The Awakening of Ivy Leavold Page 6

  I reached for it and Mr. Markham let me, closing his eyes as I ran my fingers along it. With a sigh, his eyes sprang open. “Kneel,” he said. I scrambled to my knees, at this point eager to do anything he asked. Eager for more of this type of play. My body burned for it.

  He sat down and began unbuttoning his trousers. “Look at me,” he said.

  I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his hands, his long fingers slowly but deliberately working the buttons through the buttonholes. “Look at my face, Miss Leavold.”

  I did. He drew out his cock and my eyes drifted back down. “At my face,” he reminded me, not so gently.

  I looked into his eyes, trying to focus on the way the rain made them shimmer and dance, and not on the fact that his hand was moving slowly, lazily, up and down his rigid length. I couldn’t help it—my eyes dropped again, drinking in the length and thickness of him, and then his other hand was in my hair, jerking my head back.

  His eyes searched mine, all while his hand moved faster. “You tasted so good,” he said, his voice betraying no pleasure or exertion as he worked himself. “So sweet. I could stay with my face between your legs all day. Would you like that?”

  I couldn’t nod with his hand pulling so tightly at my hair, so I said, “Yes.”

  “You are making it very difficult to be a civilized man,” he said.

  “I don’t want you to be civilized,” I whispered. I meant it.

  He groaned, letting go of my hair and letting go of himself. “This is wrong. I’m taking advantage of you.”

  How could I make him see that he wasn’t? That I wanted this? I reached out a hand and circled him with my fingers. He made to brush me away, but I used my other hand to stop him. “Just this once,” I said. “This is twice that you’ve given me something, and I don’t like feeling as if I owe you.”

  He looked at me, his jaw set, and then he wrapped his hand around mine and guided me, squeezing my fingers and moving them up and down, up and down, until I could see the pulse pounding in his throat and the muscles tensing in his thighs.

  He pulled a handkerchief out of his vest pocket. “Look at my face, wildcat.” I did, amazed at how calm and in control he seemed. “Move your hand.”

  As soon as I did, he wrapped his own around his cock, the silk handkerchief in between his hand and his skin, and gave a soft breath. He kept his eyes pinned to mine as he brought himself to climax with two precise strokes. I had never seen anything so contradictorily erotic—there he was in the open, bringing himself to orgasm as I watched, yet his self-possession and coolness as he did was just as arousing.

  He tucked the handkerchief back in his vest, buttoned his fly and then stood, offering me a hand. “It appears the rain has let up. Shall we brave going back to the house?”

  I stared at him. His posture and his tone gave no indication that he had just ejaculated into a square of silk not thirty seconds ago. Something panged in my chest, a worm of fear that he would forget about this, forget about me, and pretend this hadn’t happened.

  But what could I do? I was completely dependent on his goodwill for everything. I needed Mr. Markham to survive. More than that—something deep within me—my soul or my self or my true mind—needed Mr. Markham’s presence and affection to thrive. I craved his presence, his company, even if it meant that at this moment, I had to bite back the need to somehow claim him or to mark this moment as special. Instead, I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet. He got to one knee and before I could ask him what he was doing, he was gently rearranging my skirt so that the dress fell evenly to the ground. He stood once more and then we walked in the now temperate drizzle back to the house.

  It was the day that the guests were to arrive. A man from town delivered my dresses a few hours after breakfast, and when I pulled them out of their boxes, I was entranced by the brilliantly colored silks and satins. I’d never cared much for clothes—when I had so few, such an obsession seemed pointless—but now I felt as if I could die happy. I’d never owned anything as fine in my life as these.

  The boxes also contained new corsets, stockings and other underthings. I stroked the silk stockings, wondering how soft they would feel against my skin. I carefully arranged the dresses in the wardrobe’s tray drawers, and then spent the rest of the day gathering more flowers for the parlor and dining room.

  Around mid-afternoon, the courtyard erupted in a song of wheels and horseshoes, loud shouts and calls exchanged between the parties in the different coaches. I had been placing more flowers in the library when I heard them; I went to the window to watch the guests arrive.

  Women arrayed in flowing skirts and bunched bustles spilled out of the coaches, and the accompanying gentlemen rode up alongside them, dismounting their horses easily and helping the women alight onto the flagged courtyard, their number impossible to count once the maids and valets emerged into the fray. They were all young, all happy, all noisy. All unbelievably good-looking. My heart sank as I watched them crowd into the front door. I wondered how many of the women were single and if any of them were hoping to exploit this opportunity to snare the wealthy new widower who lived here. And surely, around so much beauty and wealth, Mr. Markham wouldn’t spare a thought for me?

  You’re being stupid, I told myself. But still, I made my way upstairs with haste in order to avoid the inevitable flood of guests and trunks in the hallway.

  Dinner was set for eight, and so at seven-thirty, I found myself in front of my vanity, completely dressed and with nothing to do but wait for thirty minutes. The dress I’d chosen was a deep crimson, a silk that looked apple red in places and almost black in others. Even though I had my doubts about wearing such a daring color, the dress was the only one with a neckline that didn’t make me blush to look at. This dress still exposed the very tops of my breasts but nothing more, and it was cut in quite a trendy fashion, with off-the-shoulder sleeves, a long waist and an elegantly draped skirt that allowed my new slippers to peek out from underneath. I put my hair up as elaborately as I knew how, thanks to the sister of the curate’s passed-off fashion magazines, and finished the look with a black ribbon tied around my neck.

  I didn’t look bad, I thought, standing up to admire myself further. The crimson and black went well with my Iberian coloring, and the dress made the most of my curves and height.

  The doorknob rattled, as if someone were trying to open it. My breath seemed to rattle inside me in response, my whole body suddenly alert and excited.

  I hurried to unlock the door and open it, and there he was, leaning against the doorjamb, looking every part the wealthy landowner with his black tails and trousers. He had shaved, with the effect he looked ten years younger, and his hair was trimmed and swept back from his face. I bit my lip, thinking of touching his now-soft face, of mussing that carefully placed hair. Of the way his smooth cheeks would feel as they brushed against my thighs.

  He froze at the sight of me, then, taking a quick look around the hallway to make sure no one would see, he stepped inside and closed the door. And locked it.

  “I see you got your new clothes,” he said, now letting his eyes trace every curve and tuck of the dress. His gaze lingered on the choker. “Might I say, they suit you quite well.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He seemed as if he were about to continue, but then he caught sight of my face and paused. “What’s wrong, Miss Leavold?”

  Was I that transparent? Probably—I had so little experience lying. As the only inhabitant of my house, it had been unnecessary growing up. “Why did you invite your friends to stay?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean so soon after Violet’s death or so soon after your arrival?”

  “I don’t know. Both.”

  “I told you that I didn’t feel like this house would be at all fun for a young woman, as cut off and quiet as it is. I made that mistake with Violet, and I won’t make it with you.”

  “I told you that I didn’t care,” I said. “I like this house, I like
the quiet and the solitude. I’m not like Violet!” I don’t know why I felt so vehement about this, only that I felt as if sometimes he only thought of Violet when he looked at me, of her flaws and weaknesses.

  “I know,” he said patiently. “But this house can drive even the most forbearing person mad if they’re left alone in it too long—believe me, it’s why I’ve left so many times.”

  He seemed sincere enough, but I still couldn’t shake the beginnings of resentment for his guests, jealousy of the undoubtedly interesting women who would crowd the dinner table tonight.

  “And,” he said after a pause, “I invited them because I needed something to distract me from you.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “I could have stayed out of your way…”

  He picked up a feather that had fallen from a new hairpiece. “But I think we’ve established that I cannot stay away from you—” He shrugged. “I’m hoping that a house full of people will keep you safe, for a while at least.”

  “What if I don’t want to be kept safe?”

  He used the feather to trace a line from my earlobe to my jaw, down to my neck and to the tops of my breasts. “Then I would say that you are in a lot of danger, indeed.”

  Mr. Markham escorted me downstairs to supper, all traces of pique and desire vanishing under a face of impermeable impassivity. We met the other guests outside the dining room, and then Mr. Markham led the way, with me on his arm. I flushed at this unexpected honor, although as the resident female in the house, it shouldn’t have been unexpected. The others whispered to each other as they followed us and took their seats, the men waiting until all the ladies had settled before sitting themselves.

  Servants hired from town came in, wearing full livery, and began serving steaming bowls of soup and pouring glasses of wine. While they worked, I made note of the thirteen guests. There were five men—all handsome and all in their mid-thirties and younger, and eight women, again, all young, all vibrant. Not a single wedding ring could be glimpsed among them, and I wondered at the possibility of having such a diverse party where not one member was married. Where had Mr. Markham met these people?

  One woman in particular caught my eye. She had bright red hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose. Vibrant blue eyes and a pink pout of a mouth. Her pert bosom highlighted a slender waist and hips, her bare arms showed a lean and sculpted strength, and everything about her suggested a sort of schoolgirl sensuality, a cape of innocence drawn over extensive knowledge.

  “So you are the mysterious cousin Julian wrote about,” she said. It took me a moment to realize that Julian must be Mr. Markham; I hadn’t known his first name until now.

  “Ivy Leavold,” I supplied.

  “Mary Margaret O’Flaherty, and don’t ever call me that, call me Molly.” She looked at Mr. Markham. “Jules, you never mentioned that she was so pretty. That will make it a lot harder.”

  “Miss O’Flaherty,” Mr. Markham said in a warning voice.

  “Make what a lot harder?” I inquired.

  Molly leaned forward, the lace trim around her bodice casting intricate shadows on her creamy breasts. “Why, Julian here put us all under strict instructions not to include you in our fun.”

  He sighed.

  “Fine,” she amended. “It was phrased more like: on pain of death, you are not allowed to corrupt her.”

  “Corrupt me?” I thought he had brought them here to save me from corruption? And what kind of people were these, anyway, that could be capable of such a thing?

  “I think,” Molly lowered her voice to a confidential whisper, “that our Julian here would like to corrupt you all by himself.”

  “This is hardly dinnertime chat,” he said. “And besides, you’ll scare off Miss Leavold before she’s even had the chance to truly make your acquaintance.”

  “If she’s going to be living here, I imagine she’ll want to know what kind of people you consort with, Jules.”

  “Where did you meet?” I asked, hoping to bring the conversation back to territory I understood.

  Molly’s mouth curved. “In Amsterdam, years ago. You should have seen him then, Miss Leavold, fresh from the death of his first wife, quite lost and ragged looking. A man running from his past, like Byron’s Giaour, returning to his old haunts from before his wedding. Of course, he was irresistible to all the women there. He could have had his pick of some of the finest ladies Europe had to offer, but our Julian isn’t the easily-married kind. He amused himself in other ways.”

  Her provoking tone and his non-response made it clear what kind of amusements he’d found, and instead of being shocked or upset, I only found myself worrying that he’d amused himself with Molly O’Flaherty. What if, upon her staying here, they resumed that relationship? Jealousy flared up at the thought, and with it came a concurrent pain, sharp and unexpected. And foolish. Julian Markham wasn’t mine to be jealous of, for one thing, and that he might be attracted to the woman across from me was only understandable.

  I felt something brush my leg, and I realized Mr. Markham was giving it a reassuring squeeze through my dress, under the table and out of sight. I looked up, our eyes met, and there was that lust again, the lust he’d so skillfully hidden. Something soft and thin was placed in my hand—the feather from upstairs. I twirled it under the tablecloth as the conversation continued around us, Molly’s keen eyes on me the entire time.

  I learned the names of the guests. Adella, Charlotte, Ettie, Helene, Mercy, Rhoda, and Zona, along with Molly, comprised the women, while Gideon, Hugh, Ned, Owen, and Silas made up the male portion of the party. Although they were all English, save for Hugh and Adella, who were French, they were part of the same extended circle of friends that Mr. Markham had collected while abroad. And in the two hours that our meal lasted, I could detect something different and exotic about them—something of the amusements that Molly had so teasingly mentioned.

  They frequently touched each other and lingering kisses were not uncommon. Stories were referenced in low voices, followed by giggles and gestures that made their subject matter quite possible to discern. Most unusually, they didn’t seem to be coupled in exclusive pairs. Blown kisses and caresses were shared by all, even by those of the same gender, so that by the time dinner was finished, I could have been forgiven for thinking that perhaps Europe was the haven of sin that the curate of my childhood parish had led me to believe.

  But the old curate would have been horrified to learn that, instead of shock, I felt only curiosity. What would it be like to kiss and touch someone so openly? To press my lips against Molly’s plump, pink ones? Or to once again kiss Mr. Markham? I desperately wanted to try, but instead I kept hold of the feather like it was a promise, keeping it in my fist until it was time for the ladies to rise and go to the parlor.

  When we entered, I made sure to take a low seat in back, out of the way and partially out of sight, hidden beyond an end table laden with flowers. I still felt unease around all these strangers, and that unease tripled as soon as I left Mr. Markham behind. I looked longingly at the window, which showed a welcoming velvet night outside.

  “I’m already bored,” Helene declared, tossing herself onto the sofa. “Why must the men stay and talk forever when we are all ready to play?”

  “We could find that cute servant boy,” Ettie suggested. “That would make the men wish they’d hurried up.”

  “What shall we play?” Rhoda asked. She was the tallest of the women, with pale blond hair and strong features that made her look like a goddess from Norse myth. Zona, her fraternal twin, was much the same, although with hair more golden than white.

  I knew it was typical for card games or parlor games to be played after dinner, so I wasn’t surprised when Molly declared that we would play charades once the men joined us.

  “Although,” she said pointedly, “we will have to be more subdued than normal.”

  This elicited a chorus of groans from the women, along with some pouting, which only serve
d to make them look lovelier.

  “But why?” Helene asked.

  Molly threw a meaningful glance in my direction, and I wished I’d found an even more out of the way spot to sit. The others turned towards me, curious and irritated.

  “Oh,” Ettie said. “That’s right. You’re Julian’s new pet.”

  “I’m a relative of the late Mrs. Markham’s,” I said, hearing how defensive I sounded.

  “Ettie,” Molly scolded, “you’ve quite put her out. Look at the poor girl—she looks like a wild animal backed into a corner.”

  Truly, that’s how I felt. Though the women were nothing but intrigued—if condescendingly so—my body thrummed with energy and adrenaline, as if it thought I were under physical attack. The fantasy of running out of the room became blindingly sharp in my mind, and I even shifted my feet under my dress to stand.

  “Well, I don’t see why we need to act any differently just for her,” Helene said.

  “It’s not for her, it’s for Julian,” Rhoda said. She offered me a kind smile. I decided that I liked her.

  Molly walked over. “Girls, this isn’t way to treat our new acquaintance.” She took my hands and pulled me to my feet. “I promise we aren’t normally this cheerless about new friends. We will have so much fun during our visit, and I think you will have fun with us. Can I tell you a secret?”

  I wanted to shake my head. I wanted to pull my hands away and run out of this room and out of this house. But something about Molly was magnetic. Cutting and mendacious, but magnetic.

  I nodded.

  She put her mouth against my ear, her breath hot on my skin. “I don’t think it’s fair for Julian to keep you all to himself and then not play with you, like a trinket in a glass case. Perhaps you and I can change his mind?” And then she nipped at my earlobe, taking it in her teeth and flicking her tongue over the sensitive skin there. As soon as it started, it finished, and she was moving back across the room, throwing me a daring glance over her shoulder.