“Is this a tear of joy?” he asked quietly.
“It is,” I said, more tears falling fast now. “I love you.”
“And I love you.” He reached for something in his jacket pocket and extracted it. It glittered in the faint light of the carriage.
A ring.
“I was so eager to claim you last night that I forgot the most important thing.” He slid the ring onto my finger. “There. Now everybody will know that you’re mine.”
I examined the ring closely, feeling more tears swell as I did. A rose gold band sprouted into two delicate leaves, which held a sizable diamond in place. It winked and shimmered and added a heady weight to my hand. “It’s beautiful,” I managed.
He looked at me closely. “It was my mother’s. Do you like it? We can buy you a new one—”
“No,” I interrupted. “It’s perfect.” And it was. It could have been a band of iron and I still would have loved it, because it came from him. Because someone loved me enough to marry me, despite my poverty, despite my fallen family. After my brother’s death, I had given up all hope of ever making a decent match. And here I was, marrying into a family more wealthy and ancient than even my parents would have ever hoped for me.
“Good,” he said. “You need to like it. I expect it on your finger at all times—especially when we are in public.” He moved again, and I was reminded of our position, of him sunk to the hilt, of me desperate for more. I rocked into him, the engagement ring sending prisms of light cascading around us, yellows and blues and greens darting around our moving bodies.
“Let’s marry now,” I said. “Today.” My voice was tight—I was so close to coming—
He lifted me off himself, groaning as he did, and then I was put on my knees. “Believe me, wildcat, I would like nothing more. But you deserve the best. And the best takes time.” He wove his hands through my hair. “Now lick me until I come.”
He didn’t let me orgasm during our ride, but I was able to bear it better, knowing that this exercise between us was something deeper than the parlor games his friends played. I felt it in my marrow, our connection, as we jostled and rolled our way to York, and I knew that I would never see my hunger for him in the same way. This all-consuming passion we felt for each other was almost spiritual, almost holy, and it went far beyond the mechanical needs and rote fumblings of other men and women. Over and over again, he told me how much he loved me, how much his mind craved my mind, how he loved to hear me talk and how he loved to watch me roam outside like a forest sprite. He made me spread my legs and knelt before me, kissing me with fluttering, light kisses until I squirmed in torture, and told me he couldn’t live without me, that we would never spend a night apart so long as we both lived.
I was panting and flushed as the medieval buildings of York began to cut crepuscular shadows through the windows, and by the time we reached our hotel, I was grateful for the oncoming night, which hid my tousled hair and shallow breathing.
The porter brought in our trunks while Mr. Markham arranged for our rooms and for a girl to attend to me, which I protested, but he insisted. “My future wife would have a lady’s maid. And truthfully, I should have seen to it the moment you arrived at Markham Hall. I’m not used to thinking about other people’s needs. But I will take special care to tend to yours.”
And then he flashed a grin, wide and wolfish, and I realized he was very much referencing the need that raged low in my belly.
I put my hand on his arm, feeling shaky and desperate. “How long until we are in our rooms?” I asked. “I can’t be in public like this.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because—” My voice was carelessly loud and the porter glanced over at me. “Because,” I said again, much lower, “all I can think about is coming. And I’m beginning not to care how or where that happens. I could right now, do you understand? Right here in this hotel lobby.”
He smiled again, but this time he bit his lip in a way that made even more heat surge within me, like he was trying to stop himself from taking me right there and then.
“Julian?”
I turned, seeing a tall man with a striking face and even more striking blue eyes. Carved cheekbones, curved lips, smile lines etched around his eyes and mouth. He’d cut his dark hair short in the week since I’d seen him and he was in expensive evening wear rather than the more casual clothes I’d seen on him before, but I’d still recognize Silas Cecil-Coke anywhere.
“Silas,” Mr. Markham said, extending a hand, stepping out of our intense exchange as smoothly as a person steps from a hansom cab. Silas ignored the proffered hand and gave Mr. Markham a back-clapping hug instead. I saw Mr. Markham tense a little—he was not the kind of personality that invited such brotherly embraces—but his expression was easy enough as the man pulled back. “I thought you were in London with the others.”
Silas gave a one-shouldered shrug. “My elder brother managed to produce another one of those squishy pink things to add to the pile already at Coke Manor. I came up to give a day of the requisite oohs and ahs to the latest usurper standing between me and the bulk of my inheritance.” And then the inevitable grin emerged, bright and sunny. “Damned cute usurper, if I may say so. A little man this time. They named him Silas, after me.” I could tell, despite his deprecation, that he was actually quite the adoring uncle.
“But enough about me. What are you doing in York, you devil? We couldn’t pry you out of Markham Hall last week and now here you are gallivanting about town without us.”
Mr. Markham took my hand. The gesture wasn’t about power or teaching or anything other than the simple desire to show someone close to him that we were linked, together. “I’ve made an offer of marriage to Ivy and she’s accepted. We’ve come to make some further arrangements.”
Silas turned toward me, and I knew the signs of our ride here were as apparent as if they’d been written on my face. My rumpled hair and clothes, my parted and swollen lips, my dilated pupils. I was almost frantic with the need to relieve the hours of pent-up tension, and my mind was beginning to stray to shameful places, and I couldn’t help myself from taking in Silas’s physique—more slender than Mr. Markham’s, but still robust enough in the shoulders and arms to suggest an active lifestyle—and then to imagine him fucking me. Him and Mr. Markham fucking me at the same time.
Oh God. I had to get upstairs.
Silas took my hand and brushed his lips against the back of my hand, and even this small amount of contact was enough to make my eyes flutter closed. His grip tightened on my fingers. “Miss
Leavold,” he said, his voice sonorous and smooth. “Let me offer my congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I said, barely able to utter the words. My mind was slowly shutting down, it seemed, shedding one layer of civilization and etiquette after another.
