The Punishment of Ivy Leavold (Markham Hall Book 3)

by Simone, Sierra

  Copyright © 2015 Sierra Simone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. References to real people, places, organizations, events, and products are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real.

  Cover by Date Book Designs 2015

  She was gone.

  She was really gone.

  Ivy Leavold had left me—left me and Markham Hall and had gone to find the family I’d hidden from her—which was something I didn’t regret.

  I only regretted not doing a better job.

  I had tried to give her space as she packed and as Gareth had readied the carriage to take her to York. She wouldn’t hear of taking any money, she said that solicitor—damn him to hell—would help her, but I still folded two or three hundred pounds into her purse when she wasn’t looking. Then I walked to the library and locked the door, taking the entire decanter of Scotch into the window seat with me so I could drink as I watched her leave.

  It felt like it took only seconds, even though it had taken almost an hour between her whispering I’m leaving and the carriage wheels rolling out of the courtyard. An hour between me sliding inside of her and her walking out of my life.

  No, our life.

  God was punishing me, I was sure of it. It wasn’t enough that I would burn after death. He wanted to punish me now—strip away the only thing that mattered to me. Three months ago, nothing mattered. Not my estate or my wealth. Even my friends weren’t enough to color the gray-washed days of my existence.

  But then Ivy came, and I felt something again. Something that wasn’t anger or shame or the emptiness I’d begun to cultivate as carefully as a gardener cultivates his garden. I felt curiosity at first, along with the urge to shield her and take care of her. And then desire. And then love.

  And now loss.

  I drank until all the thoughts left my mind, stumbled to the sofa and knew no more.

  I’d been to London twice as a girl with my parents, but nothing prepared me for the choking, bustling mess that greeted me when I alighted from the train platform. People swarmed around me, pushing and yelling, and I had to blink against the smoky air that pervaded every corner of the station.

  “Miss Leavold?”

  It was an older man, perhaps in his fifties, in a smartly pressed suit and with the officious air of a servant. I knew at once he must be the person my aunt Esther had sent to collect me.

  I nodded.

  “Good. Shall we proceed? Your trunk has been arranged for.”

  With a last look at the train that had borne me all the way from Yorkshire and had been the recipient of many quiet tears, I nodded. This was my life right now. In a strange town with strange people.

  Without Mr. Markham.

  Esther Leavold lived in a small but fashionable house on Gilbert Street, barely a stone’s throw away from Grosvenor Square. It was hard not to be nervous as our carriage stopped and as the servant led me inside the front foyer. I didn’t know what to expect; I had never met this Esther Leavold and I couldn’t remember ever hearing of her, although since she had spent the last thirty or so years in India, I supposed it wasn’t inconceivable that she wouldn’t have been spoken of much by my parents. And Thomas barely spoke about anything at all, unless it was to chastise me for talking too much or for spending too much time out of doors.

  Nevertheless, I walked into 27 Gilbert Street expecting an old woman and instead encountered someone who did not look so much older than myself.

  She was petite and wildly curvy, with rounded breasts and hips and a small waist, with blonde hair twisted up into the fronted curls that seemed to be so fashionable here in London. She was perhaps in her mid-thirties, but this was only a hazarded guess, because her tiny bow mouth and bright blue eyes gave the impression of a child. And the energy with which she swept into the foyer and gathered me into an embrace—that seemed very childlike too.

  “Hel-hello,” I said, my breath choked from her tight hug. “Thank you for—”

  She let me go and waved a hand. “No, no. No thank yous, please. It’s bad enough to come to England and not know anyone, and even worse to discover that any relations you can presume upon for company are dead. You are doing me the favor by coming to stay with me. It’s quite lonely, you know, being unmarried at my age.”

  I caught a glimpse of the silver dish on her table, filled to the brim with calling cards. Not that lonely, I thought as she led me into the parlor and rang for tea.

  “Now, I know you must be exhausted from the journey, but I really must insist you take something to fortify yourself before you rest, and also we must make plans for tonight and tomorrow. The Lady Samantha Haverford has invited me to supper and I think I should bring you along. What a perfect place to introduce you to the important people here—and I know what you’re thinking, Ivy, you’re wondering how I can know since I’ve only come from Bombay eight weeks ago, but Lady Haverford was introduced to me by Colonel Barnes—a former beau, if you must know, but really a good man—and Barnes always has the best taste in refined company.” She stopped to a take a breath—possibly the first she’d taken since I walked in the door.

  A supper party with London society sounded unbearable—especially given how close to tears I’d felt all day. It was impossible to entertain the idea. “I’m sorry, but I really am so tired,” I said, not trying to hide the warble in my voice. Let her think it was traveling exhaustion and not my broken heart.

  She responded to me immediately, her face turning into a concerned pout. “Of course! You poor dear. We will wait until tomorrow then—the Hermanns from Vienna are having a garden party. Do you have a proper afternoon dress? No? I thought not. The solicitor who helped me find you told me about how my nephew gambled away all your money. Shameful. Not to worry though. I have plenty of money for the both of us, and we shall go shopping this week. Now, to your room! You must tell me if you like it, or if you would like anything changed, or even if you want to switch rooms—there are plenty in this house.”

  The maid came into the room bearing tea, but Esther pushed past her, my need for fortification apparently forgotten. I didn’t mind much—the swaying motion of the train and the violent emotions I couldn’t suppress had left me feeling a little queasy.

  We went upstairs, Esther chattering the whole way. I learned that she was the product of a late marriage between my grandfather and a diplomat’s daughter, whom he had met while traveling for business. When he’d died several years back, he’d directed that the shares of his company went to his daughter, and so Esther was quite the heiress. Perhaps a year ago, I would have felt resentful that my grandfather hadn’t thought to bequeath any money to the children from his first marriage, Violet’s father and my own. But now I hardly cared. After all, if things hadn’t happened they way they had, then I would have never gone to Markham Hall. I would have never fallen in love with Mr. Markham.

  And I couldn’t regret any of that. Not yet.

  Esther pointed me to a door and we entered what was to be my room. How Esther could ever imagine I could complain about it, I had no idea. If anything, it was too luxurious, hung with richly colored portraits and dominated by a massive canopy bed. Everything was upholstered in silks and damasks, a
ll deep plums and vivid greens.

  “I had it done up as soon as I bought the house, knowing that you would have to come live with me, circumstances being what they are. I did not know your taste, but I did my best and—darling, is that a ring?”

  I had placed my hand on the back of the low sofa in front of the fireplace, and the sunlight pouring in from the window caught my engagement ring, sending gleams of light around the room. I had not made any effort to hide it; in fact, I had been under the impression that my aunt knew about my engagement.

  “Yes,” I said, feeling a low flicker of amusement at Esther’s gaping mouth, a sort of joyless mirth that vanished immediately. “I thought perhaps Solicitor Wickes would have told you…?”

  “Why, certainly not!” Color was rising in Esther’s cheeks. “Can you imagine? He knew and he didn’t tell me, when he knows I have not a soul in the world to lay claim on! But my dear, if you are engaged, when are you to be married? And when shall I meet this man? Tell me, is he quite handsome? And his figure—what is it like? I prefer the ones who are broad in the shoulder, the ones who can carry me, which let me tell you, is not every man.” She raised her eyebrows, tapping a small foot under her dress. “Answer me, my dear. When are you to be married?”

  I had not answered because I found I couldn’t. There was a peculiar ball at the back of my throat, and if I spoke, it would turn all of my words into quavering tears. But I couldn’t stop them anyway, and they started to fall hot and fast down my cheeks.

  “Oh my,” Esther clucked, coming toward me and folding me into another crushing hug. “What did he do, the cad? Did he reject you because of your poverty? Or lack of breeding? Or did he—” her eyes danced with pre-emptive righteous anger “—did he carry on with another woman? What a beastly scoundrel! Well, not to worry, my dear, you are here with me now, and I guarantee you that if I did not know of this engagement, then society does not know of it, and your reputation will come out unscathed. And you are so young and pretty and with me at your side—yes, we will find you a proper husband in no time.”

  In a way, I liked how Esther didn’t need me to respond to her. I could allow her to do all the talking while I struggled against these unreasonable tears, these tears that refused to dissipate no matter how many of them I cried. But I had to tell her that it wasn’t what she thought. I had to defend Mr. Markham.

  “He didn’t do anything like that,” I said, hating how sniffly my voice sounded. “He—I just. It’s complicated. I thought I could stay here for a while, you know, while I thought about things.”

  Esther forced my head onto her shoulder. “You take as long as you need, you understand? You can stay right here, and I will take care of you.”

  “Thank you,” I said into her dress. It felt wrong to be taken care of in this way. It won’t last, I promised myself. I’d make myself useful, or at the very least, self-sufficient.

  Why hadn’t it felt wrong for Mr. Markham to take care of me, emotionally and sexually and in all the other ways I needed? Was that further evidence of how corrupted I was?

  “You must tell me his name, at least,” my aunt insisted. And she took my shoulders and pushed me back from her so she could look me in the eye. “Ivy. Who is this man?”

  There was no point in avoiding the question—she would either keep asking or find out through some other means. “Julian Markham,” I said, my voice cracking. “Julian Markham of Markham Hall. In Yorkshire.”

  Her eyebrows knit together for a moment. “Markham…” she said, as if trying to recall where she’d heard the name before.

  “Violet’s husband,” I supplied dully.

  “But Violet died only a few months ago, did she not? How on earth did he manage to court you in such a short time? You should have both been in mourning!”

  Her outrage over the breach of etiquette seemed so petty next to everything else. How outraged would she have been to learn that Julian had punished Violet by making her watch as he fucked another woman? How worried would she be if she knew that Julian had long been suspected of Violet’s murder? Whatever she thought she could assess about the situation, she didn’t know the half of it.

  “I had to live with him—I had nowhere else to go,” I said. “And then…it just happened.”

  It just happened. Nothing was further from the truth. It had been weeks of longing, of desire, punctuated with heady kisses and caresses. It had been desperate and perfect and all-consuming; it had been the only time I'd felt truly alive. Nothing about it was “just.” Nothing about it simply happened by chance.

  Esther regarded me, the kind of hungry look that I’d grown used to from Mrs. Harold, the rector’s wife. A look hungry for information, for stories, for juicy details. But unlike Mrs. Harold, Esther also radiated an affection and a compassion that—while shallow—was still kindly meant. When she saw that I wasn’t going to say any more, she patted my arm. “Don’t worry. I will take care of everything. You take tonight and rest. If you want, I can stay home from Lady Haverford’s…?”

  There was a bit of reluctance at the way she offered, and I saw her sigh of relief when I told her, “That is kind, but there is no need. I plan on sleeping most of the evening away—I wouldn’t notice if you were here or not.”

  “Well, don’t hesitate to ask for anything while I’m gone. And I’ll be sure to check in on you when I come home!”

  With a swift kiss on the cheek, Esther departed and I finally had the room to myself. And in the silence, all of the thoughts and worries and pains came flooding in. How Julian had kept my aunt from me. How viciously he had tormented Violet the night she died.

  I closed my eyes against the image of him driving into the rector’s wife, a look of vicious triumph on his face. I closed my mind against the spike of dark, dark lust the image inspired in me.

  And that was the real reason I had fled so suddenly—what all this meant about me. Normal women didn’t feel the way I did, I was certain. They weren’t excited by acts of barely restrained brutality. They didn’t purr at the thought of being called a pet, a kitten. They didn’t feel that any amount of submission or possession was worth seeing that perfect, vulnerable soul inside the man, and I did. Everything that Julian did, to me and to others, energized and enlivened me. Sometimes with fear, sometimes with lust, sometimes with unrelenting waves of love. But why was I okay feeling fear mingled with all these emotions?

  Because deep down, you always truly felt safe.

  And especially now that he had confessed the truth of what happened the night my cousin died, of how his revenge on her infidelity had driven her to rush into that fatal horseback ride, I knew that he wasn’t a murderer. That my body had always been safe from him. Safe with him.

  But what about my heart? Could I trust that he wouldn’t turn that barbarism on me? Would I be able to withstand the onslaught of his darkness?

  Or was I just as dark?

  And even if we could work our way through all of this, what if I no longer satisfied him? What if I couldn’t perform the way he wanted me to, couldn’t be a good pet?

  Hollowness flooded through me, chasing out everything else. And what did it matter in the end? I had left, and while I had given him permission to follow me, I didn’t know that he would. Julian Markham was a proud man.

  My trunk had already been placed inside, so I stripped out of my traveling dress, unhooked my corset and petticoats, and changed into a fresh chemise. I washed my hands and face and then I crawled under the blankets of the bed. Even though it was only late afternoon, I knew once I closed my eyes, I would fall asleep. And I did.

  I gave her two days. Of course, I followed her to London as soon as I could, my valet insisting on coming with me in what I saw as a fit of loyal pique, and I obtained the address of this Esther Leavold as soon as humanly possible, but I didn’t go there. Not yet. I would allow her as much space as I could possibly stand.

  Which to be honest, wasn’t much. I had barely slept since she’d left, my every thought consum
ed by her. I missed her wild laugh, her defiant smile. I missed the way her body had come to life under my touch, as if she were a treasure only I could unlock.

  Just the thought sent a spike of heat through me. God, what I wouldn’t give for her to be with me now. I would kiss my way up those perfect thighs, those thighs that were strong and lithe but still impossibly soft, and then I would bury my face in her cunt. I would lick and nip at her until her back was arched and her feet were pushing uselessly against the floor, and then I would seal my mouth over her clit and suck until she came. And while she was still riding the waves of her orgasm, I would shove into her, hard. She liked her fucking rough, with the edge of pain on the periphery, and I loved watching her come apart in my hands, her hips bucking and her eyes delirious. Her perfect lips parted. I would make her come on my cock one more time before I surrendered myself, before I pumped her full of my seed.

  I was hard just thinking about it, but I ignored the urge to stroke myself off, to blunt the edge of ever-present hunger I had when it came to Ivy. It would be a paltry substitute. It would be no substitute at all. And I had never been one to accept anything less than what I wanted.

  And if I was honest with myself, I didn’t want to ease any of my pain, physical or emotional. I wanted to hurt, I wanted to be miserable. I wanted to hate every moment that I wasn’t with her.

  I looked around the opulent hotel room that I had rented only a short walk away from Esther Leavold’s house. I knew Molly and some of the others were in town, but I had no desire to see them. Molly had little patience for romantic love and so would be impossible. The others had no experience with this kind of attachment at all—their love lives stopped short at dalliances and brief courtships. Even Silas didn’t truly understand, although he had been the only one to truly stay by my side while I’d chased after Violet.

  Pointlessly chased after Violet.

  I ground the heels of my hands into my eyes. Fuck. Just thinking of it made me furious and devastated and ashamed all at once. I wanted to say that she had broken my heart with her infidelity, but that wasn’t quite true, because by that point I’d realized that I didn’t love her in the slightest. No, it had been my honor and my pride that had been wounded, and in a way that made my actions all the more reprehensible, because I couldn’t even claim to have been blinded with heartbreak.