Chapter 5

CHAPTER5

“Mr. Markham has sent me to request that you dine with him.” Mrs. Brightmore’s voice left no doubt as to how she felt about this, even through the thick wood of my door, and I wondered if the cook was right, if she fancied herself in love and waiting tragically for a man who would never marry her. I wondered if he had ever touched his housekeeper like he had touched me. Certainly not recently, but perhaps when she was younger? She had high cheekbones and thick hair, large eyes and a delicate jawline. It was easy to see where she had once been beautiful. The thought made me surprisingly jealous, even though I knew such things were not uncommon.

You have no claim on him. You barely know him.

But still.

I started to change into a nicer dress, my stomach somersaulting as I contemplated going downstairs. I’d spent the day in my room, pacing, unable to stop fixating on the memory of Mr. Markham’s dark head at my breast. I could recall every minute detail of the moment: the soft abrasion of the fabric against my skin, the heat of his mouth, the movements of his tongue. And I found that as I thought, my hands drifted to my breasts, trying to recreate the sensations, the tight web of desire forming at the base of my spine once more.

I paused my dressing. I sat on the bed and spread my legs, ignoring the faint voices telling me that such a thing was not done. I pulled the gown up to my waist and let my hand drift towards my center. Where was this loudly clamoring need located? That knot of desire? I felt as if I could unravel it, as if I should, because seeing Mr. Markham with the knot throbbing inside of me would surely compromise my ability to be collected and calm.

My hands found my folds, which were slick, and then I found the small bundle of nerves at the top. This too Violet had told me about, although I’d never tried touching it as she had once gigglingly suggested. There had never been the need or desire to. I’d never before been around anyone who’d made it feel…necessary.

I rubbed experimentally and a jolt of pleasure shot straight through me. I rubbed again, unconsciously pressing against myself, rocking my hips back and forth, wondering what it would look like to see Mr. Markham’s hands down there, stroking and sinking into me?—

A knock at the door.

“Miss Leavold?”

I slid off the bed, cheeks flaming. It was Mr. Markham. Thank God he hadn’t let himself in unannounced.

“Yes?” I managed.

“I just wanted to make sure Mrs. Brightmore passed along my express wish that you be in the dining room with me tonight.” His voice left no room for argument. Even if I hadn’t already agreed, I would feel compelled to acquiesce now.

“Yes, of course. I’ll be there in only a minute.”

His footsteps echoed down the hall, and I hurriedly dressed, hoping nothing about my face or behavior would betray what I’d just done.

* * *

Dinner was almost entirely silent,save for the clanking and clinking of dishes and silverware. I could think of nothing to say to him that I could say with Gareth waiting on us, and whenever I looked at him to try to find an innocent topic of conversation, my gaze zeroed in on his mouth, sensual and curved as he ate and drank, and on his hands, which I had just imagined doing such wicked things.

“Miss Leavold, will you join me in the library now that we’ve finished eating?”

“Yes,” I murmured, feeling Gareth’s eyes on my back as I pushed my chair back and left the dining room.

A warm fire had been lit and so had the heavy chandelier, so the room seemed less shadowed than it had been last night.

“Port, Miss Leavold?”

“Yes, please.”

He poured two small glasses and handed mine to me, our fingers touching briefly as he did. A small shudder of delight raced through me. He noticed.

He walked over to the fire, and I arranged myself on a nearby sofa, wondering what safe subject I could broach; I found myself both terrified that he would talk about this morning and terrified that he wouldn’t.

“I am so sorry that I didn’t get to see Violet again. Before she died.” The moment the words left me, I noticed that Mr. Markham’s mouth had parted, as if he were about to speak himself. But at my statement, his lips pressed together again and he gave a nod.

“Yes. Yes, I imagine you are.”

I was reminded of the cook’s suspicious rumblings, and I wanted to ask about the screaming and the shattered glass. About the investigation into her death. But even I knew better—even I could see how rude such a line of questioning would be.

His face was turned to the fire. “You are the first good thing to happen in this house since she died. Or since we married.”

I waited for him to continue.

He didn’t.

Instead, he went over to the library door and turned the lock, coming back to the sofa. He sat next to me, his leg pressed against mine, and I imagined I could feel how muscular it was, even through the layers and layers of clothing that separated us.

His posture was casual as he drank his port, and I followed his example, setting my glass down on a nearby table when I’d finished. I felt warmer, happier somehow. More relaxed. More daring. Perhaps I could talk to him about what happened today. I turned toward him.

“Mr. Markham, about today . . . ”

“Yes?” His tone betrayed nothing but polite interest. I could have been asking him about the weather or the levy on carriage wheels.

I continued, fortified by the wine. “I don’t want you to take an unfavorable impression of me from it.”

He laughed. “I intrude upon you in a private moment, take advantage of you, and you don’t want me to think badly of you?”

“I guess I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I said, frowning.

His laughter faded away, replaced by a serious expression. “I’ve been thinking of it all day.” His fingers trailed against my hand and up my sleeve, until they came to rest against the bodice of my dress. “What are you?” he asked. “Some kind of spirit sent to tempt me?”

“I could ask you the same question.” And I couldn’t help myself. I had to touch him. I ran my fingers along the stubble on his jaw, marveling at the roughness of it, how scratchy it was and yet how soft the skin underneath. My hand dropped to his thigh, where I felt how right I had been—his legs were muscular and firm.

He jumped off the couch, running a hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea what you are doing to me?” he demanded.

My heart jumped. He was just as affected by me as I was by him, and that realization thrilled me beyond measure. “Sir?—”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“I am sorry for causing you distress?—”

“Distress,” he stated flatly. “Yes, you are causing me immense distress.” He came to a stop in front of me. “Have you ever even kissed a man?”

“Of course not,” I said. I’d meant to sound indignant that he’d even asked, but my voice betrayed something else: longing.

“You see? You are completely virginal, though Lord knows those lips and eyes don’t look the part.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “You have all of these firsts—kisses and caresses and more—left in front of you. You are completely fresh to the world of grown men and women.”

He took hold of my hands and helped me stand to my feet. “I think it’s best if we keep our distance from one another,” he said. My whole body wilted in disappointment. I wanted nothing less.

“Why?”

He pressed his forehead against mine just as he had this morning. “Do you remember me saying that I had become a primitive creature after Violet’s death? I wasn’t exaggerating and I wasn’t joking. I’m accustomed to getting what I want. And I want you.”

“What’s wrong with that?” I managed to ask. “Why can’t we want one another?”

“You don’t understand what I mean. When I say that I want you, I don’t mean your company or your conversation. I don’t want to pine over you and write you poetry. I mean,” he pronounced carefully, “that I want to bend you over this sofa and slide inside of you. I mean that I want to pin you to the ground and watch you squirm as I drive into you over and over again. I mean that I want to spend my evenings watching your pretty little head bob up and down on my cock.”

He took my hand and pressed it against the front of his breeches. There indeed was the object of his words, hard, so very hard, and thicker than I ever imagined. The knot inside of me threatened to snap. I wanted all of those things too, I realized, too aroused to feel embarrassed or shameful. I wanted him inside of me and I wanted to feel his mouth on me once more . . .

“You see now,” he said, lifting his head and looking me in the eyes, “why you must stay away from me. You don’t want to be the kind of woman who lets a man fuck her just so she’ll have a roof over her head.”

It took only a second for the meaning of his words to sink in. My blood turned hot, scorching my own veins, ire pounding through me.

I slapped his face as hard as I could.

He turned his face slowly back to me, a handprint blooming on his cheek, each finger clearly delineated in bright red. I wanted to hit him again and again until he apologized, but as I raised my hand, he caught my wrist. We wrestled for a moment, his arms coming around my waist, and before I knew it, I was kneeling on the floor, both of my arms pinned behind my back. He knelt in front of me.

My breath came quickly and adrenaline pumped through me, but it wasn’t fear I felt but a feverish rush instead.

“Oh, my little wildcat.” His voice was rougher than normal. “You give me no choice. I have to take this one thing from you. Just this once.”

He pressed his lips against mine. They were soft, oh-so-soft, and warm, and then he gently parted my lips with his own, and slid his tongue inside my mouth.

I wanted to pull him closer, wrap my arms around him and never let go, but they were still pinned behind my back, and his grip tightened as he deepened the kiss, as if he knew exactly what I wanted to do.

Our tongues met, silky and flickering, and I moaned into his mouth, the sensation so delicious, so perfect.

After what felt like several thousand heartbeats later, he broke his lips away from mine but remained close, so that I felt the breath of his words.

“I am going to try my hardest not to ruin you,” he said. “I am going to try my hardest not to touch you again, after tonight.”

He released my wrists, but I didn’t move them, almost missing the restraint. His hand slid up my skirts and under my chemise.

“Are you scared, Miss Leavold?”

In response, I parted my knees as far apart as I could, my body overriding my brain to give him access to whatever he wanted, because it was what I wanted too.

If I looked down, I could see him straining against his pants, but other than his thick erection, he gave no outward sign of his lust. He seemed perfectly calm and in control as his fingertips traced spirals up to my center, his eyes fixed to my face, his chest swelling with deep, even breaths. The moment he made contact with my clitoris, I inhaled fiercely, shuddering. His fingers moved down.

“So wet,” he murmured. “How can you be so wet from a single kiss?”

“It’s you,” I managed to gasp out. “You are the one doing this to me.”

His arm wrapped around my waist and yanked, so that I slid on the wood floor a few inches, spreading my knees even farther apart. One arm held me tight, while the other was under my skirts, and God, the things he was doing there.

“I am doing this so you can see why I need to stay away from you,” he said. One finger slowly pushed inside of me and everything within me shuddered and clenched and I let out a single, desperate, “Oh.”

“You’re so tight now,” he said, his lips now near my ear. “You have a tight little cunt and the man you marry will want it to stay that way. It’s so perfect and so wet, and he will want to be the first to feel it around his cock.” The finger moved deeper and deeper, until he reached a spot that made me writhe and push against that hand; all the while, he held me with his other arm, kept me pressed against him.

“And with your perfect cunt around me all the time, with those perfect breasts and that plump mouth, if I don’t make myself stay away, then I can’t answer to what will happen.”

“What will happen?” I whispered, needing to hear more, his words making everything in me tighten around his expert finger, making my body quiver and tense all around a central point deep inside of me.

His grin was wicked. “Then I will bend you over that sofa. I’ll watch you wrap your lips around me and suck until I’m satisfied, and then I’ll fuck your pussy until I spill inside of you. And 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, and maybe if you’re good, I’ll let you ride me and use me until you’re too limp to keep yourself upright any longer.

“And I’m sorry. I lied earlier . . . because I am taking one more first from you,” he said, and then he plunged two fingers inside of me, his thumb pressing once more against my clit in small, fast circles.

The quivering in my core was almost too much to bear. I grabbed on to Mr. Markham’s suit jacket, feeling almost panicked.

“Mr. Markham, please . . . ”

“Please what, wildcat?”

“I . . . I . . . don’t know.” The tightening felt as if it would split me in half if I let it, as if it would unravel my entire being. How could I possibly survive something so strong, so elemental, a tidal wave threatening to surge and crash on top of me and?—

He pressed his lips once more against mine and the wave crashed, my body shook, the muscles in my pelvis and inner thighs and belly convulsed and released and convulsed again. I thought I would die, the waves went on so long, radiating out to every part of my being, all centered on his hand under my skirts.

I came to, fumbling my way out of the unimaginable glow, to find him supporting almost all of my weight. With no visible exertion, he lifted me easily into his arms, walked to the library door, unlocked it, and carried me to my room.

He laid me in bed and I stared up at him, sharply handsome even in the dark, unable to speak or think or feel beyond the small waves of pleasure that still pulsed through me.

“Lock your door at night, wildcat.”

“Why?”

White teeth flashed. A grin.

“Because of me.”