The Awakening of Ivy Leavold Page 5

  “Yes,” I finally answered. “Yes, it was sold.”

  She gave the others a satisfied look, as if pleased to prove that this piece of information was, in fact, correct. “You poor thing, you must be so grieved. If you ever need someone to talk to, I am here. It is my job, you know, to help tend my husband’s flock.”

  “Thank you for your offer,” I said. “It is so very kind.”

  “Miss Leavold!”

  Gareth. At last.

  He hurried over, a sunny smile on his face, and the other women pretended not to notice him, stealing brief glances out from under their eyelashes. He was below them, a servant, and so to be ignored, but his good looks made it all but impossible not to notice him.

  “Mrs. Harold,” he greeted. “Having a nice day?”

  “Nice enough,” she said, her tone dismissive. But I saw that she noticed him too, although her look was wary rather than flirtatious.

  “It was very pleasant to meet you all.” I said turned away before more invitations could be offered. Gareth touched his hat to the ladies, and then followed me up the street.

  His smile faded the further we got from Stokeleigh. “I would avoid that Mrs. Harold,” he said. “Her husband, the new rector, is quite nice. Very young, very cheerful. But she grew up here, and she’s known to be a gossip. I wouldn’t trust a word she says, no matter how earnest it sounds coming out of her mouth.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “She’s worse than Wispel even. Her father has made a small fortune in negotiating land rights for the train companies. She seems to think all that money has made her better than everybody else.”

  I detected a trace of bitterness. “Have you known her long?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He turned his face away. “And we know each other still. A bit.”

  We walked in silence the remainder of the way, and I contemplated Mrs. Harold. As the town busybody, she would know all about Violet’s death and investigation, and she wouldn’t hesitate to talk about it. Part of me felt certain that it was foolish to keep asking about it—if the law had been satisfied, surely I must be. And Violet and I had hardly been the best of friends. And Mr. Markham couldn’t be a murderer. The thought of someone so cultured and moneyed resorting to something so barbaric was unthinkable. And yet, there was a darkness in him. Hadn’t I seen it—thrilled at it even—when he had told me all of those things on his library floor?

  Perhaps I would be paying Mrs. Harold a visit soon.

  The next evening, there was a rap at my door, followed immediately by an attempt to turn the knob, which was stymied by the lock. The door rattled in its jamb for a moment before I heard Mr. Markham’s voice. “Miss Leavold. Let me in, please.”

  I went to the door but did not open it. “Is it wise for me to open it to you?”

  A short laugh. “I assure you, I am quite tame at the moment.”

  I unlocked the door then stepped back. He opened it and strode in, looking around the room. “It is very gloomy in here,” he remarked.

  “I think you would struggle to find a room in this house that is not.”

  “And does that bother you?” he asked. “Coming from the sunny seaside as you did?”

  “It does not,” I answered truthfully. “In fact, I very much like it here.”

  He sat in an armchair by the window. “That is unexpected. Violet hated it here. I think she hated this house more than she hated anything in her life.”

  “I am not Violet,” I said.

  He looked at me. “No. No you are not.”

  As he looked at me his fingers flexed and curled over and over again on the arm of the chair, and I wondered if they were remembering being inside me and remembering the soft sensation of quivering flesh, how they had brought me to such intense ecstasy.

  “Pleasant memories?” he asked, and I realized he had caught me staring at his hand.

  “I thought you were going to stay away from me,” I said instead of answering, hoping the warmth on my face wasn’t too obvious.

  He grinned. “I was. I am. But I remembered in all the bustle of getting the house ready for the guests that you might not have everything you need.”

  “I’m sure—”

  “Let me see your dresses,” he interrupted. “All of them.”

  My flush turned from one of desire to one of embarrassment. Though I knew that Mr. Markham had exchanged letters with Wickes and knew the precise details of my impoverishment, something about laying out my three outdated dresses was especially humiliating.

  Seeming to understand the source of my hesitation, he said, “This is not to shame you. But in a few days, we will have many guests. There will be dinners and picnics and long evenings in the parlor—maybe even some dancing. You are under my care, and your material goods reflect on me. If we need to order you new dresses, then that’s what shall happen.”

  There seemed no point to arguing the matter. Either he would see them now or he would see them when I wore them after the guests arrived. I brought out the three dresses—one nice black silk that I had worn to Thomas’s funeral, the faded green lawn, and a calico that I’d inherited from the curate’s sister back home. These, in addition to the dress I wore, were the only things I owned.

  Mr. Markham surveyed the clothes. “Could your brother truly not afford to keep you better outfitted than this?”

  As always, I felt the need to defend Thomas. “He was often traveling on business, and I didn’t like to bother him with such petty requests.”

  “You mean he was away gambling and carousing.” Mr. Markham didn’t wait for me to respond. “I know all about your brother’s habits. Needless to say, if you had been in my care, I would have never so neglected your company or your upkeep. But regardless, you are in my care now, and I will see this rectified. Expect the seamstress tomorrow.”

  He stood and I moved in front of him before he could walk to the door. “Mr. Markham. You have already been beyond generous by inviting me to stay with you. You know I can’t importune you any further, as I don’t foresee any way that I could ever hope to pay you back. If my wardrobe is an object of ridicule among your guests, then that is my problem, not yours. I assure you, I’m used to being poor.”

  “It is my problem,” he said, “because you are under my roof and I have accepted responsibility for you.” He rubbed at his forehead, more agitated than he’d let on. “Under what domain will you allow me to contribute? We are family, are we not, through marriage? Or perhaps simply as your benefactor? I don’t care what you have to tell yourself to accept them, but you are wearing the dresses I order for you, if I have to come up here and lace you into them myself.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” I shot back.

  “Oh, wouldn’t you like that, wildcat? If I had to come up here every night and strip you down?” His hands found my arms. “If I had to wrestle you until you were subdued and willing?”

  My breath was coming faster now, imagining how such a scenario would end—with bites and moans and sweat. “Who’s to say I wouldn’t win? Perhaps you’d be the one subdued, Mr. Markham.”

  “We’ll never find out unless we try,” he said, a touch mischievously.

  There was a moment that consisted only of us breathing, looking at one another, both thinking the same wicked thoughts.

  Then he removed his hands from my arms. “Will it make you feel better,” he asked with a sigh, “to know that the expense of the dresses will barely be noticeable in my ledger? I kept Violet clothed in all the latest and finest while we were engaged—several new purchases a month—and even that was easily affordable to me. As a widowed man without children, I have much more money than I know what to do with. So please. It will cost nothing to me and it will make me immensely happy to help you.”

  I could not even conceive of a wealth so vast that the purchase of several dresses a month would seem like a drop in the ocean. I saw his point, and yet… “It is only that I don’t like to be indebted to people,” I said. “And
I am already so much in your debt.”

  His green eyes were dark, almost black, in the lamplight. “Then we will have to work out a way for you to pay me back.”

  I liked that idea very much.

  The seamstress indeed came the next day, all the way from Scarborough. She took my measurements, warning me that only two or three dresses would be done by the time the guests arrived, but that she would rush the rest of the order and hopefully get more to me next week.

  “And exactly how many dresses are in the order?”

  “Twenty-three,” she said without batting an eye.

  I was staggered. That was double the number of dresses I’d owned in my entire life.

  “Mr. Markham has picked the patterns and fabrics himself,” she continued, wrapping a tape around my waist and then scribbling on a scrap of paper. “You will be quite pleased.” If the seamstress knew of my impoverished state, she didn’t say anything, but when I shifted my feet to hide the holes in my stockings, she did mention that Mr. Markham had also thoughtfully ordered me new undergarments as well.

  Later that morning, I accompanied Gareth once more to town, and when word got around the house that I had some experience gardening, I was pressed into service gathering fresh flowers and greenery to fill the guest rooms. Mr. Markham was absent—he’s gone away for business, Mrs. Brightmore had informed me curtly when I’d asked—and I felt as if the day were meaningless without him there, as if the possibility of talking to him was the only thing that kept me grounded in reality. Instead, I spent my spare time roaming the woods, swimming and daydreaming. Everywhere I walked, every place I swam, I harbored the secret wish that he would appear out of thin air as he had before.

  He didn’t.

  The next morning came, dawning warm and golden. I realized I’d been in the house almost a week. Such a paltry amount of time, and yet what had happened in that week. Meeting Mr. Markham, learning more about Violet, being touched in such new ways…

  I decided to go swimming again, partly to cool off and partly because I hoped that by recreating the other morning, I could somehow conjure Mr. Markham from thin air. It didn’t work, but I felt refreshed and content as I emerged from the pool. The morning sun had burned off the fog and the day promised to be hot, although a line of dark clouds in the distance augured rain later. I gathered my things and went back up to the house, pausing in the gardens behind it to gaze at the blooming flowers and beating butterflies.

  “Miss Leavold.”

  I turned, my heart pounding, both exhilarated and slightly terrified that my wish had been fulfilled. “I was just admiring your beautiful gardens.”

  “I know. I was just admiring the woman admiring my gardens.” His eyes took in my wet hair, my rumpled dress, my lack of corset. “You went swimming again.”

  I raised my chin, not intending on apologizing. Surely it harmed nothing to swim in such a remote pool? And surely my time and activity wasn’t beholden to anything here? It hadn’t been at home.

  “Let me give you a tour,” he said, changing the subject and his tone abruptly. He clasped his hands behind his back and started walking, and I followed, unable to keep myself from noticing the way his tailored jacket highlighted his wide shoulders and narrow hips.

  We walked through a low maze, past a large fountain and into a small side lawn set with a temple folly, all surrounded by a verdant circle of trees. The rainclouds had encroached faster than I had earlier guessed; a dark line of shadow bisected the lawn as the clouds rolled overhead.

  “Are you going to say anything?” I asked.

  He looked at me in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “I believe it is traditional when giving a tour to speak a little on the subject. You might, perhaps, tell me when this folly was built or which one of your ancestors built it?”

  “Are you really so fascinated with this ruin?”

  No. I just want to have you all to myself. I want you to touch me again.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He sighed. “Fine. Let’s examine it closer.”

  The temple was circular, green-roofed, and without walls, completely open to the world. Unlike most follies, this one had a circle of low stone benches inside, making it into a pretty retreat. I ran past Mr. Markham to mount the steps to the temple and clamber on to them, for no other reason than that I wanted to.

  He watched me with some amusement. “You are something apart, Miss Leavold.”

  I jumped down, landing as lightly as a cat. “So you tell me.”

  The wind picked up for a moment, tossing the leafy branches into a rustling susurrus, and then the rain began, a slow, steady drizzle.

  “We should get back to the house,” I suggested, gathering my skirts to make a run for it.

  “Nonsense. We’ll get soaked.”

  “So?”

  The rain intensified, turning from a light and clinging mist into an opaque curtain of silver. Mr. Markham took my hand and led me into the center of the small temple, where the roof protected us from the worst of the downpour, although gusts of wind still whipped droplets onto our damp clothes and hair.

  “We’ll wait it out,” he said firmly. “It won’t last long.”

  I looked longingly out—running through a deluge like that looked like an enlivening adventure—but then when I looked back at Mr. Markham, my heart stuttered and I realized that there was no place I would rather be. Especially when he was looking at me the way he was now, with darkly green eyes and a mouth that looked nothing so much as hungry.

  “Sit, Miss Leavold.”

  “What?”

  “Sit down.”

  I sat, not knowing why and also not knowing why I found it so easy to obey when I was so unused to obeying the whims of anyone other than myself. He knelt in front of my knees.

  “You have made a mistake,” he said. “You’ve let yourself be alone with me.”

  “How do you know that wasn’t my plan all along? You were the one who promised not to touch me. I never promised not to touch you.” And I ran my thumb across his lower lip. It was soft and slightly wet from the rain.

  He bit it and the sensation went straight to my core. I took in a breath.

  His hands slid up my ankles, past my low boots, and up my calves and thighs. I’d planned on a quick swim, so I hadn’t worn anything underneath my dress. He discovered this when he reached my upper thighs.

  Now it was his turn to draw in a breath. “Miss Leavold,” he said huskily. “You have been very bad today, haven’t you?” He rucked up my skirt, drawing it up to my hips. “Let’s see exactly how bad you’ve been.”

  The skirt was now bunched up around my waist and my pussy was exposed to the open air.

  “It was just so I could go swimming,” I explained, a little breathlessly. He looked ravenous.

  “Was it? And were you not hoping you would also run into me?” He ran a finger down my folds and I shuddered.

  “I was hoping that.” I couldn’t lie with his fingers on me.

  “Hoping what?”

  “To find you.”

  “And?” A hand reached up to caress my breast. I moaned.

  “And that you would touch me again,” I whispered.

  “I want to, wildcat. I do. But I have promised you that I wouldn’t.”

  “Please,” I said breathlessly. “Just this once. I’ll do anything…”

  He continued running his fingertips along the most sensitive places, stopping now and again to swirl gentle circles on my clitoris. The rain made a solid sheet of privacy around us, but at that point, I didn’t care. The entire kitchen staff could have gathered around to watch Mr. Markham pleasure me, and I would have still begged him to keep going.

  “Anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will make a note of that.” And then he did something unexpected—he bent his head down and licked along my seam. The feeling was so soft and sent such an electric jolt through me that I gasped. He impatiently pushed my legs furthe
r apart and put his tongue to me again, this time concentrating on my clitoris, alternating between pressure and light flicking motions that stirred me into a frenzy.

  “You taste so good,” he said in that growling voice of his. “I could do this all day. Would you like me to?”

  I nodded. I wanted his mouth on me always. And yet, as I looked down and saw the stiff outline pressing against the front of his pants, I thought I could also happily trade places and spend my days with my mouth on him. The mere thought made me almost wild with desire. My hips bucked, and I ran my fingers through his hair, tugging as he sucked and nibbled and licked.

  “How does it feel, Ivy?” he asked.

  “Wonderful,” I managed.

  He slid a finger inside of me and I couldn’t control the way I pulled at his hair. If it hurt, he made no mention, but the corners of his mouth turned up, as if my wildness pleased him.

  “I’m the first to taste you,” he said. “The first to taste this perfect cunt. And it is so perfect, Ivy. So damn perfect. If I had my way, I would fuck it right now with the whole world able to watch.”

  “Please.” I could see us in my mind now, see his hard cock pressing into me, and nothing sounded better. “I want you inside of me.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said roughly and then he bent his head down again. He sucked and teased at my clitoris while his finger slid in and out, finding just the right spot inside of me to make my toes curl and my core clench. I looked down, seeing the top of his head between my thighs, seeing my skirt around my waist like a whore, and then it was over. Just as quickly as it had built, the tension in my body imploded, starting as a series of contractions at my center and radiating out to every digit, every muscle.

  Mr. Markham withdrew his finger, pulled back as if to examine his work, and, after giving my pussy one last look, stood up. I stayed where I was, legs still spread, secret parts of me still exposed, and my eyes fixed on his erection.