The Most Wicked Of Sins (2 page)

It was all quite confusing. Damned odd, actually—until she saw where his intended course had led him.

No. Oh, God, no. He cannot have chosen her company over mine. No. Please, no. We are meant to be married!

Ivy’s chin dropped to her chest, and a hard lump fixed itself inside of her throat.

As if it was not humiliating enough to be stripped of her celebrity amongst the gentlemen of the
ton
—now her own Viscount Tinsdale was hovering at Miss Feeney’s side. Lud, he was even giving the lass
her
lemonade. He was acting entirely besotted.

At that very moment, Ivy’s older sister, who was wearing the most pitiful of expressions on her pretty face, came to stand beside her. “I wish to leave. Shall we locate Grant and away? I fear Lachlan isn’t about to leave just yet. Not while he’s ringed by a circle of infatuated misses.”

A growl pressed between Ivy’s clenched teeth. “Och, I can’t bear it, Siusan. I simply can’t.” She swiped the corner of her eyes with her knuckles and desperately swallowed back her despair.

“Nor can I. The heat is unbearable this night.” Siusan futilely swiped her cutwork fan through the thick, humid air.

Ivy dragged in a deep breath and glared off in Miss Feeney’s direction, not quite hearing what her sister had said—nor caring. Her situation was far more dire than whatever Siusan was whining about. “What say you, Su, do you think Lady Jersey would hear of it if I took Miss Feeney into the withdrawing room and throttled her?” She nodded toward the Irish lass, shifting her wilting sister’s attention to the doorway. “I believe I have just cause—
theft.
”

“What? Oh, lud, you mean
her.”
Siusan’s eyes rolled an exasperated circle in their sockets. “Ivy, if you are serious about accepting the viscount’s offer—
should you actually convince him to make one
—then for god sakes do something about it instead of allowing the chit to steal him away. You haven’t much time as it is.”

“What do you suggest I do?” Ivy turned her body toward Siusan, but her head remained facing the doors leading to the staircase. She was not about to let Miss Feeney and Tinsdale stray from her sight.

“I haven’t a notion. It is impossible to think in this infernal heat.” A sprinkling of perspiration beaded along Siusan’s brow, and she drew as deep a breath as she could. “Gads, my chemise is positively sticking to my skin.” She gripped Ivy’s wrist and tugged until she had her attention. “Let us away and think about it outside in the fresh air. Our thoughts will be much clearer.”

Ivy glanced across the assembly room toward the refreshment table, where she immediately saw her brother Grant, who towered above the other men. As if he felt her notice, he turned and looked her way, allowing Ivy to capture his gaze.

She lifted her chin, silently summoning him, before returning her gaze to Siusan. “You go. Grant is coming now. I am sure he will happily leave the assembly room and escort you home. I will stay here with Lachlan. I cannot leave just yet anyway. Not until I know Lord Tinsdale’s heart is still mine to claim.”

Grant sidled up to his sisters. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am that you finally wish to leave. I have been basting in my waistcoat and coat for more than an hour, and I am certain I am tender through and through by now. Come, shall we away?”

Siusan waved her fan before Grant, urging a swish of heated air over his face. “Can’t.”

He grimaced and lowered his tone. “Why the hell not?” Grant batted Siusan’s fan away.

Siusan fashioned an overwrought sigh. “Because Ivy will not leave until she is certain of the viscount’s affections—and I promised to help her.” She nodded toward the doorway, where Lord Tinsdale stood with the enchanting Miss Fiona Feeney.

“Of all the bleeding nonsense, Ivy,” Grant huffed. “We shall be here
forever
because even I can see that Tinsdale’s attentions have strayed from you. Why, he’s entirely taken with
her.”

Ivy twisted a tendril of her copper hair in her agitation. Grant had the right of it. How could she possibly compete with Miss Feeney?

Her own hair was practically the color of a hothouse orange, while the Irish lass’s was like the sky at midnight. Ivy was taller than most Englishmen, and though she possessed the sort of curves that drew gentlemen’s eyes, she was not a fragile bird of a creature, like Miss Feeney, built to fit perfectly into a man’s embrace.

She hadn’t a chance.

“You’re right.” Ivy’s eyes began to well with tears. “I can’t compete with her for Tinsdale’s affections. What will I do now?”

Grant offered up an arm to each of his sisters. “Och, dinna fret over it. You don’t need to. All you need to do is find a gentleman to compete with Tinsdale…for
hers.”

“Compete…for
her
affections.” Suddenly, a jolt coursed throughout the entirety of Ivy’s body and her eyes widened, the tears inside them instantly receding.

Siusan chuckled at Grant’s joke, then took his proffered arm and turned to leave.

Ivy didn’t budge. Her thoughts were moving too fast.

Her brother and sister stopped. Siusan sighed as if she already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask. “Aren’t you coming?”

“No, I’m not.” Ivy spun around, her flame-licked hair whirling around her like a cape as she turned this way and that, scanning the assembly room most earnestly.

“Ivy, what are you doing?” Grant lowered his head as if sensing defeat already. “Come, let us leave.
Please.”

“Please, I beg you both, go on ahead without me.” Ivy rose onto the tips of her toes and surveyed the shifting sea of dark coats. “I think I would rather stay here for a little longer.”

Siusan groaned. “Now you’ve done it, Grant.”

“What are you going on about? he protested. “I’ve done nothing.”

“Aye, you have. You’ve given me the answer.” Ivy set her hand on Grant’s shoulder and leaned up to press a grateful kiss upon his cheek.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Ivy grinned up at him. “If I can’t compete with Miss Feeney, then I will simply find the perfect gentleman to compete with Lord Tinsdale—
for her.”

Three days later
The Theater Royal Drury Lane

Lady Ivy Sinclair silently lowered the carriage window, then pressed back against the seat cushion, concealing herself from passersby in the inky shadows of the cab. Outside, the carriage lanterns glowed in the darkness, their soft halos of light just reaching the stage door of The Theater Royal Drury Lane.

Come now, I know you are in there. Show yourself.
Ivy shifted anxiously.

The play had ended nearly an hour past, and, since tonight marked the final performance, the actors were only now beginning to quit the theater.

Small clusters of boisterous merrymakers exited through the stage door and passed by the carriage. Ivy leaned forward and studied each of the actors as they emerged, watching, waiting for
him
to appear.

She felt confident that she would know
her
Marquess of Counterton the moment her eyes fell upon him. She knew with the same surety that he would be found here tonight. Her sister, Siusan, had glimpsed the perfect man for the job onstage only two evenings past.

Siusan didn’t manage to gather his name, but she’d said he would stand out from the others. His height would set him head and shoulders apart from the other men. And, though she hadn’t given much else in the way of describing him, Ivy was sure that those shoulders would be impossibly broad and as hard-muscled as his chest and his capable arms.

She smiled at the handsome image pinned in her mind.

The marquess’s hair would be whisky-hued and wavy, with rakish wisps fringing his entirely-too-handsome face. His eyes would be the color of a moonlit sea at night.

She sighed. He would be the sort that would make a woman’s gloved hand tingle when he took it and guided her through a dance. And when he gazed down at her, she would feel completely under his masculine control. He need do nothing more than raise a single eyebrow or lift the edges of his lips seductively, and she would be utterly powerless to refuse him. How admired and complete she would feel with such a perfect escort.

Aye, Ivy would know him by sight though they’d never met, but it would be his kiss that would identify him beyond all doubt.

Ivy sighed inwardly. The touch of his lips would be firm, a claiming sort of kiss, one that would reduce a woman’s knees to melted wax, making her collapse into his embrace. Making her want to never leave his arms.

She sighed again and eagerly leaned closer to the open window. Her driver was muttering to the team, but then an explosion of laughter drowned out the sounds from the street. Ivy’s pulse quickened as the departure of actors and patrons grew steadily.

The stage door was flung open again and again. He was coming, she knew it…it was only a matter of moments now. She bit into the flesh of her lower lip and chewed it in anticipation.

Then the stage door closed and, to her dismay, remained that way for several minutes. She grew more and more impatient.

As the moments passed, Ivy’s stomach muscles began to tense, and after a minute more, the backs of her eyes began to sting.

No, no. He has to be here. He must be. He must.

Lud, she didn’t have time to look anywhere else! The play had closed tonight.

She had to find the perfect actor, the perfect foil, willing to accept her coin to woo the Irish beauty away from the man Ivy might still marry.

Precious time was slipping away. Her future was evaporating.

Ivy’s heart double-thudded in her chest, and she felt faint. She set an unsteady hand on the latch and flung the carriage door open. Lifting her silk skirts to her knees, she leaped down to the pavers and ran toward the stage door.

She lunged for it just as it opened. Suddenly, her skull exploded with pain. Flashes of light blotted out her vision. And then everything became black.

“Damn it all, answer me!” A deep voice cut into her consciousness, rousing her from the cocoon of darkness blanketing her. She could feel herself being lifted, then someone was shouting something about finding a physician.

She managed to flutter her lids open just as her coachman opened the door and she felt her back skim the seat cushion inside the carriage.

Blinking, she peered up at the dark silhouette of a large man leaning over her. He was definitely not her coachman.

“Oh, thank God, you are awake. I thought I killed you when I crushed your head with the door.” He leaned back then, just enough that a flicker of light touched his visage.

Ivy gasped at the sight of him.

He shoved his bronze hair back away from eyes that looked almost black in the dimness of the carriage light. A cleft marked the center of his chin, and his angular jaw was defined by a dark sprinkling of stubble. His full lips parted in a relieved smile.

There was a distinct fluttering in Ivy’s middle.

It was
him.
The perfect man…for the position.

“It’s
you,
” she whispered softly.

“I apologize, miss, but I didn’t hear what you said.” He leaned toward her. “Is there something more I can do to assist you?”

Ivy nodded and feebly beckoned him forward. He moved fully back inside the cab and sat next to her as she lay across the bench.

She gestured for him to come closer still.

It was wicked, what she was about to do, but she had to be sure. She had to know he was the right man. And there was only one way to truly know.

He turned his head, so that his ear was just above her mouth. “Yes?”

“I assure you that I am quite well, sir,” she whispered into his ear, “but there is indeed something you can do for me.”

She didn’t wait for him to respond. Ivy shoved her fingers through his thick hair and turned his face to her. Peering deeply into his eyes, she pressed her mouth to his, startling him. She immediately felt his fingers curl firmly around her wrist, and yet he didn’t pull away.

Instead, his lips moved over hers, making her yield to his own kiss. His mouth was warm and tasted faintly of brandy, and his lips parted slightly as he masterfully claimed her with his kiss.

Her heart pounded, and her sudden breathlessness blocked out the sounds of carriages, whinnying horses, and theater patrons calling to their drivers on the street.

His tongue slid slowly along her top lip, somehow making her feel impossible things lower down. Then he nipped at her throbbing bottom lip before urging her mouth wider and exploring the soft flesh inside with his probing tongue.

Hesitantly, she moved her tongue forward until it slid along his. At the moment their tongues touched, a soft groan welled up from the back of his throat, and a surge of excitement shot through her.

Already she felt the tug of surrender. Of wanting to give herself over to the passion he tapped within her.

And then—as if he knew what he made her feel, made her want—he suddenly pulled back from her.

She peered up at him through drowsy eyes.

“I fear, my lady, that you mistake me for someone else,” he said, not looking the least bit disappointed or astounded by what she had done.

“No,” Ivy replied, “no mistake.” She wriggled, pulling herself to sit upright. “You are exactly who I thought you were.”

“I beg your pardon, but I know we have never met. I am quite certain I would remember meeting
you.”

Ivy smiled at him. How perfect he was. How absolutely perfect. “I am Lady Ivy Sinclair.”

He peered back at her most casually, as if waiting for her to say something more.

How curious.
He didn’t react at all to the mention of the Sinclair name. Could it be he truly did not know she was one of the scandalous Seven Deadly Sins?

“I am—” he began, but Ivy raised her hand, abruptly silencing him. He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Ivy straightened her back and looked quite earnestly into his eyes. “You are the Marquess of Counterton…or rather you will be, if you accept my offer.”