“Please,” I whispered. “More.”
His eyes were once again shuttered, once again remote. Without another word, he climbed out of the pool and left, the fog swallowing him up before he’d even reached the path.
“Mr. Markham has sent me to request that you dine with him.” Mrs. Brightmore’s voice left no doubt as to how she felt about this, even through the thick wood of my door, and I wondered if the cook was right, if she fancied herself in love and waiting tragically for a man who could never marry her. I wondered if he had ever touched his housekeeper like he had touched me. Certainly not recently, but perhaps when she was younger? She had high cheekbones and thick hair, large eyes and a delicate jawline. It was easy to see where she had once been beautiful, where hard work and loneliness and resentment had eaten away at a fine face. The thought made me surprisingly jealous, even though I knew such things were not uncommon, servants being with masters.
You have no claim on him. You barely know him.
But still.
I started to change into a nicer dress, my stomach somersaulting as I contemplated going downstairs. I’d spent the day in my room, pacing, unable to stop fixating on the memory of Mr. Markham’s dark head at my breast. I could recall every minute detail of the moment: the soft abrasion of the fabric against my skin, the heat of his mouth, the movements of his tongue. And I found that as I thought, my hands drifted to my breasts, trying to recreate the sensations, the tight web of desire forming at the base of my spine once more.
I paused my dressing. I sat on the bed and spread my legs, ignoring the faint voices telling me that such a thing was not done, too shocking for a girl of good birth to even think about. I pulled the gown up to my waist and let my hand drift towards my center. Where was this loudly clamoring need located? That knot of desire? I felt as if I could unravel it, as if I should, because seeing Mr. Markham with it throbbing inside of me would surely compromise my ability to be collected and calm.
My hands found my folds, which were slick, and then I found the small bundle of nerves at the top. This too Violet had told me about, although I’d never tried touching it as she had once gigglingly suggested.
I rubbed experimentally and a jolt of pleasure shot straight through me. I rubbed again, unconsciously pressing against myself, rocking my hips back and forth, wondering what it would look like to see Mr. Markham’s hands down there, stroking and sinking into me—
A knock at the door.
“Miss Leavold?”
I slid off the bed, cheeks flaming. It was Mr. Markham. Thank God he hadn’t let himself in unannounced.
“Yes?” I managed.
“I just wanted to make sure Mrs. Brightmore passed along my express wish that you be in the dining room with me tonight.” His voice left no room for argument. Even if I hadn’t already agreed, I would feel compelled to acquiesce now.
“Yes, of course. I’ll be there in only a minute.”
His footsteps echoed down the hall, and I hurriedly dressed, hoping nothing about my face or behavior would betray what I’d just done.
Dinner was almost entirely silent, save for the clanking and clinking of dishes and silverware. I could think of nothing to say to him that I could say with Gareth waiting on us, and whenever I looked at him to try and find an innocent topic of conversation, my gaze zeroed in on his mouth, sensual and curved as he ate and drank, and on his hands, which I had just imagined doing such wicked things.
“Miss Leavold, will you join me in the library?”
“Yes,” I murmured, feeling Gareth’s eyes on my back as I pushed my chair back and left the dining room.
A warm fire had been lit and so had the heavy chandelier, so the room seemed less shadowed than it had last night.
“Port, Miss Leavold?”
“Yes, please.”
He poured two small glasses and handed mine to me, our fingers touching briefly as he did. A small shudder of delight raced through me. He noticed.
He walked over to the fire, and I arranged myself on a nearby sofa, wondering what safe subject I could broach; I found myself both terrified that he would talk about this morning and terrified that he wouldn’t.
“I am so sorry that I didn’t get to see Violet again. Before she died.” The moment the words left me, I noticed that Mr. Markham’s mouth had parted, as if he were about to speak himself. But at my statement, his lips pressed together again and he gave a nod.
“Yes. Yes, I imagine you are.”
I was reminded of the cook’s suspicious rumblings and I wanted to ask about the screaming and the shattered glass. About the investigation into her death. But even I knew better—even I could see how rude such a line of questioning would be.
His face was turned to the fire. “You are the first good thing to happen in this house since she died. Or since we married.”
I waited for him to continue.
He didn’t.
