Page 16

First, Worthington made a ridiculous proposal about escorting her to a ball.

Not just any ball. The Widow’s Ball.

A place no innocent young lady belonged.

But exactly the kind of place a scurrilous lord might be. And am I really so innocent?

She didn’t feel innocent. She felt itchy and restless in ways she’d never before imagined.

Perhaps I’m allergic to something in this house. The bed sheets. The soap. A certain Commissioner of Scotland Yard.

Then, he pointed out her height, a fact she was acutely aware of as most men hated looking up to any woman, but most especially a woman like Ivy Cavendale. Not that Worthington had any worries there; the man was as tall as a giant oak tree and just as strongly built.

I don’t care how strong he is. Or tall. Or well proportioned.

He called her plank of a body desirable .

Of all the stuff and nonsense.

The last thing Ivy needed was the interest of a man like Edward Worthington.

Only, what might happen if I did capture his interest?

Not a thought worth entertaining. But for the first time ever, it filled Ivy with more questions than fears. Which was unaccountable.

The very idea of attending a ball with him – dancing within the frame of his powerful body, feeling his hands on her skin, letting his scent infiltrate her senses – created a slow burn low in her belly that spread out, getting trapped in highly inappropriate places.

The backs of her knees, the hollow of her throat, the apex of her thighs.

Fear. That was what she should be feeling.

That was what she always felt when imagining dancing with a lord of the beau monde.

His body too close. His breath too hot. His hands too demanding.

But that was not what she felt when she imagined Worthington’s chest close enough to her own she could feel the heat of him.

His breath skating over the delicate skin of her neck.

His hand pressing against the small of her back as their bodies moved together along the strains of a stringed quartet.

I’m ill. This is some kind of strange fever.

But the ache she felt wasn’t like that of the ague. This was something new, something entirely different from anything she had experienced before. She found it equal parts frightening, frustrating, and fascinating.

She always viewed men as terrifying beasts best avoided.

Her father had explained in excruciating detail all the ways a man could use her.

Would use her. All the ways he wanted to use her.

Though he never went further than lingering touches that stained her skin like invisible bruises.

Because her virginity was far too precious.

He couldn’t very well sell her to the highest bidder if she was already ruined.

Her father told her night after night if he let himself give in to her temptations, if he allowed himself to sample what she so blatantly offered, the beau monde would know his daughter was damaged, dirty, and devious.

It would reflect poorly on him to have harboured such sin within his household.

So, he invaded her mind instead of her body and created a black darkness there with claws that slashed, teeth that sunk into her imagination and ripped her innocence asunder, threats of what was to come that kept her huddled in the shadows, desperate to evade any notice from the gentlemen seeking out biddable wives.

While her body remained innocent, he painted shame over her soul in heavy brushstrokes.

When he died, she rejoiced and hoped the fear would die with him.

But the black monster invading her mind still lingered.

Ivy worked furiously to ensure she would never need to marry.

It was why she used such economy with her money.

It was why she first started working with Philippa to learn skills of self-protection.

It was why this tingling new awareness of Worthington was so unexplainable.

Watching her closest friend fall in love a few months after her father’s death, indeed, accidentally interrupting Millie and Lord Drake in an intimate moment, only confirmed the damage her father had exacted upon Ivy.

Like amputating a limb, only he had cut off any normal desires she might have for another.

She could never look at a man the way Millie watched Drake.

The love and need in her friend’s gaze, a fire burning so bright it singed anyone near them, was impossible for Ivy to imagine ever harbouring within her own heart. It was mystifying.

So what is this confounding curiosity whenever Worthington is near? Why do I look at him and wonder what it might feel like to have his fingers brushing over my skin? His lips pressing against my own? Why do I ache in places best forgotten?

When she had stumbled upon Millie and Drake so many months ago, his head had been buried between Millie’s thighs.

At the time, Ivy reacted with abject horror and a desperate need to protect her friend from such unseemly ravishment.

A ravishment from which Millie most adamantly wished not to be rescued.

Ivy couldn’t understand how her friend so willingly submitted to such demeaning behaviour.

But now, as she stood in the kitchen of the orphanage, alone with a strong, powerful man wearing the clothes of a commoner and the manners of a gentleman, she wondered.

I need to speak with Millie. Immediately.

Gripping the handle of the kettle tightly, she squeezed until her knuckles whitened and her body cooled slightly. She turned from the stove and narrowed her eyes. ‘I cannot attend a ball with you tomorrow night. I’m expected to be here, watching over the children.’

‘Find someone else to cover for you.’

She threw her head back and laughed. Because finding someone willing to take on the responsibility of seven and twenty children was such an easy task. ‘I don’t have anyone else to ask. I have very few friends, and they all have responsibilities.’

‘What about Philippa?’

Dear God. He really is an imbecile.

‘You expect me to ask Lady Philippa Winterbourne, the Duchess of Dorsett, personal confidante to Queen Victoria, to leave her mansion in Belgrave Square and spend the night in Islington with a house full of urchins whilst I frip around the Widow’s Ball on your arm looking for some nameless lord?’

‘Yes. Exactly.’

Ivy shook her head and bit back a foul curse no lady would ever utter. ‘No. It’s impossible. This is my responsibility. Not hers.’

‘Your safety is my responsibility. As is that of the children here. If we don’t find this man, you are at risk. So are they. Trust me. Philippa will understand.’

‘Why?’ The question plagued her. ‘Why is my safety of any interest to you at all?’ She was of little import.

The commissioner could easily assign someone else to this case.

Anyone else. She certainly didn’t merit the time and energy of a man as lofty and important as the Commissioner of Scotland Yard and a duke to boot.

Madness.

‘Why not, Lady Ivy? Why are you unworthy of protection?’

Her throat became tight. In a horrible moment of vulnerability, tears threatened. She shook her head, unable to answer.

He took a step closer and reached out, his fingers tracing along the line of her jaw. The rasp of his calluses was surprisingly pleasant. She understood now why her kitten arched his back and purred whenever she stroked him.

The very thought sent heat to her cheeks and sucked the air from her lungs. In an attempt to restore oxygen to her body, she was enveloped in the scent of rich coffee and a spice she couldn’t quite place.

Jamaican pepper.

‘You deserve far more than mere protection, Lady Ivy.’

Oh dear.

The perplexing feeling of some heretofore unknown organ within her body unfurling, tingling, growing hot and wet and needy was simply overwhelming. Placing both hands on Worthington’s solid, far too fascinating chest, she pushed him back.

Space. I need a great deal more space. And air. In my lungs.

A very cold cloth to place against her very hot skin wouldn’t go amiss.

But as she held his gaze, his words lingered.

What do I deserve?

Every fibre in her being wanted to ask, but she couldn’t force the words from her lips. Because even as her body ached, her mind recoiled. She didn’t want his attention. Or protection. Or interest.

‘Men look at you and only want one thing, little Ivy. The pleasure they can take from your flesh. And what pleasure you will give them.’ Lord Cavendale’s strained voice reached her in the darkness as his hand moved in a frantic rhythm.

Ivy swallowed down the bile and forced the memory from her thoughts. He was dead and gone. His power over her should be at an end. But she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.

Worthington’s dark-blue gaze sharpened as if he could see her memories, hear her thoughts.

What if he knows?

Impossible. No one knew. Not even Millie. It was her darkest, sickest secret, pushed so far down into her depths, it created her foundation. A broken, twisted thing upon which nothing could be built.

And that’s where it must stay.

‘Are you well, Lady Ivy?’ The concern in his voice wrapped around her, threatening to dissolve the shields she meticulously constructed.

No.

‘Of course. I am fine. Just astounded at your ridiculous plan.’

Edward’s firm mouth tilted in a grin not quite reaching his eyes.

‘You mispronounced resplendent, Lady Ivy.’ He turned, picked up his coffee, and paused at the door of the kitchen.

‘When you meet with Philippa today, tell her our plan. If she is unable to assist us, I have several constables with young wives who would happily volunteer their time. Send me word at Scotland Yard.’ He nodded politely, as if his hands hadn’t just moments ago been touching her, as if his words hadn’t been tearing apart her carefully built walls of protection, as if his very presence hadn’t been wreaking havoc on her senses.

Smug bastard.