“Why?” I asked, my voice dangerously high-pitched.
He lowered his lips to my mouth. “Because when you’re coming later tonight, screaming so loudly all of York will be able to hear, it will be worth it. Now hold out your leg.”
I did. He expertly slid one stocking up my leg, then the other, making sure to brush the back of his hand against my center as he did. Then came the chemise and the corset: each nipple rolled and plucked into tight furls before he imprisoned them inside. He skipped the drawers and two of the petticoats, which would leave only a single layer in between my legs and the silk of my skirt.
“People will be able to see the outline of my legs,” I protested.
“Good,” he said.
He expertly slid the dress over my head and shoulders and began tying back the skirt. When he finished, he stepped back to examine me with a critical eye.
“You’re stunning,” he said. “Simply stunning.” He moved forward and pressed his lips to my neck, to my collarbone, pressing his thigh against my pelvis and making me moan. I could feel his hardness pressing into my hip, and it made me feel slightly better about my aching pussy. He was aching too, and that was some comfort.
“I’m going to have Gareth bring the carriage around,” he said against my jaw. “Be ready when I call for you. I have a feeling I’m going to need you to suck me off at least once on the ride there.”
At least, it had been some comfort.
He stepped out the door, then turned. “And pet?”
“Yes?”
“I will know if you’ve touched yourself. Don’t.”
I closed my eyes with frustration, but I nodded after a minute.
Fine. Fine.
I stomped around my room for a couple moments after he left, gathering up some odds and ends for our sudden trip—hair combs, a spare set of gloves, a small copy of Rob Roy that I’d been reading at night. I could barely process that we were going to York—everything was a faded blur next to my need to be satisfied. I yanked my purse off the vanity, swearing under my breath when I knocked the hair comb and brush onto the floor.
It was when I knelt to retrieve them that I saw it—a jagged scratch in the silk wallpaper that extended from beyond the vanity by about an inch. It was thin and barely noticeable unless you were close to the wall, as I was now. I squinted at it, curious. It was not only thin, but straight—not the crack of plaster settling, not the accidental gouge from moving furniture. I gave the vanity an experimental tug and succeeded in pulling it away from the wall enough to see how the scratch extended into a series of scratches, long and connected. It was a word. No—two words.
Help me.
I stepped back, my heart thudding no longer from lust but from fear. Help me.
Who had written this? And why? And when?
“She did it, you know. Not long before she died.”
I started, adrenaline sluicing through me, turning to see Brightmore framed in the doorway like a malevolent ghost, as if summoned by my silent questions.
“Mrs. Brightmore, you frightened me—”
“She slept in here most nights,” Brightmore continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Like she was afraid of the master. I caught her carving this into the wall with her letter opener one night.” Her nostrils flared. “Awful trash. How dare she touch this house? She wasn’t even fit to step foot in it.”
I had come to terms with Violet’s unpopularity—felt the same way about her myself—but Brightmore’s naked hatred and jealousy of my relative irked me. But I wanted answers more than I
wanted to defend Violet at that moment, so I swallowed my anger and asked, “Do you know why she would carve something like that?”
“She was deranged,” the housekeeper said coldly. “How should I know why a madwoman does what she does?”
“She wasn’t mad,” I said, more to myself than to Brightmore. Violet had been many things—tempestuous and difficult and loose even—but not insane.
“She couldn’t face Mr. Markham,” Brightmore said abruptly, taking a step toward me. “She couldn’t accept him. She couldn’t understand him. And I cleaned up his messes as I always do.” She was very close to me now; my neck prickled. “I have to take care of him, because no one else truly can.”
I hated the idea that she and Mr. Markham had any sort of relationship at all. I resolved to ask him about it later. But it was the subtext of her words that disturbed me. I kept my voice collected. “What did you do?”
She narrowed her eyes at me. And then she made a noise between a hiss and a scoff, a noise that said you are not worthy to know. “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re asking. But I told the master how to handle a wayward wife. And he did.”
