A Bluestocking Christmas (7 page)

Tugging a black lace shawl off the back of the wingback chair, she tossed it over the arm of the chair as if casually dropped there. Her heart pounding, Ivy managed to conceal the book as a sharp knock preceded Morris’s entrance into the salon. Careful not to disturb the shawl, Ivy rose from her chair with a gasp at the sight of the extremely large bouquet of flowers her butler carried. Mary Rose, the downstairs housemaid, followed in the butler’s footsteps carrying a large vase.

“Good heavens, Morris, where on earth did these come from?” she asked as she rose to her feet.

“A young boy delivered them just now. He said there was a card enclosed.”

There were yellow
chrysanthemums, orange marigolds, red dahlias, and rich looking amaryllis of the deepest pink with delicate Queen Anne’s lace threaded throughout. Lush and beautiful, the arrangement was a perfect collection of blooms from an autumn garden. Given the time of year, the bouquet was extravagant and must have cost a fortune. Ivy crossed the floor to where Mary Rose was arranging the flowers in the vase. She leaned forward and drank in the fragrant aroma of the blossoms.
 

Anthony must have sent the bouquet as a way of apologizing for his uncle’s abysmal behavior. She smiled. Her friend had been furious when she’d told him about Lord Wycombe’s conduct toward her. No doubt, the young man was attempting to make amends for his uncle’s boorish behavior. The sudden memory of the way the viscount had caressed her cheek made Ivy’s heart skip a beat.
 

With just one touch, he’d stirred an unexpected response in her. It was a reaction that had excited and alarmed her in the space of a brief instant. Her stomach fluttered as she remembered how her chest had tightened until it had been difficult to breathe. Immediately, she chastised herself for her response to the man.
 

He’d done nothing but insult her, and she never wanted to see the viscount again. The man was an arrogant, handsome boor. Exasperated with herself at even admitting her attraction to the man, she turned her attention back to the bouquet. Gently her fingers parted the blooms in the floral arrangement. With a soft sound of triumph, she withdrew the small envelope from the flowers and opened it. The card inside bore simply one word.

Wycombe.
 

Stunned, she stared at the card for a long moment. Butterflies fluttered madly in her stomach, while her pulse accelerated to a frenetic pace. She flinched at the excitement stirring inside her. What in heaven’s name was she thinking? The man saw her as a commoner— beneath him. Indignation swept through her. Not only was Viscount Wycombe a member of the peerage, the man had insulted her in a reprehensible manner.
 

If he thought a simple offering of flowers could atone for his offensive behavior he was sadly mistaken. His behavior yesterday was unforgiveable. Fingers trembling with anger, she shoved the card back into the envelope with a furious movement before stalking to the window. Ivy pulled back the sheer curtain to look out at the street.
 

On the sidewalk opposite her townhouse, the Viscount was studying a pocket watch before he pushed it back into his vest pocket. Almost as if he sensed her stare, he looked up and saw her at the window. With a smile, he immediately bowed in her direction before straightening to flash a smile in her direction. Her immediate response was another quickening of her heartbeat, and she released a sound of anger at her physical reaction.

The arrogance of the man. He was insufferable. Whirling away from the window, she moved swiftly back to the flowers and snatched them out of the vase. Water dripped on the ruby red silk of her day gown and then the carpet as she thrust the flowers toward Morris.

“The man who brought this bouquet is waiting outside. Please return these to him.”

“Am I to relay a message, Miss Ivy?” Confused, the butler accepted the suddenly bedraggled looking bouquet.

“Tell him…tell him…oh blast,” she exclaimed as she looked down at the crumpled card in her hand.
 

Furious, she hurried to the small secretaire near the window. Flattening the crinkled paper, she reached for her pen. Quickly, she wrote out a phrase of George Eliot’s then picked up the card to read her writing.
 

Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds.
 

It was unlikely the man would even recognize Eliot’s words let alone understand them. But at least it gave her the satisfaction of offering him a rebuttal to his flowers and arrogance. With a sharp thrust of her hand, she gave Morris the card.

“Give the Viscount this card when you return his flowers,” she snapped.
 

The butler didn’t even flinch as he accepted the crumpled card and hurried from the room with Mary Rose on his heels. Ivy clenched her teeth. Even if the Viscount didn’t know the author of the quote, perhaps he might actually glean some small measure of knowledge from Eliot’s words.
 

She snorted softly at the idea the man might be chastened by her message. Impossible. Wycombe was a member of the Marlborough Set. He wouldn’t even know what the inside of a book looked like. As a general rule, the nobility simply pretended to be connoisseurs of the arts. Rarely did they attempt to master the subject.

Her anger still holding her hostage, her foot tapped a rapid beat on the room’s Moorish rug. She’d never met such an irritating man before. Not even the most condescending member of the library’s Board, Lord Montague, was as arrogant as Lord Wycombe. With a flounce, she sank down into her chair. She refused to let the man ruin her afternoon.
 

Still angry, she pulled her book from its hiding place to glare at the leather-bound volume. Lord Wycombe was a pompous jackass. When he’d cornered her in the book stacks yesterday, she’d thought he was another in a long list of fortune hunters.

In many ways, she wished he had been. It was always easy to deal with men seeking to marry her simply for her wealth. But Lord Wycombe was different. His insults had stung. His callous behavior had made her remember the past with vivid clarity. Then to suggest that he was willing to be seduced by her—it was…it was ridiculous. The absurdity of the idea made her bite down on her lip as an unwelcome thought flitted through her mind like a bumblebee.
 

Her fingers trembled against the leather binding of the book she held. She’d be lying if she said the man hadn’t affected her on a base level. Worse, he’d made the invitation to sin a tantalizing one. Even now, the memory of his voice stirred her senses in a way that made her breath catch in her throat. It had been as if a hot, summer breeze had whispered across her skin as his mouth had grazed her ear.
 

The deep husky sound of his voice had conjured up images that were dangerous and reckless. The pictures fluttering through her head again sent a shiver skating along her spine. Awareness teased its way through her body until her skin tingled in a delicious, yet oh so treacherous, manner.

Determined to push the viscount out of her head, she opened the book in her lap. She’d found
The Golden Lotus
buried deep in the recesses of the library. It had been tucked behind a row of books related to the history of Scotland. Her first instinct was to believe it had been misfiled. The lack of a catalog label on the book’s spine had puzzled her until she opened the thick volume. The first page had clarified exactly why the book had not been shelved appropriately. The scandalous drawings had shocked her, but she’d been unable to stop turning the pages.
 

Curiosity had made her brazenly carry the book out with several others she’d set aside to borrowed from the library. Ivy’s only moment of trepidation had come on the way out the door. Lord Asterly, one of the library’s board members, had a habit of teasing her about her selection of books. The elderly gentleman often offered her possible selections she might enjoy and would inquire regularly what books she was reading. She had no doubt that Lord Asterly would have stridently objected to her reading the book let alone take it home.
 

Her intent had been to read the book from an academic point of view, but the volume was far from academic. In polite circles, it would be deemed lascivious and obscene. While shocking at times, the stories were beautifully written. The words flowed across the page in a lush, lyrical way. Still, it had not kept her from gasping at the erotic writing or drawings.
 

The stories and the pictures had made her belly tighten and her skin hot. It reminded her of the first time she’d met Whitby. She stiffened in her chair as she closed the book with a snap. It had been a long time since that name had found its way into her head. What she’d thought had been desire had been nothing more than a girl’s longing to be loved.
 

A girl who gave her body to a man who thought it would be amusing to initiate her into what happened between a man and a woman. The experience had been severely lacking in both tenderness and satisfaction. It had left her feeling horrified, bruised and worthless. She released a harsh breath. That memory was as unpleasant as it was unwelcome.
 

Even more distressing was the way Lord Wycombe had made her feel yesterday. He’d ignited sensations inside her that she’d never experienced when she’d been with Whitby. The thought made her heart slam into her chest. Dear lord, what was she thinking? It was a wide chasm to jump when acknowledging Anthony’s uncle was handsome to admitting desire for a man she didn’t know.
 

Voices in the hall made her glance at the salon door. Tucking the book back under the shawl, she stood up and went to the door. As she stepped into the foyer, she saw Morris holding another bouquet in his hands, this one smaller than the last, yet still extravagant. The expression on the butler’s face was one of bemused consternation as he stared at the flowers. She smiled. No doubt, this one was from Anthony.

“Miss Ivy, I’m—”

“It’s all right, Morris, let me read the card first,” as she pulled the white envelope out of the nosegay of chrysanthemums, asters and marigolds. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized the handwriting. Slowly she pulled the card out to study the message.

Oscar Wilde says always forgive your enemies—nothing annoys them so much. — Wycombe

For a long moment, she stared at the card, dumfounded. It wasn’t unexpected that Wycombe would know the popular playwright’s work. She simply found it amazing the viscount could quote the man. She bit back a smile. Lord Wycombe’s ability to quote Wilde’s work was a small point in his favor, especially since she adored the famous playwright’s profound wit.
 

The viscount’s witty response illustrated he understood how much he’d angered and offended her. At least he was somewhat repentant. Perhaps she should forgive him. Horrified by the thought, she frowned. Lord Wycombe might be clever, but it didn’t make up for his abysmal behavior. As her butler took a step in the direction of the kitchen to dispose of the flowers, she touched his arm.
 

“I think not, Morris. Just a moment.”

Returning to the salon, she crossed the room and peeked out the window, taking care to do so from where the curtain met the wall. Lord Wycombe was still standing in the same spot, but his stance was now one of impatience. She watched as his hands roughly brushed across first one coat sleeve and then the other. Ivy smiled with satisfaction. The man obviously wasn’t used to a woman refusing to succumb to his charms. Stepping away from the window, she went to the secretaire and reached for her pen. The wood of the Waterman fountain pen warmed her fingers as she scratched out her reply on the back of Lord Wycombe’s card.

Nevertheless, the esteemed Ralph Waldo Emerson said God may forgive sins, but awkwardness has no forgiveness in heaven or earth.

She studied the simple statement for a long moment and smiled. That would put an end to the man’s blatant attempts to ease his way into her good graces. She had no intention of furthering her limited acquaintance with the man, even if the memory of his voice was warm enough to tighten every one of her nerve endings.
 

Even now, the memory of his mouth teasing her earlobe made her body quiver with something undefinable. Appalled, Ivy straightened upright with a jerk. Quickly sliding the card into its envelope, she hurried back out to the foyer. Irritated that she’d allowed herself even to think his touch had been pleasurable, she jammed the note back into the floral arrangements.
 

At the rough treatment, two of the flowers snapped and drooped downward. She took pleasure at the sight of the limp blooms, although a small part of her regretted the destruction of something so lovely to look at. Immediately dismissing the rueful thought and Morris’s startled look, she glared at the flowers.

“Return these to the gentleman across the street, Morris. And instruct him not to send any further protestations of his apologies.”

“Yes, Miss Ivy.” The butler frowned with worried confusion, and Ivy patted his arm.

“It’s all right, Morris. You’ve done nothing wrong,” she said. “I simply don’t wish to accept Lord Wycombe’s apologies.”

Ivy whirled away and returned to the salon. As she closed the door behind her, she congratulated herself for having rid herself of the arrogant nobleman. She gave the viscount credit for being well read, and his witty attempts to apologize. A tiny voice inside questioned her inability to forgive the man. Was it not important to be charitable in forgiveness? She viciously dismissed the idea.