried out for an adventurous style. Admittedly, the petite French seamstress was correct, but the gown now skated on the verge of scandalous. It dipped lower than anything else Ivy owned. She felt the need to keep tugging the edges of it upward. Trimmed in delicate vines of pale shimmery green, an ivory corset pushed her breasts up into twin mounds of creamy flesh. One deep breath and she might actually overflow its confines. But it was the design of the gown’s back where Madam Jocelyn earned her outrageous fees.

From tiny cap sleeves barely skimming the tops of her shoulders, the dress curved in a dangerous dance along the edges of her shoulder blades, leaving Ivy’s entire back naked to the waist. This vast expanse of skin was most concerning. By necessity a dance partner would place a hand upon the bare flesh of her lower back to guide her. Such intimacy bordered on the outrageous.

Molly had threaded several roses throughout the loose braids of hair grazing the top of Ivy’s shoulders. All snowy pristine white save for one, the roses existed as a silent stab at him, intended to prove his existence meant nothing to her all along. Each bloom began as a bud. As the night wore on, the petals unfurled in the warmth of the ballrooms and the late spring air until all became lush and full. The flowers were now a signature; worn to every social event. At the end of the evening, as Ivy departed, each was tugged free, tossed to whoever cared to catch one. There never seemed to be a shortage of men scrambling and frantic to catch a favor from The Unbroken.

One rose was never white. Always placed above her left ear, the side of her body where her frozen heart thumped, that rose was red. Bloody, scarlet, brazen red.

It received special treatment. Petal by petal, Ivy would destroy the perfect bloom to the crowd’s delight. Oftentimes the petals showered her last dance partner. Sometimes the recipient was her escort or a lucky fool chosen at random. The most anticipated nights were those when, in a subtle erotic gesture captivating any man fortunate enough to witness it, Ivy kissed each petal before releasing it so it drifted in her wake. Many heads shook in scandalized disapproval, but she did not care. Every red rose ruined was the earl’s treacherous heart, ripped to pieces in her bare hands.

Ravenswood had returned to London and was rumored to be attending the Faringdon’s Ball tonight. Ivy hoped it was true. He would see men waiting to dance with her, plying her with champagne and begging to accompany her along garden paths in the moonlight. Her broken heart wanted nothing less than Sebastian Cain to see others pursuing the woman he had so callously discarded.

Most of all she wanted him watching as she destroyed her roses, the blossoms ground to dust beneath her heel. Wanted him to know they meant nothing to her. That he meant nothing to her at all.

But, then again, it would be wise to tread cautiously. Ivy intentionally sought the company of society’s rakehells, knowing the outrageous exploits would reach Sebastian’s ears. Her choices were dangerous, although she discovered a perverse pleasure in navigating this narrow tightrope. These particular wolves toyed with her, biding their time for the right moment to pounce, but Ivy enjoyed outmaneuvering them.

She whirled through the nights alone even when she had an escort. Sara pleaded with her in vain, distancing herself when Ivy ignored her. Her father, frozen with indecision as she spiraled away, came to realize any attempt to pull his daughter from the cliff's ragged edge was futile. Their newly mended relationship was too fragile to keep Ivy from drifting alone in her sea of heartache.

And so Ivy spun. She danced. She teased and kissed. She allowed embraces filling her to the brim with freezing rain and still...

There was no escaping Sebastian.

"It's not fair,” she muttered, forced to compare new caresses and kisses to those he gave her. It wasn’t fair that in the midst of dancing and socials and operas and clandestine boxing matches, her thoughts filled with him. When a man smiled or laughed, or took her hand to press a kiss, Ivy automatically compared him to Sebastian. Tonight, his memory and his kisses would hold her hostage no longer. She would break free of him somehow. She would erase him from her mind.

With a grim smile of determination, Ivy caressed the scarlet rosebud with gentle fingers. She could erase him from her heart. Even if the required price was that of her own soul.

* * *

Ivy laughed and flirted. She danced until her feet surely ached. The goblets of champagne consumed were too numerous to count. She teetered with charming sweetness, leaning against one man or another and those surrounding her perked up like predatory beasts trailing a wounded doe.

Icy anger settled over Sebastian. He watched from a shadowy alcove near the garden entrance, miraculously hidden by numerous plants. Lurking like a nefarious criminal. It was disheartening, the depths he had sunk. He literally hid behind potted palms in an attempt to spy on her. Potted palms, for Christ’s sake.

The Earl of Clayton pressed another glass of champagne into Ivy’s hand. Notoriously dissolute, Clayton held a decided taste for virgins. The man’s dark eyes roamed with insolent enjoyment over Ivy, touching with appreciation on the twinkle of diamonds framing her magnificent breasts, breasts which threatened to overflow the confines of the ball gown. If she took a deep enough breath, they would. And those damned roses sprinkled like fairy dust in her hair…they taunted Sebastian. A reminder of all he lost when she slipped through his fingers.

Damn her. Did Ivy have any idea of the danger she was in?

Is the risk from these other men? Or from myself?

When she turned to thank Clayton for the champagne, Sebastian almost choked.

Bloody hell!

Ivy’s naked back gleamed like warm silk, the gown swirling around the lovely curve of her hips. With impotent fury Sebastian watched Clayton’s hand drift to rest in the shadowy hollow of her lower back. Those blunt fingers of his lightly stroked the indentation of her bare spine as if he already owned her. Clayton obviously discovered a recent preference for fallen countesses. He boldly staked a claim but his possessive efforts did little in warning others off. Some old members of the Pack were already edging in, including Basford who appeared apoplectic with the need to rescue Ivy.

Sebastian’s gaze dropped to his hands. They shook. Hoping to calm the murderous blood racing through his veins, he sucked in a deep breath.

Lord Danbury leaned close, his mouth beside Ivy’s cheek while she laughed at his whispered comment. The melodious sound echoed, high and brittle to Sebastian’s ears. Ivy Kinley was a glittering, dazzling creation. Almost too stunning to gaze upon, an air of mystery shimmering about her. Enticing, bewitching and unattainable. Before he ruined her, that innocence lured men; now an elusive wickedness tempted and teased. This was not the Ivy he knew. This…this was a creature fashioned from his own cruelty.

She smiled too brightly, hands resting much too casually on the gentlemen’s arms congregating about her. Each glass of champagne pressed upon her swallowed with astonishing quickness. She was well on her way to being thoroughly intoxicated if she was not already. When she swayed again on unsteady feet, Danbury flashed a triumphant grin. Knowing glances flew between the five men huddled in the dimly lit corner.

A dark fire lit Sebastian’s eyes.

Nicholas March, the Earl of Landon, sauntered up to the outskirts of the group, his golden head tilted in contemplation. He seemed to debate joining the men gathered around the countess or remain on the fringes as an observer. However, he did not intercede.

Crossing his arms because his hands now twitched with a lethal anger, Sebastian watched the men - no…not men - jackals - circling her. They gathered for the kill after playing with her for so many weeks. Beasts, all of them, and he was the pack leader who’d set them on her trail. Word of his return to London must have reached her by now and consummate predators, these men picked up on Ivy’s weakness, her heightened propensity for recklessness. They hunted her. Tonight, she would be their entertainment. And it would be too late to save her. Hell, she probably had no wish to be rescued. According to all rumors, she was quite content to be their prey.

Clayton brushed a soft kiss to the top of her shoulder. Ivy acknowledged the intimate caress with a confused half-smile and Sebastian’s tightly held temper reached combustion levels. A red haze of anger blinded him with such thoroughness he did not see Nick shouldering through the small group.

Nicholas’s hand closed with a proprietary firmness on Ivy’s elbow, an unreadable expression crossing his features. The man’s aloofness possessed a legendary status, so his intentions were a curious puzzle. Unless it was to his personal benefit, one should not expect his assistance. With a tendency to utilize tactics delicately subtle in nature, his brazen approach was shocking.

Should the countess accept his aid...well, Nicholas’ methods of repayment would prove much higher than she could afford.

“Some breathing room for the lady, gentlemen.” Nick’s words carried over the lilting sounds of the orchestra. By his tone he knew his order would be obeyed without question.

The men bristled, sensing their prey slipping through their fingers and into the hands of the soon to be titled Duke of Richeforte. Was it worth a challenge if he tried claiming the countess? He had never showed any interest in her before, other than a polite regard. Everyone knew he shunned the debutantes and virginal set as if all were afflicted with the French clap. But now, Ivy was damaged goods. Now, his jaded tastes found her worthy of attention and if Landon wanted her, none of them stood a chance in hell.

Nicholas’s lips quirked when Ivy half stumbled, half fell against him. The twin dimples flitting in both his cheeks apparently hypnotized her. She stared unblinkingly at the man. Nudging her upright, he kept the grip on her elbow. “Would you care for a turn around the terrace, Lady Kinley? For a bit of, ah, fresh air?” Without waiting for consent, he propelled her forward, detaching her from the group with expert precision. Claiming her for himself.

Sebastian’s vision clouded red, hands clenched even tighter, ready to smash, to destroy.

To kill.

Only to find he was saved from murder by the most unlikely of saviors.

“My dear Lady Kinley! My goodness, Lady Kinley! I’ve been searching for you everywhere. Have you ever seen so many people? It’s an absolute crush!”

Lady Veronica Wesley, a vision in lavender silk, her mouth stretched into a broad smile, jaw tilted in grim understanding, barreled into the group. Taking Ivy’s arm, she practically wrenched her from Nicholas’s grasp.

He relinquished Ivy without a single word. A familiar expression of bored amusement slipped over his fallen angel features, the glittering emerald eyes unreadable. It was something Sebastian always envied about his former friend…the uncanny ability to keep his emotions from being used as arsenal.

Ivy twisted, unable to focus on who tugged her away from the center of male attention. Squinting, her face pulled into a perplexed scowl. “Lady Wesley?”

“Yes, my dear! I had to discover who made this lovely gown for you. It’s quite stunning! The way the silk flows, these shiny strands. You simply must give me your dressmaker’s direction. Are the shoes made to match? And what a gorgeous display of diamonds! I vow they are fit for the queen. Were they a gift? Or, perhaps your mother’s? Now, she was a beautiful woman, wasn’t she…it’s said you resemble her a great deal.”

With a stream of distracting questions, Veronica maneuvered Ivy toward a set of doors leading to one of the many garden terraces. The jackals muttered in dissent. Their prey was in danger of being whisked out of reach. By a mere woman, no less. As a group, they trailed the two ladies, unwilling to allow Ivy to escape so easily.

Nicholas strolled in silence behind the clutch of men. Sebastian did not know what thoughts turned behind those cold eyes of his, but thank God, he no longer had Ivy in his grasp.

Every muscle in his body constricted and even Nick scowled with faint disgust when Clayton snagged Ivy’s arm in a vise-like grip. Veronica’s eyes widened before she burst into peals of laughter. She retained her hold, a tug of war looming, with the countess as the prize.

“Gentlemen, please. Lady Kinley and I only mean to step outside to discuss a few things. One can hardly carry on a private conversation in this din!” Veronica flashed a carefree smile at the grumbling men. It was a reminder how accommodating she could be if the terms were suitable. Years ago, she directed the same smile at Sebastian prior to the onset of several debauched nights. That was the night her bed proved too small to hold them and the two additional ladies she laughingly presented as a birthday gift. It was shortly after that he purchased the massive bed Lady Veronica Wesley enjoyed to this day.

“Will one of you be a dear and fetch some champagne? And when we return, we shall all continue our chat in a more private setting. Won’t that be nicer than this crowded ballroom?” Veronica’s suggestion was a sweet purr, the insinuated nuance of something so wicked and divine it left the men spellbound. The possibilities of such a tryst were incentive enough for Clayton to drop Ivy’s arm. He gave Veronica a sharp nod of compliance.

Nicholas March’s golden head tilted. Ivy and Veronica were each subjected to his cold calculation.

Sebastian’s guts tightened in horror. Every last one of these men would die if they dared…

There was only one reason to venture outside and this was to escape the crowd inside. Ivy had no particular interest in escaping. In vain, she attempted to pull free from Veronica’s tight grip.

“Why’dchu hold myarm?” Her words slurred. “You don’ ‘ven like me…call Poison ‘vee. I know you... ‘eard you!”

Shocked twitters of laughter rippled through a growing crowd of fascinated spectators. Sebastian grimaced. Blood roared in his veins. The urge to destroy all of them, including Nicholas March, bloody hell, especially Nicholas March, almost overwhelmed him.

The face of each man staring after Veronica as she dragged the countess away was committed to memory. Only until he turned to slip out the terrace doors did he realized Nicholas was almost upon him.

Their eyes locked, with neither man moving for a long moment. Then, a slow smile of mockery hovering on his lips, Nick bowed. A dark golden brow lifted, silently daring Sebastian to emerge from the shadowy alcove.

Sebastian’s hands tightened. Damn it, his teeth hurt from clenching them so hard. He wanted to storm over and knock that insulting grin from Nick’s face. Knowing if he stayed a second longer he would do something regrettable, he abruptly turned his back and stalked away.

* * *

Laughter and loud conversations echoed behind them as Veronica propelled Ivy to the closest set of garden doors. As they drew away from the stimulating confines of the ballroom, Ivy’s pace slowed.

“Wait,” she moaned, swallowing hard and closing her eyes. “Moving…too fast…I’m going to be sick.”

“A few more steps, Lady Kinley. You’ll feel so much better on the terrace. The fresh air will do wonders,” Veronica urged before mumbling under her breath, “and a pot of strong French coffee would do even better.”

They reached the terrace without incident but as the door closed behind them, Ivy stumbled. Momentum carried them along, nearly tumbling both to the stone floor.

With one arm, Sebastian put Veronica to rights while scooping Ivy up into the curve of the other.

“I’ve got her,” he growled, the timber of his voice revealing nothing would change that fact. Yes. He had her. And she was not sliding through his fingers ever again.