Excerpt of A Bluestocking Christmas by Monica Burns

Chapter 1

"I want to know why."

Simon's voice was like a whip cracking in the air, and Ivy turned away from him. His angry demand didn't surprise her. She'd known ending their liaison would not please him. She was certain no woman had ever dared to discard him as she was doing now.

His betrayal had only made it easier for her to end things between them. Ivy's heart clenched painful in her breast at the realization that Simon had no comprehension of how he'd betrayed her. In his arrogance, he'd brought the one person she never wanted to see again into her home. If he'd even bothered to ask, she would have vehemently objected to his intentions when it came to his seeking out her cousin.

Ivy swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She had no one to blame but herself. If she had kept her own counsel, he would never have thought to seek out Caroline. When her cousin had entered the salon a short time ago, the past had rushed up to assault her senses with the sharpness of a kitchen blade.

The constant reminders of her inferiority to the nobility, the rejection by her mother's family, and the painful humiliation had rushed at her like a wall of water threatening to drown her. Worse than that was the memory of Caroline's betrayal. Ivy's hand pressed against the fluttering in her stomach. It only intensified the pain of her heart breaking with each breath she took.

"Damn it to hell, Ivy. Answer me."

The fierce command made her mouth tighten with resentment. She'd never taken orders well from anyone, least of all a member of the peerage. It was a remnant from the days of her childhood when she'd been treated like a servant. Suppressing her anger, she squared her shoulders and slowly turned to face him. The sight of him made her throat close until it was difficult to breath. A tall, dark angel could not have looked more dangerous.

"What do you want me to say, Simon?" she asked quietly. "I thought I made it perfectly clear. I no longer wish to see you."

"And I asked you why."

Again the demand for an explanation. Ivy's fingers tightened on the swag of material that hugged her hips as she prepared to weather the storm brewing about her. That she was facing his anger with a serenity she didn't feel amazed her. More importantly, she could tell her calm manner was only increasing his ire. But she wasn't about to reveal her heart, and the real reason for breaking off their liaison.

"Sometimes there isn't a reason," she lied.

"There's always a reason," he snarled. "Is it because of my title? I know how highly you think of the peerage."

"If you're suggesting our different social standings are of little consequence, might I remind you that you deem me unsuitable for Anthony because you thought I was hoping to catch a nobleman for a husband." At her bitter accusation, Simon frowned darkly.

"Goddamnit, that was before I knew you," he exclaimed in a harsh voice.

"Still, it changes nothing, and today only confirms that in my mind."

"Other than your treatment of Caroline a few moments ago, what does she have to do with this?"

"She means nothing to me." The lie scraped across her heart. Seeing her cousin enter the salon had only emphasized how much she'd lost since leaving Parkland Manor.

"No? For a commoner, your condescending snub was worthy of even the most elite member of the Marlborough Set." His words sliced through her, and her skin grew cold as he emphasized the difference in their social status.

"You should never have brought her here." She instantly regretted the bitterness in her voice as he narrowed his gaze at her.

"I thought it would please you." His rough explanation made Ivy's heart skip a beat before she extinguished the brief spark of hope in her breast.

"You were mistaken. But it doesn't matter. My decision is final. I have no wish to continue our liaison."

"I don't believe you," Simon said with the impatience he always displayed when things weren't to his liking.

"Believe what you like. I've already made plans to go to the country next week."

It was a half–truth, but it would prevent him from trying to stop her from leaving for Italy the day after tomorrow. If she were to stay in England, he would find her. That she couldn't risk. Her heart wouldn't be able to bear it. A flash of what might have been fear flickered in his silver eyes, but she immediately dismissed the possibility as a familiar arrogance swept across his face.

"Change your plans." The imperious command made her mouth tighten.

As usual, the man refused to take no for an answer. But isn't that what you want, Ivy. Don't you want him to fight for you? Don't you want him to say your social standing is of no consequence to him? The voice in her head taunted her. More importantly, it frightened her because she knew it was precisely what she wanted. But she wanted Simon to do so for the right reason. She wanted more than the passion he felt for her.

"I can't. The arrangements are already in place."

"Can't or won't." His clipped response made her swallow hard. He was making this far more difficult than she'd imagine.

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes," he snarled. "And if you think I'm going to let you go so easily, then you're mistaken."

The determination on his face made her heart pound violently in her chest. She needed to find a way to end this conversation. If she didn't, she wouldn't be able to prevent herself from throwing herself into his arms and letting her emotions overrule her head. She wouldn't be able to snap the invisible cord that connected her to him. If he were to break her resolve, she would be as vulnerable as a newborn babe. Her breath hitched at the thought. She didn't have the strength to risk such a possibility.

"No, Simon. You're the one who's mistaken. There's nothing more to say, and I want you to leave."

Ivy turned away, afraid her true feelings would show on her face. She couldn't bear it if he knew the truth. It would give him the power to keep her with him, and that was something she couldn't afford to do. A second later, Simon's strong hand gripped her arm as he forced her to face him.

Startled she blinked in surprise as she stared up into his gray eyes. Once more, she saw the odd flash of emotion in his gaze, but it was gone before she could identify it, and angry frustration replaced it. Aware of her perilous condition, Ivy tried to jerk away from him. She didn't succeed, and flinched at the determination darkening his face.

"That's where you're wrong, Ivy. I have a lot more to say. But I don't intend to use words."

With a swift tug, Simon pulled her tight against him and covered her mouth with his in a searing kiss. The heat of it stirred her senses into a whirlwind of desire. A strong hand slid up her waist and then over the top of her breasts. She moaned with the need to feel his skin against hers one more time. Just one more moment of passion for her to remember.

Without thinking, she melted into his arms as her body and heart ignored the frantic warnings sounding in her mind. Familiar sensations tingled across her skin as his kiss deepened into the seductive caress that had always sent her pulse skittering wildly. She offered up no protest as he guided her toward the loveseat, his muscular legs pressing into hers. Almost instantly, she was wet with desire, and she ached for him to assuage the need only he could fill.

The cool air brushed against her legs as he pushed her skirt upward over her stockings. A strong hand caressed her thigh, and her body instinctively arched upward. Warm fingers stroked her skin before they dipped into her wetness. Wild and wanton sensations held her hostage. They blinded her to everything but this moment and his touch. Nothing else mattered except for the overwhelming taste, scent, and feel of him.

Shuddering beneath his touch, desire drove her body to thrust up against his hand, while the need for him to complete her burrowed it's way along every nerve ending in her body. Since the first time he'd touched her, she'd always been eager for his touch. Today was no different except that it would be the last time her heart would ever beat again.

The sobering thought pulled back the curtain of desire blinding her, and she uttered a soft cry of fear. Dear Lord, with just a single touch he'd managed to drive every sane thought from her head. Her hands splayed against his chest to push him away, but he suddenly retreated of his own accord. Bewildered, she watched him rise from the couch to stand over her. For a brief moment, she thought she saw a flash of anguish in his eyes before they became cold, dark silver.

"Perhaps you're right, Ivy. If this is all we have then there really is nothing more to say, is there. " With a jerk, he straightened his coat and the steely frost of his gaze bored into hers. "You'll forgive me if I don't overstay my welcome, but a mere commoner is the last thing I can stomach at the moment."

Ice sluiced across her skin at the brutality of his words as she stared up at him in horror. If someone had cut out her heart, the pain in her chest could not have been any worse. One hand pressed against the base of her throat, she struggled to breathe. Something akin to anguished regret furrowed Simon's brow, and he took a step toward her. Instinctively, she recoiled. With a scowl of what she was certain was contempt, he wheeled about sharply and stalked out of the salon.

Stricken by both his words and departure, Ivy gripped the back of the sofa as she pulled herself upright. Fingernails biting into the dark mahogany trim of the green velvet couch she stumbled to her feet and staggered a few feet toward the salon door.

"Simon."

His name was barely a whisper as she called out to him. Seconds later, the sound of the front door crashing shut reverberated through the room. The reality of her situation slowly forced its way into her mind. With a soft sob she swayed and pressed her hands into the hard arm of the sofa as she fought to remain on her feet. Oh, God, what was she going to do?

She needed to go after him. No. That was impossible. She'd just rejected him. The last thing Simon Carlton, Viscount Wycombe wanted from her was an apology or explanation. An explanation she wasn't willing to give. And why should she apologize? He was the one who'd resurrected her past, brought Caroline to London. She flinched at the thought as she remembered the sound of his voice when he'd said he done it to please her.

One hand pressed to her brow, she closed her eyes against the thought and tried to push it out of her mind. Had she been wrong? Did he care for her? The memory of his parting words sent a throbbing ache through her body. No. Simon had made it quite clear that he was her better. Desperate for air to ease the tightness in her chest, she sucked in a sharp breath.

Fresh and clean, the scent of the decorated fir tree in the corner of the room drifted across her senses. She looked at the small tree sitting so prettily on the table in the corner of the salon. It provoked a mixture of happy and painful memories. As a little girl, she remembered her father lifting her up on his shoulders to place the star on the top of their Christmas tree. Her mother laughing at them both. All that had changed when her parents' ship had been lost at sea.

Christmas Eve. For the first time since she was that little girl watching Caroline's parents shower her cousin with gifts, Ivy had been looking forward to the holiday. It was supposed to be a happy time because this year was going to be different. Simon would be a part of the holiday. But that hope was shattered.

Her stomach fluttered, and she pressed her hand against her belly as despair cascaded over her. It chilled her far worse than the snowy weather outside. As painful as Simon's contempt for her had been, it was far easier to accept than to watch him walk away if she told him the truth. Blinking back tears, she failed to prevent the escape of one teardrop. Hands clutched in front of her, she moved toward the Christmas tree.

Sweets and several glass ornaments gaily decorated the green branches. Dazed, she lightly touched one of the gingerbread cookies dangling from a red silk ribbon. Simon liked Mrs. Morris' sweets, and the cook had made the ornaments especially for him.

Beneath the tree, she saw the carefully wrapped present she'd picked out for Simon. He was fond of quoting Marcus Aurelius, and she'd search the city to find a book of the Roman emperor's sayings. Next to his gift lay a velvet–covered box with a bright red ribbon tied around it. A note card was tucked under the ribbon with the words do not to open until Christmas imprinted on it.

It must have arrived yesterday while she was with her solicitor. Her fingers caressed the square box. Without thinking, she untied the ribbon and opened the lid. A sob rose up from deep inside her as she stared down at the necklace. Diamonds and sapphires sparkled brightly in the lamplight of the room. The gems were embedded in small stars attached to finely–spun gold filigree that formed an oval in the jewelry box.

Simon had once roguishly said he intended to see her wearing nothing but diamonds and sapphires. He'd obviously remembered. Ivy brushed her fingers over the hard, but beautiful stones as tears welled up in her throat. If only she'd remembered the lessons of the past when she'd first met Simon. She'd known they came from two different worlds, and yet she'd not listened to her head. Her gaze focused on the necklace again, and she choked back the tears. The necklace represented the miracle of a Christmas she'd hoped for, but would never have.

With a sharp flick of her hand, she snapped the box closed. It would go back to the jewelers the day after tomorrow, and she would leave England for a warmer climate. In Italy, she'd forget these past few magical months. She'd forget Simon. She'd forget everything they'd shared together. It was a lie, and she knew it. With a shudder, she wrapped her arms about her waist and bent her head. She'd had her head in the clouds for even daring to think Simon might be coming to care for her. If only she'd never met him—never fallen in love—she would have been far better off.

Do you really believe that, Ivy? Is there not some part of him that you can hold close to you heart, even now?

The gravelly male voice behind her was as clear as the sound of her heartbeat in her ears, and she whirled around with a gasp of fear. All that greeted her was a quiet, empty room. A shiver raced down her back, and she rubbed her arms in an effort to warm herself. Her mind was playing tricks on her.

Whatever she'd heard was her imagination. She was distraught about Simon, and her mind was challenging her—telling her she'd made two mistakes today. She dismissed the thought. Once more, she looked at the Christmas tree, tears tightening her throat. She couldn't stay here. Not tonight of all nights. Another tear trailed down her cheek, and she angrily brushed it away.

Crying served no purpose. What she needed was to find someplace else to lick her wounds. Staying here, in the town house, would only make things more difficult for her. There were too many memories here. The Library. She would go to the Library. It was almost six o'clock and everyone would be gone—gone home to be with their families for Christmas.

Blowing out a sharp breath, she grimaced. Enough self–pity. She would go to the Library and work. It would be a source of comfort to her. The warm, musty smell of old books would dim the memory of Simon's rugged scent. In the peace and quiet of the bookracks she might find be able to forget, if only for a short time.

Her decision made, she pulled a handkerchief from the side pocket of her day gown to dry her wet cheeks then quickly left the salon. In the main hallway, she caught a glimpse of herself in the hall's mirror and stared at her appearance in dismay. Behind her, Morris cleared his throat.

"Your pardon, Miss Ivy, but is there anything I can do for you?"

The deep baritone note held a distinct note of concern, and a small measure of comfort brushed across her senses. For all his austere mannerisms, Morris had the quiet habit of looking after her as a father might. She'd be a fool to think he'd not been privy to Simon's furious departure.

The entire household must have heard as well given the crash of the front door when Simon had stormed out of the house. She flinched. All the more reason to flee to the Library. Her staff had been with her for years, and they'd developed an affinity for protecting her.

But it was Christmas, and she'd given them time off to spend with their families. If they thought she needed them, they would sacrifice their holiday to stay with her. She wasn't about to let that happen. She forced a smile to her lips and turned to face him.

"Actually you can, Morris. Would you summon a hansom cab for me and fetch my cloak, I've decided to work at the Library this evening."

Tall and portly, the butler gave a slight start. He hesitated for a second, his gaze watching her closely. When she frowned at him, he quickly went to the front door to step outside and hail a cab. Ivy turned back to the mirror and quickly tried to repair her appearance. Fingers trembling, she pulled out the pins holding her hair in place and hastily rearranged her hair.

Staring at herself in the mirror when she finished, she blinked back another onset of tears. No, she refused to cry. There was no point. A moment later, Morris reappeared at her side with her hat and cloak. He waited patiently as she set the hat on her head, before settling the cape on her shoulders. The gentle brush of his hands on her shoulders as he dusted off imaginary flecks of dust gave was a comforting feeling. With a jerky movement, she picked her gloves up off the small table under the mirror. With precision, she tugged them on before carefully smoothing each finger making the soft leather cling to her fingers.

"And will Lord Wycombe fetch you from the Library, Miss Ivy?" At the question, she lifted her gaze to look Morris in the mirror. She shook her head.

"Actually, I won't be seeing Lord Wycombe anymore, Morris. I'll find a hansom cab when I'm ready to return home."

"But it's Christmas Eve, Miss Ivy," Morris exclaimed in an appalled voice. "It will be most difficult to find a hackney in St. James Square later this evening."

"Thank you for your concern, Morris. But I'll be quite all right. I won't have another opportunity to visit the library before I leave for Italy."

"I do wish you would reconsider, Miss Ivy." There was an underlying hint of disquiet in Morris's words, and she was certain he wasn't referring to her visiting the library.

Avoiding the servant's gaze in the mirror, Ivy stared at her reflection. Was that stricken expression really hers? It was the same look she'd seen on her face the day Caroline had betrayed her so long ago. It was with relief when Morris informed her the hack was at the front door.

She knew the butler was worried about her, and the longer she remained in his presence, the stronger the likelihood that he would stay through the holiday. Not meeting the butler's gaze, she swept past him and climbed into the small vehicle as Morris paid the driver her fare. With great care, her servant picked up the blanket on the cab's seat and laid it carefully across Ivy's knees. As Morris closed the door of the cab, she forced a smile to her lips and touched his hand on the top of the door.

"Happy Christmas, Morris. I expect you and Mrs. Morris to enjoy the holiday with your family. Be sure to let the rest of the staff know they're not to return until late tomorrow evening."

Ignoring the deep concern on the butler's face, she looked up at the small window in the vehicle's roof and ordered the cabbie to drive on. The vehicle jerked forward and she sank back into the cab's leather seat. Despite her warm clothing and the blanket across her legs, the frosty night air bit into her skin. Darkness had fallen on the city a short time ago, and it only emphasized the bleakness weighting down on her.

Her sigh blew out a soft cloud of warmth from her lips as she numbly watched last–minute shoppers hurrying out of few shops still open at this late hour. Two days ago, she'd been one of those customers, happily calling out seasons greetings to strangers as she'd hurried home to wrap Simon's present.

Why on earth did she persist in torturing herself like this? It was over. Finished. There was no going back now. One could never go back. Her cousin might have been quite resourceful when it came to Thornton Whitby, but not even Caroline could turn back the clock.

Whitby. He'd been the first man to pay any attention to her, and she'd fallen quickly for his smooth compliments and false promises. He'd even said he loved her. When he'd demanded she prove her love, she willingly given her body and heart to the man.

Ivy knew now that her submission to Whitby's caresses had been born out of a need for someone to love her. But she'd not realized that at the time of Caroline's betrayal. All she'd known then was that the one person who'd said they'd loved her had stolen Ivy's chance for happiness. Perhaps she should forgive her cousin. After all, Caroline had saved her from a miserable life with Whitby. Ivy released a soft, scornful laugh.

At the time, if Whitby had known about Ivy's inheritance he would no doubt have offered for her. Instead, he’d married Caroline. Looking back, she now saw the man for the overbearing boor he'd been, but it didn't make her cousin's betrayal any less painful. Caroline deserved to find herself a penniless widow with three mouths to feed.

Wincing at the bitterness of her thoughts, Ivy burrowed deeper into the cab's warm wool blanket. When had she become such an embittered woman? Ivy released another breath that clouded white in front of her. Even the frosty air blowing across her face wasn't as frigid as the ice that had sluiced through her veins the moment Caroline had entered the salon. Bile rose in her throat, and she closed her eyes. She didn't want to think about Caroline or her children.

An image of three small girls forced their way into her thoughts. Their sweet smiles made it impossible to dismiss the memory. Especially little Ivy. When the child had raced forward to hug her—Ivy quickly banished the thought. Why would Caroline name her youngest daughter after her? It had to be a ploy of some sort. A way to atone for her betrayal. Ivy bit down on her lip as bitterness welled up inside her. If Caroline hoped for any redemption from her, then her cousin was sorely mistaken. The woman had made her choice a long time ago. Ivy could never forgive such a brutal betrayal.

But the children. She winced. Simon had been right to take her to task about sending them away. They'd looked so thin in their threadbare clothes. Still their smiles had been sweet and cheerful. Euripides had said that the gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children. Were Caroline's children responsible for their mother's sins? Could she abandon them to poverty so easily?

The hack rolled to a stop and interrupted her chaotic thoughts. Throwing the blanket aside, Ivy gasped softly at the loss of heat. The library wouldn't be much warmer. Perhaps Morris had been right. It might have been a mistake to come here. She shook her head. No the library had always been a haven for her. A place of quiet solitude. The driver, having jumped down from his seat, opened the door.

She gave a start as she stared into his weathered face. There was something so familiar about him that it made her heart skip a beat. It was as if he was an old friend she'd not seen in a long time, and it made her want to impulsively reach forward and touch his face. The outrageous notion held her in place for a moment as she struggled to place him. She immediately shook off her fanciful thoughts. No doubt, she'd been one of his customers in the past and remembered the kind, avuncular air about him.

"It don't seem right leaving ye ‘ere all alone, miss," a frown crossed the man's face. "Why not let me take ye home."

"Thank you, but I'll be perfectly safe inside."

"Do ye plan to stay long, miss?" The driver jerked his head toward the library, a worried expression on his kind, but aging, features. "I could fetch ye in a couple of hours. Not too late mind ye, I need to be getting home early, seeing ‘ow's it's Christmas Eve and all."

The man's offer was too tempting to reject, and Ivy accepted his hand to alight from the black hansom cab. With a smile of gratitude, she nodded.

"That would be extremely kind of you. Would nine o'clock be too late?"

"Not at all, miss. Ye'll be my last fare for the evening."

"Thank you," Ivy said as she moved up the steps of the library and inserted the key into the door's lock. "I promise not to keep you waiting."

"Don't mention it, miss," the driver said as he climbed back up to the high seat of the cab and the door of the library creaked opened. "Hopefully in there ye'll find the courage to forgive yer cousin. Would be a shame fer ye to let the past deny ye a lifetime of happiness. But then maybe your visitor will help ye."

The driver's words sent shock waves rippling through her. How did he know about Caroline, and what visitor was he talking about? Fear trickled down her spine, and she jerked around to confront the man, but the hansom was already rolling away down the street at a decidedly fast clip.

Suddenly frightened that she had made a terrible mistake in coming to the library, Ivy quickly passed through building's front entrance then locked the door behind her. For a long moment, she stood with her back pressed against the door in the cold, dark foyer pondering the man's words. He'd said visitor. What if he were to try and break into the library with an accomplice. Ridiculous. What would anyone want from the library at this late hour?

As for her cousin, the man couldn't possibly know about Caroline. How could he? She tightened her lips in self–disgust. It was nothing more than her subconscious trying to convince her to forgive her cousin and seek Simon's forgiveness. Bitterness became a knot in her throat. Simon and Caroline were the ones who needed to seek her forgiveness.

The sudden notion of offering her cousin the opportunity to atone for her sins flitted through Ivy's mind. Perhaps there was a way for Caroline to earn Ivy's forgiveness. Ivy would take the children and raise them as her own if her cousin agreed never to see her daughters again. It would hurt Caroline as deeply as Ivy had been hurt all those years ago. She was certain of it. She would see to it that little Ivy and her sisters would want for nothing.

An image of her aunt's vitriolic expression flooded her mind. The picture was so real that she flinched. With a shake of her head, she rejected the vengeful idea. No, she wasn't that heartless. No matter how deeply hurt she'd been by Caroline's betrayal or her aunt's obvious contempt, Ivy refused to become like them. She remembered all too well the loss of her parents. It would be cruel to tear her nieces away from their mother. It didn't matter that Ivy would never treat them as she'd been treated her. She might despise her cousin, but she couldn't extract such a torment on three innocent children.

The day after tomorrow, she'd send word to Barnabas, her solicitor, to see to it that the girls received a warm house to live in, food on the table, and warm clothing. But she'd ensure that Barnabas would administer the funds. She would do nothing for Caroline. Her cousin was quite adept in using her charms to find a suitable husband, and it had been painfully obvious this afternoon that Simon had a great deal of sympathy for Caroline. Her cousin would use that to her advantage.

Ivy's stomach lurched at the thought, and she reached up to twist the small key–like knob of the gas light on the wall beside the door. For the first time she realized it was almost as cold in the library as it was outside. In all likelihood, the fireplaces throughout the building had been allowed to die down to nothing but embers.

Moving across the foyer to the circulation desk, she removed her hat and cape and laid them on the counter. A large stack of books rested at the end of the marble surface waiting for someone to shelve them. Scooping up as many of the texts as she could carry, Ivy examined their labeling then turned to the book stacks. She turned up the gas light attached to one of columns that marked the end of each book aisle then moved down the aisle to replace the first volume.

She'd shelved at least four books to their rightful place when she heard the wood floor creak slightly as if someone were walking toward her. With a jerk, Ivy whirled around to stare down the empty aisle. In the back of her mind, she heard the cab driver's words again. She sniffed in self–disgust.

Blast it, she was allowing her imagination to run wild. She resumed the shelving of the books tucked in the crook of her arm and moved into another section of the book stacks. Again, a board creaked, and her heart thudded frantically in her breast. Ivy set down her books and peered through the bookshelves to the other side of the shelving.

"Hello, is someone there?"

Although she hadn't expected a response, her heart was still racing with fear. When there was no response, she picked up her books and turned to continue down the aisle. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something sparkle in the soft rays of the gas light. Ivy turned her head and froze in shock. The necklace dangling like a bookmark from one of the shelved volumes made her suck in a sharp breath.

Stunned, she could only stare at the diamond and sapphire jewelry. How had it gotten there? In her dazed state, had she brought the necklace with her? No, of course she hadn't. It couldn't possibly be the same one. Her fingers curled around the cool jewelry and lifted it to examine it more closely. The stars encrusted with diamonds and sapphires twinkled like a constellation in her hand.

Ivy's heart fluttered as she realized how much it looked like the necklace that lay underneath her Christmas tree. Even the detail of the finely–spun gold filigree appeared to be identical to the one she'd touched earlier. Ivy released a small sound of incredulity. She was being a fool. One of the library's patrons had absent–mindedly left his wife's Christmas present on the shelf while searching for a book. An act she was certain the poor man would regret tomorrow, if he weren't already on the verge of an apoplectic fit trying to remember where he'd misplaced the precious object.

Ivy stared at the necklace a moment longer before stuffing it into her skirt pocket. She'd make sure it was returned to its rightful owner. She retrieved her books and was about to move down the aisle when the whisper of a sound echoed behind her. Frightened, she whirled around to stare down the empty aisle.

"Do you really think he would have bought a necklace for you that wasn't uniquely of his own design?"

The man's voice reverberated in her ear, and a warm breath caressed her cheek as if someone were standing right next to her. A soft cry of fear escaped Ivy's lips, and the books she carried crashed to the wooden floor as she ran toward the front of the library. She'd only gone a few steps when the necklace she'd put in her pocket materialize in front of her. Heart pounding in fear, she took two quick steps backward, her gaze never leaving the necklace as it swayed in mid–air.

"Who's in here? Show yourself," she croaked.

"As you wish." The deep, gravelly voice came from the end of the aisle, and Ivy turned to see a swirling white mist moving toward her.

Dear lord, a ghost. No one had ever mentioned anything about a ghost in the library before. She trembled as a shape took form in the pearly cloud of air moving toward her. Slowly, the mist evaporated to reveal an elderly gentleman. The man's hair and beard were neatly trimmed and white as the snow falling outside.

He wore a black suit coat with two rows of buttons down the front, a pair of striped pants, and white material layered over the tops of his shoes. A cane completed his unusual appearance. While he looked exceedingly dashing with his neatly trimmed white hair, Ivy couldn't remember ever seeing any man dressed so oddly. The elderly gentleman leaned on his cane, his gnarled fingers curled over the silver wolf cane top. Arching a white eyebrow, he smiled.

"Well, do I meet with your approval?" The question made Ivy start.

"You're not real," she muttered as she braced herself against the nearest bookshelf. "Either that or I've gone mad."

"No, my darling, Ivy, I'm as real as you." He smiled before something like pain crossed his face. "You wished that you'd never met Simon. If after our travels tonight, should you still wish to forget Simon, I shall grant you that wish."

There was a courtly manner to the man as he closed the distance between them. She recoiled from him, but not quickly enough. To her amazement, his touch was warm as lifted her hand and brushed his mouth against the back of her hand. She shuddered. How could a ghost's hand be so warm?

"I don't understand," Ivy shook her head and tried to pull her fingers free of the man's grasp. For someone her imagination had conjured up, it was a strong grip.

"You will in time, my dear," the elderly man said as he squeezed her fingers. "Come, there's a great deal at stake. I only have a few hours to show you how much you love Simon."

"No, you're wrong," she exclaimed bitterly as she tried to jerk her hand free of the man's incredibly strong grip. "I don't love him. I'm through with him."

"I find that difficult to believe, but if after our journey you still wish to forget Simon, I will help you do so."

The man's hand tightened on hers and Ivy gasped as the mist she'd seen moments ago reappeared and swiftly engulfed the two of them. In an instant, the library was gone and she was floating in nothingness.

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Chapter 2

The newspaper in Simon's hands rustled like a noisy wind in the quiet of the London Library. He'd already read the daily once today, but the pretense of reading allowed him to observe Miss Ivy Beecham undetected. A soft growl of aggravation rumbled out of him. He'd found it necessary to rearrange his entire morning schedule because of Miss Beecham.

In fact, if it were not for Anthony's wayward behavior, he'd most likely be enjoying a sparring match at the club. Instead, he found himself lodged here in the library's scholarly setting simply to put an end to Anthony's outrageous notion of marrying beneath his social station. This was his nephew's second unacceptable infatuation in less than a year, but this time the boy had gone too far. A dalliance with a commoner was one thing, but marrying one was an entirely different matter. He was ready to thrash the boy. As his nephew's guardian, Simon took his duties seriously, but Anthony was growing exceedingly tiresome when it came to heeding Simon's advice.

In a word, it was exasperating. Damned exasperating. Anthony routinely protested Simon's interference in his personal affairs, but it was clear his nephew needed supervision. The boy was reckless when it came to considering his family's social status, especially where his heart were concerned. As the Earl of Claiborne, Anthony needed to be more discrete when it came to his romantic liaisons.

With a grunt of displeasure, Simon turned the page of his newspaper and adjusted it so he could look over the top of it, while appearing to be engrossed in the paper's content. He enjoyed reading, but this dry, musty mausoleum was the last place any of his friends would expect to find him.

The comforts of his personal library were far more preferable for reading than this academic fortress. His gaze swept toward the stacks of books he could see from the main reading area. Tomes of every shape and size filled the shelves that disappeared into the depths of the building. Although the London Library held a large number of valuable books and papers, Simon's personal collection of rare books and documents was of equal value. One of the things he loved most in the world was a quiet hour in front of the fire reading a book.

His gaze swept around the large reading area. Wing backed chairs of dark red leather were placed in either isolated locations or small groups with squat mahogany tables nearby. Flames in the large fireplace that heated the room crackled softly in the silence of the large room. The pristine marble columns encircling the circulation desk and adjacent reading area only reinforced the austere nature of the library.

In truth, this was the last place he'd expected Anthony to encounter an unsuitable woman. When he'd suggested that the boy take up an intellectual activity within this tomb, Simon had thought the boy would be free of distractions. Of all the conceivable possibilities, the thought of Anthony meeting a woman of undesirable character here had been the furthest from Simon's mind. Frowning, he returned his gaze to the woman behind the circulation desk and grunted his displeasure.

Why the devil couldn't the boy find a woman his own age to dally with and preferably in the same social sphere? Ivy Beecham appeared closer to Simon's age, making her at least five to ten years older than his nephew. Simon growled his displeasure again. Across from him, a library patron rustled the paper he held and shot Simon a glare of irritation. Arching his eyebrow, Simon returned the man's hard stare. White eyebrows furrowing to form a straight line, the older gentleman uttered a barely audible harrumph before burying his head back in his paper.

Soft laughter drew Simon's attention back to the woman behind the circulation desk. A soft pink flushed her cheeks as she handed an elderly man a book. The patron grinned as he took the leather volume, then caught her hand and brushed her fingertips with his lips. The red in her cheeks deepened as she shook her head in reproach. With a laugh, the dapper gentleman shrugged with amusement and walked away.

Something about the scene irritated Simon. It was easy to see how the woman had seduced Anthony into thinking he was in love with her. Even from here, she presented an enticing picture. Sunshine streamed in from one of the windows above her to reveal auburn highlights in the dark brown of her hair. Skin the color of an unripe peach still possessed a rosy hue as she assisted another patron.

Tall, and with abundant curves in all the places Simon liked the most in a woman, Ivy Beecham was a tempting sight. The high neck of her white shirtwaist was clearly meant to give her the appearance of a serious academician, but all it did was emphasize the voluptuous curve of her full breasts. Of its own accord, his cock stirred in his trousers. Irritated at the way his body's reaction, he clenched his jaw as he fought to control his arousal.

A moment later, she completed another book transaction and smiled at the gentleman in front of her. Simon inhaled a sharp breath. Bloody hell. No wonder Anthony had succumbed to the witch's charms. She had the smile of a siren, and even a well–seasoned gentleman would find her silent entreaty difficult to resist.

Ivy Beecham was most definitely trouble. The sooner he disposed of this matter the better. He shifted in his seat as his quarry moved out from behind the circulation desk to head down one of the book aisles. Tossing his paper aside, he stood up and followed her into the depths of the library.

Ahead of him, she turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Determined not to lose his chance to speak with her away from prying eyes, Simon increased his pace. As he rounded the bookshelf where he'd last seen her, a glimpse of her voluptuous curves vanished down another aisle. Damn, but the vixen was quick.

Lengthening his stride, Simon charged after her with determination. He made a sharp right into the aisle she'd round seconds ago only to come to an abrupt halt. The woman arched her eyebrow at him in a matter–of–fact manner as she narrowed her gaze at him.

"Is there some reason you're following me, sir?"

Soft and husky, her voice caressed him with the silky indulgence of a midnight lover. Immediately, his groin tightened in a primal response. The fact irritated him.

"Are you Ivy Beecham?"

"Yes." She frowned with puzzlement. "May I help you in some way?"

"I'm Lord Claiborne's guardian."

"I'm sorry, whose guardian?"

This time a frown furrowed her delicate brow as she tilted her head to one side. The movement exposed the lovely line of her neck, and he imagined his lips nibbling on her. The faint scent of lilies whiffed its way beneath his nose. She smelled delectable. Would she taste as luscious as she smelled? A sudden image of her beneath him filled his head, and his jaw tightened as he acknowledged his attraction for the woman. Aware she was staring at him with just a touch of irritation, he struggled to control the effect she was having on him.

"Anthony Dardnay, the Earl of Claiborne," he said in a tight voice.

Recognition lit her face as she smiled at him. It was the most bewitching smile he'd ever seen, and his body stirred to life at the sight of it. Annoyed at his inability to remain unaffected by her, Simon clasped his hands behind his back and assumed a detached expression. He refused to allow Ivy Beecham's exquisite body or smile deter him from the task at hand.

"Oh! You must be Lord Wycombe." Her smile surprised him. It wasn't the false simper he'd expected, and she seemed genuinely happy to meet him, nothing more. He frowned as she extended her hand to him. "Anthony has spoken of you often. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

Simon glanced down at her outstretched hand, struggling with the tempting thought of touching her. Something primal flooded his senses as he stared at her long fingers. He could easily see her hand wrapped around his cock, pumping his flesh until he expelled his seed in a rush of pleasure. Simon swallowed hard as sanity reclaimed his thoughts.

Deliberately, he refrained from raising her fingers to his lips. The snub made her flinch, and the flash of pain darkening her sapphire eyes sent a twinge of regret through him. He ignored the sensation. Ivy Beecham was dangerous. She was a threat to the family and Anthony's future. The woman needed to be dealt with swiftly.

"I'm afraid this is far from a courtesy call, Miss Beecham," he said in a cold voice.

"I don't understand." She gave a slight shake of her head as an expression of wariness crept over her lovely face.

"I'm here to instruct you to stay away from my nephew. He's young and too easily swayed by a pretty face."

"I beg your pardon?" Her bewilderment emphasized how much her voice was like the call of a siren. He gritted his teeth to avoid answering its seductive promise.

"I realize you had hopes of a more permanent relationship with my nephew, but that is out of the question."

"Permanent relationship—"

"Forgive me, Miss Beecham, but I'm well acquainted with women of your ilk, and I have no intention of letting Anthony marry you."

"Marry!"

The shocked and horrified look on her face made him hesitate. Was he mistaken about her? No, of course not. No woman of respectable means or social standing would be working in the London Library. It was the perfect setting to ensnare a rich, doddering old fool looking for a young wife or mistress.

"While I'm sure it would be a step up for you financially and socially, I cannot allow him to marry a commoner."

Simon barely missed the sting of her hand as she took a swipe at him. Dodging the blow, he captured her wrist in a tight grip and jerked her toward him. The softness of her body curved into his, and he drank in the soft, exotic fragrance of lilies. In a split second, his body tensed with an anticipation he'd not felt in a very long time.

Damnation. Perhaps he'd be better off making the woman his mistress instead of ordering her not to see Anthony again. Not only would it destroy the boy's affections for the woman, but he was certain it would be an enjoyable pastime to soak himself in Ivy Beecham's hot honey. He immediately rejected the idea.

Anthony might think he was in love, but Simon knew firsthand the pain of someone destroying his illusions about a woman. Even if it had been for his own good, the devastation that had followed the brutal revelation had still been a crushing blow. He could never hurt the boy like that. He cared too deeply about Anthony and his nephew's happiness. Yet as he stared down into Ivy's brilliant blue gaze, he almost forgot why he'd come here in the first place. He clenched his teeth with irritation.

She'd gone still in his embrace, and the outraged expression on her features was an extraordinary performance. The indignant glare she directed at him seemed so genuine it gave him pause for a several beats. Could he have been wrong? No, Anthony had been quite clear about his intent toward Miss Beecham. The woman was simply an excellent actress intent on deceiving him as to her real intentions when it came to his nephew.

"Release me, my lord," she said quietly. The frigid tone of her voice was icy enough to freeze the Thames in the spots where it wasn't already bearing a layer of ice. "Now."

The single word was emphatic, and he did as she asked, although his body protested the loss of her warm curves. She took a step back to study him in silence, anger flashing in her blue eyes. Again, he questioned his assumptions about her before discarding them just as quickly.

"I came here today—"

"Forgive me, my lord, but I have no intention of marrying Anthony or anyone who's a member of the peerage." Her obvious contempt startled him before he narrowed his gaze at her.

"That is a comforting thought," he said with wry skepticism. "But to ensure that you don't change your mind where my nephew is concerned, I'm prepared to offer you a substantial sum in exchange for your word to break off all association with Anthony."

The gasp of horror that escaped her proved as surprising as everything else in their conversation up to this point. With a look that labeled him little more than a lowly insect, she wheeled away from him and stalked down the aisle away from him. Stunned, it took him several seconds to stride after her. The instant Simon caught her by the elbow and drew her to a halt, she jerked away from him. The movement forced her to press her back against a row of books.

"If you touch me again, my lord, I'll scream."

The quiet fury in her voice furrowed Simon's brow in aggravation. This wasn't going at all like he'd envisioned. Frustrated by her obstinate behavior, Simon glared at her. The sooner he made her understand he intended to keep her away from Anthony, the better.

"Name your price, Miss Beecham. I'm sure I can afford it."

"I don't want your money," she snapped. "And I don't want to marry Anthony."

"Are you saying he's unsuitable?" he asked with a sudden sense of amusement. He felt his mouth quirk as he stared down into a pair of sapphire eyes that glittered brightly with anger. Would passion make her eyes sparkle as brilliantly?

"Anthony is a little more than a boy," she said with a sniff of disgust.

"Agreed. But I'm not a youth," he drawled as an idea took shape in his head. "Perhaps alternative arrangements could be made."

"Alternative...you're despicable," she snapped as she tried to move past him.

Simon immediately braced one hand on the bookshelf behind her to block her path. For the first time he was beginning to enjoy himself. If she wanted to play games, he was more than willing. In fact, he was certain that playing with Ivy Beecham would be an exceedingly pleasurable diversion. He tilted his head to study her profile as he trailed his forefinger across her cheek.

She slapped his hand away, but he noticed her breathing had hitched slightly. That boded well for the future. He'd been without a mistress almost a year now, and Ivy appealed to his carnal nature in a way that surprised him. Yes, Ivy Beecham was proving to be not only intriguing, but exciting as well.

"Despicable?" His gaze locked with her angry glare, and his mouth curved in a mocking smile. "Then I'm in excellent company, my sweet Ivy."

"I am not your sweet anything," she bit out fiercely. "I find you contemptible."

"Do you," he murmured.

Simon bent his head toward her. He could almost feel the tension seizing control of her body. It was like an electric pulse between them, and it set his heart racing. He was so close to her as to feel the warmth of her sweet breath against his mouth. The urge to capture her lips in a slow, leisurely kiss made his body stiffen with a need for satisfaction. Tempering the impulse, Simon brushed a wisp of hair off her cheek, and it pleased him to see a small shudder ripple through her.

"You're quite lovely, Ivy. I can see why Anthony finds you so captivating."

"I...I didn't give you permission to use my name," she said in a breathless voice. The husky sound tightened his groin muscles as he fought to keep from pinning her against the shelf of books and crushing her mouth beneath his. Damnation but the woman was a seductive mix of experience with an elusive sense of innocence.

"Ah, but I like how the sound of your name rolls off my tongue," he said with an honesty that surprised him. "I'm beginning to realize why my nephew is so fascinated by you. Seducing him must have been quite easy for you."

"I did not seduce Anthony," she gasped

The way her blue eyes widened in horror made him even more appreciative of her acting talent. God, but she would be magnificent on the stage. Even more magnificent in his bed. Once more, she tried to dart past him, and he immediately blocked her path by caging her against the shelves with his outstretched arms.

"Come now, Ivy. I've been watching you all morning, and it's understandable why men find you so fascinating." Lowering his head, he brushed his lips across her earlobe. "Even I am quite willing to be seduced by you."

Delicate pink lips parted in a soft gasp, and again he had to restrain himself from stealing a kiss. This was neither the time nor the place to dally with her. Not when he was certain he would want much more from her when he finally did kiss her. No, Ivy Beecham was going to be his—one way or another. That decision had been made for him the moment he'd heard that siren voice of hers. He just hadn't realized it at the time. Anthony would have to be handled with care, but he would find a way to let the boy down easily. The question was—how hard would it be to convince Ivy to switch her attentions from his nephew to him?

"I can assure you, my lord, I have no intention of letting you seduce me. I'd just as soon kiss a toad. Now release me this instant."

He didn't move for a long moment. There was something about the way her pulse was beating wildly at the side of her neck that contradicted her adamant statement. His cock throbbed with need inside his trousers. Damn, but he wanted to bed her this instant.

With great reluctance, he took a step back. Her retreat was immediate as she sidled away and put several feet between them. The frosty glare she directed at him was meant to cut him down to size, but it merely served to amuse him. She'd issued a challenge, and it was one he intended to accept. Ivy Beecham was about to learn the difference between seducing a boy and a man.

He smiled. She might rage against the idea, but if there was one thing he knew, it was women. This one might act as though she wanted nothing to do with him, but if the price were right, he had no doubt she would welcome his attentions as long as he rewarded her well. It was simply a matter of letting her set the pace of their seductive dance, but in the end, the result would be the same. She'd be no different from any of the other women who'd come and gone in his life. She would succumb to him just like all the others.

"You're even lovelier when angry." Folding his arms across his chest, he laughed quietly as she stalked away from him. It was all part of the dance. She had only gone two feet when she whirled back around to face him.

"Exactly how much did you intend to offer me, my lord?" Her features were unreadable, and a flicker of disappointment lashed at him as he pondered her question. His emotional response surprised him, but then everything about his reaction to Ivy Beecham had astonished him.

"Perhaps you had a price in mind?" He narrowed his gaze as he waited for her to name a figure.

A part of him had hoped it would have been more difficult than this to acquire her charms. He was a fool even to have considered the remote possibility. No matter what their age or station in life, women could always be relied upon to find the highest bidder for whatever it was they had to sell. At least women outside of his social station were more honest about it.

"No, I simply wanted to know what price you were willing to put on your nephew's affection for you." She arched an eyebrow and eyed him with contempt worthy of the Queen herself. "The minute Anthony hears how you propositioned me, I have no doubt your relationship with him will suffer more than you realize."

"What the devil!" he snapped. "If you think to threaten—"

"It's hardly a threat, my lord." She lifted her chin in a defiant manner. "The truth is, Anthony does listen to me, and I doubt you'll earn his gratitude for insulting me as you've done here today."

"By God, woman. If you make the boy more difficult to handle, I'll see to it you're out on the streets without a penny to your name." The tables hadn't been so neatly turned on him in quite some time, and it infuriated him. His anger only strengthened as she offered him a sweet smile of satisfaction.

"You are most certainly welcome to try, Lord Wycombe." She arched an eyebrow at him. "But that might be more difficult to achieve than you think. After all, as you said, Anthony fancies me, and you've done little of late to endear yourself to the boy. Perhaps all he needs is a wife to support and believe in him."

Without batting an eyelash, she wheeled about and disappeared around the corner of the bookshelves. As she vanished from view, Simon stared after her in disbelief. The witch had as good as said she intended to marry the boy.