Page 18 of The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
Around mid-afternoon, the courtyard erupted in a song of wheels and horseshoes, loud shouts and calls exchanged between the parties in the different coaches. I had been placing more flowers in the library when I heard them; I went to the window to watch the guests arrive.
Women arrayed in flowing skirts and bunched bustles spilled out of the coaches, and the accompanying gentlemen rode up alongside them, dismounting their horses easily and helping the women alight onto the flagged courtyard, their number impossible to count once the maids and valets emerged into the fray. They were all young, all happy, all noisy. All unbelievably good-looking. My heart sank as I watched them crowd into the front door. I wondered how many of the women were single and if any of them were hoping to exploit this opportunity to snare the wealthy new widower who lived here. And surely, around so much beauty and wealth, Mr. Markham wouldn’t spare a thought for me?
You’re being stupid, I told myself. But still, I made my way upstairs with haste in order to avoid the inevitable flood of guests and trunks in the hallway.
Dinner was set for eight, and so at seven-thirty, I found myself in front of my vanity, completely dressed and with nothing to do but wait for thirty minutes. The dress I’d chosen was a deep crimson, a silk that looked apple red in places and almost black in others. Even though I had my doubts about wearing such a daring color, the dress was the only one with a neckline that didn’t make me blush to look at. This dress still exposed the very tops of my breasts but nothing more, and it was cut in quite a trendy fashion, with off-the-shoulder sleeves, a long waist and an elegantly draped skirt that allowed my new slippers to peek out from underneath. I put my hair up as elaborately as I knew how, thanks to the sister of the curate’s passed-off fashion magazines, and finished the look with a black ribbon tied around my neck.
I didn’t look bad, I thought, standing up to admire myself further. The crimson and black went well with my Iberian coloring, and the dress made the most of my curves and height.
The doorknob rattled, as if someone were trying to open it. My breath seemed to rattle inside me in response, my whole body suddenly alert and excited.
I hurried to unlock the door and open it, and there he was, leaning against the doorjamb, looking every part the wealthy landowner with his black tails and trousers. He had shaved, with the effect he looked ten years younger, and his hair was trimmed and swept back from his face. I bit my lip, thinking of touching his now-soft face, of mussing that carefully placed hair. Of the way his smooth cheeks would feel as they brushed against my thighs.
He froze at the sight of me, then, taking a quick look around the hallway to make sure no one would see, he stepped inside and closed the door. And locked it.
“I see you got your new clothes,” he said, now letting his eyes trace every curve and tuck of the dress. His gaze lingered on the choker. “Might I say, they suit you quite well.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He seemed as if he were about to continue, but then he caught sight of my face and paused. “What’s wrong, Miss Leavold?”
Was I that transparent? Probably—I had so little experience lying. As the only inhabitant of my house, it had been unnecessary growing up. “Why did you invite your friends to stay?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean so soon after Violet’s death or so soon after your arrival?”
“I don’t know. Both.”
“I told you that I didn’t feel like this house would be at all fun for a young woman, as cut off and quiet as it is. I made that mistake with Violet, and I won’t make it with you.”
“I told you that I didn’t care,” I said. “I like this house, I like the quiet and the solitude. I’m not like Violet!” I don’t know why I felt so vehement about this, only that I felt as if sometimes he only thought of Violet when he looked at me, of her flaws and weaknesses.
“Iknow,” he said patiently. “But this house can drive even the most forbearing person mad if they’re left alone in it too long—believe me, it’s why I’ve left so many times.”
He seemed sincere enough, but I still couldn’t shake the beginnings of resentment for his guests, jealousy of the undoubtedly interesting women who would crowd the dinner table tonight.
“And,” he said after a pause, “I invited them because I needed something to distract me from you.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “I could have stayed out of your way…”
He picked up a feather that had fallen from a new hairpiece. “But I think we’ve established that I cannot stay away from you—” He shrugged. “I’m hoping that a house full of people will keep you safe, for a while at least.”
“What if I don’t want to be kept safe?”
He used the feather to trace a line from my earlobe to my jaw, down to my neck and to the tops of my breasts. “Then I would say that you are in a lot of danger, indeed.”
Mr. Markham escorted me downstairs to supper, all traces of pique and desire vanishing under a face of impermeable impassivity. We met the other guests outside the dining room, and then Mr. Markham led the way, with me on his arm. I flushed at this unexpected honor, although as the resident female in the house, it shouldn’t have been unexpected. The others whispered to each other as they followed us and took their seats, the men waiting until all the ladies had settled before sitting themselves.
Servants hired from town came in, wearing full livery, and began serving steaming bowls of soup and pouring glasses of wine. While they worked, I made note of the thirteen guests. There were five men—all handsome and all in their mid-thirties and younger, and eight women, again, all young, all vibrant. Not a single wedding ring could be glimpsed among them, and I wondered at the possibility of having such a diverse party where not one member was married. Where had Mr. Markham met these people?
One woman in particular caught my eye. She had bright red hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose. Vibrant blue eyes and a pink pout of a mouth. Her pert bosom highlighted a slender waist and hips, her bare arms showed a lean and sculpted strength, and everything about her suggested a sort of schoolgirl sensuality, a cape of innocence drawn over extensive knowledge.
“So you are the mysterious cousin Julian wrote about,” she said. It took me a moment to realize that Julian must be Mr. Markham; I hadn’t known his first name until now.
“Ivy Leavold,” I supplied.
“Mary Margaret O’Flaherty, and don’t ever call me that, call me Molly.” She looked at Mr. Markham. “Jules, you never mentioned that she was so pretty. That will make it a lot harder.”
“Miss O’Flaherty,” Mr. Markham said in a warning voice.
