“I was consumed with watching Violet. I didn’t look at Mrs. Harold once. No, I only watched Violet, the way her wrists chafed raw as she pulled at her restraints. The way she begged me to stop. She tried to look away, but I wouldn’t let her. I told her I’d keep her tied to the bed for the rest of the day if she did.” He closed his eyes. “I can still hear her now. Sobbing, yelling obscenities.”
I lowered my hand, feeling ill. I imagined Violet’s tears, her flushed and splotchy face as she demanded to be untied, as she begged Mr. Markham to stop. I’d known he could be barbaric. But this…
“It all made me hard. Her futile rage. Her betrayed shock. Her incandescent hatred. No matter how much I came, it wasn’t enough to release me from my need for revenge; I was able to fuck that Harold woman over and over again while Violet watched. I was lost to myself,” he continued. “But I didn’t care. I didn’t care at all anymore, and that’s what I realized at the end, as she screamed at me, as I fucked another man’s wife in front of my own. After a couple hours, I finally sent the woman away and untied Violet, expecting her to hit me, to try to hurt me. I would have let her. I hated her and I hated me, and for a while revenge felt delicious. But in the end, it was an empty gesture. Nothing would heal us, not punishment, not discipline, not matching betrayal for betrayal.”
He sat again, staring at the fire. “She never expected me to fight back like that, I think. She was so used to everybody—lovers and family and friends—giving her everything she wanted. I know that’s what broke her.”
I was such a tangle of confused feelings at that moment. I was horrified by Mr. Markham’s cruelty, terrified that he could wield that same cruelty against me. But I also couldn’t deny that there was a certain sickening justice in what he had done. I couldn’t deny that Violet was not an innocent party.
I couldn’t deny that a part of me, low and dark, flickered with something like jealousy of Violet or of Mrs. Harold. I didn’t cry when Julian unleashed his worst on me, I climaxed. And then begged for more. What would I have done? What would I have felt?
And why was I even considering something so awful?
“But she didn’t fight me. She’d stopped screaming by that point and was just staring at me. I’d never seen her like that…so upset and yet so quiet.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I told her to leave—that I planned on riding to Scarborough myself to tell the police she’d been found and that a formal search would be unnecessary. She didn’t storm away, she didn’t yell. She left. But I could see it in her—in the way her face had gone white, in the way her hands shook. She was about to break. Violet never bore anything patiently or quietly. This was the calm before the storm.”
“And then she died.”
“And then she died,” he echoed hollowly. “She’d always been a horsewoman, and she rode whenever she was upset or angry or happy…anything she felt, really, was reason to ride. When I got to the stables to leave for Scarborough and I saw Raven missing, I knew.” His voice cracked. “I knew she’d taken him. Of course, she was such a good rider, I didn’t worry. Not at first.”
The fire popped and I closed my eyes, still fighting back nausea. The rain outside continued to lash at the windows, thunder rolled in from distant skies, and the wind tossed the leafy branches and blew around the old corners of the hall. I listened to the comforting sounds of the storm, wishing I was outside running in it. Wishing I was away from this truth and this man. This cruel, perfect man.
“I didn’t cut the saddle,” Mr Markham said quietly, his voice barely audible over the rain. “But I was the reason she climbed into it in the first place.”
I could find no words to convey the tangled feelings and thoughts inside of me. I couldn’t even look at him right then.
He had been right. It was a truth I didn’t want to know now that I knew it. It did make me despise him. And I despised him all the more because he had hidden it for so long, trapping me with my own ignorance. But at the same time, I felt relief so palpable and distinct, it was almost painful. He hadn’t murdered Violet. He wasn’t going to murder me.
My life was safe with him.
But I was also more than animated flesh—I was a soul, a mind, a creature of love and feeling. Would all that be safe with Julian Markham?
Only one thing was clear to me in that moment: I had to go. I had to leave Markham Hall, perhaps for good. Because I could not tie my life to its owner until I processed through these razored doubts and reliefs. And I could not do that here, with him. Because even now, despite everything, I loved him and wanted him. I couldn’t trust myself to make the right decision while intoxicated with his presence.
He came towards me, kneeling on the rug in front of the chair I sat in. He rested his head against my knee—much like he had done in York—and I allowed him, curling my fingers into tight balls so they wouldn’t be tempted to twine through his thick hair.
“Let me make it up to you,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I’ll do anything you want, be anything you want. But stay. Be my wife.”
I was crying again. And I couldn’t answer—how could I tell him that I needed to leave when I could barely stand the pain splintering across his face now? One word from him, one kiss from him, and I would fold at his feet.
His student. His wildcat. His future wife.
I said nothing as he lifted my skirts and began to lick and kiss his way up my legs to my cunt. I said nothing as he buried his face between my legs, as his own tears mingled with my arousal, and I said nothing after I came hard on his lips.
Nothing as he freed his cock and pushed inside of me, his fingers gripping me impossibly tight, as if he were afraid I’d slip away at any moment. Nothing as we rocked back and forth, as we came together in a wave of heat and shuddering.
I said nothing because I was as desperate for this as he was, this one final connection before I would go away, find my way to my aunt Esther and sort out exactly what Mr. Markham’s confession meant to me. What it meant for us.
After we finished, and he gathered me into his arms, I finally spoke. “I’m leaving,” I said.
“Ivy,” he said fiercely, raggedly. In that one word, I heard everything.
I looked up at him. “I love you so much.”
He breathed, relief relaxing the lines around his eyes and mouth.
“But,” I continued, “I need time. I need to see my family. I need to think about the lies you’ve told me.”
He said nothing, but he buried his face in my hair and I knew he was crying.
“I’m leaving my ring on,” I whispered. “But I’m saying goodbye. For now, at least.”
“Can I follow you?” he asked. “Can I find you and make you mine again?”
I wanted him to. The thought of doing anything without him, being anywhere without him, made me acutely miserable. But I knew it was necessary. For both of us.
I extricated myself from his arms, hating the way I already felt cold and lonely, but still forcing myself to walk away. “I’m not using our signal, Julian. I just want some time to think. And I can’t think properly around you. You…you consume me when we’re together.”
“So is that a yes, wildcat?”
I was at the door now, my hand on the knob, my mind beginning to race with how quickly I needed to pack and how I would need to find a way to Stokeleigh and how I would get word to Solicitor Wright to help arrange for my trip to London. But I turned to look back at him, my Julian, his tie unknotted, his hair unkempt, his suit rumpled from our desperate lovemaking. His green eyes, more haunted than I’d ever seen them. His soft mouth, which still made my pulse quicken. This wicked man who had brought pain to so many but had also brought me to immeasurable ecstasy and happiness.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “Yes, you can follow me.”
He came forward, bracing his hands on either side of the door and leaning in to me. His face was inches from mine. “Then I will, wildcat. I swear.”
And it was with complete honesty that I an
swered, “I hope you do.”
He leaned in to brush his lips against mine, but I ducked away, opening the door and walking down the hallway, determined to keep my back straight and my tears at bay as I walked away from the only man I would ever love.
Sierra Simone is a librarian who writes unabashedly sexy books with brains, beauty and big words. She lives with her hot cop husband and family in Kansas City. You can stalk her on Tumblr and Pinterest. You can also email her at [email protected].
A hearty thanks to the husband who makes more Hamburger Helper meals than any man should, all so I can have more time to write. An even heartier thanks to my two little ones, who suffer through Mommy’s three jobs and eternally distracted brain.
To Laurelin Paige, who is brilliant and perfect, even when she’s listening to me complain.
To Geneva Lee, fount of business advice and sex toy reviews. To Melanie Harlow, for hot cop sex, and to Kayti McGee for being one half of the Tits McGee equation. To Tamara Mataya, for ever so patiently editing my passive butt and for making me laugh and blush at the same time.
Thank you to my earliest readers, especially CD Reiss, Angie McLain, Jenna Tyler, and all the women of the Order—your genuine love for these dirty Victorians keeps me going even when the sweatpants are all dirty and the coffee is all gone. Heart eyes, motherf***er.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
About the Author
Acknowledgments
The Education of Ivy Leavold Page 14