Antagonizing Ivy Kinley with such blatant animosity was a tactical blunder. And short-sighted. The path laid with such carelessness must be erased, and set again, this time with roses and persuasion. How could he claim victory if he hacked at her with such brutality? He must gain Ivy’s trust and affection, all while maintaining distance. Not a drop of empathy for the countess was possible, not when her destruction was the goal.

Sebastian knew why things went awry. Her beauty caught him off-guard. She wore an air of sweet vulnerability like a warm cloak. Used to great effect, it made a man want to protect and shield her from all harm. She blinded him. For a moment. But, not now. Oh, not now. He knew what must be done, and he steeled his heart for the battle ahead.

He was prepared this time. She wouldn’t see him coming until it was too late.

* * *

The clock struck half-past two o’clock with dual, solemn tones and along with it, the heavy notes of the Kinley House’s door chimes echoed.

Standing on the front steps of the elegant townhome in Mayfair, Sebastian frowned when the doors did not swing open to admit him at once. Granted, he was a half hour late, but the butler should have been in attendance. There were the muffled sounds of footsteps moving away, the murmur of low voices from deeper within, and the tattoo of rapid, heavier footsteps hurrying toward the front of the home. They slowed to a measured pace, but several seconds passed before entrance was granted.

The very same Kinley butler from seven years before, now with a headful of silver hair and imperious eyebrows, bowed to him.

“Good afternoon, milord.” Void of emotion, the man’s tone was level, save for a curious, breathless quality to his voice. Sebastian did not know for what purpose, but the elderly butler had just raced to the end of the hall and back.

“Good afternoon.” Handing over his card, Sebastian waited for him to move aside. For a good thirty seconds, the thick ebony square was silently studied and carefully examined as if it were evidence in a murder case.

Sebastian’s brow creased.

“Very good, sir. I shall inform Lady Kinley you have… arrived.” The slight pause indicated displeasure at Sebastian’s tardiness, and without another word, the butler strode away, shoes clicking on the polished marble floor. Reaching a door at the far end of the spacious oval foyer, he gave the lightest of raps before swinging it open.

His boot steps deliberately silent, Sebastian moved into the foyer.

“My lady, His Lordship, the Earl of Ravenswood has arrived.”

Music trickled from the room as the announcement went ignored. The butler repeated himself, louder and bit more dramatically.

“The earl?” Above the music, Lady Kinley sounded out of breath. “Of Ravenswood? I’d forgotten he was to call, but I suppose you must show him in.”

Standing in the center of the oversized magnificent foyer, surrounded by ornate, floor to ceiling columns, where masterpieces by the finest artists known to the civilized world adorned the walls, and priceless vases occupied solid marble display stands, Sebastian grinned with anticipation. Ivy’s voice reeked of feigned boredom and disinterest.

So, she would play his little game after all.

“Milord, if it pleases you.” Brody motioned for him to advance, stepping aside only when necessary to allow entrance to the music room.

Sebastian twisted to witness the wink the butler gave Ivy and her answering smile. In a repeat of seven years prior, his overcoat, hat, and gloves again went uncollected when he stood waiting like a commoner on the front steps. Now, he practically threw the items at the servant and with a tranquil smile, closed the door with a slow purpose in Brody’s abruptly scowling face.

Alone with his adversary, his heartbeat accelerated with pleasant anticipation. Leaning his shoulders flush with the wood panels of the door, Sebastian watched her.

Ivy sat at pianoforte of gleaming ebony, staring at a piece of sheet music. She did not lift her eyes, and although prepared for it, her beauty struck Sebastian. Clad in a sage and cream gown, she was as light and cheery as England’s emerging spring. The heart-shaped curve of her bodice dipped in a modest nod, revealing only the topmost swell of her breasts while a broad sash of pale lemon satin accentuated her tiny waist. Rather than a demure bun, a wealth of dark chestnut hair spilled down her back, almost touching the bow of the sash. Sunshine streaming through green and gold paneled drapes at the window caught her in shafts of light, illuminating all the honey colored tones in that beautiful hair. Without the romantic glow of the ballroom to lend a mysterious allure to her features, it was shocking to realize just how young the countess was. Ivy possessed the guise of a true innocent, an angel painted in a masterpiece, delicate and sweet, suddenly come to life.

Sebastian’s lips tightened. He knew her true nature. This - this scene, staged for maximum effect, no doubt - marched in forceful contradiction to the truth.

He pushed off from the carved door, advancing with measured steps until he stood beside the bench. From this vantage point, he thought he could see her heart beating beneath the fabric of her dress. Ivy’s breath quickened, but she still refused to lift her gaze. A strange sense of expectancy permeated the room. If only she dared peek up, it was possible the earth and everything in it might shatter.

“The roses are quite lovely in this room.” Look at me, damn you.

“Hmmm. Thank you for sending the bouquet. It was very kind of you.” Ivy’s voice was soft but steady.

Where was the scathing wit of the woman in the reports he had received? This girl was too cowed to look at him. That challenging fire in her eyes last night must have been imagined.

Bach’s Italian Concerto Andante flowed from the belly of the pianoforte, the notes echoing with a fitful melancholy. It reminded Sebastian of a funeral dirge. “I apologize for the delay in my arrival.” He was too ruthless; he must gentle his approach after all. What a skittish little mouse she was.

“I did not remember you were coming.” Ivy possessed all the sereneness of a nun during prayers, her fingers trailing over the keys. “Your tardiness is of little matter.”

Sebastian’s grin melted.

He itched to grab her shoulders. He wanted to shake her until she had no choice but to acknowledge him. He desperately wished to turn her over his knee and spank her little rump for the impudent manner she spoke to him just now. The salacious thought made his palm tingle.

“Terrible accident on Regent. I was forced to leave the carriage and make my way on foot. One can only hope my driver manages to find his way here before I must depart.”

“I hope you have no trouble departing as well, my lord.” The sly derision in Ivy’s tone, hidden beneath a layer of unfailing politeness, drove him to distraction. “I'd hate for you to stay a moment longer, should you feel yourself unwelcomed.”

Sebastian slid onto the bench beside her. It was large enough for two, but he spread his legs with deliberate intent, crowding her. With the pianoforte positioned close to a curved wall of windows, Ivy could not gracefully slip out the other side. Her fingers stilled on the keys when he pressed close enough to crush her skirts. It seemed an eternity, but finally, her eyes rose to clash with his. A scathing rebuke probably hovered on her lips, waiting to be issued with icy authority, but her mouth pulled into a thin line. He smiled at her veiled irritation, nudging her with his shoulder. “You must play exceptionally well.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You surely know this piece by heart, considering.”

“Considering?”

He indicated the music holder. “The sheet music. It’s upside down.”

Ivy’s fingers compressed into fists, dropping from the keys to her lap. “Do you play?” When Sebastian shook his head, her delicate chin tilted in the most stubborn gesture he’d ever witnessed on a female. “I’ve played since the age of four. I find this to be more challenging.”

“How interesting.” Her bravado was amusing even if her explanation was ridiculous. “I find the selection quite depressing for such a beautiful afternoon. Do you know something a bit more lighthearted?”

Just when he thought she might refuse, Ivy conceded with a stiff nod, launching into a lively concerto by Mozart. When necessary, she leaned across while Sebastian remained in his position with deliberate intent. He relished how her arm rubbed his, appreciative of the way her hair tumbled across her shoulders and down her back. A few of those glossy strands clung to his afternoon coat.

His close proximity flustered her. Each time she stretched to touch distant keys, Ivy chewed her bottom lip. Even if she was affecting him to the point of madness, he enjoyed her discomfort. The fragrance she wore, a questionable cross of oranges and lilies, teased his nose. He craved the opportunity to sink his hands into her hair. Would those unruly waves feel as silky as they looked? Would they wind about his fingers? Slide through his hands like heated honey? How many men had been entertained in this music room? How many sat on this same bench to gaze adoringly while she played? How proficient was she in other activities? Juxtaposed with this exquisite creature, the thoughts were ugly and black.

That her lovers’ identities remained unknown was vexing. Whispered rumors and conjectures ran rampant, but thus far, no hard evidence existed to condemn anyone. The tight-lipped fools were surely the most loyal and discreet group of noblemen to ever grace English soil and Ivy’s power ran deep to inspire such devoted silence. But he would unlock her secrets soon enough. With enough money and persuasion, it was possible to unearth any mystery.

Sebastian clapped with slow deliberateness at the end of the musical piece. Ivy’s hands dropped to her lap, curling into fists again. Before he could set the tone of the conversation, she took control, eyes bright with caution.

“Why did you come here today, Lord Ravenswood?”

Damn, her skills at putting him on defense were impressive. The possibility she could possibly outwit him was most alarming.

“Do you receive so many bouquets you haven’t time to read all the cards?” Sebastian teased. “According to society's guidelines, my intentions are quite clear.”

“I read the card, after the tangling with the thorns.”

“I’m sorry. Were you injured?” His satisfaction lurked behind a frown of concern. No doubt about it. The countess understood the subtleties of war, roses and thorns included.

Ivy blinked. “Oh, no, I was not hurt. However, Brody was quite vexed to come away with a handful of barbs. I’m afraid you’ve earned his displeasure for some time.”

Sebastian hid the disappointment with an easy smile. “I prefer wild roses to those grown in such an orderly manner by the city’s florists. And I tore London apart to find what I wanted. The woman from whom I purchased your roses thought me quite mad as I watched her cut each one from her own garden at an ungodly hour this morning. I confess I never understood this odd practice of shaving thorns off. After all, without its weapons, isn’t a rose nothing more but an ordinary flower?” Leaning close, his voice a whisper of smooth velvet, he recited, “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.”

Ivy stared at him, wordless. All women, in Sebastian’s vast experience, adored poetry and in particular, sonnets recited in homage to their beauty. It spun heads and possessed the power to shatter lingering resistance. The right one could pave the way to seduction and this bit of verse, Thomas Carew to be precise, was perfection. Destroying the existence of Ivy’s splendor, and the ton’s ability to wallow in it, was paramount to his plan. He’d have this countess’s vain heart tattered, bleeding and devastated by the time he finished with her.

“I shan’t keep them, you know.” Ivy smiled, head tilting as if recognizing the strategic maneuver and contemplating her own.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You may beg it, but I probably shall not grant it.” The smile continued to lift her lips. She found him amusing. “The roses. I never keep them.”

“These you shall keep,” he vowed.

“You don’t understand. I never do.”

“We shall see. I took the liberty of making a sizeable donation in your name to the church and to the orphanage you favor. As well as several other worthy institutions. You shall receive notes of gratitude in the following days.” With his man, Gabriel Rose, on the lead, Sebastian had an extensive network toiling to provide such useful services and information. “On occasion, I shall give you gifts meant for you alone.” He grinned suddenly. “Ah...unique gifts which cannot be given away. These will be things you will desire, I promise you.”

Maybe it was foolish to think so, but the hypnotic tick-tocking of the clock seemed to count down the lowering of Ivy’s defenses. Her body swayed, and Sebastian’s blood spun into liquid fire as her perplexed gaze drifted to his mouth. Curses hung in his throat when her tongue darted out to moisten her upper lip. Bloody hell, ruining her was going to be tremendously enjoyable. But must she look so damn innocent, so clean and guiltless, he might dirty her just by touching her gown?

“Shall we call a truce, little butterfly?” Sebastian murmured, eyes lingering on the delectable fullness of her mouth. Should she lick her lips again, as a practiced seductress might, he’d take it as an invitation.

“A truce?” Ivy echoed with a soft breath. “We are not at war.”

Maybe it was only nerves when she licked her top lip a second time, but as she caught the bottom one between her teeth, his eyes glittered with victory. She would not fight him. Sebastian leaned close until they were almost nose to nose. She was his. For the moment, at least, and he was dying for the first piece of her. The first taste.

“Aren’t we? At war, that is?” It was the barest hint of a kiss, his mouth gently brushing her lower lip, but it ignited an unexpected blaze.

Ivy exploded off the bench as if fired from a cannon, her shoulder catching the underside of his chin. Things flew everywhere. Sheet music, a metronome, the candelabra...Sebastian...

He landed on his arse in an undignified heap of his own tangled limbs.

“Oh, dear!” Ivy cried. For several seconds, she frantically snatched at the paper drifting every which way before conceding defeat. A thunderous silence ensued as she dropped back to the bench, its sole occupant, a few leafs of paper clutched to her chest. Rotating the upper half of her body away from him, her shoulders shook the slightest bit.

The faint, metallic hint of blood seeped into the corner of Sebastian’s mouth. He touched the spot with his index finger. Damn, she split my lip.

During the fall, his legs had become entangled with the bench’s legs. As he now disengaged himself, the bench, with an abrasive, scraping noise, flew across the hardwood floor like a sled on thin ice. Ivy’s shoulders shook even harder with the unexpected ride, a choked sound escaping her as she clutched the seat’s edges, holding on for dear life. Bloody hell, is she laughing?

Brushing his breeches off, Sebastian stood and gathered more sheets of music from the floor. Ivy rubbed her knee while he replaced the pages into the music holder, then he pulled the bench, with her still seated upon it, back to its proper position.

“Are you alright?” The question was bemused politeness as he reclaimed his seat. That she found him so damned entertaining should be annoying as hell, but even he found it oddly comical. She knocked him to the floor and split his lip, then suffered waves of silent hilarity at his predicament. Incredible as it seemed, the countess was the first to draw blood.

“I’m fine. Certainly, I’m fine.” A wavering tremor to her voice suggested she might burst into unrestrained giggles at any moment.

“I’ve never experienced such, ah, forceful reactions to my advances.”

“You caught me unaware. I…I did not mean to knock you from the bench.” Ivy finally let loose with a laugh that was like a summer breeze to Sebastian’s ears. It was a tinkling, musical sound. “I must beg your pardon, Lord Ravenswood.”

“Perhaps you shall have it. But first, I must ask. Is your knee injured?” Touching his fingertips to her elbow, Sebastian willed her to look at him. A smile of such transcendent beauty lit Ivy’s face that for an awful moment, he faltered.

“It’s fine. Just a little bump.” Her eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, my God, Ravenswood, your lip…”

“A casualty of war.” His hand waved in faint dismissal of the superficial wound, but his chest tightened with ridiculous spasms at the sight of her obvious concern. The ache only worsened as her smile faded, her aqua colored eyes turning misty. Strange, but he suddenly thought it possible to stare at her all day, even with the annoying pain in his chest and a busted lip.

Ivy abruptly bowed her head. She still clutched the crumpled sheet music to her chest, so she silently straightened them and replaced them on the holder. With nothing left to occupy her hands, she tugged a glossy curl over her shoulder to toy with. “A casualty. Our situation certainly begs for battle-weary descriptions.”

“There’s no reason it must be this way.”

She shot him a look ripe with incredulity, watching as he blotted at his lip with a silk handkerchief procured from the inner pocket of his coat. “You cannot believe that. You’ve no doubt heard the rumors, what people are saying. Including,” she added with painful bluntness, “your own aunt.”

A twinge of pity shot through Sebastian. The underlying sadness and play of emotions across Ivy’s expressive features tugged at hidden strings he could not control. She was ruthless, she was cold hearted, and she teased and enticed and flirted until men went mad from wanting her.

And yet…

There was something about her, an element at odds with his verdict of her wicked character. Could a woman fake such a guiltless air? Could the straightforward shimmer in those hypnotic eyes be little more than a practiced sham? Could that smile lure men to their deaths, much like a spider? Weaving a web of such beauty that curious victims venturing too close found themselves helplessly trapped and devoured?

His former fiancée sprang to mind. A curse whistled beneath Sebastian’s breath. Yes, a woman could pretend. Ivy had practiced on dozens of men for two London seasons. Hell, less than an hour in her pretty parlor and already, he merrily traipsed along the same path with the other fools licking at her heels. Yes, like Lady Marilee Godwin, Ivy could twist men into worshipping lapdogs, using them until they served their purpose and she wearied of their company. She merely studied him for the moment, determining what he might like best…what would entice him to chase her. Innocent maiden or experienced mistress…

Sebastian wrapped cold intent back around his heart. “I am aware of the gossip. Indeed, my aunt opposed my visit here today.” Ignoring her ladylike huff of vindication, he continued to chisel away her defenses. “However, I am Ravenswood. I do as I wish. As bizarre as this may seem to you, and believe me, I find it inexplicable, I would like us to be friends.”

It was possible Ivy correctly suspected his motives, but Sebastian saw a strange hope glistening deep in her eyes. Was she so eager to count him among her conquests she willingly disregarded the instincts keeping her safe? Her hands twisted in her lap in contemplation of this dangerous alliance.

“I’ll have your answer. Friends? You will not regret it.” He thought he had ensnared her already. Her eyes were huge mirrors to the inner workings of her mind and like a ripe plum, she was tumbling into his hands with barely a shake of the tree. The simplicity of it all left him somewhat ashamed. And it was disturbing, how easily Ivy shifted roles, how quickly she went from icy temptress of the evening to innocent girl of the afternoon.

“Very well, Ravenswood,” Ivy said in a soft voice. “I accept.”

Sebastian kept his features blank. “A wise decision. Now, indulge me. No more vanishing. Agreed? I abhor surprises. A quirk of mine.” The handkerchief was tucked back into its pocket as he continued. “An operatic troupe arrives from Italy in two weeks’ time to perform Lucia di Lammermoor, and I will escort you to the performance. It is short notice, but friends are permitted such concessions.”

Ivy smiled. “The hour was late and you were discussing matters with the Pack which did not require my presence. I simply went home.”

“Speaking of the Pack…I would know what Monvair whispered in your ear.” His gaze turned penetrating, noting Ivy’s cheeks turning red. She was uneasy. With his demand or the answer?

“Nothing of importance.” Ivy fiddled with the lace on the skirt of her gown.

“Then there is no harm relating it to me.”

“I prefer not to betray his confidence.”

“I do not know the man, other than making his acquaintance last evening. He will not know you told me.” Sebastian leaned close. “I’ve no choice but to assume you discussed me.”

Ivy’s lips pursed. “Of course, we didn’t.”

“How can I know for certain?”

“You cannot be certain. You must take my word for it. However, if I told you, would you vow not to repeat what was said?”

“It is unlikely I would keep that pledge.” His reply was honest. “Monvair appears harmless. Maybe I could be persuaded to swear an oath of silence.”

Ivy searched his face then leaned forward to whisper, “He wanted to go somewhere alone. He said he…he wished to remove my slippers and rub my feet. Is that not an odd thing to request? There was something about ribbons and silk stockings, but I confess I was on the verge of bursting into laughter.” Her cheeks flushed an even brighter pink. “Monvair can be so droll. I believe he was trying to amuse me. And himself.”

Sebastian choked on an indrawn breath. That reprobate. Could Ivy have no idea what the Frenchman really wanted? Her elegant little feet were only the beginning. Surely, she was only toying with him now, playing this innocent act to the hilt. “I’ll have his head on a pike for daring to suggest such a thing.”

“Whatever is the matter?” Ivy frowned. “You swore your silence.”

Sebastian shook his head. “I said maybe. But I cannot swear to this.” The thought of that sly Frenchman gazing at, touching, or possessing any part of Ivy Kinley was abhorrent.

Ivy considered this. “Lord Ravenswood, you are newly returned to London following a scandal. Our connection to one another is circumspect and fragile at best. At the worst, the gossips will salivate for a reason to flay us both. Is it wise to provide fodder at this point? I beg you to refrain from engaging with the Pack on any level. They are a temperamental lot; it is a struggle to keep them from dueling one another over the smallest of slights, both real and imagined. Let it be. For my sake.”

The countess was right, of course. Difficult to admit, but she was right. It went against every instinct he possessed, but he must accede to her wishes for the time being.

“Very well,” Sebastian grumbled. “In compensation for my silence, I’ll have your attendance at the opera.

Ivy shook her head. “Another already requested to escort me.”

“You wound me.” Sebastian laid a hand to his heart. “Rejecting me so soon after our avowal of treaty.”

“I think you’ve rarely experienced rejection, my lord.” Ivy needlessly straightened the pages of music again.

“Ah, so you’ve heard some tales, have you?”

She shrugged. “Your reputation is no secret, I’m afraid, notwithstanding your absence from England.”

“One should not put much stock in gossip tattle.” A hint of ice lurked in his words.

“I agree.” A hard edge shimmered in Ivy’s response. “However, your turn at rejection is the subject.”

“Alright, it rarely occurs.” Sebastian conceded with a reluctant grin. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure how to react upon being spurned. Am I to beg for mercy and pray you reconsider? It would be best if you just agreed. To spare my tender feelings, of course.”

“Other plans, my lord,” was her breezy reply. “I fear I shall be quite tied up.”

A rocketing, mental image of Ivy blindsided Sebastian. She lay sprawled on snowy white sheets. A silken length of black cloth lashed her in place, and she was unable to escape as he tasted her. Pleading, begging him to come inside, to enter her, to make love to her, she writhed against his mouth and holy hell, he wanted to slaughter, in the most violent manner possible, the fool brave enough to take her to the opera in his place.

With a slow deliberateness, he murmured, “I shall withdraw to lick my wounds, little butterfly.”

Ivy regarded him for a long moment, her eyes big and soft. Without realizing it, she leaned closer to him, her gaze traveling over his features. Sebastian held his breath when she bit her bottom lip in concern.

“Why do you call me that, my lord?” Reaching out, she touched gentle fingers to the small cut on his lip. “Little butterfly?”

“Bloody hell.” He froze in place as if struck by a sudden arctic freeze.

Ivy jerked away at his barely audible groan. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Sebastian captured her hand, feeling her quiver as his thumbs smoothed over the softness of her palm. Another improper gesture he dared, but she did not stop him nor did she pull away. Why did she have to touch him? What was she thinking? He knew what he was thinking, and it was tying him into hot, twisted knots of lust. He needed to regain control of himself. “I think, just when a man believes he has captured you, you flit out of his reach. A butterfly no one has managed to cast a net over because they do not understand the damn rules for hunting butterflies. And there are rules, Countess.”

Her eyes were round as saucers, her breath barely existent as he wove a spell about her. “What might those be?”

“Butterflies must decide to come to you. And when one flutters close, you patiently wait for her to land. You remain perfectly still and gain her trust before gently placing the net over her.” Sebastian’s voice was a deep, entrancing force of nature and she hung on his every word.

Ivy smiled. “I'm not sure if I should be charmed or alarmed.”

“Tell me what concerns you.”

“Perhaps the fact you might throw a net over me when I least expect it.” Her eyes twinkled.

“I would take great care not to hurt you. You see, I’ve no interest in the destruction of beautiful creatures, and capturing a butterfly is an interesting prospect. A collection of delicate things gives a man pleasure.” His hand lifted to cup her cheek. “The trick is to keep the butterfly alive while taming her.”

Ivy’s breath grew shallow. It was quick and warm where it feathered his wrist. Then she stunned the hell out of him.

“Would you like to know what I think, Ravenswood?” When he nodded, Ivy continued. “A friendship will benefit us both.”

Did Ivy mean what he thought she meant? Damn it to hell. He was now unquestionably off balance. Her soft words scorched his body. Holding her hand, touching the silk of her cheek, and Sebastian knew he was in danger of going up in flames. Underestimating her allure was a grave mistake.

“If we are to be friends, I insist you call me by my given name,” Sebastian managed to say in a normal voice. His fingers itched to plow through her hair, to hold her still while he kissed her until she forgot her own damn name in a whirlwind of pleasure.

A genuine smile spread across Ivy’s face while he ground his teeth in frustration. How many men had she deployed this particular tactic against? It was a devastating weapon, used with tremendous skill. That smile of hers, men would kill for it.

Or die for it.

“We should not stand upon formality,” Ivy said softly. “So, you must call me by mine.”

“The more informal, the better.” God, Ivy Kinley was enchanting and magical. She could not be oblivious to the sexual connotations of his statements, nor of how he touched her. He could pull her to him, crush her beneath his body. Rip her clothes away with his teeth, plunge between her legs. He’d never felt such an overwhelming attraction to a woman before. Perhaps it was the thrill of battle, but he wanted her with a bewildering intensity. All the advantage had shifted into her small, wicked hands and he wasn't quite sure what to do about it.

“Is your invitation to the opera still open? This is probably quite shocking, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“Very little shocks me,” Sebastian murmured with husky promise. “You will be glad you reconsidered. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I’m already glad… Sebastian.”

She blushed as she said his name, and despite himself, he found it captivating. Would she blush so prettily when he kissed her breasts, when his hands slipped between her legs? Sebastian wanted to crow with victory and just barely restrained himself. Right now, it was necessary to distance himself, before he threw her to the floor, took her right then and there...revenge be damned.

Stepping clear of the bench, he pulled her along and noticed her wince. “What is wrong?”

Ivy shook her head, tried pulling away but Sebastian rotated her wrists until her palms fell open.

“What the hell.” Gently, he traced the length of the pale pink scar. “How did this happen? Who did this to you?” Still holding her palm, he lifted her chin with his free hand. Sadness, guilt, and above all, an elusive glint of caution swirled in the aqua depths of her eyes. Sebastian's hand tightened. “I’d like an answer. Now.”

Wide-eyed at the sharpness of his tone, Ivy murmured, “Perhaps I’ll tell you someday, but it is an incident best forgotten. And already forgiven.”

Bloodlust churned within him. An overwhelming need to protect her swamped him. Was one of the Pack, as Society so courteously called her admirers, responsible for this? Which one was it? He’d smash the man’s face in; he’d slice him to ribbons; he’d—

The violence of his thoughts was astonishing.

Ivy sidled away from him with practiced proficiency. “Will I see you at the Quinn Ball tomorrow night, my lord? I shall save you a dance, should you care to have one.” The teasing was hesitant, a fragile attempt to draw attention away from her puzzling injury. “I’ll even remember my promise not to disappear when your back is turned.”

Sebastian considered her for a long moment before nodding in agreement. Soon enough, all her secrets would come to light. When it became apparent he would not pursue an answer, Ivy’s relief was instant, evident in the relaxing of her shoulders, the softening of her jaw.

“I will be there, butterfly, and I’ll expect a waltz.”

“You shall have one of your choosing.” Ivy gave him such a sweet smile, it made his stomach flip-flop. She made the business of seduction incredibly easy. Ignoring such delicate invitations was impossible.

Later that evening, Sebastian stepped into Brookes, intending to meet Alan there. He flipped with idle curiosity through the wager books positioned at the front of the exclusive club. Grimacing at some of the ridiculous bets, he turned to the first page of the latest book only to have his name jump out under the bold heading of “Taming the Countess.”

The original bet was thus: Five hundred pounds a newly returned earl ruins a certain countess before Season’s end.

Met in the following manner: One thousand pounds the prodigal earl gains only a broken heart and Poison Ivy emerges the unscathed victor.

Capping matters off in a magnificently grand gesture, an extraordinarily confident lord answered both wagers in an equally outrageous fashion and no subtlety whatsoever: Double that. Ravenswood shall accomplish the taming of Lady Ivy Kinley within three months’ time. Or die trying.

A muscle ticked along Sebastian’s jaw.

Bloody hell. They sat atop the lists.