Never one to tempt or tease, something about this woman pulled at the darker side of Edward. The side he kept tightly contained beneath the veneer of a respectable gentleman intent on seeking only justice. She invited him to do the one thing he never did: play.
He couldn’t stop the gravelled wickedness in his tone or the wild hope that she might describe any one of the decidedly improper activities taking place at a ball designed for devilish deeds.
Her throat worked in a strangled swallow. ‘What does not happen at that bacchanalian celebration? Even my… father, who was hardly a saint, refused to allow my brothers to attend.’ There it was again. The nearly choking sound as she stumbled over any mention of her sire. Her pale skin whitened further, and Edward no longer wanted to tease Ivy. Instead, he ached to shield her. Protect her.
‘I will not allow any harm to befall you. I swear it.’It is my duty, after all. That is all this is. Dedication to my role as Commissioner of Scotland Yard.
She lifted a hand to sweep away a strand of hair escaping her neat knot. ‘I can keep myself safe. That is not what concerns me.’
‘What is it?’ A desperate need for her to share her fears with him filled Edward with longing he’d not known since his youth.
She looked over his shoulder, then at the table, then to her fingers before finally tipping her chin up and staring at him. ‘I have nothing to wear to such a fete.’
Edward held her gaze. She was lying. Her fear had nothing to do with gowns. But she wasn’t ready to trust him with her truths. Fine. He could wait. ‘That will never do. I shall send word to Philippa. The Duchess of Dorsett has every modiste in London at her beck and call. Surely, she can have a dress for you by tomorrow evening.’
Her eyes, so clear and expressive he fancied he could fall into their depths like a great adventurer exploring an iceberg’s crevasse, widened in alarm. ‘What about your reputation? The entire beau monde would fly into a fervour at the very idea of the respectable, powerful, eligible Commissioner Worthington squiring poor, plain, sad little Ivy Cavendale to an event as scandalous as the Widow’s Ball.’
His thoughts recoiled at such ill-equipped descriptors. Proud, certainly. Serious, most assuredly.
Beautiful.
Not that he noticed, but yes, exactly. Her own opinions about herself were blatantly false.
‘You’re hardly little. I’d wager you’re taller than a quarter of the gentlemen at White’s.’ As soon as the words emerged, he realised his mistake. Of all the points to contradict, her height was perhaps the least complimentary.
Her brows came down like a guillotine. ‘Pardon?’
If he ever questioned whether Lady Ivy Cavendale was capable of shooting a man, the harsh edge of her words would put to bed any of his doubts. In fact, if she had her pistol handy, he was fairly certain she might point it at him and pull the trigger as easily as another young lady poured a dish of tea. His only consolation in mistakenly focusing on her height was the anger he inspired. He found it vastly superior to the fear plaguing Ivy whenever she mentioned her father. A man Edward desperately wished to revive from death only so he could send him back to hell himself.
‘I don’t mean to say… You have a very lovely figure.’Damn.He hadn’t meant to speak so plainly.
‘Pardon?’ This time, she said the word with the same confusion one might feel if they were told their skin was green or their limbs were made of pudding instead of flesh and bone.
‘I just mean your height and slender form are incredibly pleasing.’Not better.He literally bit his tongue.
Breath exploded from her in a shocked burst. ‘Pardon?’
She has certainly illustrated the vast meanings held in one word.
‘I’m only saying your description hardly merits the many appealing facets of your total person.’
Shut up. Just shut up now before you completely bury yourself.
But he didn’t shut up. He kept going.‘I can’t see why anyone would question my interest in you.’
Flaming feathers on a phoenix’s arse. Did I just admit to being interested in her? A woman who would rather watch me be pickled in vinegar than grace my arm at a ball. Marvellous.
Ivy tapped her finger against her skirts. He could actually see the woman gathering her thoughts back together like one might collect pieces of shattered pottery. ‘I can think of at least twenty reasons to start. The first being that youaren’tinterested in me.’ She glared at him, and if a woman could will a statement into reality with nothing more than focused desire, his attraction to her would shrivel up and die as surely as a salted snail. ‘But never mind. Leaving aside the undeniable stir we might cause attending the Widow’s Ball together, what exactly do you hope to gain from flouncing around a dance floor with me?’ Her tart words belied a deeper emotion that her expressive skin could not hide. The wine-red stain seeped up her neck. Did it also slip lower? Painting her pale breasts with patterns he could trace with his fingers or tongue?
Not helpful.
Unaccountable nerves created a jitter through his system. He couldn’t remember the last time someone made him feel anxious. While his plan might not be the pinnacle of investigative brilliance, it was a starting point, and he needed her to trust him. He’d wager Lady Ivy Cavendale trusted very few men, if any.
With good reason, no doubt.
But not all men were such horrific monsters. While Edward knew he deserved no kind of pleasure in the arms of a woman, a fossilised piece of his soul cracked at the thought of Ivy never knowing the joy such intimacy could evoke because of whatever past pain she suffered. It seemed a horrific crime that someone as undeserving as Edward knew the heights of physical pleasure, while Ivy was trapped in…
Fear.
