My cunt—still achingly deprived from yesterday—swelled and pulled under the expert ministrations of his fingers. I spread my legs, trying to ride his hand, not caring that we were in the middle of the road to Stokeleigh and that anyone could happen by. “But Violet,” I managed. “You hurt Violet.”
All at once, the hand was gone. I made a noise of protest, but he stepped away, now standing out of reach. I could see his formidable cock tenting his pants, but he ignored whatever discomfort it gave him, his gaze steady against mine.
“Ivy, I am only going to say this once, because the night Violet died, I did something terrible—something so outside of my own character and the character of a gentleman that it gives me pain to recall. And it would give you pain to know, personally and also on behalf of your relation. But I need to say this, and you need to hear it: I did not cut that saddle. I had nothing to do with it, directly or indirectly.”
His defense was so specific, so targeted to that one thing—the saddle—that it did almost nothing to allay my fears. I took a moment to phrase my next question, trying to ignore the pounding pulse of my clitoris as my pussy begged for release. “Did you have anything to do with her death, Julian? Anything at all?”
Julian. As soon as I uttered his name, I saw the chink in his armor, as if it were a weapon he could not resist. He hung his head. “Yes,” he said after a long moment. “I won’t lie to you. I had something to do with it. But I didn’t cut her saddle.”
I exhaled. Part of me wanted to use his honesty as evidence of his innocence—if he was willing to admit that he had played a part in her death, then surely he’d have admitted to cutting the saddle if he’d done it. But the other part of me recognized evasion and equivocation when I saw it; Mr. Markham may not be lying, but he was omitting key details of that night and at the same time, forestalling any future conversation about it.
“I don’t know if that’s good enough,” I told him. “I need to know everything. I need to know exactly how you are guilty.”
He stepped forward again, looking frustrated. He turned away and took a few paces, running his hands through his thick hair. He turned back to me. “How about this: you stay with me here at Markham Hall. You share my bed and my soul and my money and anything else I happen to own. And if I push you too far, if I frighten you beyond what you can bear, then you
are free to leave, with as much money and security as you would need to live sumptuously the rest of your days.”
“I don’t want to live sumptuously. I want to know the truth.”
He shook his head. “You think you do. But once you learn it, there’s no unlearning it. There’s no going back. I can live with you fearing me. But I can’t live with you despising me.”
“If I stay…” The idea was growing easier and easier to consider. “Will I ever get to know the truth?”
He took a deep breath, glancing down at the fog swirling around his feet. “Yes,” he said. There was palpable reluctance in his tone, reluctance and resignation. “After we return from our honeymoon. I want to show you exactly how I will treat you as my own wife, my own soul, before you discover the blackest mark on my record.”
“And I will still be able to leave, if what I learn is too much?”
His jaw tensed, but he nodded. “Yes. You will be free to leave at any point. Whether it is after our honeymoon or thirty years from now.” His eyes softened. “I cannot cage you. I see that now. You may let me leash you and spoil you, use you and please you, but the moment you feel the cage coming down, you will startle and flee. That is your limit, Ivy. And I wish I would have known it sooner.”
I was falling forward into his words, dizzy with the rush of relief and longing that swept through me. He would let me leave at any time. He would tell me the truth, and relatively soon. And finally, I could relent to the keening cry of my heart to be next to him. Because I loved him. Because I was made to be with him. And if I ever had to leave him, it would rend me into pieces.
“Do we have an agreement?”
I didn’t hesitate. I was done running from him.
For now, at least.
“Yes,” I said. “We have an agreement.”
“Perhaps it would be helpful if we arranged a signal between us, something that would alert me to your need to stop or to leave.” He came closer, and he pulled my hands into his. “That way, if the time ever comes, you won’t have to think of what to say and you won’t have to say anything more.”
“Like what kind of signal?”
He let go of my hands and pressed his fingers against my lips. Instinctively I opened my mouth to nip and lick at them, tasting myself as I did so. My body began thrumming desperately for him once more.
“What’s your favorite flower?”
“Bluebells,” I replied, thinking of the way they had bobbed and rustled around Mr. Markham in the meadow yesterday.
He slid a finger into my mouth and I sucked on it eagerly, wishing it were his cock. “Bluebell, then. Remember that, Ivy. When you say that to me, I shall stand aside and let you leave, even as it kills me inside.”
He pressed up against me, grinding his erection into my corseted stomach. “And if I ever push you too far in your education, if I ever make you feel only pain and no pleasure, use that word then as well. When I hear bluebell, I will stop immediately. That is the signal you will use to tell me if I have gone too far and you need to stop. That and no other word, do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Say yes, Ivy.”
“Yes.”
