“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 to every part of my being, all centered on his hand under my skirts.
I came to, fumbling my way out of an 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.”
I slept better that night than I had slept since Thomas died—or possibly even since my parents died. When I woke, the sun was already streaming full in the window, signaling that mid-morning was not far off. I closed my eyes once more, pretending it was firelight that glowed through my eyelids, pretending that someone’s arms were around me, that expert fingers were caressing me and coaxing me to that state of exultation once more.
I wondered why I didn’t feel guilty or regretful that I had allowed such liberties last night. I should feel guilty. I hadn’t been in a church since my parents died—with the sole exception of Thomas’s funeral—but I did remember the clergyman constantly referencing The Unchaste Woman as the source of
society’s ills. In our library at home, there had been many tracts in the same vein, as if Thomas wanted to make up for his frequent absences and excesses by at least ensuring I had the right sort of literature around.
But what Mr. Markham had done to me last night hadn’t felt wrong. Nothing had felt more right—as if he and he alone were created to touch my body. I decided to ignore the clergyman and the dusty tracts. What did it matter, really? Mr. Markham spoke of a future husband, but surely a smart man like him could see that a husband was unlikely for a girl as poor and unconnected as I was. No, in all likelihood, I would spend the remainder of my days alone, at the mercy of others, and it wouldn’t matter how pure I’d been.
Knowing that Mrs. Brightmore would judge me for lying in, I decided to make every effort to avoid her today. After dressing and putting up my hair, I settled on a walk to Stokeleigh to post a letter to Solicitor Wickes thanking him for all of his help in securing me a place to stay.
My plan was ruined when I encountered Mrs. Brightmore on the staircase, me with my letter in hand and her with a bucket of steaming water.
“Pardon.”
“Out of my way,” she snapped.
I’d only been here a few days, but I’d never seen her attend to any of the drudgery work herself. “Do you need any help?” I asked tentatively.
“You’d probably just muck everything up,” she said and pushed past me, slopping hot water onto my dress.
I came the rest of the way down the stairs, hot with anger, and was met by Gareth carrying a cord of firewood. He stopped, but behind him I saw a few other servants moving in and out of rooms, carrying rugs to be beaten and mattresses to be aired.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“I’m perfectly fine,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow, and I realized that my fists were clenched, crumpling my letter in the process. I took a deep breath and relaxed my fingers. “What’s all the bustle about?” I asked him.
“Ah, that.” He shifted the firewood so that he could brush some of the blond hair out of his eyes. “Mr. Markham has invited a party of his acquaintances to come stay a while. Several men and women. Markham Hall hasn’t had visitors since I can remember—Mr. Markham prefers to go off to see his friends—so there is quite a lot of work to be done.”
Visitors? I wondered why and why now, so soon after Violet’s death. And then I felt a sharp pang of disappointment. Despite what Mr. Markham had said about not touching me again, I still wanted to see him and talk to him. I wanted him all to myself. I didn’t want to share his company with a party of his friends and risk him ignoring me. I knew I was being unreasonable, that I was only the orphaned girl kept out of some distant sense of duty and charity, and that I’d only known him for a few days, but I didn’t care. I would tear this house apart, stone by stone, if it meant we could share another night like last night. And besides, I didn’t like large crowds of refined people. Making strained polite conversation and pretending to laugh at stale witticisms exhausted me. I’d much rather hide in the library or escape outdoors.
“Are you going into town?” Gareth asked, nodding at my letter.
“Yes,” I said, forcing myself back into the present. “To the post office.”
“Could I escort you? Mrs. Brightmore wants me to requisition more help for the house.”
I agreed, and after he finished with the firewood, we started off together, down the winding sun-dappled lane to Stokeleigh. Birds sang and animals chittered as we walked; summer felt as if it was poised to explode into heat and growth any second. The more we walked and the further away from Markham Hall we got, the less my thoughts centered on last night and the more they alighted on more troubling matters.
“Gareth,” I asked after we’d been walking in companionable silence for several minutes. “The cook said something to me yesterday that I’ve been thinking over. She said that the constable had investigated Violet’s death as if it had been a murder. Is that true?”
