Molly looked at me in that half-quizzical, half-razored way of hers. “We will be back after our stay in London, I’m sure,” she said. “It is so strange that Julian should stay home. Normally, he would never miss a chance to escape this place. I must conclude that it has something to do with you.”
“Mr. Markham makes his own decisions for his own reasons,” I said.
“Oh my dear,” Molly said. “You are so bad at hiding your feelings. Don’t be ashamed—I doubt you’ve had practice with it. I can see in your eyes that you want him and that he wants you. It will only be a matter of time now. But don’t forget what I told you—Julian Markham will make you his world, but only for a time. Are you strong enough to bear that kind of disappointment?”
“You know nothing of my strength,” I said, unexpectedly irritated. “And beyond that, it’s none of your business.”
She cocked her head at me. “I’m not your enemy, Ivy. You are young and not used to the games of grown men. I only want to help.”
It was difficult for me to take her at her word when I could still hear the sounds of her and Mr. Markham together. “Then I should thank you for your consideration and courtesy.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “There’s no need to be so cold.”
Mr. Markham came over then, having supervised the loading of the trunks and hatboxes. “Miss O’Flaherty,” he said, inclining his head.
“Julian.” She raised her hand and he kissed it quickly and then dropped it.
“Safe journey,” he said and then placed a hand at the small of my back to guide me back to the door.
“See you soon,” Molly called as she climbed into the carriage. Mr. Markham didn’t answer, but I knew that he’d heard.
She gave me a smile through the carriage window as it rolled away, a smile both menacing and pretty at the same time, and I knew that whatever was between us would never be friendship. She had her own agenda, her own desires, and she was far more experienced than me at seeing her desires flower into fruit.
The last carriage creaked down the drive, and then it was only Mr. Markham and me. He gave me a look, long and intense, and he opened his mouth to speak, but then he turned back to the house and went inside. I remained in the courtyard, watching the trees blow in the summer wind, thinking of marble angels and Molly O’Flaherty.
That night, it was only Mr. Markham and myself for dinner. We sat with the table between us—an expanse of wood that felt painfully large, with silver tureens and carafes and tiered trays making it impossible to see one another, and hovering servants that made it awkward to converse. When it was time
to adjourn to the parlor, I felt a heavy sense of relief. I wanted him alone, with nothing between us.
When he walked into the parlor, turning to shut the door quietly behind him, I came forward from the fireplace where I’d been standing.
“Ivy,” he said, and the way he said my name was beautiful. It was music in an opera hall, rain on a lake, the first glorious birdsongs of early spring.
“Julian,” I whispered.
Something thawed in his face, some darkness parted, and his eyes shone. “I like hearing that word from your lips.”
“I like saying it. Very much.” I came closer. “Why did you stay?”
“For you.”
A nervous sort of joy flipped in my stomach.
Now it was he who took a step closer. “I stayed for you, Ivy. I stayed because I wanted you all to myself. The others were right, I’m hoarding you, but I can’t help it. I want your time and your conversation and your company. And your—” here his voice caught.
“…And my body,” I finished for him.
“Yes. And that.”
“I am glad you didn’t go,” I whispered. But I couldn’t bear it any longer. “What happened between you and Molly O’Flaherty?”
“History,” he answered after a moment. “Ancient history.”
“But…”
Understanding kindled in his eyes. “You heard us. The night we played charades.”
I nodded, my throat stupidly tight.
