And I had to know that at least with her, at least with this poor, gentle, doomed girl, that his love had not ended in violence.
“I knew I’d find you down here.”
I opened my eyes to see Mr. Markham pushing his way through the tall grass of the clearing, bluebells nodding sedately in his wake. His jacket was off and slung over his arm, and his sleeves were rolled up, exposing his lean, defined forearms.
We’d been back at Markham Hall for a couple of days, and this
morning I’d decided to flee the dark corridors and brooding tapestries seeking the bright yellow sun and high blue sky, soaking in the July sights and smells before it inevitably rained. I’d even brought a book with me—Lorna Doone—but couldn’t focus on John and Lorna and Carver’s feuding love triangle. Instead, my thoughts raced from Arabella to Violet to bolts of silk and lace, until the chirruping of crickets and the calls of birds had lulled me into an uneasy peace, and I’d fallen into a warm, grassy doze.
Mr. Markham sat down next to me, his head blocking the sun, and I peered up at him, at the way the bright light framed him and cast his sharp, strong features into shadow. There was nothing about him to suggest violence or pain right now; his face was open and warm and his eyes glowed with affection. Silas’s words had done very little to reassure me, but seeing Mr. Markham like this did. I almost felt as if I could know him, know all of him and therefore trust him completely. And if I could know him, then maybe the ever-present doubts would finally evanesce and allow me to bask fully in my good fortune.
“Did you love Arabella?” I asked. I knew it was abrupt, impolite even, but I didn’t care. I had to stitch together these pieces of his past. I had to know that he wouldn’t grow tired of me, wouldn’t grow to despise me. Wouldn’t hurt me. If he had loved Arabella, as Silas had said, then maybe everything else that Silas had told me was true, and whatever secret Mr. Markham was keeping was something less horrifying than murder.
There was a flash of shock in his face, a quick downturn to his mouth, and for a moment, I thought he would shutter himself away again. But he didn’t. Instead, he rearranged his long frame so that he was lying in between my legs, his head resting on my lower stomach, and he said, after getting comfortable, “Yes. Yes, I loved her.”
“Silas said you did.”
“Silas. Of course.” He adjusted his head, putting pressure on my pelvis, and I was acutely aware of the fabric that separated his mouth from my sex. He kept talking, stroking my leg through my dress. “We knew each other a long time before we married, and we wrote frequently. When the family solicitors told me that it was time to settle down and ensure that Markham Hall had an heir, it never occurred to me not to marry the girl my father had intended. She was kind and intelligent and pretty, in a frail sort of way. I had always enjoyed her company. And yes, in those short weeks, I grew to love her.”
“I’d heard it implied that you took her to Italy to intentionally exacerbate her illness.”
I didn’t need to see him to know that his jaw was clenching, that those stubbled cheeks were tensing with anger. “If they could have seen her—so lovely even as she could barely lift her head to speak—they wouldn’t say such things. She was a saint; I could no more have harmed her than I could’ve harmed a child. We went to Italy because we had initially decided to honeymoon in Switzerland and then the doctors in Geneva thought the warm Mediterranean air would help—to comfort her at least, if not to cure her. And it did seem to help, a little. She was awake and alert, at least, in her final days.”
There was an exhale and then an uneven inhale. “Part of me died the day she died.”
The breeze had stilled and so when he said those words, they hung heavy and laden in the air. It took me a minute to identify the difference between when he talked about Arabella and when he talked about Violet, but then I saw it. It was sadness. There was no guilt or torture or haunted remorse when it came to his first wife, only the memory of young love and keen loss.
I twined my fingers in his hair. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “You deserved a happy and full life together.”
“And you deserved living parents and a competent brother to take care of you.” He turned so that he was almost prone in between my legs, his face cradled in the crease where my thigh met my hip. He peered up at me, looking so young and so vulnerable like this, and I felt my heart twist. I loved his strength and his weakness, his command of me and his dependence on me.
I loved him. I loved him to the point of the damnation of my soul.
And I was afraid of him.
“Why are you asking me about Arabella?” he asked, and he resumed stroking my legs, this time under my dress.
How could I tell him about my vast array of insecurities and fears? How could I confess that I was afraid that he would grow bored of me? That he might betray me, abandon me, or kill me? No. It was too ridiculous to voice out loud, as was the feeling that if I could claim his past, I could somehow claim a safe future for us.
We met gazes and his face grew serious. “Answer me, Ivy.”
“I just wanted to know more about Arabella,” I evaded. “You’ve talked of Violet, but never of her…”
A calloused hand was sliding up my thigh now. “It was fifteen years ago. I loved her, but memories fade with time, and I’ve had years to grow accustomed to the idea of her death.” My skirts were pulled up unceremoniously, exposing the thin drawers I wore. “And, Ivy, you are lying to me.”
“I—I am not lying—”
A loud smack reverberated through the meadow and I processed the noise before I processed the heat flaming on my flank. I gasped and looked at him. His dark brows had drawn together and his eyes were stern.
“Lie again and I’m taking you over my knee. Do you understand?”
I nodded, feeling the burn of his smack turn into molten sensation. For some reason, the idea of being taken over his knee seemed almost appealing.
My drawers were pulled off, and then my legs spread so that I was bare and open to his grim and determined face. Without warning, he jabbed two fingers inside of me, rough and probing, pinning my hips to the ground with his other hand. I writhed against the sudden invasion; I wasn’t ready for it and I wasn’t ready to answer his questions, no matter what methods he used to leverage the answers out of me.
“Why. Did. You. Ask,” he said, punctuating each word with a thrust of his fingers.
I cried out, trying to squirm, but I didn’t know if I was squirming away from him or toward him, because the rough pain had turned oh so quickly into pleasure and suddenly I didn’t want him to stop, not ever.
