I paced and paced, at turns furious with myself and terrified. How could I both love and desire a man accused of such evil? And what was this resistance to the very idea of not loving him? He could be passionate, brooding, forceful…perhaps he was carried off in a fit of temper, I tried to justify. Perhaps she provoked him…
The difficulty of it was that I wasn’t sure if I was concerned about Violet’s murder because I cared about the value of her life and her unborn child’s. The concern emerged from a more selfish, a more ancient part of my mind—the one designated for self-preservation. Like a wolf catching the alien scent of lead and steel on the wind, like a rabbit catching sight of the fox, my very body trembled with the need to flee my hunter.
Or fight him.
Or fuck him, a dark voice whispered in my mind.
The problem was that I knew of very few prey who had the third reaction. So did that make me stupid? Or strong?
There was a knock at the door. Adrenaline surged through me, tensing my muscles and making my pulse race. I turned to see Gareth coming inside the room.
Gareth. Not Mr. Markham.
“Hello,” I said, struggling to tamp down the manic energy that now coursed through my veins.
“Miss Leavold,” he said. “Do you need anything? More light perhaps?”
“A fire would be nice,” I managed, “but only if it’s no trouble.”
“Of course not.” He set to it right away, but his mannerisms were slow and thoughtful, as if he were trying to find a way to introduce a topic. I had no guess as to what that topic might be, and I didn’t care. My thoughts only touched around three points: Mr. Markham, Violet, the baby.
Mr. Markham, Violet, the baby. Mr. Markham, Violet, the baby. Mr. Markham—
“I let Raven loose,” Gareth blurted.
I stared at him as if he were speaking Icelandic. “What?”
“Raven. Last night. I was the one who let the horse out.”
“Oh.” Last night’s events filtered through my thoughts, piercing the murk of fear and lust and doubt.
He was talking fast now. “I knew you had gone up to Mr. Markham’s rooms, and I know what happened when his guests were here, I mean, I saw you on the parlor floor with them and their hands all over you, and I didn’t know if you needed help or not. Although, I did know, because I know what kind of man my master is and I’m only sorry that I let the horse out too late—I had hoped to distract him and save you from his advances altogether.”
It all finally processed—the fact that Gareth had seen me while I had been laid so intimately bare the night I played Blind Man’s Buff, his misguided help, the risk he had taken in order to “save” me. I almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it in the face of what I had learned from Mr. Mayhew today. Who could care about saving my maidenhead when my very life was at stake?
But it would not do to be so blunt, Thomas would say. “Gareth, you shouldn’t have.”
“It was worth it,” he said. “I…I wasn’t able to help Violet. I wanted to help you.”
Oh. That put a different frame on things. I wished that he had been able to help Violet too.
I searched for a way to explain myself without sounding ungrateful. “Gareth, I wasn’t coerced into anything by Mr. Markham. I wanted to be in his rooms. I wanted to be on the parlor floor. I asked for all of that.”
Realization dawned on his face, and he turned back to the stacked logs, face aflame. “Oh.”
“Thank you—”
“No, no, I understand,” he mumbled, standing up. Fire now crackled on the andiron, making his fair hair orange. “My mistake.”
“I do appreciate the sentiment,” I said, a little pleadingly. I didn’t want to lose his goodwill when I had so little of it in this new life of mine.
He nodded. “It was nothing,” he said, eyes still downcast, and then he left.
Frustrated, I turned back to Arabella’s portrait, angry with Gareth and angry with myself and angry with Mr. Markham. Why had Gareth done something so presumptive? So potentially employment-threatening? He seemed so good-natured that I hadn’t thought of him as the compulsive type. And all for the memory of his master’s dead wife?
And—selfish as I knew it was to think—how could anybody expect me to exhibit gratitude now? Tonight? When all I wanted to do was roar and slash and howl, to run until I was insensate to everything except the breath stinging in and out of my lungs?
“Ivy.”
The sound took all of the air out of the room. I had no idea how long Mr. Markham been standing there and watching me think my half-crazed thoughts. But before I could ask or explain, he’d crossed the room and pressed his lips to mine.
“Every time I find you in my house, I have this desperate fear that it will be the last,” he said in between kisses. “How can I keep a wild animal caged in such a forlorn pen?”
Wild. Yes. I was wild. And that very wildness urged me to push him away. He would be the death of me, he had killed Violet…
He moved his lips to my neck, and that voice perished as suddenly as it had arisen. Want kindled within me, and God help me if the fear did not make the desire all the sharper. God help me if the danger did not ignite additional layers of excitement in my chest, and when his lips finally met mine again with the hunger of a starving man, the prey within me crowed at conquering the predator.
His lips on my skin were arousing, keenly thrilling, but at the same time, the most natural thing in the world. He and I were meant to touch each other, caress each other. How could I fear the man I was made for? No matter what he had done?
As if reading my thoughts, he pulled away. “Ivy, we need to talk.”
Trepidation coursed through me. It was a ridiculous fear given what I had learned today…but what if he told me that we couldn’t continue on like this? I had expected him to abandon me at some point, all men did with their mistresses, but this was too soon. Too, too soon.
I let him guide me to the sofa, and then he went over to a low bar to pour himself a glass of something dark and smoky-smelling. He handed me a glass too, which I accepted but did not drink. I felt wary, on edge. Please don’t let this end yet, I prayed. I need more of this. More of him.
He sat next to me, tugging at his cravat. He still wore his traveling boots and he smelled of the summer evening—dry grass and sunlight and that indefinable male scent that always clung to him.
“I want you,” he said after a minute. Relief swelled.
“You may have me anytime you like, sir.”
“Sir?” He raised his eyebrows. “Have I frightened you or distanced you in some way?”
My mind flashed to the police station, to the scribbled coroner’s report. “No,” I lied, “but—”
He held up his free hand. “No sir then, unless my cock is inside of you. Then you may call me whatever you like.” He finally pulled his cravat loose and tossed it on the floor. “Do you remember the night we were in here together? When I made you come for the first time?”
Heat sank between my legs at the memory. “Yes,” I said, breath threading through my voice.
“You remember all the things I said to you?”
Once we start, there will be no stopping. I’ll have you in every room of this house, on every surface. I’ll make you climax as often as it suits me, even if it’s several times an hour for an entire night. I’ll make you thrash underneath me and beg…
I nodded, biting my lip.
“I meant those things. I am sorry that I couldn’t stop myself from taking you…” His eyes trailed down my body. “But I’m not a saint, Ivy. And you are truly so delicious.”
The heat was flaring now, spreading to my breasts, to every part of my sex.
“I want to show you how to please me and how I can please you. I would like to teach you how women and men are with one another. But first, we must talk about your position within my household.”
My position. As a poor nobody. A thought of Molly and her reputed wealth wormed throu
gh my mind, but I forced myself to ignore it. All I had left in this world was my freedom and my pride; I’d sacrifice neither, not even for Mr. Markham. If he meant to imply that I would be some sort of concubine, that I should use my body to earn my keep, then I would stand up and walk out. I knew there would necessarily be gray areas in our new arrangement, but my pride couldn’t bear the idea of something as bald as prostitution. I’d rather be a governess than a strumpet.
I raised my chin, meeting his gaze, and he must have seen some of the conflict in my eyes, because he shook his head and said, “No, wildcat. That’s not what I meant.”
“Good,” I said. “I won’t be your whore simply because I have no money and no relations.”
“This is exactly why I wanted to talk about this,” he said, leaning forward. “Don’t feel for a moment that I care about your status. In fact, I rather like having you here like this—all to myself and unattached to anybody else.” The words were dark, the meaning darker. I shivered. He liked having me entirely at his mercy and his whims. And I liked it too.
He took a sip of his drink and then set it down on the table next to the sofa. “But I have to know that you aren’t acquiescing to this out of fear or worry for your survival. There’s no quid pro quo in my bed. I don’t want that. I don’t want you to want that.”
I breathed again, my fists unclenching. I hadn’t even realized that they were clenched in the first place.
He put his hand on my thigh, and instantly, my anxiety and anger flooded away, replaced with desire. “I want to educate you, wildcat, not use you.”
“So how do we go forward?” I asked. “I don’t know how this works. Do we live as we do now and keep my…education…a secret? Or am I to be more like a mistress?”
Here his face set. Time seemed to slow incrementally, everything half a beat too slow and drawn out, from the desultory crackle of the fire and languid throb of my pulse.
“Neither,” Mr. Markham said. “I want you to be my wife.”
Julian and Ivy's story continues in
The Education of Ivy Leavold,
book two of the Markham Hall Trilogy,
currently available through Amazon.
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].
Thank you to my magnificently patient (and magnificently sexy) husband, who supported me while I crawled down the rabbit hole of taking on yet more writing on top of my day job. And thank you to my kids, for being adorable and also for letting Mommy write stories instead of playing Candyland for the 518th time.
To Laurelin Paige, my Chosen One, for immeasurable wisdom, help, mentoring, moping, plotting and writing codependency.
To Geneva Lee, my first critique partner, for always being a voice of reason…and realism. To Melanie Harlow and Kayti McGee, for happy hours and commiseration. To Tamara Mataya, not only for being hilarious, but for being the best editor a filthy girl like me could ask for. To the ladies of the Order, thank you for letting me be a delicate flower, and to the ladies of WrAHM, for Tom Hiddleston pictures and lots of bad words.
And thank you, reader, for taking a chance on my little book of corsets and dirty deeds.
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
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
About the Author
Acknowledgments
The Awakening of Ivy Leavold Page 13