“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.
“I know,” 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.
“Make what a lot harder?” I inquired.
Molly leaned forward, the lace trim around her bodice casting intricate shadows on her creamy breasts. “Why, Julian here put us all under strict instructions not to include you in our fun.”
He sighed.
“Fine,” she amended. “It was phrased more like: on pain of death, you are not allowed to corrupt her.”
“Corrupt me?” I thought he had brought them here to save me from corruption? And what kind of people were these, anyway, that could be capable of such a thing?
“I think,” Molly lowered her voice to a confidential whisper, “that our Julian here would like to corrupt you all by himself.”
“This is hardly dinnertime chat,” he said. “And besides, you’ll scare off Miss Leavold before she’s even had the chance to truly make your acquaintance.”
“If she’s going to be living here, I imagine she’ll want to know what kind of people you consort with, Jules.”
“Where did you meet?” I asked, hoping to bring the conversation back to territory I understood.
Molly’s mouth curved. “In Amsterdam, years ago. You should have seen him then, Miss Leavold, fresh from the death of his first wife, quite lost and ragged looking. A man running from his past, like Byron’s Giaour, returning to his old haunts from before his wedding. Of course, he was irresistible to all the women there. He could have had his pick of some of the finest ladies Europe had to offer, but our Julian isn’t the easily-married kind. He amused himself in other ways.”
Her provoking tone and his non-response made it clear what kind of amusements he’d found, and instead of being shocked or upset, I only found myself worrying that he’d amused himself with Molly O’Flaherty. What if, upon her staying here, they resumed that relationship? Jealousy flared up at the thought, and with it came a concurrent pain, sharp and unexpected. And foolish. Julian Markham wasn’t mine to be jealous of, for one thing, and that he might be attracted to the woman across from me was only understandable.
I felt something brush my leg, and I realized Mr. Markham was giving it a reassuring squeeze through my dress, under the table and out of sight. I looked up, our eyes met, and there was that lust again, the lust he’d so skillfully hidden. Something soft and thin was placed in my hand—the feather from upstairs. I twirled it under the tablecloth as the conversation continued around us, Molly’s keen eyes on me the entire time.
I learned the names of the guests. Adella, Charlotte, Ettie, Helene, Mercy, Rhoda, and Zona, along with Molly, comprised the women, while Gideon, Hugh, Ned, Owen, and Silas made up the male portion of the party. Although they were all English, save for Hugh and Adella, who were French, they were part of the same extended circle of friends that Mr. Markham had collected while abroad. And in the two hours that our meal lasted, I could detect something different and exotic about them—something of the amusements that Molly had so teasingly mentioned.
They frequently touched each other and lingering kisses were not uncommon. Stories were referenced in low voices, followed by giggles and gestures that made their subject matter quite possible to discern. Most unusually, they didn’t seem to be coupled in exclusive pairs. Blown kisses and caresses were shared by all, even by those of the same gender, so that by the time dinner was finished, I could have been forgiven for thinking that perhaps Europe was the haven of sin that the curate of my childhood parish had led me to believe.
