“He’s here!”

“-actually came. I can’t believe it -”

“Ravenswood is on the hunt for Poison Ivy.”

Panic battered Ivy, her heart pounding with the violence of it. Like a wildfire sweeping over her, the roar filled her ears until she could hear nothing else.

It was rude. It was deplorable. But if she did not get a breath of blessed fresh air, she would throw up all over her new dancing slippers. Or perhaps those highly polished Hessian boots Brandon was so bloody proud of. She abandoned the viscount, mouth agape in stunned annoyance, in the middle of the black and white marble floor, gaily-dressed couples swirling about him.

Open curiosity and murmurs of scandalized outrage rippled outward from the center of the ballroom. Ivy’s pace increased as she reached the edges of the floor. A cluster of girls, clad in the identical white of freshly introduced debutantes, tittered behind pristine gloved hands, whispers mingled with their giggles. Those multiple-hued heads dipped together, while words so thick with cruelty they almost formed a cloud, drifted in Ivy’s wake.

Gossip was her constant companion now, a bedfellow difficult to ignore. The miserable sting in Ivy’s chest every time a barb found its mark was a harsh reminder she was far from immune. It hurt, but no one needed to see how deeply the arrows wounded her.

A few more steps to the nearest terrace doors and freedom would be hers. With stoic grimness, shoving through the maze of elbows and satin skirts, Ivy plotted escape. From the terrace to the gardens and from there to the front steps of the mansion. She could simply locate her coach, allow it to whisk her away. The curved handles of the terrace doors lay at her fingertips…

“Ivy Kinley, don’t you dare run.”

“I’m not running.” Ivy’s stomach flip-flopped with the denial. When champagne tinged bitterness rose in her throat, her teeth clenched against the choking tide. She would be sick, right there, in front of God and everyone. “I was-”

“You would make an excellent thief, darling.” Linking their arms, Lady Sara Morgan spun Ivy away from the terrace doors. “Your abilities to escape are remarkable.”

“You’ll wish you’d let me go when I ruin your slippers as well as my own.” Ivy pressed two trembling fingertips to her lips. “I feel quite ill.”

Sara’s blonde head tilted. She assessed Ivy then ignored the dismal confession, surveying the ballroom.

“Oh, dear. There’s Count Phillipe Monvair. Someone ought to remand that man’s valet to Newgate. Those color combinations are simply criminal. A violation to all the senses, don’t you agree?”

Jostling his way through the crush of some three hundred odd people attending the Sheffield Ball, the dubiously dressed count held two goblets of champagne balanced high above his head. By the grim smile of determination splayed across his hawkish, bearded face, his path was evident.

Sara swallowed another laugh. “Such a gaudy little peacock. I’ve never seen a man strut with such a complete lack of humility.”

“I rather like how the count dresses.”

“Only because you believe it takes attention away from you.” Sara stood on her tiptoes; the better to scan the entire ballroom.

“If I thought it would help my cause,” Ivy grumbled, “I would gladly sponsor his tailor.”

Rocking onto the balls of her feet, Sara shot her an exasperated glance. “Attempts to disappear only makes others that more rabid to seek you out. You might as well hang a sign about your neck begging people to poke and prod at you.”

Ivy said nothing. Sara could not fathom the depths of her desire to escape, to become invisible to the threat stalking the elegant ballroom. Despite the feeble attempts at lightheartedness, dread prodded her. She should rip away from her friend’s grasp. Run as though the devils of hell chased her. One hunted her now. What would she do if he caught her?

Her free hand twisted the folds of her skirt. Nervous energy brimmed and bubbled inside her, causing her stomach to rope and twist into hangman knots.

Candle light blazed from every available corner while high overhead enormous chandeliers illuminated the vast room in a romantic glow. Glittering people filled the space; some danced, while others stood in clusters, sharing on-dits of gossip. Liveried servants in red and gold slipped in and out of the crowd, trays of champagne held high overhead. In the midst of it all, the Earl of Ravenswood waited to materialize.

“Do you realize who is here?” Ivy muttered. Rumors galloped in wild abandon from one end of the ballroom to the other. It seemed impossible Sara did not know.

“Perhaps not…”

“Oh, he is. Somewhere. Much like the plague. Just because one cannot physically see the disease does not negate its existence.” Ivy’s foot tapped in agitation.

“That’s hardly complimentary of you,” Sara laughed softly. “While true he’s not a man to be crossed, I doubt Lord Ravenswood has anything in common with infectious diseases.”

“I’m not so certain. The rumor is…”

“I’m well aware of the rumors and you, darling girl, will not run. You have done nothing wrong. If you show even the slightest weakness, these heartless vultures, otherwise known as our friends, will rip you apart.” A mischievous grin spread across Sara’s lovely features when Ivy’s tightly pressed lips acknowledged the wisdom of her words. “Besides, those doors there are locked. I witnessed three -” Sara held up three fingers, ignoring Ivy’s tiny groan of frustration, “three -mind you, love-silly couples discretely attempting to pry them open. Just within the last five minutes. Lady Sheffield always locks them, remember? Lord, she is an eccentric creature, although I wonder how we might escape a fire or some other disaster.”

“Locked terrace doors certainly impede our chances of survival,” Ivy sighed. “Although such a distraction, while quite tragic, would be welcomed.”

Sara’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s said she hides the key in the depths of that ample bodice of hers. No one, not even Lord Sheffield, dares any attempt to retrieve it.”

Ivy’s lips twitched with a reluctant grin.

Sara giggled. “See? A bit of humor exists in this deplorable situation. Now, chin up, darling. And won’t you smile even a little for the poor count? Oh, blast it. Smiles for the entire Pack, for here they come running. I vow they track you with the bloodlust of a passel of prized foxhounds.”

“Given a chance, I fear they would tear me apart and fight over the pieces.” Smoothing her features into a cool mask of pleasant acceptance, the smile Ivy granted Count Phillipe Monvair was one that gossip columns recently declared to rival the sun. Which was utterly ridiculous. This smile was the same as her others. Only romantic fools saw a difference. “And does it matter if I smile? The entire lot of them can’t seem to raise their eyes any higher than the area of my chest.”

“That’s not completely true.” Sara grinned when Ivy’s turquoise eyes narrowed. “Why, just the other day, I heard Lord McLemore comment what a lovely shade of gold your eyes are. Or perhaps he was speaking of your inheritance?”

“Mon chers, I bring refreshments,” Monvair exclaimed in his thick accent. He ignored the stoic servant standing nearly shoulder to shoulder beside him holding a full tray of beverages.

Ivy and Sara exchanged annoyed glances. The garishly dressed count proudly bore champagne as though it were fresh water in the depths of an endless desert. Six other men quickly completed the circle surrounding the girls, including the previously abandoned, fiercely frowning Viscount Basford. Since Brandon rarely moved at a pace beyond a dignified stroll Ivy knew he was truly vexed to have reached her in such haste.

The Pack overtook the conversation as Ivy accepted the glass Monvair offered.

“My lady, might I be so bold to request the next waltz when the orchestra returns? The viscount must have stomped your toes. I vow I shall not.”

“Will you sing for us, Lady Kinley? Your voice is much sweeter than Lady Tremayne’s daughters, lovely though they are.”

What a boldfaced lie. Ivy knew full well she sang like a canary with tail feathers set aflame.

“You must honor me with your company at supper. Please, do not say no. You’ve denied me the last three times-”

“Lady Kinley, a bit of cake, perhaps? Some fruit? Champagne?”

Ignoring them, Ivy wiggled her toes, resisting the urge to pour champagne over the head of the man foolish enough to suggest more champagne. Maintaining a bland smile meant she was about to chew the insides of her cheeks raw. Lord, but these new slippers were a dreadful torture. She should make her way to the ladies’ retiring salon to slip them off while the musicians took a moment to retune their instruments and the Tremayne Twins demonstrated how singing might possibly net one a husband.

A smile twitched the corner of Ivy’s lip. What a perfect excuse to escape this madness. Even Sara would not suspect. Yes...she should do just that. After all, what choice did she have? Wait to be slaughtered by Ravenswood? Oh! What was she thinking, coming to this ball? Knowing the danger, knowing the earl would most likely attend, she should not have come tonight. She could not say why she had.

But that wasn’t true. Curiosity and a perverse desire for punishment demanded attendance. Sooner or later, they would encounter one another. It was far better to face the man in this theater of war, where polite murmurs and courteous battle wounds could be exchanged in a civilized manner. At least in this setting Sara provided a shield against any unexpected assaults.

Only now, stomach roiling, hands sweating inside elbow-high silk gloves, Ivy wished she’d heeded her vastly intelligent inner voice. Her scar tingled where the silk clung to the moist surface of her palm and she resisted the urge to scratch it. Yes, she should have stayed home.

Someone pressed a second glass of champagne upon her. Imbecile. In a single fluid motion, Ivy’s hands rose high, only to find both goblets snatched away.

Giving the glasses to a passing servant, Sara shook her head, frowning in amused exasperation while Ivy shrugged. To see the Pack scatter, yelps of confusion at the unexpected soaking would have been a welcomed distraction and a missed opportunity to disappear in the confusion.

“You are truly dazzling tonight, Lady Kinley.” Lord Christopher Andry leaned in. “Prettier than the exquisite butterfly I only recently discovered.”

Freshly graduated from Oxford, Christopher often floundered in painful shyness. It receded if the conversation turned to a scientific explanation of some unfortunate winged insect he’d captured and preserved under glass, stabbed into place with an ivory headed pin. Tonight, emboldened by champagne and a few tumblers of brandy, his hands barely trembled as he smoothed back his pale blond hair.

“What’s this?” Sir Oliver Batten’s smile lay partially concealed beneath a mustache of graying brown. “Andry is giving compliments instead of dissertations on a ghastly beetle collection. What’s gotten into you, sir?”

“Half a bottle of champagne, I suspect.” Monvair stroked the dark goatee lending a rakish flair to his thin features. A few chuckled at his dry humor while Christopher flashed the Frenchman a baleful glare.

“Lord Andry, we shall have a splendid time discussing this latest find over dinner.” Ivy touched the crook of Christopher’s arm before easing away. She’d grown much wiser during the course of this second season, and managing squabbling, jealous men now came as second nature. A shame she became so proficient after destroying one man with so little effort.

The others groaned while Christopher lit up like a firefly.

Although she returned his smile, Ivy intended on escaping long before the announcement of the midnight dinner. To give the impression one was favored over others was unwise, even if she held a soft spot for Christopher. He reminded her of Timothy before things went so dreadfully wrong, before Timothy decided she owed him more than her friendship.

Some manner of disturbance was causing a flurry of activity across the ballroom. It drew the attention of the crowd past the edge of the Pack as two men stalked toward the elevated terrace; an undulating sea of expectant faces bobbing behind the one in the lead.

Ivy’s smile froze. Sara unceremoniously pushed past Christopher to take her hand, giving it a quick squeeze of encouragement as the Pack launched into a new squabble over who might procure fresh champagne for the ladies.

“He’s coming,” Sara whispered. “Dear God. I may be ill.”

“Don’t you even dare, Sara Morgan.” Ivy was surprisingly calm. Her executioner was coming. He did not carry an axe, but the result would be the same. “One of us must keep our wits, and our heads, about us.” Was it too late to escape? If only she possessed the strength to pry her fingers from Sara’s grip. There must be a way to break through those damn terrace doors…with or without the key from Lady Sheffield’s hefty bosom.

Sara’s brilliant smile flashed from behind clenched teeth. “We will not be ill!”

“You’re hardly convincing when you’ve turned a ghastly shade of chartreuse. I’ve seen that color once before. Came across Lord Paulson tossing his biscuits at the Searcy party a month ago. He lost a fortune at the hazard tables and I overheard him moaning how he’d ever explain it to his father and -”

“Shhh!” Sara’s face took on an even greener cast. “You’re only making it worse. Why are you suddenly so calm?”

Ivy almost laughed at that. Her? Calm? Oh, she was far from that. The nightmares suffered since news of Ravenswood’s return swept through London were coming true. Ivy knew she should move quickly in the opposite direction and yet, a bizarre urge to see the approaching menace seized her. Gripping Sara’s shoulder with one hand to maintain her balance, she lifted up the slightest bit on her tiptoes. And immediately sank back down, shivering, the breath squeezed from her lungs.

The man towered over those around him. Only the Earl of Bentley, almost lockstep beside him, possessed a similar height. Oh God. Sebastian Cain was terrifying. And brutal. A warrior hacking through bodies of vanquished mortals to reach his battle prize, the crowd falling to pieces behind him.

She was that prize. A sacrifice of blood in exchange for Timothy’s young life. The sounds of the ballroom faded and an icy rivulet of sweat trickled down Ivy’s spine to settle in the hollow of her back. She was definitely not calm.

“Damn Timothy Garrett,” Sara whispered fiercely. “Damn him!”

Ordinarily, Ivy interjected. “Have mercy for him,” she would say, pleading for compassion. A prayer would be whispered for the charming, pleasant young man she once considered her friend, a hope his tortured soul found peace despite his sad, desperate actions.

Now, Ivy nodded in silent agreement.

Ravenswood was overwhelmingly male, all wide shoulders and lean muscles. He appeared to have no need for discreet padding to aid his form. In fact, it was indecent, the manner in which the elegant clothing clung to his body, stretching but snug in all the appropriate places. Realizing the path of her gaze, Ivy jerked her eyes back up, her cheeks on fire. The stark simplicity of his masculinity made every other gentleman seem a bit foppish by comparison. And his eyes…Good Lord. They were piercing and hot, glimmering silver with promises of sin and dangerous pleasures. And revenge. This man...he’d seen things. Done wicked things. Even in her innocence, Ivy recognized the sensuality burning within him like a lit flame.

Unwelcome memories from seven years prior rose in her mind. Enveloped by girlish purity and despairing grief, Ivy failed to recognize the young lord’s splendid attractiveness that day in her father’s drawing room. She noted it now. Despite her panic, it was impossible to ignore his devastating handsomeness. Thick ebony colored hair curled in ruffled waves against the tall collar of his black, cutaway evening coat. Lightly bronzed angular features were a study in rugged, male perfection, defined by high cheekbones and a bold nose. The square line of his jaw was fascinating, for although clean-shaven, the barest hint of a shadow lent a rakish air. He seemed immune to the women of varying ages trailing in his wake, many of them giggling and whispering, sometimes shoving to get closer.

He was danger incarnate. A predator who would think nothing of devouring her alive. He would wipe his mouth, lick his fingers and thank her for providing his breakfast. A sinful creature whose days surely began with a feast of virgins. Self-preservation screamed at Ivy to run, to get as far away as possible, but she found it impossible to move. Every muscle in her body ignored the mental commands to skitter out of harm’s way.

Ivy swallowed past a lump of nausea. “Sara, I am terrified. What should I do?”

Sara blinked. “Now, I’m truly worried. I’ve never known you to be afraid of anything so I can only tell you to have courage, darling.”

Courage? Ivy possessed not an ounce of it so she formed a desperate strategy. Should she fail to acknowledge Ravenswood, perhaps he would do the same. They could slip past one another, each pretending the other did not exist. Remembering the devastating cut inflicted by Lady Garrett last week, a helpless sound, somewhere between a giggle and a sob, escaped her. Surprisingly, it drew a sharp eye from Brandon, and for a long moment, he considered her before resuming a disagreement with Christopher that he would most certainly accompany the countess into the midnight supper.

Ivy’s jaw tilted. She must brazen this particular encounter out. Pray the earl held no interest in her. Gripping Sara’s hand tighter, her gaze fixed on the musicians’ loft. She could survive this and him. She must.

* * *

Fifteen minutes before, Ravenswood and the Earl of Bentley stepped into the Sheffield Ballroom, their progress delayed by several guests determined in their quest to personally welcome Sebastian back on English soil.

“Which one is she?”

“Oh, I forgot you’ve not been introduced,” Alan grinned. “It won’t be difficult to spot her. She’s an uncommonly beautiful girl. Dazzling, actually.”

“I’ve met her before. Just after Kinley lost his wife. A disagreeable chit with the manners of a sailor, frizzy brown hair and a face splattered with freckles.” Sebastian’s gaze dissected every female he saw. Young, old, plump, thin, some desirable, some not. Half possessed the plain brown hair of his memory. “And she was overweight.”

Alan’s eyebrow rose. “Freckles and fat? It is not possible we speak of the same Lady Ivy Elizabeth Kinley.”

“Plump,” Sebastian grumbled, accepting a snifter of brandy from a passing servant. “She was plump. I think. It’s difficult to say. I believe her clothing was stolen from a stable boy. An overweight, filthy stable boy to be precise. Damnit, Bentley, at the very least, tell me what to search for now.”

“You’ll know her when you see her. Here now, I’ll take pity on you. Look for an unusually high number of men accumulated in one spot, with two beautiful ladies at the center. However, the lovely, petite blonde who is surely with Lady Kinley has captured my interest, so I’ll thank you to spare her in the carnage.”

Sebastian scowled. “There must be three hundred guests crammed into this damned ballroom. What constitutes an abnormally high number of fools gathered around one woman?”

“Two women,” Alan chuckled, giving Sebastian a friendly punch to the shoulder. “As we will soon join those fools, you might refrain from the derogatory characterizations.”

With a snort of disgust, Sebastian scanned the room again. Only this time his gaze crashed to an abrupt halt. There. Across the swamped ballroom. It must be her. Standing on tiptoes, balancing herself with a hand on a blonde girl’s shoulder, she surveyed the room in the same manner he did. Her eyes swept over Sebastian, halting for the briefest moment as their stares locked, and it felt as though a hundred, crushing jolts of lightning streaked through him. In absent disbelief, he rubbed the vicinity of his chest. It was her.

His prey.

What in the name of holy hell had become of the ungainly, awkward, neither pretty nor ugly child from seven short years before? This girl, this vision of absolute beauty, bore no resemblance to her. None whatsoever.

The discovery leveled Sebastian. He felt cheated. And holy hell...those could not be...were those damned angels singing? Lilting, beautiful...a chorus of melodic voices possessing the power to bring grown men to tears. Was it real? Or merely in his head?

No, thank God, not real angels. Just Lady Tremayne’s pair of husband-hunting daughters providing a soaring a cappella performance while the musicians indulged in a short reprieve.

“Ah, you’ve found her.” Alan’s tone dripped with such sly amusement Sebastian realized he knew all along just where the countess stood in the crowded ballroom. “Well? What do you think?”

Think? Thinking was impossible. Sebastian could only feel, and what he felt must not be uttered aloud. It was too brutal, involved several crimes against God and Her Majesty’s Crown - and all necessary for the ruination of a countess. And highly pleasurable for the man cruel enough to implement them.

Men swarmed about her, glazed adoration stamped on their features. Like drones surrounding a queen bee, their bodies clad in varying shades of colorful brocades and satins, they buzzed in a futile hunt for prime positions.

It was unfair to compare her to such an unworthy creature as a bee. Maybe a butterfly was a better analogy, or perhaps an exotic bird, beautiful and delicate, ready to flutter away at any moment. Fury sizzled through his veins but Sebastian welcomed it. It clarified his vision, sharpened things. God, her exquisiteness must have overwhelmed Timothy. No wonder his poor cousin succumbed to madness.

While Sebastian clenched his teeth, the angelic chorus created by the Tremayne Twins rose and fell as a backdrop. Damn, the girl positively glowed, like a flash of sunshine in a tawdry ocean of the artificial, her gown the palest blush hue, the exact shade of a red rose petal before it begins to fade to cream. He did not usually apply flowery tributes to women, no matter their attractiveness. It difficult business to wring a compliment from the Earl of Ravenswood’s lips; worshipping this girl in a moment of weakness made his anger swell to dangerous heights. What the hell was wrong with him? His particular brand of cold-blooded vengeance required unemotional reasoning and he’d never any trouble yielding it before. At least until now.

“Damnable Pack,” Alan muttered beside him.

Sebastian was spoiling for a fight. The heat of it smoldered in the pit of his stomach, contracting with a violent need to confront the countess. He tore his gaze from the sunlight radiating on the upper terrace of the ballroom, finding it difficult to reconcile she was indeed his target. She required only a halo and a damned pair of wings to complete the illusion of absolute purity.

He felt dizzy. Off balance

“Why do you say that?” He pinned Alan with a penetrating stare. It sounded as if his old friend believed those men to be wholly responsible for the fashioning of the vain creature standing in their midst.

“Never mind.” Alan swallowed back any further oaths.

Sebastian was hardly ignorant of Society’s charming label for Lady Kinley’s devoted band of followers, having learned of it upon his return to England. The knowledge Timothy participated in the sordid affair was infuriating. His jaw set at a grim angle, Sebastian made his way toward the countess, Alan falling lockstep beside him.

“Do try not to frighten off Lady Morgan, will you?” His friend’s murmur was sarcasm at its best.

Sebastian managed a terse nod of agreement.

A mythical Pied Piper, he led the growing crowd. Upon guessing his intent, they now flowed in his wake, a herd of bleating, mindless sheep.

Sebastian considered the young woman standing beside the countess. Alan seemed quite smitten with Lady Sara Morgan and she was certainly a beauty. Her family was well thought of, the young lady herself described as kind and gentle. Sebastian found it perplexing she should befriend the likes of Ivy Kinley. His sources were quick to note the two girls’ devotion to one another, their friendship dating back finishing school.

To the countess’s left stood a dark blonde gentleman. Brandon Madsen, Viscount of Basford, considered himself the forerunner for Ivy’s hand. Sebastian wondered how disappointed the man might be when her ruination was complete. The viscount appreciated the appeal of a fallen woman, doing his best to keep them occupied, although in the most secret of fashions. Quite a bit of the Basford inheritance was expended cleaning up behind the viscount and his pleasures.

Upon reaching the terrace, Sebastian did the opposite of what was expected. He promptly directed his attention to Sara as she yanked her hand from Ivy’s tight grasp. Alan gave an exasperated shake of his head and politely greeted the countess.

“Lady Morgan.” Sebastian brushed an impersonal kiss across Sara’s gloved knuckles. “Lord Bentley’s claims of your beauty have not been exaggerated.”

Sara dipped a quick curtsy. “Such kind words, Lord Ravenswood.”

“The truth is not always kind, but in your case, Lady Morgan, it is wonderfully so.” He kissed her hand again before allowing her fingers to slide from his.

The moment Sebastian released Sara, Alan brushed past him. Placing his own kiss to her gloved fingers, Alan pulled her to him and that tiny bit of space enabled a different man to slip next to Lady Kinley.

Sebastian’s gaze swept over his target, two gentlemen now flanking her sides. Like palace sentinels, they watched with mistrustful eyes while Ivy stood so rigid between them a slight breeze might snap her in half.

She studied the orchestra’s loft with great intent. Indeed, her eyes traveled everywhere other than his direction. When she tired of staring at the musicians as they settled into their seats, her gaze drifted to various members of the Pack. Sebastian frowned. Should he be irritated or gratified? Was she frightened to death or ignoring him? She dare not snub him, not when half the ballroom just followed him to her feet. No. She was unquestionably terrified. An excellent start to things. She must be quivering with dread, although truthfully, she seemed merely disinterested by his presence.

Half the ballroom followed you to her feet…Sebastian’s smile froze. Goddamnit.

In the haste to launch the first volley, he committed a grave misstep. He bloody well sought her out, like every other fool gathered so hopefully in this corner of the ballroom.

Basford leaned into Ivy, speaking low in her ear, his gaze locked on Sebastian. Sebastian ignored the viscount’s challenging air, choosing instead to join Alan as he engaged Sara in casual banter. This allowed him to study Ivy and he took full advantage of the opportunity.

The top of her head would only reach the center of his chest should they stand face to face. It irritated him that she was not plump. Instead, she was lushly slender, with skin the color of cream roses, her cheeks the exact blush shade of her gown. The faintest of freckles lay scattered across her straight nose.

Sebastian nearly snorted aloud in disgust. Any other woman would move heaven and earth to be rid of that gold dusting. At the very least, she should pat her face with rice powder to conceal their existence. How could she appear sweeter with those freckles rather than hopelessly blemished?

Pinpointing her based on hair color alone would have given him a devil of a time. It was not the mousy brown of his memory, but a gloriously thick mass of chestnut, rich and glossy, brimming with hints of golden sunshine. Twisted into a stylish tumble, one silky ribbon of a curl trailed over a bare shoulder to grace the top of her décolletage.

And sweet fires of Hell, Ivy Kinley was blessed with curves no woman had a right to possess; all intriguing hollows and bends created for a man’s pleasure. Sebastian’s hand itched to touch the dip of her lower back, where the skirt of her gown flared away from a tiny waist. The modestly low bodice of the dress seemed to have no need for the additional padding some ladies used to enhance nature’s gifts. Her breasts mounded above the neckline, tempting morsels he wanted suddenly to trace with his tongue. He wanted to push that neckline down, to expose her. Taste her. Claim her.

It felt as if bonfires were lit all around him. Sebastian wondered if he could be the only one suffering the overwhelming, sweltering heat of the room. Was sweat beading up on his brow?

Viscount Basford touched the countess’s elbow, a possessive brush of his hand she did not seem to mind. She smiled, her gaze shifting to Sebastian before darting away.

Sebastian’s focus narrowed to a pinpoint. Everyone and everything faded until only Ivy stood before him. The other guests, the music, the sights, all sounds bleached into the background. There was only her and the unexpected flashing image of the countess pleasuring him, that beautifully full mouth wrapped about his erection, skimming up his naked body until their lips met in a heated kiss. The images searing his brain dazed him. Did other men contemplate similar fantasies? He almost could not breathe from the heat suffocating him.

A muscle ticked in his jaw, his glare turning to one of condemnatory fury. Of course, they did. They must be insane and blind if they did not. The girl was a contradictory mix of innocence and wickedness; judging from the disdainful tilt of her chin, she knew her power and gloried in it. Just when Sebastian thought she might be immune to the lightning crackling between them, the countess made an inarticulate sound and shifted her feet.

The countess was no humble bee. Far from it. She was a butterfly. Exquisite and bright, surrounded by male prowess and anxious to escape. To be elsewhere. These men hunting her could not capture or tame such beauty without crushing her wings beyond all repair.

But he would.

The Pack chattered on, oblivious to Ivy’s discomfort. Sara and Bentley were so immersed in one another the earth might crack apart to swallow them whole with neither giving a murmur of protest. Lady Kinley’s edginess was detectable only by him and Sebastian felt a small measure of his control easing back into his body, his blood cooling the tiniest bit. Enough so he felt more like himself, anyway.

He could seize her by the elbow, if he wished. Drag her from the guard dogs stationed at her flanks. While Sebastian contemplated the possibilities, that silly fop of a Frenchman nearly buried himself in the curve of her neck. Ivy’s head inclined toward the count, eyelashes sweeping down.

Monvair’s whisper went on and on. Good God, what the hell is the bastard saying to take such a ridiculous amount of time? A mysterious half-smile played across Ivy’s rose hued lips, and her eyes, those huge, aqua colored eyes, smoldered. Any rational man, seeing her lips caught between her teeth to suppress a gasp, seeing those creamy cheeks blushing a particular shade of pink, might envision the countess sprawled across his bed. Flushed with desire, biting back cries, writhing. Moaning for more and more...

Sebastian wanted like hell to be the one providing that pleasure... He’d give her more. More than she’d ever had in her life, and he’d make damn sure she crawled back to him, begging for even more than that...

Again, Ivy glanced his way and averted her eyes, the turquoise depths flashing with something that would have looked like shy curiosity on any other woman. On her though - it was a blatant invitation. A tiny smile lifted the corner of her lips.

Something murderous flared within Sebastian. Something never experienced before. Something twisted and confusing. A flash of uncertainty he did not like.

“What is so damned amusing, Lady Kinley?”

The crack of his voice split through the chatter. The Pack, as one entity, turned to stare. While they gathering themselves, bristling and growling, Sebastian bared his own wolfish smile. Did this little viper of a countess require pups as protection?

Ivy’s startled gaze flickered to him. “A private comment, my lord.”

The emotions passing over her features was akin to a curtain falling at a theater play only to rise for the following act. Sebastian saw all her thoughts - revealed in those few transparent seconds. She’d been waiting for him, preparing herself. She would fight, regardless of the cost. And she was both terrified and excited to pay the price and play his game.

“I assume I am the subject.” His hands flexed into fists, itching to smash into Monvair’s nose when the man, with staggering audacity, grinned at him.

Ivy assessed him. “How you must despise hearing you are wrong.”

“Do you believe the truth will offend me?” Based on Monvair’s smugness, Sebastian knew the answer.

“The truth should never offend, my lord.”

“Which can only mean you won't tell me.”

“No.” She smiled at his persistence. “Among friends, truthfulness is appreciated however…”

“We’ve not been formally introduced, is that it?” He interrupted with a slight bow. Her eyes were more intense than he remembered. Framed with long, lushly dark sable lashes, they contained a myriad of aqua swirls and flashes of deep gold deep. The full force of her beauty was enough to bring him to his knees. Now. Now, he finally understood Timothy’s obsession. Ivy Kinley was a dazzling thing. A force to reckon with. When she arched a brow of dark chestnut, battle lines were officially drawn.

“We were formally introduced once before, Lord Ravenswood. It’s foolish to believe that meeting in my father’s drawing room is scored as permanently upon your memory as it is on mine.” Even with its dagger’s edge of sarcasm, her voice was husky and sweet, that distant smile surely reserved for the most persistent of suitors. “You forgot it, and me, before the end of that day.”

Reaching out, Sebastian captured Ivy’s gloved hand. His mouth hovered above her wrist before pressing a light kiss to her silk-encased fingers. She nearly shrank away before stilling the involuntary reaction.

“It would be reckless to forget someone like you.” Of course, I remember you. I’ve come to destroy you. Cupping Ivy’s elbow where the edge of the glove surrendered to bare skin, he inched her away from the dubious protection of the Pack. It was a calculated move, easily mistaken as a conciliatory gesture when she allowed it. “But then, you were merely a child. Graced with an innocence only the young possess and unable to do any real harm. Thank God.”

Viscount Basford stared in stunned amazement, his attempt to drag Ivy back to safety stymied by her two raised fingers.

“Such a sad occasion your visit warranted that afternoon, Lord Ravenswood. My hope is you forgave any disrespect I exhibited in my grief. It was not intentional.”

An image of dirty boots scraping against an expensive carpet flashed in Sebastian’s mind, and when Ivy’s face flushed a guilty pink, both realized they shared the same memory. How extraordinary.

“I forgave you.” he purred, tugging her even closer. I’ve forgiven nothing, Ivy Kinley…you don’t deserve it.

“Children are rarely noteworthy, but I was horrid.” Ivy’s voice was thin, but she stood her ground. “I pray I am unrecognizable today.”

Seeing how much he unnerved her, Sebastian tightened his grip. Lady Morgan glanced at Ivy often, as if reassuring herself the countess stood whole and unharmed. The strains of another waltz drifted in the air, but it resonated with a muted tone. The musicians leaned forward on the railing with conspicuous nonchalance, watching the two combatants face off on the elegant expanse of the ballroom battlefield below.

“I would recognize you anywhere, Countess.” It was vulgar to address her in such a manner, but the way her title rolled off his tongue gave it the cadence of both curse and endearment. He liked saying it. As if he both loathed and loved her and whatever emotion leaked out in the utterance of that word hinged on his whim at the moment.

Sara, her cheeks a distinct shade of white, edged closer. Did she think to rescue Ivy? If so, that was a pity. Sebastian was not yet ready to let her go. His smile was ruthless. “You see, Timothy’s descriptions of your beauty, and your character, were quite exact in detail.”

Timothy’s final correspondence sought a loan to purchase his own lodgings; no reason behind the abrupt request, just an entreaty Sebastian failed to answer. His cousin’s letters had slowly disintegrated until they were little more than rambling, petulant demands for greater allowances from the trust Sebastian managed on his behalf. During the last year of his life, the funds supported far more of Timothy’s fondness for brandy, gambling and the high-priced whores at Madam Trudy’s. He’d never mentioned Lady Kinley in his communications, however Sebastian was not beyond using a lie to his advantage.

Ivy gasped as the meaning of his words began to make sense.

Her involuntary sound drew immediate results. Alan swung about, brown eyes snapping. His muttered curse sounded suspiciously similar to a hasty plan of wringing his friend’s neck. Howls rose from members of the Pack, passionate vows of defense for the countess tumbling forth in a heated muddle. Guests crushed forward like early morning hagglers at a fishmonger’s stall. Two elderly women shoved through the crowd as if intent on refereeing the confrontation.

“Better than attending Drury Lane.” One, crowned with an old-fashioned purple turban and wobbling against the uncertain support of a mahogany cane, chortled in delight.

“Ha! Better than Hadderly’s last week!” The second woman elbowed Purple Turban aside in a particularly rough maneuver.

“See here, Ravenswood!” Monvair sputtered. Outrage thickened his accent, the silver buttons on the sapphire and fuchsia waistcoat strained to the point of bursting. His attempt to wedge between Sebastian and Ivy resulted in an encounter with young Lord Applegate, bristling with the same gallant intent. The two men crashed, bounced off in opposite directions, then reeled back together, gripping each other’s arms in an awkward dance to maintain their balance. Gales of laughter swept the crowd.

Realizing the two men could collided with them, Sebastian released Ivy, muttering beneath his breath, “Bloody, fucking brilliant. A brawl …”

“Outrageous!” Lord Batten’s thick mustache quaked with the indignation of an irritated walrus, having overheard Sebastian’s curse and he searched for a waiter to hand off his champagne, ready to join the fray should a full-fledged melee ensue.

Basford waited until Ivy was behind him before saying, “Ravenswood, your words are cruel. Hardly those of a gentleman.” The declaration provided reason aplenty for a predawn gathering on a misty field in Regent Park. A few young women whispered of the viscount’s courageous stand. Monvair and Applegate still grappled with one another, an unfair contest as the Frenchman was most concerned for his new waistcoat’s survival.

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed in cold warning. His mouth stretched into a hard line, transforming his features into a veneer of untainted emotion. Even the candles ringing the room seemed to dim, cowering before a man whose eyes flamed brighter than any light they could produce. Any gentleman eager to defend the countess was subjected to a brutal measurement. One by one, exposed to unflinching scrutiny by such a dangerous antagonist, each man deflated.

Lady Kinley was unworthy of the reckless devotion shown by these irrational men. Frustrated rage suffused Sebastian. Especially since she’d sidled out of arm’s reach.

“It is no secret the lady and I share a mutual association by way of my cousin. All in the past, of course, circumstances being what they are. We are all aware Timothy is deceased.” Because of you...Poison Ivy. The accusation hung, heavy, unspoken while Sebastian’s gaze, hard and unapologetic, flickered to the countess.

She did not seem prepared for war after all. One little skirmish and she folded with astonishing haste. Her wide eyes reminded him of a panicked doe, a wounded shimmer in the aqua depths. Her bottom lip visibly trembled. Incredibly, infuriatingly, Sebastian wanted to press his mouth to hers to tame its lush quiver. Goddamn, he’d forfeit his soul to taste the skin of that delicate collarbone, the nape of her neck, the soft underside of her breast…to soothe the hurt he just inflicted.

A tear slid down Ivy’s cheek, its significance elusive to Sebastian, but the crowd hushed, the Pack gawking with such astonishment he wondered if wings were unexpectedly sprouting from the countess’s back. Murmurs slowly built, rising until a deafening crescendo buffeted from all sides. Snippets of disbelief were already racing from one end of the ballroom to the other. Monvair and Applegate’s half-hearted tussle came to an abrupt halt, each staring at the countess.

“She’s crying…”

“Wouldn’t believe it, had I not seen it myself.”

“My God, did you hear what he said to her?”

“That sharp tongue failed her at last.”

Basford bristled with fresh anger, to the point he practically vibrated. “I cannot allow this repulsive cruelty to continue, Ravenswood. This assassination of Lady Kinley -”

“- is none of your affair, Basford,” Sebastian murmured, his eyes fixed on Ivy’s face. One deceitful tear streaked down her pale cheek like a raindrop on glass. He tried not to let it stir him.

“But sir, you… this….” Christopher interjected, stuttering until Sebastian flicked him a cold stare.

Christopher’s mouth slammed shut so fast and so hard, his teeth clicked.

Men grumbled along the edges of the group, their blind loyalty infuriating Sebastian beyond all comprehension. Like hyenas plotting to steal a fresh kill from a lion, they surrounded him. But he knew how to handle scavengers. No one would snatch this lady from between his paws.

“Kingsley?” Sebastian swept the crowd with a contemptuous glare. For God’s sake, Lord Kingsley was older than Ivy’s own father. “Shall you intercede? Or perhaps you, Montrose? Cavat?”

Those unfortunate enough to be singled out clamped their lips tight.

“Lady Kinley was the very soul of kindness to Lord Garrett,” Basford bit out. “She’s an angel to have tolerated his…”

Sebastian swung toward the viscount with such ferocity a collective roar arose from the crowd. Then people pressed closer, making it impossible to separate the Pack from those who’d come simply to witness the slaughter.

“Stay out of it, Basford.” Sebastian welcomed the opportunity to settle the issue in the oldest manner available to men, if the viscount wished to press matters.

“I- I’ve got som-something to- to say!” Christopher barreled forward, filled with fresh determination to waylay Lady Kinley’s tormenter. Basford turned, intending to halt his progress, but Christopher had a belly-full of being the shy, butterfly-collecting gentleman. He shoved the viscount aside, sending him stumbling into a curious footman who’d wiggled through the crowd with a platter of champagne goblets.

Christopher desperately grabbed for the tray while Basford clutched the servant’s coat in an attempt to retain his balance. The three men fumbled about as the first goblet bounced in slow motion and began to slide from the platter. In quick succession, forty others followed, creating a glorious golden waterfall of champagne and glass. Basford collapsed in an ignoble heap, the footman floundering atop of him. Christopher ended up with the tray, juggling it and two surviving goblets. He skidded forward on a thin sheet of spilled champagne until colliding with a heavy “Oomph!” against a much larger, solid wall of iron. The tray, two crystal goblets and one young gentleman hit marble flooring with an ear-shattering clatter.

Teeth clenched tight, Sebastian reached down, hauling Christopher to his feet, ignoring the man’s profuse apologies.

Bedlam erupted, with guests sidestepping splintered crystal, spilled champagne and a tangled heap of arms and legs comprised of the drenched Basford and a mortified footman. Numerous servants added to the chaos, darting here and there to blot frantically at splattered silks and satins. Someone finally extended a hand to Basford while Sebastian did the same to the footman. Muttering a slew of unintelligible curses, shaking off pieces of glass, the viscount glared at Ravenswood as though he were to blame for the entire disaster.

Sebastian searched for Ivy. She must have dodged the worst of it, no doubt pleased with the turmoil, those false tears quick to dry. Hell, if she wasn’t doubled over with laughter, he’d be vastly disappointed. But, she was not in within the Pack’s protective circle, nor at the edge of the boisterous throng. Fists clenching, he recalled Veronica’s words; in sudden, vivid clarity, they burned his brain - “In the midst of all that, Lady Kinley simply vanished…”

His prey had flitted away like an elusive butterfly. Lady Sara Morgan was gone too. Catching Alan’s eye, his friend gave an apologetic lift of his shoulders, and an infuriating thought struck Sebastian. Should Ivy find anything entertaining about this initial confrontation, it would not be Basford dropping like a stone, champagne spilling or even bumbling fools knocking one another senseless in romantic charges to her defense. It would be the effortless manner in which she won this skirmish. With the shedding of a tear.

He, the bloody Earl of Ravenswood, defeated by a single, glittering tear. In the space of a bloody half hour, she had gained the upper hand. In a game for which he made the rules.