Chapter Two

 

I woke from sleeping like a tree wakes from winter, unfurling my limbs and stretching, feeling promise and contentment in the future, though I did not know exactly why.

I rolled my face into the pillow, unbelievably soft, unfamiliar, and then my other senses came to life. I smelled the grass and sunshine smell of Mr. Markham, I saw the richly embroidered hangings above the bed, I felt the delicious twinges from bruises both inside and out—bruises I had begged for the night previous.

And then it came to me, all of the memories, all of the decisions, everything from last night: I had agreed to marry Mr. Markham. I had said yes.

I became aware of another presence in the room, and I looked over to see Mr. Markham sitting in a chair across the room from the bed, his long legs stretched out before him, his green eyes watching me like a predator watches prey. Intently. With ownership. But this observation didn’t frighten me. At least, it didn’t frighten me in the sort of way that would persuade me to avoid him. Rather, it electrified me.

He was wild and feral, like myself. We were the same—solitary animals forced into human skin.

I sat up and stretched some more, feeling muscles pull and complain in ways that recalled the way the carpet had felt under my toes as I was bent over a table.

Mr. Markham’s mouth twitched, as if he knew what I was thinking of. “Come here, Ivy,” he commanded.

I slid off the bed and walked toward him. I’d been put to bed completely naked and I remained that way, but I felt no shame. Indeed, I felt a sense of satisfaction at the way his eyes blazed at the sight of my bare breasts and hips. When I reached him, he issued another order. “Kneel.”

I obeyed without thinking. Whatever he wanted, I wanted. One flesh. Wasn’t that the wedding vow? We would be one flesh. And flesh cannot doubt itself. Flesh cannot deny itself.

“Good girl.” He stroked my tousled hair. “You know, I half-expected you to vanish in the night. To evanesce away like a phantom. Or a dream. I couldn’t fall asleep for fear that you wouldn’t be there when I woke.”

I turned my face into his hand. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

His eyes burned once more. “Yes. Yes, I’ll make quite sure of that.”

The boxes rattled in the back of my mind, the deep fears and the knowledge that I had buried, but I ignored them and instead pressed my lips to the inside of his palm.

He made a noise of approval. “You are still willing then, to marry me?”

“Yes.”

“And to have me teach you how to please me? And how to let me please you?”

“Yes.”

He unbuttoned his breeches, keeping his eyes pinned to mine, revealing his stiffening cock. Without warning, his hand was on the back of my head and he was feeding it into my mouth, forcing me to open, to take him as deeply as I could.

He groaned. “Fuck, Ivy. That mouth. It’s almost criminally good.”

I loved it. All of it. The salty taste of him as he slid against my tongue, the way I could smell soap lingering on the skin of his stomach, the groans issuing from his mouth. His hand on the back of my head as he drove the pace. The way he didn’t stop me when I used my fingers to caress him, to cup him, to dig into his thighs and hips and pull him closer to me.

“You are so eager to please. Look up at me—no, keep me inside your mouth as you do. Yes, that’s it.”

I kept my eyes up as I pleasured him, experimenting with flicks of the tongue and variations in suction, more aroused by his steady gaze and heavy, determined hand than I would have been by the enthusiasm and encouragement of any other man.

“You are so inexperienced, wildcat. I almost don’t want to teach you. There is something—ah yes—you are able to stoke me to impossible fire with your ignorant eagerness. Yes, just like that.”

I brought my hand to his shaft and began pumping him in time to my bobbing mouth.

“Yes,” he hissed, his eyes fluttering closed and his self-control finally ebbing away. “Suck it, pet. Suck hard.”

His cock swelled in my mouth, no longer flesh but stone, every vein and ridge as hard as marble. I expected him to ejaculate right then, wanted it even, but my head was tugged roughly back.

“Get your dress,” he growled. “Crawl to it.”

It took me a moment to remember the garb of green lawn that he had cut away last night, to remember that he had brought it upstairs with us. He released my hair and I crawled over to the bed, where I saw the ruined dress crumpled on the floor. My sex felt exposed as I crawled, exposed and wet and hungry, and when I cast a look over my shoulder, I saw Mr. Markham staring at me with a look so predatory it bordered on ferocious. I grabbed the dress, eager to get back to him, but stopped when I saw something under the bed. It was a small chest of rosy wood, bound with bright golden hardware. Inlaid into the side was more gold—swooping letters spelling out AW.

Arabella Whitefield.

It must have been her chest, and Mr. Markham must have saved it. Not only saved it, but stored it under his bed, as if he didn’t want anyone to find it. And the box gleamed and shone; it wasn’t dusty. It was dragged out frequently then, dragged out and its contents lovingly viewed and cataloged. My heart squeezed at this unexpected devotion he showed his first wife.

“I’m growing impatient,” he said darkly.

I turned away from the bed—and its tragic box—and brought the dress over to him, painfully aware of how tight my nipples were, how heavy my breasts felt as I crawled.

He sat still, as still and as composed as if he were at a formal dinner, his elbow braced on the arm of the chair and his head braced against his fingers as he watched me. But at formal dinners, men didn’t sit with their trousers open, their rigid dicks standing at attention, pre-cum glistening at the top. But even as it throbbed, even as I saw Mr. Markham’s pulse thrumming in his neck, he made no move to touch himself. He only watched, with hunger, as I presented my old dress to him.

“Spread your legs, Ivy,” he said.

I did, feeling the thick hand-knotted rug slide against my knees, feeling the cool air kissing the wetness along my center. The ache inside of me tripled, and then tripled again as Mr. Markham impatiently kicked my knees further apart. His cock pulsed, but still he refrained from touching it. I watched as a small droplet of pre-cum oozed down the silky underside of his dick, wanting nothing more than to lick it off, to lick him until he finally, finally, finally lost control.

“Not yet, wildcat,” he said, guessing at the look on my face. But I couldn’t look away from that part of him. It was so magnificent, so beautiful, and all I could feel was the emptiness in my cunt where it should be, stroking and rubbing me from the inside out. I wetted my lips and leaned forward and then my jaw was caught in his fingers, not bruisingly hard, but hard enough that a shiver of possession shuddered through me.

“I said, not yet.”

I tore my gaze away from his cock and met his eyes. They were as they always were—coolness warring with passion, pain warring with pleasure. Torture and guilt and shame, underscored by desires that he would never be able to deny himself.

Those eyes searched mine, asking questions and demanding answers.

Can I take from you?

Yes. Please, God, yes.

Satisfied, he let go of my jaw. “Are you wet?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Show me. Touch yourself.”

Without hesitation, I ran my fingers over my clit, sucking in my breath as I did. I was already so aroused, so swollen, that I knew it would only take a moment’s work to bring myself to climax. I pressed my fingers against it once more, circling and circling as hard and as fast as I could, my core already beginning to clench.

Mr. Markham caught my wrist in his hand. “No,” he said sternly. “This is not for you.”

My lips parted in surprise. He had, of course, denied me pleasure often in the past, but now that we were to be married, surely those obstacles that had held him back before were removed?

I should be upset, I realized. I should be furious. But God, that stern voice, that command. That implication that I was only here to be used, to be an instrument to bring him satisfaction.

It made me more aroused than ever. I trembled with the need for release, my nipples painfully peaked, my breath now shallow and panting.

“Put your fingers inside,” Mr. Markham said slowly, deliberately, as if talking to a servant. “Put them all the way in.”

I complied, unable to stop the small whimper that escaped me.

“Now pull them out.”

I moaned now, missing even the paltry stimulation of those two fingers.

“Hold them up so I can see.” He examined my fingers in the muted light, turning them this way and that, acting oblivious to the way I was spreading my legs even farther, trying to grind myself against my heel, the floor, anything. He sucked my fingers into his mouth, licking and voracious, and the sensation of his tongue flicking across my fingertips was enough to drive me mad.

He removed them from his mouth, but kept them pressed against his lips. “In my heaven, Ivy,” he said, “there is no food to eat, but only your pussy. When I taste you, I know that I’ve tasted salvation. Now place your hands on my knees. You are not allowed to touch yourself under any circumstances.”

“Please,” I croaked. “Mr. Markham, please.”

“Shh. Quiet. Watch.”

He took the dress and wrapped the soft fabric around himself. “This is where your tits were, Ivy. Where they were rubbing against the dress. Do you know that the night you came here, after we spoke, I came to this very room, to this very chair, and pulled out my cock? It was already hard—it had been hard from the moment I held your wrist in my hand and felt the delicate skin there. I could feel your pulse, your very lifeblood, so close to the surface as I held you.” His hand moved slowly up and down his shaft, rubbing the cotton against himself. The wide crest of his crown appeared and disappeared, and damn how I wanted it inside me.

“I couldn’t wait to get undressed or even take off my shoes. I unbuttoned my trousers only enough to free my dick and then I worked myself harder and faster than I have since I was a schoolboy. I wanted one of your dresses then to climax in. I wanted you to watch as I did it.”

His hand moved faster now, and I could hear the fabric rustling as it brushed against the chair and the wool of his pants. “I had to settle for my hand, of course, watching cum spill over onto my fingers and onto my waistcoat when I knew, even then, that it belonged in your cunt, on your tits, in your hair.”

My fingers were gripping his thighs so hard that I knew they’d leave marks. I also knew that he liked it, he liked it when I repaid his dominance with fierceness, when I submitted but with teeth and scratching and twisting.

“Watch now,” he said. “I’m going to come on this dress. I’m going to mark it. Destroy it. Because you are mine now. You wear the dresses I give you. You climax when I say you can.” His breath was ragged now, rough like unpolished granite, rough and lovely. “Say it,” he said. “Say that you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” I breathed. “My body belongs to you. My pleasure belongs to you. Only you.”

His other hand caught my face once again. “Only me.”

“Only you, but please, I need—” My hands were already sliding off his legs. I couldn’t help it. I had to touch myself, had to. I was almost weeping with the agony of it.

Effortlessly, he grabbed both my wrists, his long fingers keeping them pinned together at his knee. His eyes glittered green with triumph. “Here it comes,” he growled. “Watch.”

And watch I did, as ejaculate spurted in thick, white ropes onto what used to be the most expensive dress I owned. He made no noise, his hips stayed still, his hand still a vise around my wrists. But he came hard and long and by the time he was done, my eyes were burning with tears and wet desire was beginning to slide coolly down my thighs.

His cock pulsed one last time and we both watched it together. Then he looked at me, kneeling and trapped, shuddering uncontrollably with the need to be fucked, my dress pooled in his lap, laced with his semen. He looked so powerful, and I was confronted once again with the almost princely virility of him, the raw strength of body and will, and the shudders shook me harder.

He tossed the dress to the side. “You wanted to learn, Ivy. Today, I will teach you the meaning of the word need. And it won’t be an easy lesson.”

He must have seen the horror in my face as I realized that he wasn’t going to fuck me or even bring me off with his fingers or tongue. I started wrestling against his grip then, no plan in mind other than to get my hands free and end this consuming roar of desire. He grinned at my fruitless efforts, and then leaned forward, whispering in my ear, “If you are a good pupil, if I feel satisfied with your progress, then I will reward you.”

“Reward me now,” I said, my voice strangled. “God, Julian, I can’t—”

His mouth slanted against mine, sealing me off from speech and air and thought. He broke off, breath ragged, and when he sat up, I could see that he was getting hard again. “I like it when you call me by my name,” he said throatily, and for a moment, I glimpsed that vulnerable, tortured soul that I loved so much, as much as I loved the brusque, dominating mask he wore over it.

He stood and pulled me to my feet. “Come,” he said, leading me by my wrists to the door. I felt a flash of apprehension when he opened the door to the hallway—what if a servant saw us? Him pulling me along like a prisoner, me completely naked? But I would be lying if I didn’t admit that the thought also incited more lust. I wanted other people to know how he owned my body. I wanted the whole world to know. And I wanted the whole world to see how I owned him when he was inside of me, how only I got to see those rare moments of human desperation and vulnerability.

The hallway was empty and we were inside my room after a short walk. Mr. Markham let me go, with a glance of warning at my hands, and then began searching for a new dress. After he’d selected a dress, a fresh corset and all of the other assorted underthings, he laid them on the bed. I moved to pick them up, but he stopped me with a hand on my bare stomach.

“I will dress you,” he said. “We’re taking a bit of a journey and I want you attired in a certain way.”

“We’re going somewhere?” No. That couldn’t be. I couldn’t go anywhere like this, certainly not somewhere public…

“We have errands to run in York,” he said. “You must be fitted for a wedding gown, and I have arrangements to make with my bankers for our honeymoon.”

“Dress? Honeymoon?” These things had slipped out of my mind this morning, everything had slipped out of my mind, everything but the sight of Mr. Markham stroking his cock.

“You haven’t forgotten in such a short time?” he asked, looking diverted. “You are going to be my wife. And I want you to have the best of everything I can give you—a gleaming wedding dress, a tour abroad that never has to end if you don’t want it to.”

The idea of marrying Mr. Markham still thrilled me, excited me, but I didn’t care about dresses or travels. “I don’t want you to buy me things,” I said. “I want you to fuck me.”

He laughed, clearly delighted by this.

I was not as amused as he was. “We agreed that I wasn’t to be your whore. Why do you insist on getting me things I don’t want?”

“Because you are mine and it is in my power to give you things. It makes me happy. Will you consent to this, for the sake of my happiness?” He leaned his forehead against mine. “Do it for me, Ivy. Because I am completely at your mercy. My happiness, my fulfillment, my soul, it is all yours to make or destroy.”

He brushed his lips against mine, and I couldn’t help it—I tried to rub myself against his leg, whimpering when he pulled away. “Julian, I’m begging you,” I gasped. “If you must take me to York, fuck me first. Otherwise, it will be unbearable.”

“You only think it’s unbearable. Imagine what suffering it will be for me to restrain myself. Now, hold out your leg, it’s time for us to dress.”

I refused, tucking one ankle behind the other. His eyes glittered and suddenly his hand was sliding down my stomach, his fingers finding my clit.

I moaned, melting against him, my legs falling open as the sensation of him caressing my bud overwhelmed me.

And then he stopped, smug.

“Why?” I asked, my voice dangerously high-pitched.

He lowered his lips to my mouth. “Because when you’re coming later tonight, screaming so loudly all of York will be able to hear, it will be worth it. Now hold out your leg.”

I did. He expertly slid one stocking up my leg, then the other, making sure to brush the back of his hand against my center as he did. Then came the chemise and the corset: each nipple rolled and plucked into tight furls before he imprisoned them inside. He skipped the drawers and two of the petticoats, which would leave only a single layer in between my legs and the silk of my skirt.

“People will be able to see the outline of my legs,” I protested.

“Good,” he said.

He expertly slid the dress over my head and shoulders and began tying back the skirt. When he finished, he stepped back to examine me with a critical eye.

“You’re stunning,” he said. “Simply stunning.” He moved forward and pressed his lips to my neck, to my collarbone, pressing his thigh against my pelvis and making me moan. I could feel his hardness pressing into my hip, and it made me feel slightly better about my aching pussy. He was aching too, and that was some comfort.

“I’m going to have Gareth bring the carriage around,” he said against my jaw. “Be ready when I call for you. I have a feeling I’m going to need you to suck me off at least once on the ride there.”

At least, it had been some comfort.

He stepped out the door, then turned. “And pet?”

“Yes?”

“I will know if you’ve touched yourself. Don’t.”

I closed my eyes with frustration, but I nodded after a minute.

Fine. Fine.

I stomped around my room for a couple moments after he left, gathering up some odds and ends for our sudden trip—hair combs, a spare set of gloves, a small copy of Rob Roy that I’d been reading at night. I could barely process that we were going to York—everything was a faded blur next to my need to be satisfied. I yanked my purse off the vanity, swearing under my breath when I knocked the hair comb and brush onto the floor.

It was when I knelt to retrieve them that I saw it—a jagged scratch in the silk wallpaper that extended from beyond the vanity by about an inch. It was thin and barely noticeable unless you were close to the wall, as I was now. I squinted at it, curious. It was not only thin, but straight—not the crack of plaster settling, not the accidental gouge from moving furniture. I gave the vanity an experimental tug and succeeded in pulling it away from the wall enough to see how the scratch extended into a series of scratches, long and connected. It was a word. No—two words.

Help me.

I stepped back, my heart thudding no longer from lust but from fear. Help me.

Who had written this? And why? And when?

“She did it, you know. Not long before she died.”

I started, adrenaline sluicing through me, turning to see Brightmore framed in the doorway like a malevolent ghost, as if summoned by my silent questions.

“Mrs. Brightmore, you frightened me—”

“She slept in here most nights,” Brightmore continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Like she was afraid of the master. I caught her carving this into the wall with her letter opener one night.” Her nostrils flared. “Awful trash. How dare she touch this house? She wasn’t even fit to step foot in it.”

I had come to terms with Violet’s unpopularity—felt the same way about her myself—but Brightmore’s naked hatred and jealousy of my relative irked me. But I wanted answers more than I wanted to defend Violet at that moment, so I swallowed my anger and asked, “Do you know why she would carve something like that?”

“She was deranged,” the housekeeper said coldly. “How should I know why a madwoman does what she does?”

“She wasn’t mad,” I said, more to myself than to Brightmore. Violet had been many things—tempestuous and difficult and loose even—but not insane.

“She couldn’t face Mr. Markham,” Brightmore said abruptly, taking a step toward me. “She couldn’t accept him. She couldn’t understand him. And I cleaned up his messes as I always do.” She was very close to me now; my neck prickled. “I have to take care of him, because no one else truly can.”

I hated the idea that she and Mr. Markham had any sort of relationship at all. I resolved to ask him about it later. But it was the subtext of her words that disturbed me. I kept my voice collected. “What did you do?”

She narrowed her eyes at me. And then she made a noise between a hiss and a scoff, a noise that said you are not worthy to know. “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re asking. But I told the master how to handle a wayward wife. And he did.”

“Miss Ivy, the carriage—” Gareth’s voice was sunny as he came into the room, but he froze as he took in the two of us, only two feet apart, hatred heating the air. He quickly recovered. “Um, the carriage is ready. Mr. Markham took the liberty of packing you a trunk last night and it is already loaded, but I’ll be happy to carry anything else out that you need.”

Brightmore glared at him, but Gareth refused to leave. He stood resolutely inside the room until she finally swept away, leaving only her dark words and the scratches behind the vanity to fester in my mind. I stared at the scratches a moment more, then made to push the table back against the wall. Gareth came over to help me, then straightened as he saw the words.

“What is that?” he asked, his voice strange. “Did you…?”

I shook my head. “Brightmore said it was Violet. She caught her doing it.”

Gareth’s knuckles were white around the edges of the table, and I remembered the rumors. Poor Gareth. I shouldn’t feel sympathy for the man who’d been entangled in my cousin’s adultery—especially since I was about to wed the husband who’d been hurt by it. But I did, because in that moment, I saw a thousand seas of grief pooling in Gareth’s eyes.

“I didn’t know she was that unhappy,” he said, pushing the vanity back and then going back to the door. He kept his face from me.

“I thought it was common knowledge that she was unhappy with Mr. Markham.”

“I think maybe this was about something else,” Gareth said, but he offered no explanation for his cryptic analysis and refused to talk any more as he ushered me down to the courtyard.