“I don’t like it.” An anxious frown pulled Sara’s brows together.

“You shouldn’t frown so.” Ivy bit into a teacake. “You’ll wrinkle dreadfully.”

“Do not change the subject.” Sara replied, smoothing her brow. “You were desperate to escape him. Now, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Ivy shrugged. Sebastian’s unexpected olive branch of a truce tossed her into a tailspin of confusion and hope. There was no understanding his offer or her acceptance of it.

“Ravenswood wishes to be civil, and I see no reason not to try.” She recalled Sebastian’s arm pressing with indecent heaviness against her shoulder, the warm smile crinkling the corners of his beautiful gray eyes. The crispness of his scent had imprinted upon her. If she buried her face in his chest and breathed deeply of him, what would he have done? If she turned her face to his, would he have deepened the kiss he brushed across her lips? “I was ready to do battle. It would have been quite bloody, you know.”

“How you can take this so lightly?” Sara groaned. “He is not a man to be trifled with.”

Ivy traced the rim of her teacup with an index finger. “If the earl wishes to end the speculation and gossip, I shall assist him. Perhaps even Lady Garrett will forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive!” Sara’s teacup slammed onto a delicate saucer. “If she would only accept the fact her son was unnaturally obsessed and hopelessly addicted.”

“You believe I’m foolish to feel even the slightest responsibility. But, Sara, had I agreed to see Timothy, it might have prevented what occurred.”

“God knows what he might have done if given a second chance. When I think of that night, it makes me ill.” Lips pressed tight, Sara’s fingers entangled with Ivy’s as each recalled the incident. “What you have suffered since, what you’ve endured, I cannot bear how people whisper. If only they knew the truth. One day, I shall forget my promise to remain silent. And you will hate me for it.” It was a miserable prophecy.

Ivy squeezed Sara’s hand, her voice rising with excitement. “But Ravenswood is going to help in this! Oh, Sara, can’t you see? He can end this! I know it’s madness, but I find myself trusting him. Even after such a rocky introduction.” Disentangling their hands, she ran a finger across the scar on her palm. “He asked me about this. I was so nervous about him prowling Kinley Court, I completely forgot to wear my gloves.”

Sara’s face drained of color. “Good heavens, Ivy. What did you tell him?”

“That perhaps one day I would explain. He did not ask any more about it.”

There was an odd glow in the earl’s eyes upon examining the wound, as if he yearned to punish the person responsible for such damage. He held no obligation to her; it was foolish to think he cared or was remotely interested in fighting her battles.

Sebastian needed to champion her cause, to hold back the wolves. After all, there was that despicable game high on the books in the gambling clubs, gentlemen betting on surviving her, taming her, whispers of a horrid nickname reaching her ears. If he thumbed his nose at Society, then this madness would stop. It must. No one would believe the earl foolish, or weak enough to be served up as another unfortunate victim of Poison Ivy. Maybe, in time, his friendship would ease the terrible guilt she suffered because of Timothy’s death.

If he wished to form this bond, she must have faith he meant her no harm. She must become the butterfly and flutter close to danger.

“Ivy, I’m begging you to reconsider. Something dreadful will happen, I just feel it. If only you saw him at the Sheffield Ball after you escaped. His eyes were so cold, so cruel. Even Alan was furious with him.”

Ignoring the dire warning, Ivy’s mouth curved with a mischievous grin. “So, you and Bentley are on first name terms, are you? After only six months dancing about the issue? How scandalous, Lady Morgan!”

Sara flushed pink but she did not contradict the statement. “If we can stay on point…Alan expressed concern for your welfare.”

Ivy waved a dismissive hand. “There is no cause to be troubled on my account. Truly. He means me no harm.” A bit sheepishly, she confessed, “He called me a butterfly.”

Sara regarded her with such a blank stare, Ivy had no choice but to relate the entire incident.

“Oh, no,” Sara groaned in despair. “There’s nothing for it, is there? You won't change your mind about this, will you?”

“There is nothing to worry about, Sara…”

“Have you forgotten what happened with Timothy?”

“This is nothing like that!” Ivy protested.

“You’re right! It’s worse! Much, much worse!”

The two girls regarded one another, each determined to have her way.

“I’m going with you. To the opera,” Sara finally said. “You cannot go without someone to protect you. At least to provide the semblance of a chaperone.”

“I will not require a chaperone, dearest. I’m Poison Ivy, remember? Should anyone require protection, according to the gossips, it’s Ravenswood.” Admittedly, Ivy needed a chaperone yesterday. The light, sweeping caress of Sebastian’s mouth was far more exciting than any advances tolerated over the past two seasons. Something about him sent sparks skittering along every nerve ending she possessed, his fingers burning like hot irons on her skin. She’d never felt this way before. She was not sure she liked it. It made her feel…not in control. And, that was something she definitely did not enjoy.

“I need time to benefit from Ravenswood’s friendship, and I have two weeks in which to accomplish it. Surely, I can determine his sincerity before the opera. All will work out to my advantage, you will see.”

“Ivy, please.”

“Not another word, Sara. If you should prove correct in your suspicions, I give you free rein to say so.” Despite her nonchalance, Ivy could not entirely dismiss her friend’s apprehension nor her own.

“I can’t help but worry when you find it romantic to be compared to an insect.”

“If he tries anything worse, I shall immediately hand him over to you and your dreadful temper.”

“What has your father to say on this matter?” Sara sipped her tea, ignoring Ivy’s comment regarding her fiery nature.

“Oh, blast his network of spies. It wasn’t easy convincing Father only politeness forced me to accept Ravenswood’s invitation. He’s probably planning a grand wedding to take place next June.”

“How will you deal with a dilemma of such magnitude?”

Ivy shrugged. “The usual strategy. A hasty escape to America, should he press the issue.”

Both girls began to giggle until they collapsed against the settee.

“I believe you mean that! But, eventually, you shall marry. We both shall, if our parents have their say. It is expected of us, after all. And it’s what we are meant to do, to wed, to be wives. To keep our husband’s homes…”

“To birth the next heir.” Ivy’s sarcasm was soft and cutting. As young women born of wealth and breeding, they existed as valuable assets, cherished commodities in a man’s world of dowries and alliances. Contracts and bloodlines, and above it all, marriage for gain and power.

Sara gasped in feigned horror. “How terrible if you should fall in love with someone your father wants you to marry! Then what shall you do?”

The gentle teasing stung. No one really knew how damaged Ivy was by the memory of her own dear mother and the desperate love Caroline carried for an indifferent husband. Ivy was determined to escape the bonds of marriage like that her parents endured. A love burning bright at its beautiful beginning only to die a slow painful death at the last breath of it, shriveled and pleading for scraps of attention was not what she wanted. Or in her mother’s case, with armloads of suffocating, sweet smelling roses surrounding a lonely deathbed.

Ivy squelched a rare pang of jealousy at the straightforward nature of Sara and Alan’s burgeoning romance. Theirs was a sweet and uncomplicated affair. If all went well, Lord Bentley would request Sara’s hand in marriage. If her dear friend were fortunate, Alan’s interest and his love would never stray nor fade.

Dismissing her melancholy, Ivy changed the subject to the Quinn Ball. It was simple to distract Sara by focusing on Alan’s impending escort as it was the earl’s first time doing so in that official capacity, and she was naturally thrilled beyond measure.

* * *

Sebastian was easily located in the crush of people. With his height, he towered above other men, the starkness of his formal apparel out of the ordinary in a society obsessed with bright, eye-catching colors. Like a predatory jungle cat, he stalked a ballroom bursting at the seams with preening peacocks.

His gaze landed on Ivy, his silver eyes traversed her body from head to toe in a manner very improper. The slow, wicked grin spreading across his features sent a hot tingle rushing through her, the blood sliding with a peculiar thickness through her veins. Never mind she was in the midst of a Scottish reel with Count Monvair, the earl sought her out. It was so exhilarating Ivy could scarcely concentrate on the intricate steps of the dance.

From beneath lowered lashes, she watched Sebastian prowl until he reached one of the many oversized pillared columns. Placing his back against it, arms crossed over his broad chest, he presented the very portrait of bored elegance until his brow furrowed into a slight vee.

“Mon cher…your slippers must hurt like Lucifer himself. Mine pain me as well.” Phillipe Monvair leaned in, dragging Ivy’s gaze from Sebastian. “Might we find a private spot? I could help you remove the devilish things. Rub your toes, oui? It would be my greatest pleasure.”

“No, thank you.” If Sebastian learned of the Frenchman’s proposals, the results would not be pleasant. “My slippers are fine, as are my toes within them. But you may excuse yourself, should you wish.”

“Non! Non! Only if you felt discomfort, ma petite, I would happily assist.” Monvair glanced over his shoulder to where the Pack waited impatiently. “Come, we dance instead.”

The sudden tornado of annoyance spinning through Ivy had little to do with Monvair and his improper suggestions and everything to do with Lady Veronica Wesley. Clad in a stunning silk gown of sapphire blue, she boldly sidled up to Sebastian and Ivy watched, gritting her teeth, as the earl bowed at the waist. He kissed the lady’s offered hand while she tapped his forearm with an intricately carved wood and silk fan. It was rumored she shared his bed once again, although the same gossips gleefully crowed the Earl of Ravenswood never chose the same woman twice once an affair ended.

Monvair grunted in protest when a spool-heeled slipper ground his toe.

“Oh, dear,” Ivy muttered, her lack of attentiveness mortifying. “Forgive me, Count. I lost the step.”

“No harm done, mon cher.” Monvair bounced on one foot to recapture the pace of the dance.

“I shan’t do it again,” she promised, giving him a smile that led men to do as she desired without murmur or complaint. The count’s bearded face collapsed into an expression of such adoration, Ivy questioned he felt the pain of his crushed toe at all.

Risking a second glance during a sweeping turn, Ivy saw Lady Wesley frowning, hands fluttering with stylish grace while Sebastian regarded her, his features hard as flint. As the reel ended, he pushed off from the column almost violently, leaving Veronica to stare after him, bottom lip worried between her teeth.

When Sebastian located Ivy and Monvair on the opposite side of the room, his aggravation was unmistakable.

Unaware of the potential danger stalking in their direction, Monvair tugged Ivy to a shadowy alcove. There, he launched into a rambling breakdown of the outrageous cost of his new royal purple and butter yellow waistcoat. Held hostage to his inane chatter, Ivy nodded politely, waiting for Sebastian to come as the strains of the next dance, a lilting waltz, drifted into the nook, mingling with conversations and laughter and the clinking of glasses. She thought her heart, pounding with excitement, could be heard above it all.

“Lady Kinley promised me this dance,” Sebastian announced without preamble, invading the close space like a giant forcing his way into a fairy’s cottage.

“Are you sure, Lord Ravenswood?” Ivy’s head tilted, some devil within her incited to tease him. Perhaps she did not care to dance at that moment? Perhaps she was content to debate the advantages of silk over velvet for waistcoats with Monvair.

“You don’t remember? Lady Kinley? Shall I remind you of the moment you pledged it?” Sebastian’s tight smile dared her to deny it, and before Ivy could form a suitable response, his arms wrapped around her waist. As Monvair sputtered and nearby guests twittered in amused shock, Sebastian nearly lifted her off her feet and whirled her away.

The way his eyes skimmed over her, hot, and possessive, was electrifying. The man was sinfully handsome. He was dangerous. And he smelled divine, a mouthwatering aroma of cinnamon and exotic spices, clean and honest. Not heavy cologne covering an unwashed body or male sweat. It was scandalous to think such thoughts, but Ivy wanted to strip the earl of his shirt, take it home, and sleep all night rolled up in it and that delicious scent.

Sebastian’s lips curved in amusement as Ivy’s gaze roamed his face. She could not stop staring at his mouth, which was as finely molded as the rest of him. What might he taste like? Would he taste of cinnamon too? When he kissed her before, it was all too brief, and she’d been too startled to make note of all those essential details. She would not make the same mistake the next time.

When his smile widened, as if able to read her mind, a warning tingle skipped down Ivy’s spine. Flustered, she watched Monvair trundle with dull resignation back to the Pack. Sebastian followed the path of her attention.

“That was entertaining.”

“It was the height of boorishness.” Hoping to sound reproachful, her words came out in a breathless rush instead. Why could she could only think of Sebastian kissing her, his lips pressing hot against hers? Sleeping nude with his clothing whispering across her bare skin, chased by his warm fingers. What the devil was the matter with her?

His expression remained a study of unrepentant gratification. “I thought it rather brave of me.”

“How so?”

“I saved his toes and sacrificed my own.” Seeing the reluctant smile hovering on the corners of her lips, Sebastian ducked his head. “He survives to waltz another day.” His breath fluttered hot in her ear. “However, were his intentions to get you alone, then he is most fortunate I intervened. He lives another day.”

Had they not garnered everyone’s attention when this brazen earl whisked her onto the floor, they were certainly the epicenter of attention now. “I confess I did step on his foot.” Ivy did not dare mention Monvair’s outrageous proposal.

“You weigh no more than a woodland sprite. Monvair will endure, and if not, others await anxiously to take his place.”

Along the edges of the ballroom floor, the Pack paced back and forth on tenterhooks. Visibly horrified by Ivy’s choice of a dance partner, they mumbled amongst themselves as if making plans to steal her back.

“You’ve upset the balance of things by stealing me from the count,” she said.

Sebastian swept her a glance from beneath lowered lashes. “You do not belong to him. It is not stealing.”

“I do not belong to anyone, Lord Ravenswood,” she shot back but he only smiled at her heated statement, as though he knew secrets she did not.

It made her nervous, that smile of his. She was swimming in deep waters, and the earl had far more experienced at this little game they played.

“We have the attention of nearly every guest in attendance.” Ivy nodded at the glittering crowd suspended along the edges of the marble floor. There was much whispering and passing of knowing glances. All concerning the two of them, no doubt. “You could not sneak a teaspoon out of here without someone’s notice.”

“Must I prove a point? I'm an expert in such things.” His arm tightened at her waist, his eyes hungry and hot. “And in other matters. I could show you.”

“I can’t imagine what you would gain from such actions.” From his slight frown, her bluntness shocked him.

“You cannot begin to fathom…” Sebastian took a deep breath. “I’m a selfish bastard so I assure you it would be well worth my effort.” His eyes flared with the confession and he seemed unable to conceal the desire lurking in those grey depths. “Would it be considered bad form to point out I just stole the waltz I wanted?”

Ivy laughed despite herself. As they danced, he had maneuvered her to one of the French doors opening to an elevated terrace with an overview of the gardens. Before the tune ended, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, leading her out into the brisk night air.

Taking care for the pale coral silk of her ball gown, Ivy leaned against a waist high stone wall bordering the promenade. Along with the help of a full moon, bobbing Chinese lanterns gave a magical glow to the shadowy expanse of lawn. A giggling couple, unaware of they were watched from above, strolled to the darkest of the garden paths winding through the estate and stood indecisively.

“Your actions embolden others,” Ivy rebuked as the couple below suddenly disappeared from view, holding hands as they eased down the obscurity of the path.

“Meaning the Pack follows where others might lead?” Sebastian rested his forearms on the top edge of the stacked stone. The heat coming from his body was comforting. She should have been cold in the night air without a wrap on her shoulders, but it was difficult to feel chilled with him standing so close.

“They are very persistent, and pursuit is a game to them. Attempting to corner me alone is a singular objective.” Ivy glanced at the earl’s profile. “When one succeeds, others try to emulate. I am the one who suffers their efforts.”

It was dangerous and exciting to be with Sebastian in the perfumed darkness. Ivy's heart pounded, which was unnerving and out of the ordinary. Her heart had never thudded with such confusing, wild exhilaration before.

“Demand they desist in their pursuit.” His jaw clenched.

“Their ears hear only what they wish. So, I frequently ignore their foolishness. Sara says I’m so far away sometimes it’s a wonder no one taps my head, searching for me,” she smiled. “The Pack can be relentless, but I’ve no wish to hurt anyone or crush fragile egos by refusing…” Her words trailed away, the harsh memory of Timothy Garrett stinging her like a slap to the face. “What I mean is…”

Sebastian pushed off from the wall at the sudden distress in her voice. If his thoughts shifted to her role in the death of his cousin, he gave no indication. “I understand more than you realize. Marriage-minded mamas and a few fathers use to pitch their daughters at my feet with alarming frequency. My doorstep was quite littered and ignoring them was not an option.”

Waiting for the earl to strike with cutting swiftness, Ivy wondered if perhaps he was sympathetic. The tenseness in her shoulders eased.

He had tangled his fingers with hers and staring at their merged hands, Ivy nearly forgot to breathe. His hand was huge, swallowing her palm. She felt tiny and fragile next to him. Was it possible Sebastian meant her no harm? Was she naïve to trust him? She shook away the doubts.

“I find I do not like the idea of you being hunted.”

A faint confusion threaded Sebastian's words but Ivy had no time to contemplate it when he moved with a sudden purpose, pushing until her lower back was flush with the stonewall.

What was he doing? Would he kiss her? Here? Now? Ivy sucked in a breath, waiting. He crowded her, but she did not mind. Far from it. She quivered with longing, her gaze drifting to his mouth. Cinnamon, he will taste of cinnamon. Sebastian’s head dipped and her lips parted with anticipation.

From the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Viscount Basford marched onto the terrace as if going off to war. From the depths of a deep tunnel, Ivy heard him inquire of a small group assembled near the open doors if anyone had the pleasure of seeing the Countess of Somerset or, perhaps, the Earl of Ravenswood passing through recently. A young lady giggled, pointing toward the darkened end of the terrace.

Sebastian stepped back. Her hand slipped from his.

Ivy stifled a moan of irritation.

“There you are, my dear,” Brandon’s tone held a proprietary timber as he strode toward them. “I had no idea you had wandered out here.”

If it were possible to slap the viscount across his smug face at that moment, Ivy would have. Obviously, he’d been searching for her and now that he’d found her, she was his by prior rights.

The two men gave one another perfunctory bows, a cool frostiness chilling the air. It lingered as Brandon took Ivy’s elbow, his grip tighter than necessary. He wished to demonstrate his favored position in the Pack. Most of all, he meant to remind Sebastian he was the outsider.

Sebastian's attention dropped to where the viscount’s hand grasped Ivy. His eyes narrowed.

“The earl and I were enjoying a breath of air, Lord Basford,” Ivy said. She hesitated to put the viscount in his place with Sebastian as a witness. The night of the Sheffield Ball sealed hostilities between the two men and inciting further animosity was unwise.

“I see,” Brandon muttered, giving Sebastian a glare that said he did indeed “see,” and he did not like what he saw. Tearing his gaze from his opponent, the viscount said to Ivy, “I hoped you might grant me the next waltz, my dear.”

Sebastian assessed Brandon while Ivy wished he would say something. Lay claim to her for the next dance; beseech a walk in the garden. Carry her off into the night. Anything to keep her from leaving his side. When he remained silent, irritation swelled until Ivy remembered she was the one begging him to limit his contact with the Pack. He only did what she wished.

Internally, she screamed in protest. What is wrong with you? Do you wish me to go? Sebastian seemed uninterested as Brandon pulled her away. It was admirable how he ignored the viscount’s hostile glares, one brow raised in bemusement as he was left behind on the moonlit terrace.

Much later Ivy shook free of Brandon’s grip and the attention of the Pack to discreetly seek Sebastian out, but he had disappeared. She spent the remainder of the evening berating herself for the bitter disappointment she felt.

The following two weeks were thrilling and overwhelming as Sebastian laid an unexpected course of action. He monopolized her at every available chance. Every ball Ivy attended, he did as well, making a point of detaching her from the Pack to claim the waltzes. Every single one. If this were not vexing enough for the Pack, the earl managed to occupy the seat beside her at the midnight suppers for those balls. Many hostesses found themselves apologizing to other guests for the unfortunate confusion. No one could explain the mix-ups, which occurred only when Lord Ravenswood was in attendance.

He arrived at Kinley House daily for tea, much to Sara Morgan’s consternation, the open irritation of Ivy’s butler and her father’s silent, glowing approval. At a piano recital given by one of Sara’s gifted young cousins, the earl gained the seat beside Ivy for the performance and the dinner which followed. When Sara grumbled that the devious earl somehow managed to charm her own mother into granting him the favor, Ivy grinned like a madwoman. Lady Morgan, Sara’s mother, did not believe in tit for tat favors.

One blustery afternoon, they shared an open carriage ride through Hyde Park, along with every other member of London society. That day, sitting quite close for the sake of sharing warmth, Sebastian proved very attentive, ensuring Ivy’s cloak was buttoned securely, the carriage blanket tucked tight about her.

The earl was charming, witty, and disturbingly handsome with impeccable manners. He presented her with all manner of little gifts; a perfectly formed pear, a beautiful quill set with an intricately constructed inkwell in the shape of a long-legged crane; the bird’s body contained the ink, the head dropping back for the quill to be dipped into it. On another visit, he brought her a small, bejeweled box containing tea from his Caribbean estate, Rosethorne.

Ivy insisted such gifts were highly improper; he should refrain from giving her any others. Sebastian only smiled and murmured, “I do as I please, Countess. Have you not discovered that yet?”

Again, he brought her roses; dark pink ones smelling of lemons, with petals soft as velvet.

She should have told him of her aversion to the blooms, but he disarmed her in the most devious of ways. Roses were a favorite of his mother’s, Sebastian said. Their scent reminded him of her and the similarities, although for vastly different reasons, tugged at Ivy’s heart. She lacked the strength of will to send the flowers to the church cemetery. That bouquet, like the first, was placed on her bedside table and Ivy often paused to inhale its essence. How strange they did not possess that sickly-sweet odor she hated. The wild roses had a different essence, one she found tolerable.

And Sebastian made her laugh. Doubled over with peals of delight, Ivy forgot the ugliness of the past year. Sometimes, she even forgot the earl was Timothy’s cousin and possibly meant her harm.

The Pack seethed in powerless limbo as whispers of her involvement in Timothy’s death receded. Sebastian’s pet name for her was overheard at some point, and there were those who swooned over the romantic aspect of it. The gossips reported if the earl held no misgivings about Lady Ivy Kinley then maybe little validity existed in the horrid rumors she drove a young man to his death. Perhaps Lady Garrett overreacted from the depths of profound grief. After all, she re-entered Society after a rather short mourning period.

It was two weeks of whirlwind bliss but the night of the opera loomed, and questions regarding Sebastian’s motives still plagued Ivy. What were his real intentions when it came to this odd courtship? Did she wish him to kiss her again? Yes. No. She wasn’t sure. Other than the extraordinary incident at the Quinn Ball when he pressed her against the stonewall, Sebastian kept a respectful distance.

Sometimes, he watched her with the most peculiar expression. He would look away, realizing Ivy’s gaze was upon him, and then reconnect his eyes with hers a moment later. Those fleeting instances chilled her, but he would say something to make her laugh, or his hand would catch hers, and her apprehensions would melt. She could not stem the anxious feeling that something momentous was on the verge of happening-something that could never be undone or forgotten. On the night of the opera, when the Ravenswood coach clattered into the Kinley House courtyard, her nerves were wound tighter than a child’s toy top.

“Milady, he’s here.” Her maid drifted in, a vague smile on her ruddy face. Molly voiced her opinion many times over, comparing the earl to what she called ‘the pitiful lot o’ them.' Not a single gentleman in the Pack was worthy of her mistress, but Lord Ravenswood…oh, he was something special.

Grabbing up her cloak from the bed, Ivy regarding Molly in bemusement. The older girl simply smiled back before shaking the cobwebs from her head.

“So sorry, miss,” Molly giggled, settling the midnight blue velvet over Ivy’s shoulders. “I’ve got my heads in the clouds tonight, I do. ‘Tis a fine evening you’ll have with his lordship. Should I wait up for you?”

“There’s no need. It will be quite late when I come home. I’ll manage on my own.”

Reaching the top of the grand staircase, Ivy felt like a sacrificial lamb led to slaughter. Sebastian waited for her descent, gazing up at her with those stormy eyes, his face impassive. He rested one arm on the curved newel post.

He just might be the Devil himself, his hair the color of midnight reflecting the gaslight of the enormous crystal chandelier, the angular planes of his face half in shadows. Sin and heat and power all coiled up and packaged in unembellished, ebony black evening clothes. Only a snowy white ascot and cravat relieved the starkness of his attire. With the power to bore straight to the center of Ivy’s soul, his eyes prompted a shiver. The tiny smirk playing along the corners of his mouth signified he knew all of her jumbled thoughts.

Concentrating on placing one foot before the other in order not to trip and land in a clumsy heap at his feet, she continued down the stairs. Upon reaching the bottom step, his eyes swept her with such heated approval that Ivy actually took a half step back. Intent and desire existed in that look he gave her. Lust…

Taking her hand with a chuckle she suspected was meant to ease her anxiety, the flame in his eyes banked itself to a glow. His lips brushed the material layered over her fingers, his voice a low-slung rumble.

“Good evening, my beautiful little butterfly. Are you ready to depart?”

The heat of him drifted clear through to her backbone. “Yes.” Ivy clenched her jaw tight. She thought her teeth might chatter out of her head.

“Shall we then?” Sebastian tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. His brow lifted in an inquisitive manner to the butler. The man stood gawking at Ivy as though she were a foreigner rather than the girl he’d adored and served since birth.

“Must I open the door myself?” Sebastian muttered aloud in an aggrieved fashion.

Recalling his post, Brody bounded forward to fling open the doors. His face stained a deep crimson, he offered Ivy her pier glasses and the earl his overcoat and hat.

Once they settled in the lustrous dark blue lacquered coach emblazoned with the Ravenswood crest, the coach door shut with a decisive click then jerked forward with a crack of the whip. In the gathering twilight, it clattered across the cobblestones of Mayfair’s pretty streets before turning toward the theater district.

The surprisingly roomy interior of the vehicle shrank to one of disquieting intimacy. Sprawled like an opulent king against the dense squabs of the ivory leather opposite Ivy, Sebastian’s long legs invaded the open space between the bench seats to brush against her skirts. “Comfortable?”

His wolfish smile was one Ivy had never seen before. She suddenly felt like a meal. His breakfast, supper and dinner, all in one, and the Earl of Ravenswood watched her as if he was starving.

“Yes, thank you.” She licked suddenly dry lips. She was far from comfortable. He knew it.

“You’re flushed. I hope you are not taking ill.”

Could her cheeks get any hotter? Her heart thump a little slower? Over the course of two weeks, she’d laughed in amusement with this man, twirled in his arms, sipped champagne while debating legislation, Parliament, literature and the arts. She drank tea and performed numerous piano arrangements for him in her music room. There was little to be nervous about.

But you were never quite so… alone… with him all those times, were you?

Ivy slammed shut her internal dialogue.

“I’m fine.” She touched the strand of pearls encircling her neck. Inside her gloves, her hands were clammy, her cloak far too warm for the closeness of the coach. The indigo velvet felt incredibly heavy upon her shoulders. How she wished to undo the frogs at her throat, to rip the garment away. The manner in which Sebastian scrutinized her stopped her. It was as if he waited for such actions. He quivered as if on the verge of pouncing, fingers curling and uncurling in anticipation for a bit of flesh to reveal itself.

Twin leaded crystal lanterns bracketed the benches, the low light casting the interior in a golden glow as the daylight eased away. The cushions were luxurious; the expensive vehicle well sprung. It floated over the irregular thoroughfare, and his coachman was an expert at controlling the horses. The evening was filled with the resonances of typical London traffic; the deafening clatter of wheels against rough cobblestones, the cries of coachmen for others to move aside, the snaps of whips, dogs barking and the whinnies and snorts of horses. Inside the vehicle, those noises were subdued, and the hush between Ivy and Sebastian swelled.

“You are very beautiful.” The flash in Sebastian’s eyes darkened to something mysterious.

The words, warm and disarming. curled around Ivy. She swallowed a nervous laugh. “Thank you.” The anticipation strumming through the earl was magnified a hundred times over once it transferred to her. She felt coiled so tight, she might burst into a million shards of light if he dared touch her.

“I hope you’ve not reconsidered my escort.” Crossing one leg over his knee, the motion moved him a few inches away.

Ivy exhaled in relief. It was difficult to think clearly with the earl so near, even if only his knee brushing her own caused her brain to dissolve into complete mush. “I thought you might reconsider the invitation.”

“I confess,” Sebastian’s teeth flashed white. “I’ve anticipated this for days. Time moved with vexing sluggishness. Until now.”

“Patience is not one of your virtues?”

“On the contrary.” His reply was a measured drawl. “At times, I’m very patient. Lately, I’ve demonstrated ungodly amounts of it.”

Ivy’s head tilted. “What might cause a loss of tolerance?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

“You are teasing me,” she laughed. “Someone surely told you I’m known for my rather impetuous manner. Patience is an admirable quality I’m afraid I possess not a fragment of.”

“I’ve been forewarned. It will be pleasurable to postpone certain events when I deem it necessary.” His smile was faint, a tense undercurrent flickering in his words.

“And your temper? Is it easily lost?” Ivy referred to the notorious duel with the Earl of Landon. Other than the fact it originated over a woman, the particulars still remained secret. Did he still long for her? Regret her loss?

Sebastian smiled again, tenderly but with enough cruelty to make Ivy regret posing such a reckless question. “Losing one’s temper is for fools, hotheads, and children. At some point, I’ve been all three. Make no mistake, test my temper and you will find the penalties and punishment unpleasant, but I seldom, if ever, lose it. Or anything else for that matter.”

A warning, perhaps? There was no explaining her increasing fascination with this man. Like swaying near a rampant fire on a winter’s night; should she get too close, she might be incinerated by flames, but the urge to draw near the intoxicating heat was beyond her control.

“We shall cause a disturbance this evening,” Ivy pointed out.

Sebastian’s broad shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “I’m no stranger to gossip. It does not change, regardless of the city or country.”

Sebastian’s frame of mind was not considered when it came to the chatter they spawned together and the new storm to be stirred. It was one thing to whirl a few waltzes in the midst of hundreds, having Ravenswood’s exclusive escort quite another. Guilt plucked at Ivy. Hiding behind him, taking asylum in his strength, and his ill-advised belief in her innocence, elevated her no higher than the Pack. Using him benefited her situation. The whole situation was wrong. So very wrong.

Dropping her gaze, she examined the material of the earl’s trousers. It was a fine, dove-gray wool, an expensive fabric. Irish, if she didn’t miss her guess. From the knees down, he sported jet-black boots much finer than the Hessians London’s gentlemen currently favored. Italian leather, luxurious and buttery soft. Her reflection flickered in the glossy blackness of those boots, mirrored back in the reddish glow of the leaded lanterns. Caught in a flash of hysteria, Ivy giggled. Sucking in a proper breath of air was impossible but here she sat, contemplating the earl’s exquisite taste in men’s fashion.

“Sebastian…this is a mistake.” Her heart punched with increasing bangs within her chest, a frantic drumbeat of warning. She did not lift her eyes from his boots. She felt him stiffen, his body remaining in its negligent position. No. It was not safe whirling close to this particular fire.

“Whatever do you mean, Countess?”

“I- I’ve done you a disservice. My intentions are not honorable.” Somehow, she forced her gaze up to his.

“And mine are?” His smile was devastating.

“You’re teasing me again,” she whispered in anguish.

With one smooth movement, he was at her side. His hands, encased in the finest kid leather black gloves, clutched her arms through the velvet cloak. Rotating her toward him, he began stroking the material as if it were her flesh.

Ivy melted at the hypnotic rhythm. Heat spread through her veins with the molten smoothness of honeyed whiskey. Alarm bells rang with a frantic clamor in her ears. When she tried to speak, Sebastian pulled her to him, and she forgot what she wished to say. He had never held her so close before. Something wild sparked within her.

“Be quiet,” his voice was rough. “I’ve no interest in your damn confession. It will not keep me from you, or save you from me. You cannot know how I’ve obsessed over this moment when we would be alone.”

“But I-”

Sebastian slid his hands from her arms to her throat. As he cradled the sides of her neck, all coherent thought vanished. With the slightest effort, he could end her life with his bare hands. Once, she might have thought that to be a distinct probability, but not now. She did not believe he would hurt her.

His fingers laced at the back of her head while both thumbs coasted with nerve-wracking deliberateness, from a delicate spot on the underside of her chin to the hollow of her throat. Could he feel her pulse race through the leather of his gloves? The blood quickening below her skin? Ivy plummeted into a disorienting bog of instinct. It demanded she dissolve and thaw. Her head tipped back. Her eyes grew heavy. Let the earl do what he will. Open to him; lift your mouth to his. Kiss him. Let him kiss you…

His hands skated up until his palms cupped her face. Like silver fire, his eyes burned in the dimness of the coach. Different from the golden radiance of the lantern light, but warmer, somehow. A foreign tingle pulled from the pit of Ivy’s stomach when his hands remained on either side of her jaw, holding her prisoner. Their eyes locked.

“I don’t understand what is happening.” She did not intend to whisper her confusion aloud, but the words incited Sebastian. Dark, primitive need flared in his gaze.

“Listen to me, Ivy. Be very quiet, very still and listen to me. Whatever you say, whatever you do, any attempt to stop me, will not work. I will take what I want and you will let me.”

“I will?” What did he wish to take? Her soul? He could have it. Her body? That too. She was drowning in him, and God help her, she loved it. She wanted more. She could not tear herself away from him. She did not want to. “What...what do you want?”

“You. I want you. Ivy, you will crave it, these things I intend to do. You will beg, yes, beg me and I will do these things. To you. With you. For you. You will not stop me. Indeed, you will not want to stop me.” His hands tightened on her jaw, keeping her steady, the leather suddenly hot against her skin. As if he were made of fire beneath the gloves. “Are you ready, Ivy? Because I must taste you before I go mad. Say yes. Say, ‘yes, Sebastian, please taste me’”

She stared at him, and as if in a dream, she repeated the words in a voice so husky, she did not recognize it as her own. “Yes, Sebastian. Please...taste me.”

Sebastian’s lips curved. His lashes dropped, hiding his eyes. “Good girl.”

The kiss was like nothing Ivy imagined it would be. This kiss was so achingly sweet and so captivating, it sent her soul soaring. His mouth coaxed hers to open even more. Cinnamon. And the spicy sharpness of bourbon flooded her mouth. The two flavors created an intoxicating fusion. Everything inside her somersaulted. Melted. Burned. What was wrong was suddenly right, the forbidden instantly allowable. Long held boundaries erected by society, by the world, even her own self-imposed confines, were promptly reduced to cinders. The fluttering ashes of restraint drifted away on a moan.

Ivy was giddy with confusion, with the need to belong to him. No words existed to stop him, not when his hip pressed her leg, not with his mouth upon hers, not with his hands holding her so tight. Sebastian traced the shape of her lips, and when she inhaled in delight, the kiss deepened to one darker, hungrier. His tongue delved in slow, deliberate sweeps before dancing away in a teasing manner. He was testing her, to see if she would follow.

Allowing the butterfly come to him.

She would. She did.

Her nerves sparked, liquid and hot. Blindly, Ivy sought Sebastian’s mouth again and again. She let him kiss her until she was melting into the cushioned seat. Her hands fluttered across the broad expanse of his chest, his pulse thumping beneath the pads of her fingertips. In the haze of foreign sensations, there was a realization the earl’s heart did not keep time with the pounding of hers. No, his heartbeat was slow, methodic. Controlled. How was that possible? Why was he unaffected by the turmoil of emotions cascading around them? How could the swirling chaos inside her soul not devastate him too?

Her face still cradled in the palm of his hands, Sebastian’s fingers inched upward, threatening to entangle in the elegant upsweep of her coiffure. When she groaned her pleasure, he abruptly pulled away, removing his hands and allowing a bit of space between their bodies. He remained between her legs, but her skirts kept him from direct contact with her body. Wanting his heat and hardness to scorch her, she arched against him.

His head twisted, presenting his cheek. “Right here, if you please.”

Ivy made no move, her eyes drowsy and full of wonder at the burning world he just inducted her to. Tendrils of desire tangled about her limbs. Why did he stop? Why was he talking instead of kissing her?

“You should slap me quite soundly for my actions.” He waited for the palm of her hand to connect with his flesh. “Especially for what I made you say.”

His statement seeped in, slowly making sense in a languid world.

Sebastian wished her to strike him.

With a resounding wallop, a proper young miss would remind Lord Ravenswood that such valuable liberties were hard pressed to be won. Her easy capitulation to his advances flashed in Ivy’s frazzled mind. Would he think the worst of her for allowing such a kiss? Would he believe this to be a common occurrence? That she routinely granted such intimate favors to members of the Pack? Her cheeks burned, recalling the words she repeated at his command. Taste me…

No one ever dared kiss her in such a way. In such an all-consuming, possessive sort of way. She was far too eager for it to continue. The need for his mouth upon hers made it difficult to form coherent words and string them into complete sentences.

His dark brow rose. “I shall not offer again. Last chance and I must warn you, I do not play fair.”

“All’s fair in love and war,” Ivy whispered. She was drunk on that kiss he gave her, shuddering, intoxicated by it.

“A sentiment usually touted by the victor, wouldn’t you agree?” His eyes glittered.

Where might this dark path lead? Whatever ensued from this point on was as much in her control as it was his. Resisting him was useless. It would probably damn her soul to hell, but Ivy did not care. If he were dangerous, she would deal with the consequences later.

Her hand slid to his cheek, applying gentle pressure until he faced her. The distance placed between them was erased as the soft rocking of the coach invariably moved them to closer proximity. If he were to turn just so, move over her, pull her closer, just a little more, he’d be between her legs. What might happen once he was there?

“I should slap you.” Her voice was shaky.

“But you won’t, will you?” His lips curled into that wolf-like grin. They both knew complete surrender was at hand.

“Why is that?” Ivy’s brow furrowed.

“Because I’m going to kiss you the way I wanted the moment I laid eyes on you. And you want me to do just that. I can see it in your eyes.” The harshness of his tone indicated he held onto his desire by a mere thread. But still, he waited for her permission. If she gave it…

“Yes.” Although her words were shy, she bravely met his gaze. “Yes, please kiss me.”

Sebastian did so with a thrilling ferocity, his tongue thrusting to mate with hers. The banked fires within Ivy roared to blinding life. His roughness should have shocked her, but it did not. She did not understand the need to be closer; she only knew it must be so. Whatever he wanted, whatever he asked of her, she would gladly give him, everything if only he continued kissing her. Dear God, she wanted more. Needed more…needed something…something only he could show her…

Sebastian devoured. He claimed. He licked and teased until Ivy was faint with breathless excitement. Deep inside, where she hid from the world, sensations burst into full bloom, desire stamping out caution. There was no protection from his advances or the threat of inevitable misery. Her moans of pleasure silenced the last of the alarm bells.

At last, he seemed disconcerted by her. He felt the same madness after all, for an agonized groan escaped him; his hands moving from her upper arms, to her waist, then higher beneath the cloak until he cupped the underside of her breasts. Her shuddering pant of response caused them to swell near to overflowing the gown’s midnight blue edge.

I want your mouth there, on my skin. If he stopped plundering her mouth, Ivy would utter the command aloud. But his kiss was too deep, too greedy, too ravenous and without mercy for any words to rise between them. One hand roughly weighed the fullness of her breast, his palm burning and hot through silk and leather while she wished not a scrap of cloth existed to bar the earl’s touch. Arching into his palm, a mystifying urge to be petted and stroked drove her almost mindless. Whimpers of frustration escaped her, and Sebastian growled in complete male response, a conqueror ready to claim his prize. He jerked her closer, fingers curved in readiness to pull the bodice of her gown low so tender flesh would be bared to his mouth.

The coach came to a stop, jolting them to awareness, shaking them apart.

An awkward silence crept in, time dripping steady as raindrops as they stared at one another. Their breaths, heavy in the warmth of the coach, combined with the chill of a spring night in London to leave a foggy condensation on the leaded windows beyond the drawn curtains.

Sebastian, with a marked lack of haste, removed his hands from her body. Like a beautiful jungle cat, he unfolded until he no longer reclined against her, no longer between her thighs where Ivy wanted him so fiercely for reasons she could not begin to comprehend.

He gave her a rueful smile. “We’ve arrived, my dear.”

Brushing aside her fumbling hands, he realigned the frogs of her cloak, holding her gaze with a hypnotic force. Her pearls were readjusted, stray curls tucked back into her coiffure, then, with exquisite tenderness, he trailed one finger across her cheek. It was the barest of touches, but it sang straight to Ivy’s soul. Eyes fluttering shut, her head tilted back, lips parting to receive a kiss that never came.

Her eyes snapped open as the grinning footman swung open the door and the world intruded with a rude, bustling intensity into the charged, steaming interior of the coach.

Taking a deep breath, Sebastian stared at Ivy as though she were something quite dangerous and very rare. His words, so softly spoken, held a touch of regret.

“Never have I despised the opera as much as I do this very moment.”