Page 23 of The Education of Ivy Leavold
His arms were so strong around me, his voice so rough and husky, and I knew if I looked at his face, I would see those lightly scruffed cheeks and those piercing green eyes. My body and soul longed to submit to him, to be subsumed by this male, this force of nature that could light my skin on fire with a single touch. But my mind—my mind remained crouched and wary, prey darting around a trap. And that’s why I could tell him, “I’ll only stay if I know I will be safe.”
“Safe,” he repeated. “Safe.” I expected his hold on me to loosen, for him to either be offended or suspicious or even angry, but instead, he held me closer, one hand deftly pulling up my skirts. “What does that really mean, wildcat? Safe from me? Or safe from your own fears?”
I’d dressed so hastily that I hadn’t bothered with drawers and so his fingers found my cunt easily.
“You’re wet,” he remarked, lifting his head from my neck to speak into my ear. “Tell me, are you wet because you feelsafewith me right now? When you make yourself come in my bed, are you thinking about howsafeI make you feel?”
God, Iwaswet. And I was growing wetter, my nipples hardening into painful points beneath my dress. His fingers flicked gently across my swelling bud, tracing delicate curves along my sex.
“So what is it, Ivy? What kind of safety do you so desire that you are running away from me?”
I was breathing harder and faster now, arching my hips into his hand. “I don’t want you to hurt me.”
He bit my neck—hard—and I cried out, bucking my pelvis even more as the pain sizzled into a fresh wave of arousal. “I think you like being hurt.”
My mind was slipping away from me, burdened by my undeniable need and my insatiable longing for this man with his hand up my skirt.
But I managed to say it. Bluntly. “I’m afraid you’ll kill me.”
That did make him loosen his grip. “Kill you?” he demanded, seizing me tightly again, his thumb now pressing hard against my clitoris. “You are the most beautiful, the most perfect thing that’s ever happened to me. I would slice my own throat before I hurt you.”
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. Hewouldtell 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.”
