“You are not at all a liability. Quite the opposite. They are all very taken with you.”
“I hope I’ve made a good impression. Silas is very friendly.”
This, apparently, was not at all what Mr. Markham wanted to hear. “Silas is dangerous.”
“He seems the very spirit of good humor.”
“I meant dangerous to young women and their virtue.”
“As dangerous as you?” I asked.
His eyes glittered in the dark—more silver than green in the moonlight. “I am much, much more dangerous.” He stepped closer, so that the rustling silk of my gown brushed against his legs. “And now that I’ve felt what it’s like inside you, now that I’ve tasted you,” he said quietly, “I’m hungrier for you now more than
ever.”
Our faces were very close now, and I vividly recalled the warmth of his lips, the soft dancing of his tongue. On impulse, I pressed the palm of my hand against the front of his breeches, feeling the thick hardness underneath.
He sucked in a breath.
I moved my hand up and down, rubbing him through the expensive fabric, and his eyes slowly closed.
“The others called me your pet,” I whispered to him. “Would you like me to be?”
He gently pulled my hand away. “That’s what I’m trying to save you from.”
And then he bowed and walked away, the gravel crunching under his boots as he went.
I didn’t return to the others. Instead—new dress be damned—I left the grounds and entered the forest, luminously lit by the full moon and the glut of stars overhead. I paced and walked and fretted, imagining conversations and kisses, creating scenarios that ended in passionate embraces. It wasn’t until I found myself at the pool where Mr. Markham had so unexpectedly claimed my breasts that I came to a decision, a decision that had been brewing the entire week but that I hadn’t yet articulated to myself.
I wanted Mr. Markham. I wanted him in all the carnal ways that he wanted me, and I didn’t give a damn about the consequences. I had no money and no connections and my claim to the title of gentleman’s daughter was now completely laughable. I would never make a good marriage, if I ever made one at all. Perhaps being a mistress was the best I could hope for. Certainly, being one to Mr. Markham would be no hardship. He was handsome and darkly unpredictable, intelligent and generous with his pleasure. He haunted my thoughts day and night, every hour, every minute, and I thirsted for his company like a forest for rain. I was obsessed, I knew, obsessed in a way that spoke almost more of love than of lust.
Mr. Markham had told me that he was a man of needs. But wasn’t I also a woman of needs? Roaming wildly, drinking whenever I liked, swimming and running and reading late into the night? For the last seven years, I’d followed my impulses wherever they led me, and it was too late to stop now.
No, I wanted him and I wanted him tonight. I would find him and tell him, and if he insisted on restraining himself, well, then I would do everything in my power to shatter that restraint.
I picked up my skirts and hurried back to the house. I must have been gone longer than I’d thought because the windows on the ground floor were quite dark, though the upstairs windows held flickering lights, indicating that the guests had retired to their rooms. I entered the house as silently as ghost, not wanting to disturb people preparing for sleep, and crept through the rooms to make my way to the staircase, wondering how I would find Mr. Markham now. I didn’t even know where he kept his rooms, much less if he would be in them at the moment.
But my search ended when I heard the unmistakable sound of kissing coming from the drawing room. I froze, not wanting to be caught, listening to the heavy breaths, the soft noise of lips meeting and parting.
“Oh, Jules. You need to be put out of your misery.” It was Molly O’Flaherty’s voice.
“Please,” a voice groaned. A rough voice. Mr. Markham.
There was more rustling. “Are you sure?” Molly said, her voice teasing. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
I didn’t stay to hear what he said in response. I hurried upstairs as quietly as I could, tears burning in my eyes as I shut the door and climbed fully clothed into bed.
I barely slept. What sleep I managed to steal consisted of vivid dreams of Mr. Markham and Molly together, twining and writhing together, and whenever I awoke from such a vision, a twisting pain in my chest made it impossible to fall back asleep.
My jealousy had been warranted. There was something between Molly and Mr. Markham, not just sex, but a history of sex. Of course, Mr. Markham had been with other women—nothing he or his friends had said would have led me to believe otherwise—but that he could be so physical with me, claim to want me so badly, and then share his body with Molly so soon afterwards—it stung. No, it was worse than stinging, it was a wound, packed with the venom of jealousy and insecurity and doubt.
By dawn, I was out of the house, possessed of a basket of food from Wispel’s kitchen. I was determined not to torment myself by watching Markham and Molly together at the breakfast table, and I was determined not to mope indoors. I walked further afield than I ever had, past the boundaries of Stokeleigh and into the slowly tumbling fields beyond the forest. By noon, I found the exercise had numbed me somewhat, anesthetizing my mind from the memory of Mr. Markham’s rough voice, the way he had begged please.
I had chosen a narrow lane to take back to the house, debating about staying outside for the remainder of the day, when I had to stop to make way for a small phaeton that was passing by. But the phaeton halted and none other than the rector’s wife, the gossiping Mrs. Harold, held the reins. It seemed precisely my luck.
“Oh my, Miss Leavold! How can you be out and about in all this heat?”
I searched for a diplomatic answer, fumbling, my interior pain making normal discourse all but impossible. “I find walking to be quite enjoyable.”
