Page 21

Shifting restlessly in her slippers, Ivy noted how they pinched her toes and rubbed painfully on her heels. Why pretty shoes always had to be so damnably uncomfortable was a mystery. But better to focus on the masochism of fashion than the sick feeling crawling up from her belly.

‘The group of men who want to t-tup her.’ She stumbled over the coarse word.

Edward’s lips tilted in a small smile. He leaned closer to her, whispering in her ear. ‘First, you lure me onto the veranda, now, you speak of tupping? Lady Ivy, I’d no idea you were so scandalous!’

Heat crawled up her neck, washing over her cheeks. ‘That isn’t what I meant. I just thought… Lady Olivia is so very lovely, I imagine…’

Shut up, Ivy! Shut up now before you make a bigger fool of yourself than you’ve already done.

‘Imagine what precisely? Wait. No. Don’t tell me. After all the wickedness you’ve managed tonight, I’m not sure my delicate constitution could survive hearing whatever things you might,’ he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, ‘imagine.’

Ivy gave into temptation and swatted his arm. It was like hitting granite.

Dear Lord, can men be carved from stone like statues?

Edward didn’t try to hide his smile. ‘Lady Olivia is beautiful, but she is not the woman I think about when I imagine…’ His thumb grazed over the delicate skin of her wrist, and Ivy quivered. ‘Tupping.’

In a terrifying moment of clarity, Ivy realised she’d taken this conversation too far.

Only moments before, she had retreated from kissing; now they were talking about far more dangerous activities.

She glanced over the crowd, desperately seeking the right response.

Something cool and sophisticated. A flat-out denial of her interest. Some way to back-pedal out of the swamp in which she found herself.

Because while she asked the question, she wasn’t ready for his answer.

She was far too afraid to entertain such ideas.

Her father had thrilled at describing the violent act to Ivy while she shook in her bed.

The ripping. The tearing. The inevitable screams that would only spur her nameless husband on to greater depths of invasion.

She swallowed hard as bile crept up her throat. ‘I do not believe some women are ever capable of enduring such an act of… aggression.’

Slowly, he turned Ivy to face him. It was nearly impossible to hold his gaze.

So much emotion swirled in the depths of his dark-blue eyes, not the least of which was anger, though at whom, she couldn’t guess.

‘I don’t know what you’ve been forced to experience, my lady.

One day, I hope you might share it with me.

But regardless, I promise you this: you never need to fear me, Ivy.

Not now. Not ever. Whether we do nothing more than talk or you demand I worship your body until you are dripping with desire.

Whatever we do or do not do, it will all be at your command. ’

Several of his words caused her mind to trip and stumble.

Worship my body.

Dripping with desire.

My command.

But Ivy commanded no one. Ever. Such heady power was unthinkable. She glanced away from him, unable to reason when his words rioted through her mind.

A man caught her eye, a grateful distraction from this most confusing conversation. He was moving through the crowd with determined steps bordering on frantic. A man she recognised. Only when last she saw him, he was bleeding from a bullet in his shoulder. A bullet she placed there.

‘Oh dear.’

‘What?’ Edward’s eyes searched her face.

‘He’s here. The man.’ She pointed as the gentleman disappeared into the crowd, heading toward the entrance and escape.

Edward followed her finger, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the man exiting the ball. ‘Fuck.’

Ivy hardly had time to be offended at Edward’s language before he gripped her hand in his much larger one, and they began the arduous task of weaving through the crowd.

By the time they burst out the front door and onto the gravelled drive, the gentleman was turning down Hill Street toward Berkeley Square. From there, he could head north toward Oxford Street or south to Piccadilly, where it would be easy for him to grab a hack and disappear.

Edward looked at Ivy, then behind him at Widow Lovemore’s overflowing party. His dilemma was clear. He couldn’t leave Ivy behind, nor did he seem inclined to drag her along with him as he chased down a potentially dangerous man.

So, she decided for him.

It would be impossible for them to get Worthington’s barouche from the queue of waiting carriages in time to track where the man went.

We’ll just have to leg it.

‘Come on, then!’ Her hand still in his, she made a mad dash toward Berkeley Square, tugging him along behind her.

It was thrilling to run pell-mell through the streets of London in the middle of the night, air rushing past her cheeks, Edward’s warm hand gripped in hers.

She felt altogether unlike the Ivy Cavendale she knew.

This was a brand-new creature entirely, and someone she preferred to the frightened miss hovering at the crowd’s edge.

It became quickly apparent her slippers were just as big a hindrance when running as they were for dancing. She paused, and Worthington’s brows rose with concern.

‘Are you well?’

Kicking off one shoe and then the other, she grinned. ‘I’m grand.’ She pulled him once more.

As they turned and came upon the square, they needed to make a choice. Peering down the dark street, it was impossible to know if he had turned onto Davies Street toward Oxford or taken Berkeley to Piccadilly.

‘We should each take a direction. I can head north toward Oxford and you south to Piccadilly.’ Ivy was breathless, but only because her corset was making it impossible to fully expand her chest.

‘No.’ Worthington’s growl took her by surprise.

‘Why ever not? It’s the only way to be sure we find him.’

‘I will not have you chasing a dangerous man down the dark streets of Mayfair alone.’

Ivy opened her mouth to argue, but he held up his finger to his lips, his head cocked to the side.

‘Did you just shush me?’ Ivy hissed.

The faint scuffle of feet to her right silenced her as she met Worthington’s gaze.

‘Piccadilly!’ They said in unison before they took off again.

While Ivy was quick, Worthington’s height and strength gave him an advantage, and he was slightly ahead of her when he suddenly skidded to a stop at the corner of Charles and Berkeley.

Ivy crashed into him, but the man’s solid body barely moved.

He reached back, putting a steadying hand on her hip but also ensuring she stayed behind him.

Ivy peered around his wide shoulders and saw the man she shot standing with a gun in his hand. The weapon was pointed at Worthington.

‘Drat,’ she muttered.