“But the thing is that I love that too. I need it. He’s…” I hesitated, but then forged ahead—if there was one woman who wouldn’t be shocked by this, it was Molly. “...he’s done things to me that should frighten me. He’s pinned me down and fucked me, he’s pushed me, he’s chased me, he’s done things to me that I’ve never even known were possible—and I have loved every minute of it. Even the worst thing he’s done, the very worst thing…in my secret moments, it arouses me. Tell me that’s not sick. Tell me I’m not twisted.”
She cocked her head, letting her eyes slide slowly to mine. “You are sick, Ivy Leavold,” she said. “Sick with something that doesn’t have a cure. Of course, most of us don’t want a cure, so there’s that.”
“But how do you live with it? Aren’t you afraid of what you’re capable of? Of what you’ll let someone be capable of doing to you?”
She laughed. “Afraid? No. I promised myself as a child that I would not feel fear as a grown woman, and I have not. But, my dear, you and I are two different breeds of the same species. Do you think that Silas fucks the same way Julian does?”
I knew for a fact that he didn’t, actually. My cheeks warmed, thinking of the three of us that night in York.
“It’s the same with you and me. I quite enjoy the feeling of having power over a man. But I don’t like being dominated and I refuse to feel afraid. You, darling, are the opposite. You want that fear. You want to have someone that you can surrender some part of your life to. Perhaps it’s because you had no one to take care of you growing up, or perhaps it was encoded in your cells from birth. What does it matter?” She shook those perfect copper curls. “You are too smart to want that surrender in all parts of your life; you don’t want to be some meek hausfrau who faints whenever someone mentions the pollination of flowers. You want to have your life and your mind to yourself. But you still need the surrender, don’t you? So what is a woman to do?”
She answered her own question. “You find a man who matches your needs. A man who will cherish you tenderly, who will respect you in all ways, but will insist that somewhere, somehow, in some part of your life, you totally and wholly capitulate to him. And you’ve found him. I’ve never seen a man so besotted as Julian is with you. He wasn’t even this way with Violet. He will give you everything you need.”
“But who am I that needs such things?” Tears choked my voice now, and I wasn’t sure why I was suddenly so upset, but I was and I couldn’t hide it. “I don’t know if I like this woman.”
“You don’t have to like her,” Molly said, standing. “You are her. You keep waiting for some epiphany, but the epiphany is the moment you realize that you don’t need one. Face it: you are this way—whether born or made, it makes no difference. It’s who you were meant to be. Imagine that you finally succeed in alienating Julian. That you never see him or anyone like him ever again. What happens then? You marry some man who cannot even begin to please you, or even know the real you, and you spend the rest of your days desperately unhappy—”
I was already shaking my head. No, no, I would never marry. Not if it wasn’t to Julian.
She continued as if she hadn’t seen my response, “Or you spend the rest of your days alone, also unhappy, and for what? For who? Who will be so rewarded by your denying yourself that it could make such an existence worthwhile? You will not be, because you will only be half a self, a husk. Society will not care—if you married Jules, that would be good enough for them. You think that by nursing these doubts that you are some kind of saint? What does God care about how you like to be fucked? David lay with Jonathan, Solomon had concubines upon concubines, think of Hagar, Rahab and Tamar, and yet all of these people contributed to ultimate action of God’s will. False holiness will get you nowhere in life. But living it with those you love, following your heart—that is how you become the sel
f you want to be. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run and a board to punish. Have a pleasant afternoon.”
The day was chilly and wet, and a low layer of fog hung over the Serpentine. I leaned across the bridge, thinking a thousand thoughts—mostly having to do with Ivy naked—and so I didn’t see my summoner until she was next to me.
“Mr. Markham,” she said curtly.
I could barely hide my surprise. It was my housekeeper. My housekeeper of all people.
“Brightmore, what the hell are you doing in London?” And not at my fucking house doing your job? I pressed down this last thought. It was the kind of thing that my father would have said, and I usually tried my best to be as different from him as humanly possible.
“First of all,” she said, “have you been followed?”
“I don’t believe so.” I cast a glance around me, frowning. “And why does it matter? Brightmore, this is really most irregular—”
“I know it is,” she interrupted. “Which is why I’ll be as brief as possible. But I couldn’t wait any longer to speak with you about this, especially if you bring another bride home.”
God, I hope I did.
“See, I realized—” Her voice stopped.
“Mrs. Brightmore,” Gareth said from behind me. “Mr. Markham. Hello.”
I ignored him and gestured for her to keep going. But she pressed her mouth shut.
“Sir, Mr. Cecil-Coke is looking for you,” Gareth said. “He is ready to visit Miss Leavold.”
“Of course.” I looked at Brightmore. “Would you like to finish?”
She shook her head brusquely. “We can discuss the household accounts later, Mr. Markham. And I will continue with my shopping for new upholstery.”
Household accounts? Upholstery? But then she gave me a sharp look and Gareth an even sharper one. Sparks, as if from metal grinding on metal, seemed to flash between the two of them, sparks of dislike or even hatred. For whatever reason, she didn’t want him to know she was here. And while I disapproved—of her sudden presence here in London, of her need for secrecy, of the ever-brewing animosity between my valet and my housekeeper, I also trusted her. She’d been loyal and discreet the entire time she’d worked for me. I had no reason to doubt her now.
I gave her the slightest of nods. Brightmore turned on her heel and left, her solid footsteps reverberating throughout the bridge.
“Most unusual for Mrs. Brightmore to be here in London,” Gareth remarked casually as we walked back to the hotel.
I kept my voice authoritative as I lied. “I asked her to come down to London to examine new fabrics for Markham Hall. If I do indeed bring Miss Leavold back home, I want her to be living among nothing but the best.”
