The Punishment of Ivy Leavold (Markham Hall Book 3) (2 page)

“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 consumed 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.

The horrified look in Ivy’s eyes as I had told her…

But in a way, it had been such a huge relief. This sin I had carried with me, had borne alone. Silas knew that something had happened with Mrs. Harold, but gentle soul that he was, he had no idea that it hadn’t been the ordinary extramarital tryst. Even he, my oldest friend, would be aghast.

I stood and paced the large room. How was it on the heels of my worst moments, my darkest sins, I had stumbled upon the one person I had been unconsciously searching for my entire life? The time in my life when I least deserved love and goodness, and then Ivy had appeared, wary and distant and perfect.

I had known from the moment I held her wrist and felt the blood thrumming there, the moment I saw the pulse fluttering in her neck. I had known that there was something different in her, something that I responded to on such a deep level that it was impossible to control my reactions to it. But how could I take her, at my mercy as she was? If I despoiled my dead wife’s cousin, only a month after her death, then I would be that same monster who had fucked another woman for revenge. No—I had vowed to myself to protect her, no matter how much I wanted her. I was a better man than that.

But I hadn’t counted on her wanting me too. And truthfully, I was
not
a better man than that. How could I claim to be, when I still hated the memory of Violet, when I still didn’t know if I would honestly go back and undo what I had done the night she died? When I couldn’t even truly let Ivy go, when I had promised her I would?

She said it was okay to follow her
, I reminded myself.

Which was good. Because I couldn’t wait any longer.

I'd been trying to draft a letter for about three hours, and so far it only read
Dear Julian
at the top. I didn’t know what I wanted to say, really, and even more than that, I wasn’t sure what I
should
say. Should I tell him that it was best if we dissolved our engagement? My aunt Esther seemed to think so, and she had spent the last day and a half reminding me. This would have been the wisest option, according to every bit of conventional wisdom I knew.

But I couldn’t write the words. Every time I started, a wave of exhaustion and nausea would crash over me and I would lay down my pen and stare out of the window, letting melancholy thoughts chase themselves over and over again.

But how could I write anything else? If I wrote how I really felt—how lonely and lost and empty—if I told him how I’d spent my days in London, barely eating and listlessly watching the street outside the window, then he would take that as encouragement. Confirmation. And that was unfair to him as well as me.

A knock at the door. My new lady’s maid, Polly, came in. “A caller in the parlor, Miss Leavold.”

“It’s for my aunt, surely,” I said, turning back to my unwritten letter.

“It’s a gentleman. I told him you wouldn’t be able to receive him since your aunt wasn’t home, but he insisted. He said you were engaged to be married.”

My head snapped up, adrenaline flooding through me.
Julian.

“Should I tell him to leave or…?”

“No,” I said, standing and giving my reflection a cursory inspection. I looked pale and tired, but there was nothing to be done about it at the moment. “I’ll be right down.”

I smoothed my dress, pinched my cheeks, and went down the stairs, swallowing back my trepidation and excitement.

How desperately I wanted to see him. And how desperately I wanted him to go away.

I caught my breath as I entered the parlor. He stood by the window, the light framing his tall body, catching in his too-long hair, every edge and line of him sharp and clear, as if he were somehow more real than anything else around him. It was as if I’d seen everything through a veil since I’d left Markham Hall, seen everything in the sepia tone of photographs, and he was the first truly vivid and detailed thing I’d seen in days. He turned at my entrance, his eyes drinking me in, his mouth parting slightly. His fingers twitched by his side, and I thought of all the times they’d traced circles around my breasts, slid deeply into my cunt.

Not even thirty seconds in the same room with him and I was wet.

He knew, somehow he knew, because he crossed over to me in a few quick strides and slanted his mouth over mine, pressing his warm lips against my hungry ones, parting them and licking into my mouth with a ferocity that made my knees weak.

“God, wildcat,” he whispered. “I’ve missed you so much. I’ve missed the way you taste.”

And then his lips moved down my neck, kissing the silk swell of my breast, the corseted nip of my waist, going down to his knees and sliding his hands up my legs.

I knew what he was going to do as soon as he lifted the hem of my dress and tugged the interfering underclothes away. I should have said no. I should have said that we had to keep away from each other until we could make decisions about our future. But the tired apathy was blasted away in his intense presence, leaving only a quickening pulse and a growing hunger in its wake. So what I said instead was, “Someone will see…”

“Let them,” he said, looking up into my eyes. I’d imagined those eyes so many times the last few days, thinking perhaps I was exaggerating how green they were, how expressive they were. But if anything, I hadn’t done them justice. They were a vibrant emerald that painters would murder for and framed by long dark lashes that fluttered now as his fingers found the sensitive skin in between my thighs.

I couldn’t stop the moan that left my mouth.

“Your pussy is so wet for me,” he said, his fingers running softly over my skin, stopping here and there to delve deeper or rub a little harder. “Why won’t you come home to me so I can take care of it all the time?”

I was already so upset, so worked up, and here he was, his stubbled jaw and his haunted eyes making him look more desperately delicious than ever, and my body had been keening for him for what felt like years…

“Oh, you’re going to come, Ivy. Let me taste it. Let me taste you.” Without waiting for my response, he raised my skirts and pressed his lips to my swollen clitoris. Just the soft kiss made me buckle and gasp, but then his tongue licked out, tasting my flesh, and I truly cried out. I laced my fingers in his hair, not caring how tightly I pulled, only needing him to stay exactly where he was, exactly where I wanted him, and then my climax erupted and I came violently on his mouth. His arms wrapped tight around me, supporting me as I rode out the waves as silently as I could, still distantly aware that we were in an open room in a house full of servants.

After I finished, he rearranged my skirts and stood. I put my finger on his lips and then brought it to my own mouth and licked it.

He groaned.

I wanted more. I wanted more of him, more of us and our pleasure and our sweat. And right now, I didn’t care about anything else. All the doubts, all the questions, they could wait for just another handful of minutes. It was like I was a sleeping queen in a fairy tale, brought to life by the right man’s kiss, and I felt so very very awake right now, so very alive. What was that shadow world of doubt and worry compared to this? What queen would choose that twilight slumber alone when they could consort with the king who brought them to life?

But of course, I wasn’t a queen.

I was a wildcat.

Abruptly, I put my hand on his chest and pushed him roughly back until his knees hit the sofa and he sat. He helped me free his dick from his pants, and then I was climbing on top of him, impaling myself on the iron heat of his shaft. I sank all the way down until he was completely buried in me.

He made to speak again, but I stopped him with a hungry kiss. “No words,” I said. “Please.” And then I ground myself against him, feeling his cock sink even deeper, and began rubbing my clit against him as hard as I could. I rode him with everything I had, rode him with all the pent up emotions I found it so difficult to grapple with. I expended them all on him, I unleashed every ounce of longing and betrayal and anger. I scratched his arms, pulled at his hair, bit his neck. And he took it, his eyes hooded as he watched me work myself on him, wrench my pleasure from him. And I did get my pleasure, biting him on the neck one last time before I started shuddering and clenching on top of him, feeling more wild and free and clear of heart than I had since before I left.