Page 31 of The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
They left the next morning, in a flurry of trunks and carriages and frantic servants, the guests yawning widely and rubbing their eyes as they climbed into their conveyances.
I was kissed and petted by the women and given deep, stately bows from the men, and they all exclaimed over how much they would miss me while they were gone. I treated these sentiments politely but skeptically. I failed to see how they could form such an attachment to me in a matter of days, but perhaps some people were like that, seeking transient thrills and connections and people, and perhaps they really felt as if we had formed some sort of insoluble bond since they’d arrived. Then I flushed, remembering the night in the parlor, the lips and the hands, all stroking and caressing and rubbing, and the way I’d given myself over to it entirely, the pleasure and the fitful ecstasy of such intimate things.
Silas gave me a lingering kiss on the cheek. “Goodbye, pet,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you again.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing against my ear. “And I look forward to tasting you again.” He pulled back, his blue eyes burning, and my body warmed in response.
Then he gave a wide smile—all white teeth and charm. “That is, if Mr. Markham ever decides to share you again.”
“Don’t bother the girl, Silas,” Molly said, coming up to us. She looked very smart in a light blue traveling dress and matching bonnet.
“I’m not bothering her,” Silas said. “I’m making promises.”
“To the carriage.” Molly waved him off. “Honestly.” He gave me a bow and then left, the grin subsiding into something like a smirk, as if he were pondering a private joke.
Molly looked at me in that half-quizzical, half-razored way of hers. “We will be back after our stay in London, I’m sure,” she said. “It is so strange that Julian should stay home. Normally, he would never miss a chance to escape this place. I must conclude that it has something to do with you.”
“Mr. Markham makes his own decisions for his own reasons,” I said.
“Oh my dear,” Molly said. “You are so bad at hiding your feelings. Don’t be ashamed—I doubt you’ve had practice with it. I can see in your eyes that you want him and that he wants you. It will only be a matter of time now. But don’t forget what I told you—Julian Markham will make you his world, but only for a time. Are you strong enough to bear that kind of disappointment?”
“You know nothing of my strength,” I said, unexpectedly irritated. “And beyond that, it’s none of your business.”
She cocked her head at me. “I’m not your enemy, Ivy. You are young and not used to the games of grown men. I only want to help.”
It was difficult for me to take her at her word when I could still hear the sounds of her and Mr. Markham together. “Then I should thank you for your consideration and courtesy.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “There’s no need to be so cold.”
Mr. Markham came over then, having supervised the loading of the trunks and hatboxes. “Miss O’Flaherty,” he said, inclining his head.
“Julian.” She raised her hand and he kissed it quickly and then dropped it.
“Safe journey,” he said and then placed a hand at the small of my back to guide me back to the door.
“See you soon,” Molly called as she climbed into the carriage. Mr. Markham didn’t answer, but I knew that he’d heard.
She gave me a smile through the carriage window as it rolled away, a smile both menacing and pretty at the same time, and I knew that whatever was between us would never be friendship. She had her own agenda, her own desires, and she was far more experienced than me at seeing her desires flower into fruit.
The last carriage creaked down the drive, and then it was only Mr. Markham and me. He gave me a look, long and intense, and he opened his mouth to speak, but then he turned back to the house and went inside. I remained in the courtyard, watching the trees blow in the summer wind, thinking of marble angels and Molly O’Flaherty.
That night, it was only Mr. Markham and myself for dinner. We sat with the table between us—an expanse of wood that felt painfully large, with silver tureens and carafes and tiered trays making it impossible to see one another, and hovering servants that made it awkward to converse. When it was time to adjourn to the parlor, I felt a heavy sense of relief. I wanted him alone, with nothing between us.
When he walked into the parlor, turning to shut the door quietly behind him, I came forward from the fireplace where I’d been standing.
“Ivy,” he said, and the way he said my name was beautiful. It was music in an opera hall, rain on a lake, the first glorious birdsongs of early spring.
“Julian,” I whispered.
Something thawed in his face, some darkness parted, and his eyes shone. “I like hearing that word from your lips.”
“I like saying it. Very much.” I came closer. “Why did you stay?”
“For you.”
A nervous sort of joy flipped in my stomach.
Now it was he who took a step closer. “I stayed for you, Ivy. I stayed because I wanted you all to myself. The others were right, I’m hoarding you, but I can’t help it. I want your time and your conversation and your company. And your—” here his voice caught.
“…And my body,” I finished for him.
