I looked into his eyes, trying to focus on the way the rain made them shimmer and dance, and not on the fact that his hand was moving slowly, lazily, up and down his rigid length. I couldn’t help it—my eyes dropped again, drinking in the length and thickness of him, and then his other hand was in my hair, jerking my head back.
His eyes searched mine, all while his hand moved faster. “You tasted so good,” he said, his voice betraying no pleasure or exertion as he worked himself. “So sweet. I could stay with my face between your legs all day. Would you like that?”
I couldn’t nod with his hand pulling so tightly at my hair, so I said, “Yes.”
“You are making it very difficult to be a civilized man,” he said.
“I don’t want you to be civilized,” I whispered. I meant it.
He groaned, letting go of my hair and letting go of himself. “This is wrong. I’m taking advantage of you.”
How could I make him see that he wasn’t? That I wanted this? I reached out a hand and circled him with my fingers. He made to brush me away, but I used my other hand to stop him. “Just this once,” I said. “This is twice that you’ve given me something, and I don’t like feeling as if I owe you.”
He looked at me, his jaw set, and then he wrapped his hand around mine and guided me, squeezing my fingers and moving them up and down, up and down, until I could see the pulse pounding in his throat and the muscles tensing in his thighs.
He pulled a handkerchief out of his vest pocket. “Look at my face, wildcat.” I did, amazed at how calm and in control he seemed. “Move your hand.”
As soon as I did, he wrapped his own around his cock, the silk handkerchief in between his hand and his skin, and gave a soft breath. He kept his eyes pinned to mine as he brought himself to climax with two precise strokes. I had never seen anything so contradictorily erotic—there he was in the open, bringing himself to orgasm as I watched, yet his self-possession and coolness as he did was just as arousing.
He tucked the handkerchief back in his vest, buttoned his fly and then stood, offering me a hand. “It appears the rain has let up. Shall we brave going back to the house?”
I stared at him. His posture and his tone gave no indication that he had just ejaculated into a square of silk not thirty seconds ago. Something panged in my chest, a worm of fear that he would forget about this, forget about me, and pretend this hadn’t happened.
But what could I do? I was completely dependent on his goodwill for everything. I needed Mr. Markham to survive. More than that—something deep within me—my soul or my self or my true mind—needed Mr. Markham’s presence and affection to thrive. I craved his presence, his company, even if it meant that at this moment, I had to bite back the need to somehow claim him or to mark this moment as special. Instead, I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet. He got to one knee and before I could ask him what he was doing, he was gently rearranging my skirt so that the dress fell evenly to the ground. He stood once more and then we walked in the now temperate drizzle back to the house.
It was the day that the guests were to arrive. A man from town delivered my dresses a few hours after breakfast, and when I pulled them out of their boxes, I was entranced by the brilliantly colored silks and satins. I’d never cared much for clothes—when I had so few, such an obsession seemed pointless—but now I felt as if I could die happy. I’d never owned anything as fine in my life as these.
The boxes also contained new corsets, stockings and other underthings. I stroked the silk stockings, wondering how soft they would feel against my skin. I carefully arranged the dresses in the wardrobe’s tray drawers, and then spent the rest of the day gathering more flowers for the parlor and dining room.
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.”
