The Punishment of Ivy Leavold (Markham Hall Book 3)

by Simone, Sierra

  I felt the kiss of the air on my face, the brush of leaves against my shoulders and arms, and I wished more than anything I was back in the forest behind Markham Hall. I wished I was fresh from splashing in the stream or gathering flowers.

  I wished I was home.

  And then there was the whisper of rough fingertips on my cheek. When I opened my eyes, I saw Mr. Markham staring at me, lips parted slightly.

  When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “You have a leaf in your hair.”

  I laughed, but his face remained completely serious as he reached up and gently tugged it from my hair. And rather than drop it on the ground, he slid it into the pocket inside his jacket, the one close to his heart.

  “Are you keeping that?” I asked teasingly.

  Again, he stayed serious. “Until the end of time. Or until I can keep you instead.”

  Something twisted inside me then, something sharp, and I couldn’t bring myself to examine it head on. I didn’t need to. I already knew what it was. It was love and it was pain and it was the realization that I wanted nothing more than to be with Mr. Markham and he wanted nothing more than to be with me and that it was only my fear keeping us apart.

  But I couldn’t just abandon my wariness, my urge to bolt and run at the sign of slightest trouble. I’d grown up with that wariness and it was more than second nature. It was my first nature.

  I turned back toward the house without saying anything, keeping my eyes studiously on the ground. Why did he have to be so tender? Why did he have to be so perfectly him? It made this so much harder.

  When we got to the front door, I turned back to him. Standing on the steps as I was, I had the rare opportunity of being taller than Mr. Markham. From here, I could see the rare strand of silver mixed in with his dark hair, and I could see how the sunlight caught on his long eyelashes when he looked up at me.

  I wanted to say I love you, come inside the house. I wanted to say I need you, I want to marry you. But I couldn’t without betraying the hours of anguished thought I’d given this very matter. What did it matter if I loved him, if the Ivy Leavold that loved him was just as toxic and damaged as he was?

  “I’m tired,” I said instead. It wasn’t a lie. I was suddenly exhausted, and sleep was the only thing that sounded good. “I need to lie down. But thank you for your visit, Mr. Markham.”

  He didn’t frown. He didn’t scowl or protest. Instead, he merely kissed my hand once more. “I hope you get the rest you need,” he said, peering up at me from under his eyelashes. “And may I call on you tomorrow?”

  I hesitated. I should say no, I should, I should, I should…

  “It would make me very happy if you did.”

  “Where’s your valet?”

  I was knotting my own tie in the mirror, taking care to make sure the silk lay perfectly flat against the high starched collar of my shirt. “I sent him out for more bluebells,” I said, stepping back to double-check my handiwork. “And I’m quite capable of dressing myself. I hardly used him at home anyway.”

  “Yes, but you looked like Robinson Crusoe at your home, Jules. Don’t deny it.”

  I shrugged. What reason did I have for dressing up at Markham Hall? It was usually only me, and even after Ivy arrived, I was too preoccupied with her to make sure that my cravats were perfectly tied or my face closely shaven.

  “Maybe if you didn’t have such a taciturn valet, you’d use him more.”

  “Gareth’s not that taciturn,” I said, fastening my pocket watch to my vest. “He can be very cheerful.” Although if I admitted it, he’d been anything but since we’d come to London. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that he’d been moody—for him—going many hours without speaking and disappearing at random intervals throughout the day.

  But we had a slightly more complicated master-servant relationship than most, thanks to Violet, and so I didn’t feel the need to castigate him about his attitude. And what did it matter anyway? Mrs. Brightmore and my cook, Wispel, had frankly deplorable demeanors but were competent and dependable. That’s all I truly required.

  “Are you ready?” Silas asked. “Any longer and I’m going to die of old age.”

  “Shut up,” I said kindly.

  I had decided to bring Silas along because I thought it might allay that fear that I saw sparking in Ivy’s eyes yesterday. Things had been too intimate between us, even without sex, and I could see the moment it spooked her. Silas had a way of easing people, of making any visit friendly and light, and besides, I wanted someone to distract Esther if I needed a moment of private conversation.

  There was a rap on the door and Gareth arrived with my bluebells.

  “Hello, sir,” he said quietly. And to Silas: “Sir.”

  Gareth didn’t smile or make small talk as he helped me pin the flowers to my lapel. I studied his face discreetly, wondering if he was so quiet because we were once again in London, where we’d both met Violet for the first time.

  That must be it. And of course, he wouldn’t feel right talking about it.

  “Take the afternoon and evening off,” I said impulsively, reaching for my wallet. I gave him a few pounds. “I’ll be occupied all evening anyway, no sense in you waiting around.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he mumbled. And with a shallow bow, he left the room.

  Silas gave me a dramatic eye roll, and we made for the door, where there was a second knock.

  “We’re never leaving this room, are we?” Silas muttered, turning away. I opened to the door to a hotel employee. “Yes?”

  He handed me a note. “A woman asked that this be delivered to you, sir.”

  I took it, excitement surging in my chest. Had Ivy come? Perhaps she couldn’t wait for my visit this afternoon and took it upon herself to come to me…

  But when I unfolded the note, it wasn’t Ivy’s sprawling handwriting that greeted me, but a cramped and precise penmanship that nevertheless seemed familiar, though I couldn’t place it.

  Please meet me at the Serpentine bridge at noon tomorrow. Alone. Please make sure you are not followed by anyone.

  -B

  “Secret admirer?” Silas asked.

  I flipped the paper over, looking for any other clues as to who it came from. “Did you see the woman who delivered it?” I asked.

  The hotel clerk shook his head.

  I truly had no idea who it could be. There was a time in my life when I would have suspected a variety of women, but certainly not in the past year, when I’d dedicated my life to Violet and then to Ivy. I tossed the note on the writing desk and gestured to Silas. “I’ll worry about it later. Let’s go.”

  “Have you given any thought to the Baron’s party?”

  We were strolling in the park once more, Ivy and me in front, Silas and Esther in back. Silas had worked his usual magic, and Esther was giggling and flushing like a girl half her age, and more importantly, giving Ivy and myself quite a lot of space.

  “I have,” she said, in that distant way that meant her mind was only half on our conversation. Her eyes were tracing the trees and flitting over to the Serpentine, where laughing people rowed small boats around the lake, and I knew she wanted to be doing more than pacing sedately through the park, taking part in the slow and dull parade of fashionable people trying their best to get other fashionable people to notice them.

  I wondered if she noticed how they stared at her as we walked, admiring her, feeling jealous of her, looking so effortlessly beautiful in the smart striped gown that Esther had purchased. But no, she was oblivious to their stares, to the way the women appraised and the men gazed appreciatively.

  “I’m not sure yet,” she said. “About the party. If I belong there.”

  “Oh, you belong there, wildcat. The question is: will you let yourself belong there?”

  She frowned, a tiny crease forming in between her brows. I wanted to kiss it so badly that I forced myself to look away to the lake, worried that my control would finally snap and that I’d have her pinned against
a tree with my cock grinding against her while I devoured her mouth.

  What I wouldn’t give to have her legs around my waist right now…

  I discreetly adjusted myself, forcing myself to think ice water and porridge thoughts while she looked off in the distance. She finally spoke, softly. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I go.”

  “I know.”

  “Ladies shouldn’t want the things you make me want.”

  I stopped walking and so did she. “I didn’t know that you were so preoccupied with being a proper lady.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. Not proper ladies but any lady. Any person. Do you think it’s natural to want pain with pleasure? Do you think it’s natural to want to be swallowed up by another person? No human with a free mind and working conscience should consent to those things.”

  “And why is that, wildcat? Do you measure your worth by how you love? Do you measure your humanity by the power you hold over people or the power that people hold over you? Who is anyone to say this is right or this is natural? Doesn’t the very fact that you want it make it natural to you?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  I took her chin in my hand and tilted her face to mine. “I think you do. Fear is part of this world, Ivy. So is uncertainty. But those things are only bad if they paralyze us and keep us from living our lives the way we want.”

  She met my eyes, and her gaze was uncertain. “I’m not certain of anything anymore, Julian. The only thing I’m sure of is that I am still in love with you and that I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”

  She’s still in love with me. My stomach knotted. How could there be so much love and still we were apart?

  I couldn’t help myself; I moved my thumb over her lower lip. It was so full, so soft, and then her mouth parted ever so slightly and I grew instantly, painfully hard.

  I’m not sure what my face revealed, but Ivy’s pupils dilated as she looked at me. “I can’t seem to make myself stop wanting you,” she said huskily.

  God, this woman destroyed me. It made me want to destroy her back—tweak her nipples and bite her clit and spank her ass for making me so in love with her.

  “You know that you own me, Ivy Leavold. Let me prove it. Let me prove it for the rest of our lives.”

  A familiar flush crept up her neck, blossomed high on her cheeks. “I wish you would prove it here. Right now.”

  Christ. Did she know how close to the edge she was walking? It was only the frailest strand of self-control that kept me from pushing her down and rutting into her right here in the grass.

  Instead, I leaned closer. “Do you really? How would I do that?”

  Her breathing was faster now. “Maybe with a kiss.”

  “What kind of kiss, wildcat?” I was so close to her face now, my lips inches from hers. “Something chaste and contained, maybe. I could brush my lips once against yours and then pull away so quickly that you’d wonder if it happened at all.” I moved my face incrementally closer to hers. “Or maybe I could open my mouth just enough to taste you. Is that what you would like?”

  She didn’t answer, but her eyes were searching mine almost frantically now, begging me.

  “Or maybe you want me to take your mouth like I used to. Without asking. Without playing. Maybe you want me to kiss you so that you can’t breathe and you need me to hold you upright. Maybe you want to remember what it feels like to have me pressed against you, what it feels like to have me inside of you.”

  She was trembling now. “Please. Please kiss me.”

  I hovered there for a moment, so close that I could almost taste her delicious lips. But then I pulled back. This was so close to our usual rhythm—me steering, me controlling, and then relishing how she never gave in without a fight. But if she was to come back to me, it needed to be wholly and completely.

  It needed to be willingly.

  And so it was up to her to make the first move. Yes, I could kiss her and she would melt against me. But if it wasn’t bolstered by her own free will, by her own choice, then no ground would be gained. She had to come to me.

  So I pulled away from her face, watching the anticipation fade into disappointment, which then faded into a suppressed look of longing.

  She looked away, blinking fast. “You’re making me feel foolish. You’re making me beg, out here, in front of everyone.”

  “No, wildcat. I’m respecting your wishes. Remember? You told me that I make it so that everything feels right when we’re together, and then you are riddled with doubt after. I want to kiss you. Christ, I want to do more than kiss you—I want to fuck you until you can’t walk and then bring you back home. I want to marry you. I want to watch your belly swell with my children. But I love you too much to take those things—I want you to give them.”

  She was shaking her head vehemently, as if disagreeing. “But I’m asking you to take them.”

  “Are you? Or do you want me to take them so that you don’t have to choose?”

  “I—I don’t—” But then she cut off, seemingly unable to give me the answer I wanted.

  I smiled ruefully. “See? You’re not ready.”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. No, she wasn’t ready.

  I touched her lips one last time. “But I think that, deep down, you want to be, don’t you? Ready to marry me? Ready for me to be your teacher once again?” My voice turned into a growl. “You want to be ready for me to punish you again.”

  Her eyes fluttered closed. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I want to be.”

  I wanted to stand there forever, feeling her lips against my fingers and letting her words roll through me. But Silas and Esther had almost caught up to us, and even though I didn’t care, I knew that people were staring at Ivy and me as we played this intense game of ours.

  I dropped my hand. “It’s getting late into the afternoon,” I said. “Perhaps we should head back.”

  The smart white house on Eaton Place was a popular destination that next morning. After Esther’s carriage stopped in front, having just pushed its way through the interminably slow traffic around Belgrave Square, I exited the cab and found myself in a swarm of suits and cigar fumes. There was a cacophony of muttered pardons and cleared throats and half-hearted offers to help me up the stairs, but I managed to dodge all of them and reach the front door, where I rang the bell.

  I was bade to sit in the front parlor while the butler went to inquire if the mistress was available. As I did whenever I was trapped indoors and participating in an empty social ritual, I fantasized about running away. Simply disappearing and avoiding all of the subtle pits and traps of polite conversation, finding some more useful and productive way to occupy my time. But this morning was different. This morning I had woken up with Mr. Markham’s words still looping in my mind, and I knew that he was right. He was right about my preconceived notions of what was natural and what wasn’t, and he was right about my needing to be ready.

  I had realized, as I had tried to go back to sleep, that what I wanted more than anything was somebody to talk honestly to about all this. I wanted to lay all of my fears and ecstasies in front of someone and not have them gasp in scandalized shock. Of course, this eliminated most of the people I knew. Esther was out of the question, not the least because I didn’t want to shatter her fledging respect for Mr. Markham by telling her about some of his more particular tastes.

  Our peculiar tastes.

  There was always Silas, but although I knew he would be able to comfort me and convince me that all would be well if I went back to Mr. Markham, that wasn’t necessarily what I wanted today. Today I wanted honesty. I wanted the truth with all its serrated edges and cold surfaces. I wanted someone who had loved Julian Markham and lived to tell about it.

  Which was why I was at the London residence of Molly O’Flaherty, a woman I’d met early this summer at the same time I had met Silas. She was also a former lover of Mr. Markham’s, and even though I knew they were no l
onger together, part of me was still fantastically jealous of her.

  As if summoned by my envy, she appeared in the doorway, talking to a man as she walked in. “And send a letter to Gibbs straight away. If the board makes a move, it won’t be without every lawyer in the city knowing about it. Hello, Ivy.”

  I knew that it would be appropriate to stand and drop a small curtsy, but Molly and I were beyond that. Beyond being falsely courteous to each other. She seemed to think so as well, because after dismissing her servant, she sank into the chair across from me without so much as a handshake.

  “Why are you here?” she asked bluntly.

  “I wanted to talk.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course you did. Is it about Mr. Markham? No, don’t answer, of course it is.” She leaned back in the chair, and the change in light illumined the red lining her eyelids. She’s been crying, I realized. I hadn’t thought Molly was capable of tears, but when I looked at her closely, I could see the way her nose was chafed, as if by repeated swiping with a handkerchief. I could see the way her sapphire gown had uncharacteristic wrinkles in the silk, as if she’d been wringing her skirt under a desk or a table where no one could see.

  It wasn’t my place to say anything, but she really did seem upset. “Is everything okay?”

  I expected her to snap at me or to ignore me. Who was I, after all, to ask her about her life? It had been clear to me since this summer that we would never be friends.

  But to my surprise, she answered honestly. “No. No, nothing is okay.”

  She stood and walked over to a low credenza, where she unstoppered a decanter of whiskey. The habit was so like Mr. Markham’s that I felt another pang of jealousy. They were such a good match in so many ways…

  She poured herself a glass and then poured one for me without asking. She handed it to me and then sat back down. “The board of my company is trying to force me to marry.”

  “Why?”

  “Fuck if I know,” she said, taking a practiced sip of her drink. “I suppose they think that they’ll have more luck controlling me if I have a husband who’s on the board as well.”