A Bluestocking Christmas (8 page)

She’d learned a long time ago that the nobility thought anyone below their station in life deserved nothing more than contempt and scorn. The viscount’s apology simply meant he wanted something from her. The harsh reality was that people she’d thought loyal and loving had taught her not to let anyone of the nobility into her life. She flinched at the thought of Caroline and how her cousin had stolen Whitby from her.
 

With a snort of disgust, Ivy picked up her pen. Caroline’s betrayal had actually been a good thing. Whitby had proven himself a wastrel prone to extensive gambling and drinking. Caroline had actually done Ivy a favor by marrying the man. Over the last year she’d spent behind the circulation desk at the London Library, Ivy had been privy to several conversations about her one time lover.
 

When the man had died, every conversation had focused on the poor plight of her cousin and the children. The sudden thought of her cousin left alone and penniless made Ivy wince. She had so much and Caroline had so little. Surely, her cousin’s parents had left her with some type of stipend. Everything could have been so different if Caroline had not taken Whitby from her. The old pain sliced through her.
 

She no longer cared that she’d lost Whitby, but it was Caroline’s betrayal that had cut so deep. Ivy had confided in her cousin about Whitby, and Caroline had betrayed that trust by marrying Whitby. What her cousin had done was unforgivable. Ivy blew out a harsh breath of anger. She was tired of thinking about Caroline.

 
It only resurrected painful memories she’d buried long ago. Memories best left buried to save her heart from breaking all over again. Her gaze fell downward to study the menu for Saturday night’s festivities. Mrs. Marsh had proposed an ambitious meal, and Ivy found little fault with the different courses the housekeeper had proposed. She seldom gave dinner parties, but the annual London Library fundraising event was a special occasion. The library was always in need of funds to improve the building and acquire new books.
 

Although she preferred not to socialize with the aristocracy, a periodic sacrifice was necessary to ensure the continued welfare of the library. Despite her aversion for the Marlborough Set at large, there were some members of the Set she’d come to like and respect. It was why her supper party had quickly swelled from a select group of five or six people to a group of twenty. There was still much to do beforehand. Just one more reason why she shouldn’t have been reading
The Golden Lotus.
Ivy glanced over her shoulder at where the book lay hidden beneath her black shawl. She scowled at the book.

The sudden jangle of the front doorbell made Ivy jump. Surely, Lord Wycombe hadn’t decided to make a house call. She dismissed the idea. Morris would have made it quite clear to the viscount she wanted nothing to do with him. Perhaps Lady Effington had come to call on her. The woman had the habit of making unexpected house calls on a routine basis. Still, what if it wasn’t Lady Effington? Ivy’s throat closed at the prospect it was Viscount Wycombe.

Her dress rustling loudly in the room, Ivy jumped to her feet and raced to the window. She relaxed slightly as she saw her nemesis still standing across the street with a look of frustration on his face. Ivy smiled slightly. In some way, he reminded her of a little boy denied his favorite toy. A knock on the salon door made her turn away from the window as Morris entered the room carrying a small nosegay. The butler’s expression told her exactly who had sent the flowers. In silence, she removed the card from the flowers.
 

Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.

Good heavens, the man had read Mark Twain. She laughed before she could swallow the sound. She glanced at Morris, but her butler’s expression was unreadable. Ivy looked back at the card in her hand. It was clear the man was trying to make amends. Would it hurt to forgive him simply for Anthony’s sake?
 

The moment she considered the idea, she stiffened. Lord Wycombe was a member of the Marlborough Set. It had taken several months for Anthony to earn her trust. His uncle was sadly mistaken if he thought to gain her trust, let alone forgiveness, in a few short hours with flowers and witty quotes. Slowly, she returned to her secretaire with Wycombe’s card in her hand.
 

Despite her antipathy for the viscount, she had to admit he was pleading his case well and with increasing heartfelt remorse. A reluctant smile curved her lips. The first floral delivery had been wildly extravagant, and his card had displayed simply an arrogance that the flowers would serve as an apology.
 

When she’d returned the bouquet, the subsequent ones had grown smaller until the current nosegay was almost penitent in nature. What surprised her was his intelligence and wit. Perhaps she’d misjudged him. After all, he’d only been trying to protect Anthony. Her lips tightened. That was precisely what the man had been doing. He’d been ensuring one of the lesser mortals didn’t enter the hallowed sanctum of the nobility.
 

It was a refrain she remembered well from her childhood. Her aunt and uncle had ensured she never forgot her father had been a commoner. All she’d wanted was love, and they’d answered that wish with disdain and contempt. She flinched at the memories. No, she wasn’t going to let the man’s wit and flowers sway her opinion of him.
 

Lord Wycombe wasn’t just a scoundrel—he was a nobleman. She doubted the man was penitent at all, and the more distance she put between them, the better. It was time to end this ridiculous game of words. With quick, bold strokes, she wrote her reply on the back of the viscount’s card.

Samuel Johnson said, the true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good. We are both familiar with your true feelings regarding commoners of the avarice and manipulative sort, and while your pleas are somewhat amusing, they are falling on deaf ears.
 

The learned man’s words were an excellent reply to Lord Wycombe’s attempts to earn her forgiveness. Perhaps the quote would remind the viscount that great men could also come from humble beginnings. She stared down at the words for a moment, a small part of her reluctant to end this exchange of wit. The thought made her spirits drop as she quickly shoved the card back into the envelope and handed it to Morris.

“Return the flowers, Morris.”

“And is there a message I should convey, Miss Ivy?”

“No,” she said quietly as she moved to stand at the window to study Lord Wycombe’s striking figure across the street. “I think my note will suffice in convincing his lordship to stop sending flowers.”

“Very well, Miss Ivy,” Morris said with a hint of skepticism, and Ivy turned her head to look at him.

“You sound doubtful on that score, Morris.”
 

“It’s simply that…” the butler’s voice trailed away into silence before he straightened his shoulders. “May I speak plainly, Miss Ivy?”

“Of course. You know I have always valued your counsel.” Ivy smiled at the man. The butler had been in her uncle’s employ for years and his allegiance had easily switched to Ivy when she’d inherited her uncle’s fortune.

“Lord Wycombe seems a man of great determination. Perhaps it would be best to simply ignore the man’s attentions.”
 

The man’s words made Ivy hesitate. Was it possible she was allowing her own sense of injustice to guide her attempts to chastise the viscount? She dismissed the possibility as quickly as it popped into her head. With a shake of her head, she smiled at Morris.

“I think once you return this last arrangement of flowers, his lordship will end his pursuit.”

“Very well, Miss Ivy.” A look of doubt on his face, Morris left the salon.
 

Determined to forget Lord Wycombe, Ivy glanced at the black shawl draped over the arm of her reading chair. She needed something to preoccupy her, and The Golden Lotus was exactly the thing to take her mind off of Anthony’s uncle. Curling her legs up beneath her, Ivy opened the book and inhaled a sharp breath of shock.
 

The erotic drawing made her eyes widen and her heart pounded violently in her chest. Despite being scandalized by the drawing, she couldn’t suppress her fascination with it. The man in the drawing was naked, his body hard, lean and muscular. Strong arms stretched out to caress the hair of the woman in the picture. In contrast to the man’s steely strength, the woman in the picture was soft and plump, her derriere pushing upward in the picture as she bent over the man. Intense pleasure tugged at the man’s features, as the woman’s mouth engulfed his phallus.
 

Was the act as enjoyable for the woman as it obviously was for the man? Would he find such an act pleasurable? She stared at the picture and realized it was Lord Wycombe’s face she was imagining she saw there. Appalled, she slammed the book closed. Dear Lord, what was she thinking?
 

Ivy leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed, as she tried to think of something else. But the illicit thought returned to tease and tempt her. Would such an act please the viscount? Horrified, she shook her head. She’d lost her mind. How could she possibly even have such a thought? And why
him
of all men?
 

It was the book. There was no other explanation for why she would even think such a thing—and especially when it came to Lord Wycombe. Frantic with the need to dispel the carnal image in her mind, she sprang to her feet and dropped the book into the chair.

Pacing the floor, she tried to forget how her body had quivered when he’d leaned into her at the library. She’d tried to retreat, but there had been nowhere to run. Ivy gulped with trepidation and something undefinable as she remembered how close he’d been to her. Heat curled its way over her skin. He’d been close enough that if she’d turned her head even the slightest bit his mouth would have covered hers.
 

Almost as if he were in the room with her, she could smell the bergamot he wore. There was something wicked about him, and just thinking about him made her mouth go dry. Once more, the image of the viscount stretched out naked in a chair flooded her head, and she moaned softly. Dear lord, she was mad to have brought that book home. Madder still to be thinking of Lord Wycombe in such a carnal way. She would return the book first thing tomorrow. Anything to rid herself of thoughts so carnal in nature with a man she knew better to associate with.

Chapter 5

Simon gritted his teeth as he accepted the small nosegay from the dour-faced butler with an abrupt nod. His fingers curled around the stems of the flowers as he watched the servant climb the steps of Ivy’s townhouse and retreat behind the blue door.
 

Damnation, but the woman was determined to make him beg for her forgiveness. He stood on the sidewalk feeling like a lovesick suitor rejected once more. With a grimace, he looked down at the flowers and saw the white card tucked in the wilting blooms. A smile tugged at his lips. Ivy Beecham might be determined to make him pay for his insults yesterday, but she was doing so in a way he found exceedingly entertaining.
 

Other than his sister, Simon couldn’t remember any woman ever being able to go toe to toe with him when it came to literary repartee. With an eagerness that alarmed a small part of him, he pulled the envelope out of the flowers then tossed the blooms aside. The card freed of its holder he flipped it over to read her script. Ivy’s words made him expel a harsh breath. He really had put the goose fat in the fire with her.

“Goddamnit, Wycombe,” he rasped quietly. “You’re losing your touch.”
 

He grimaced. Ivy Beecham was proving to be unlike any other woman he’d ever met. It was still hard to believe she wanted nothing to do with him, but her handwriting was strong and crisp on the card he held. Simon glanced at the window where he’d seen Ivy earlier, half expecting her to be standing at the window with a self-satisfied smile on her lovely features.
 

When he didn’t see her, Simon experienced a disappointment he found irritating. It said he was too invested in this challenge he’d undertaken. He studied the card again trying to construct a new strategy to gain him entrance into Ivy’s house and ultimately Ivy herself. His gaze swept across the words only to halt abruptly at a small phrase.

“While your pleas are somewhat amusing,” he murmured. “Why do I think you’ve enjoyed our battle of wits, Miss Beecham?”

With an upward glance at the façade of Ivy’s house, a smile curved his lips. Where Ivy Beecham was concerned, he would need to adjust his efforts to win his way into her affections. Words were how he would win her and coax her into his bed. He stiffened. She was a spinster, and a virgin at that.
 

It was a problem he’d not considered. Was he so eager to prove his point to Anthony that he could so easily compromise her? He frowned. He would have to cross that bridge when he came to it. For the moment, he needed to storm the castle to test those waters. Simon walked away from Ivy’s house to make his way back to the florist. He would enjoy the challenge of seducing her with words.
 

Simon had never seduced a woman in this manner before, and he found it a refreshing idea. His sister, Abigail, was the only woman he knew who could match him in his knowledge of the classics. It was unusual to find an intelligent woman as opposed to one with a vacuous mind. Ivy Beecham was proving to be a delightful combination of beauty and intellect.