Читать книгу Unclaimed - Courtney Milan - Страница 12

JESSICA HAD NOT considered what it meant, that Sir Mark was returning to his childhood home for the summer. She’d lived in—or near enough to— London for the past seven years of her life. Her protectors had taken her along on their excursions to the country. But improper as her role had been, they would never have introduced her to the neighbors. She’d imagined the country as a smaller, more private version of the city—just with fewer people and no operas. So quickly had she forgotten her childhood.

In a way, she did have more privacy. Jessica had found a cottage on the outskirts of town, half a mile past the point where cobblestones gave way to dirt and houses to fields. She sometimes went hours without seeing a soul besides the maid-of-all-work she’d brought with her from London.

But for precisely that same reason, she was unlikely to meet Sir Mark ambling down the country lane that led to her abode.

And that meant there was only one place she could go, knowing for certain he would attend: church. Early on a summer morning, the stone walls were still cool. But the bodies packed inside made the interior warmer than she’d expected. There was a hierarchy to the rows, no less. The wealthiest families sat up front in reserved pews; the simple folk stood in the back.

The people of Shepton Mallet had not yet worked out where Jessica belonged. She had enough money to let a house and bring a servant with her. But she’d answered no questions about her family or her origins—a sure sign of dubious morality on her part. On top of that, she was beautiful, and beautiful women were not to be trusted.

In London, nobody trusted anyone, and so the mistrust never bothered her. Here, she had taken a place halfway toward the rear of the church.

Sir Mark, of course, sat in the first row, the entire congregation as interested in him as they were in the rector leading service.

Jessica had tried to make his acquaintance before service began, but half the town had the same idea. The other half—having already met him—had been equally determined to keep him from Mrs. Farleigh of the unknown origins. Still, she couldn’t regret her dubious reputation. She wanted to seduce him, after all, not inveigle him into offering marriage. She needed to be the kind of woman whom a man like him wouldn’t marry. It all made a kind of frustrating sense…but she’d not yet made his acquaintance.

His attention had not strayed from the rector through the entire service. But as Lewis wound into his inevitable conclusion, Sir Mark turned in his seat. It was not idle inattention that turned his head. He looked straight at her. As if he’d known where she sat. As if he had realized that she was watching him.

Their eyes met. She didn’t duck her head or avert her gaze—any of the things that a shy, retiring lady might have done. Instead she met his eyes calmly.

His gaze dipped.

For a second, she regretted the unfortunate habit that had led her to wear a respectable gown to service. All these years, and she still reached for a sober, high-necked gown.

His eyes came up, met hers again—and then, very deliberately, he winked at her.

She had only a moment to stare at him before he turned to the front once more.

What had that meant? What had he intended? Her stomach knotted, for all the world as if she were a young girl, wanting to misconstrue every last glance given her by the boy she fancied. But this was no girlish desire that caught her breath. It was her livelihood, her survival, her very future that flashed by her in the wink of his eye. It had to mean something.

Her questions echoed, even after the congregation rose and began to disperse. Sir Mark was surrounded the instant he got to his feet; by the time he’d made his way to the rear of the chapel, he was bethronged.

Jessica waited by the iron fence that surrounded the churchyard. She was not going to him. She would not be one of a score of girls begging for his attention, surrounding him in a positive frenzy of innocence. Still, she almost wished that she could have been one of them—that she could have looked at him and seen bright hope.

Instead, she had nothing but stone-cold calculation. She abhorred trickery. She disliked the idea of deceit. But she was long past the careful weighing of morality. She’d given up that part of her long ago. And if he didn’t come to her before her remaining funds ran out, she’d have to resort to a stratagem of some kind.

He caught sight of her and held up one hand. The babble of voices cut off around him, as if it were a conjurer’s trick.

“Wait here,” he said, and the multitude assembled about him—a motley collection of elderly matrons, young men and hopeful, unmarried ladies—all held their collective breath. He walked toward her across the yard. A few gravestones stood between them; the grass was bright green, the sun too hot. His hair seemed almost too blond, too gold, and it sparkled like a king’s treasure hoard.

He stopped a few feet before her. “I did ask for a proper introduction,” he said, his voice quiet enough not to be overheard by his waiting audience, “but oddly—nobody was willing to perform it.”

“That,” Jessica said, “is because I am a very, very wicked woman.” She took a step closer and held out her gloved hand to him, steeling herself for his touch. “Mrs. Jessica Farleigh, official town disgrace. At your service.”

He didn’t bow over her fingers, as any other gentleman would have done. But neither did he falter at this introduction. Instead, he clasped her hand in his and shook it—as if they’d entered into a secret compact together. Even through her glove, she could feel the press of his ring against her flesh. What she needed was so close…

“Sir Mark Turner,” he said. “I speak with the tongues of a thousand angels. Butterflies follow me wherever I go. Birds sing when I take a breath.”

He relinquished her hand as easily as he’d taken it. She could feel the phantom pressure of his grip against her palm, strong and steady. She stared at him, unsure how to respond to that introduction. If Sir Mark had actually been mad, surely the matter would have been broached in the London papers.

“That must be rather disconcerting,” she finally said. “You appear to have lost your butterflies.”

A light danced in his eyes. “I propose we come to an understanding. I won’t accept the gossip about you on its face, so long as you don’t believe everything that’s said about me.”

“Sir Mark!” The call came from behind him, and one of his braver admirers ventured forth. No doubt they judged that he’d spent too long in her tarnishing company already. They wouldn’t want the town’s golden child tainted, after all.

Jessica had only a few moments of this comparative privacy left with him. “You are not what I expected to find, after reading the London papers.”

“You’ve read that? Forget it all. I implore you.”

She turned her head slightly and gave him her most captivating smile. As she did, she could see it captivate him. He was better at hiding his reaction than most men, but his mouth curled up just a little more. He stood just a little straighter. And his body canted toward hers ever so slightly. He was attracted to her—very much so. He was caught.

And she had only to reel him in. He’d been so easy after all.

But the crowd was bearing down on him. It wasn’t as if she could consummate his downfall in the churchyard anyway.

“You mean,” she said, “that you’re not a saint? Sir Mark, your public will be shocked.”

His eyes met hers once more.

“No,” he said quietly. “Don’t canonize me. I’m a man, Mrs. Farleigh. Just a man.”

He turned from her, just as a lady in purple bombazine reached to tap his elbow. Jessica did not miss the venomous gaze that the elderly woman shot her way. Once again, Sir Mark walked in the throng. The women parted to let him through—and closed about him afterward.

I’m just a man.

If Jessica knew anything, she knew men. She knew what men wanted, and she knew how to give it to them. And if the remnants of her conscience pricked at the thought of what she must do… Well. She wouldn’t force him to do anything.

She wouldn’t have to.

No; as with all men, she only needed to imply she was available. Sir Mark would be a willing participant in the destruction of his own reputation.

She was only going to need one little stratagem, after all, to hurry him along.

MARK’S FIRST WEEK in Shepton Mallet was taken up in thought.

Ever since he’d been discreetly approached about filling an upcoming vacancy on the Poor Law Commission, he’d been in turmoil. On the one hand, the Commission, responsible for overseeing the workhouses, was universally hated. He’d been approached simply because they’d hoped his popularity would quell the public outrage about recent mishandlings. Mark suspected that, quite to the contrary, the appointment would merely sink him in the eyes of the public.

After all, the whole present policy of poor relief was an utter mess. Mark might make a real difference in the lives of unfortunates if he threw all his energy into the project—and if he’d been granted popularity by a capricious fate, surely he had the responsibility to use it for good. On the other hand, the entire theory behind the system of workhouses seemed fundamentally flawed to Mark. He wasn’t sure if it could be fixed.

He’d expressed these rational concerns to the poor undersecretary who’d paid him a private visit. But there was yet another side that he’d not mentioned, and it was one that echoed most strongly here in Shepton Mallet, between the walls of his childhood home. He’d grown up here. His brother had nearly died here. And all because his mother had gone mad.

Dedicating her life to serving the poor had sounded noble in practice. But she’d taken it to the furthest extreme: giving away the family’s modest competence, until almost nothing was left. Of his three brothers, Mark was the only one who truly understood why she’d done it. It was no comfort that he so easily made sense of the world as seen through the eyes of a madwoman.

Perhaps that was why he’d retreated here after all. He hated the idea of entering politics. Even if he’d wanted to spend his life serving the poor, he’d not have chosen to do so by regulating the day-today administration of workhouses. And yet…

He’d often thought that if he had any work to do on this earth, it was to put his mother’s unquiet legacy to rest. She’d insisted on perfection; Mark had written a practical guide to chastity, that allowed for the merely human. She’d flown into rages at the slightest provocation; he’d worked hard to bring his own temper, never even, under his control. She’d been every righteous impulse, taken to excess. Mark aimed for moderation.

So he hadn’t said no, not yet. Perhaps this was the opportunity he needed to show that he could dedicate his life to the poor while tempering his zeal.

Maybe.

He’d come back here, to his old childhood home, repository of a hundred memories. It had seemed as good a place as any to contemplate the offer. Better; he’d insisted on privacy, and here he’d found it, at least in some small measure.

Today, with rain drumming down on the roof, had been the best day of all.

He’d sent his charwoman home at noon, and the boy who saw to the gardens only came by every other day.

Best of all, with this downpour, the paths were no doubt mud to the ankle. No rational person would come visiting today. Why, Mark might avoid all crowds until the church picnic in two days’ time.

He’d have plenty of time to spend in contemplation.

But just as he’d settled down in a chair with one of his mother’s old journals, a knock sounded on the door. Mark bit back a groan.

He should have realized. When it came to him, nobody was rational.

For a moment, he stared fixedly at the fire in front of him and considered ignoring the summons. It could be the rector—no doubt with his poor bedraggled daughter in tow.

Unbidden, his imagination summoned up another possibility: it might be Mrs. Jessica Farleigh, damp and spangled all over with raindrops. She would be lost, wet and in need of—but no. That sort of ridiculous schoolboy fancy made better entertainment in the dead of night, when he could more appropriately deal with the lust it would engender.

It was probably his charwoman, Mrs. Ashton, come to check on him. No doubt she’d taken one look at the rain when it started, donned oilskins and galoshes and trudged the three miles back to his home, just to make sure he was comfortable. She meant well.

They all did.

With a sigh, he rose to get the door. Truly, it was almost certain to be plain, plump Mrs. Ashton, perhaps with a crock of butter and a loaf of freshly baked bread carefully wrapped in oiled paper. No other rational possibility existed. He threw the door open.

And stopped in stupefaction. It was the schoolboy fancy after all. Mrs. Jessica Farleigh stood on his stoop. Whatever gown she’d been wearing had been soaked through by the torrential downpour until it clung to her form in a sodden, limp mass. His hands curled appreciatively, as if to cup the heavy spheres of her breasts and wipe those drops of water away. The dark half circles of her aureoles were visible through translucent muslin; the nub of her nipple itself was occluded—barely—by a corset.

She might as well not have been wearing a gown at all. He could make out individual stitches, pale green vines, on her undergarments. He could see every seam of her stays, molded to her frame. And when his eyes dropped farther—he was only human—he caught a glimpse of petticoats plastered to hips that might cradle a man’s body.

Schoolboy fancy? No. She was a grown man’s desire. Ravishing. Too convenient. And therefore, entirely untrustworthy.

Slowly, deliberately, Mark raised his eyes to her face. Yes, he commanded his unruly wants, to her face, nothing else.

It didn’t help. A drop of water rolled to the tip of her patrician nose, and he had a sudden desire to reach out and wipe it away. Instead, it hung, suspended in midair, in defiance of all the laws of nature.

Well. She wasn’t the only one who could defy nature. Glass bricks. He reached for them, building that wall. Behind it, he’d feel no desire. No want. No urge to step forward and lick the beads of rain from her lips.

“Sir Mark.” Her voice was clear and gentle, like a caress. “I am so dreadfully ashamed to impose upon you, but as you can no doubt see, circumstances have made it necessary.” She held her drenched bonnet in one hand.

He looked into her eyes. They were so dark he could not make out their expression, not in the dim light that filtered through the rain clouds. She spoke that lie without flinching, without even looking away.

“You see,” she continued, “I was walking, not paying attention to the time or the weather—”

“Without shawl or cloak or umbrella.” His own voice sounded curiously flat to his ears, as stale as water left to sit in a bucket for too long. “Even before the rain began, it was dismally cloudy this morning, Mrs. Farleigh.”

“Oh, I should have had the forethought to bring at least a wrap.” She let out a too-bright laugh. “But I was thinking of other things.”

Her hair was wet. It should have been stringy and unkempt. It should have been flat and colorless, nothing but unrelieved black. Instead, several strands had fallen out of the knot she kept it in. When wet, it curled—just enough to wrap about a man’s finger.

It was easy to set aside his arousal, after all. He was actually rather disappointed.

Mrs. Farleigh made herself sound quite stupid—as if she were the sort of forgetful female who regularly traipsed about outdoors in the wet. Some men of Mark’s acquaintance might have believed the act. After all, they believed all women were stupid.

Not Mark. And most definitely not this woman. If he had to guess, he would have said that she chose every item of apparel with the same care a clockmaker employed when selecting springs.

He let out a sigh. “Mrs. Farleigh, if you were that idiotic, you would have perished years before now. As you are quite robust, I’m afraid I must call your story what it is—a fabrication.”

She blinked up at him, iridescent beads of water clinging to impossibly long lashes. Her brow furrowed in disbelief.

“You see? I am by no means as kind or generous as rumor has it. If I had been, I would never have called you a liar.”

Her eyelashes flickered down. She clasped her hands behind her back. “Very well. I admit. I was curious about you. Given my reputation—and yours—I knew we would never have a chance to hold a conversation of any length.”

He would have found a way. He’d already been thinking about it—about her clever retorts, about that curious contradiction between her dress and her manner. About her smile, wise and sad and wary all at once. He’d have insisted on conversing with her. But this little escapade left him with nothing but the bitter tang of copper in his mouth. No doubt she’d imagined that she had only to present herself in all of her dripping glory, and his intelligence would dry up and dissipate into nothingness.

“If all you wished was conversation,” he said dryly, “you could have worn a cloak.” He glanced upward. “You didn’t even need to wait for rain.”

She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide, her chest expanding on another breath. He hadn’t wanted an introduction to a polished seductress. He’d wanted to know about the other part of her, the side she didn’t present to the world. He wanted to know the woman who whispered clever set-downs to the rector when she thought nobody else listened.

And that, perhaps, was Mark’s own personal fancy, exerting a more powerful pull on him than all her wet curves. He’d wanted someone to see him. To see past his reputation.

“Mrs. Farleigh, you seem a woman of some experience.”

She licked her lips and gave him a brilliant, encouraging smile.

Mark did not feel encouraged. “Do you know what the difference is between a male virgin and the Elgin Marbles?”

That smile faded into confusion. “Oh, I could not say.” She peered at him in manufactured befuddlement. “They seem quite similar to me—are they not both very hard?” Her tone seemed innocent; her words were anything but.

He shook his head. “More people come to look at the virgin.”

Her eyebrows drew down, and she studied him quizzically. Come, now. If she’d been curious for any sort of knowledge of him, except the Biblical sort, that should have at least garnered a request for explanation. Instead, she licked her lips again.

He tried another joke. “What do you suppose sets a male virgin apart from a pile of rocks?”

“Both seem hard again.”

“The rocks,” he replied, “are more numerous. And more intelligent.”

Laugh at me, he wanted to tell her. See me—not some obstacle to overcome.

“Oh, no,” she exclaimed. “That can’t be, as you’re so clever.”

Maybe he had imagined that quick wit. He was wont to do so, he knew. He wanted it too badly. He wanted to be seen not as flawless, but as himself, faults and all.

“Very well, Mrs. Farleigh,” he said. “You prevail. You went out for a stroll in stormy weather, risking health in defiance of all good sense, just to have a look at me. You did so on a Tuesday afternoon, when the lad who weeds my vegetables is off. And so here we are, completely alone.” Mark shook his head. “I cannot in good conscience send you on your way. It’s miles back to the village. You are no doubt cold, and I have a fire lit inside. No matter your reasons, you don’t deserve to risk your health.”

“Thank you, sir. Your hospitality is appreciated.”

Not by him, it wasn’t. This would pose even more of a delicate challenge than he’d feared. His was a bachelor household, and she was soaked to the skin. She would need to remove everything and dry her wet things by the fire before he could toss her outdoors again. He could hardly hand her a pair of his trousers while she waited.

He turned and strode down the hallway, thinking. He could hear her follow, her footsteps soft and squelching. A small fire crackled in the parlor where he led her. She turned about, around and around again, taking in the surroundings.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

“I’ll be back shortly.” He watched her face. “With some towels and a dressing gown, so you can dry yourself.”

Her face did not change. It was unnatural, that lack of response. It seemed as if she were not entirely present. What exactly did she intend? Once was her landing on his doorstep, wet and bedraggled. Twice was her lying about her intentions. Third time…now, that would be the way to find out what she truly intended.

“Two minutes,” he told her. “I’ll return in two minutes. And I am the only one in the household. It will have to be me who returns. Do we understand each other, Mrs. Farleigh?”

She nodded.

Mark left. He desperately wanted to be wrong about her. It was stupid of him—he knew nothing of her except the gossip in the village and the cut of her gown. But he so wanted to believe there was more.

Here was his grown man’s fantasy: he wanted to come back and find her fully clothed. He wanted to engage her in conversation without anyone watching with assessing eyes. He wanted, in short, to like her. He’d been inclined to do so from the start. In the market, he’d been led away from her before they’d had a chance to exchange greetings. In the churchyard, they had only talked for a minute.

He’d been curious about her ever since he’d seen that flinch. Like a callow youth, he’d enlarged upon it in his mind. See? There is more to both of us than anyone else will acknowledge.

But of course not. He was nothing more than a challenge to be scaled, a man to be brought down.

He took the towels with a shake of his head and returned, steeling himself against what he would see. He’d left the parlor door open. When he entered again, he was prepared.

And it was just as well. She’d shed her gown and petticoats. She was standing, her back to him, her arms wrapped about herself as she struggled with her corset laces. He could see her ankles, delicate and fine, rising to pale calves underneath a thin, wet layer of linen. His eyes traced the curve of her legs up through the damp cloth of her shift.

She turned. “Oh! Sir Mark! How embarrassing!”

“Spare me.” His tone was flatter than ever.

She flushed. “But—”

He kept his eyes trained on her face. He felt as if he stood at the top of a cliff overlooking a perilous sea. At any instant, he might be assaulted by vertigo if he dared to look down. “Spare me your excuses. Pay me the compliment of understanding. What was it you imagined I would do at this juncture? Am I supposed to be so overcome with lust that I cannot hold myself back?”

“I— That is—” She took a deep breath and started walking toward him.

“Do you think that an eyeful of breast and buttocks will have me so besotted that I will forget all my principles? I’m a virgin, Mrs. Farleigh. Not an innocent. I’ve never been an innocent.”

Her jaw set, and she stopped in front of him. Close enough that he could have grabbed her. That he might simply push her against the chair behind her and warm the cool expanse of her still-wet skin with his hands.

“At this point,” he said scornfully, “I am supposed to be so overwrought with desire that I cannot reason.”

He dropped the towels and the dressing gown in a heap on the floor.

“Sir Mark, forgive my forwardness. I just thought…” She reached out, her fingers stretching for his lapels. Before he could think, he grabbed her hand.

Not lightly. Not kindly. It was a trained grip, one that he and his brother had perfected years ago. No matter how strong a man was, he wouldn’t stand up to a boy who bent his thumb backward. He and his brother had practiced the hold for hours, for days until the fluid motion came automatically in response to a threat.

When she reached for him, he reacted without thinking, stepping to the side. Her hand crumpled in his, and his fingers pressed against the meat of her palm.

And she flinched. Not because he’d hurt her—he hadn’t applied the slightest pressure to the joint of her thumb. But she flinched, just as she had when the rector grabbed her in the market. For no other reason than that he’d touched her.

If he had been the sort to curse, he would have done so now. Because if there was one thing more disappointing than a woman who saw him as a target for seduction, it was this: a woman who tried to seduce him, without even wanting him in the first place. She was standing close to him, and flinch or no, she tilted her head up as if she thought he might kiss her.

“Most men,” he said, through gritted teeth, “would not look a gift horse in the mouth. Not at this juncture.”

“And you?”

“If I were of a mind to purchase horseflesh,” he told her, “I’d examine every tooth. And if I found one flaw, I would walk away, with no regrets whatsoever.”

She brought her free hand up. Even now, with her fingers clenched in his grip, she ran her hand down his jaw. “What a shame. I consider my flaws my primary attraction.” She spoke as if she were almost purring. “I’d make a poor broodmare, Sir Mark, but then, I don’t think that’s what a man like you needs.”

She did a good job of pretending to want him. But her tone didn’t match the thready beat of her pulse against his fingers. It didn’t match the wary tension of her body, strung tight as a harp string and vibrating next to his.

“As it turns out,” he said sharply, “I’m not in the market for flesh of any variety.”

“No?” Her finger drew a line down his chin. “You’re a man. You have desires, like anyone else. As for me…I’m a widow, but I’m not dead. I shouldn’t mind a little comfort, and like you, I should very much like it to be discreet, so that no censure falls on me.” Her hand traced that line down his neck, his shoulder. “Our interests are much aligned. You might have your spotless reputation, and indulge yourself, as well.”

Her fingers, cold and still slightly damp, slid along his wrist. He told himself it didn’t matter. She was touching glass, not flesh; granite, not skin. No doubt, tonight he’d relive the sinuous line she’d drawn on his skin. Tonight some lustful part of him would wish he’d pulled her close and taken the comfort she offered.

He made himself stone instead. “You know nothing of my interests. That’s not what I want.”

“If you don’t want me,” she asked silkily, “then why are you still holding me?”

“A point of clarification.” He pressed his fingers against the joint of her thumb—lightly, not to hurt her, but enough to show her exactly what he could do, should he choose. “I am holding you at bay,” he said dryly. “That is far removed from actually holding you. As for the rest, you are the one who is trembling. Not I. Really, Mrs. Farleigh. You must think that because I have never been in anyone else’s skin, I cannot be comfortable inside my own.”

He relinquished her hand and stepped back through the parlor door. Her hand dropped to her side, and she stared at him, befuddled once more.

“As it turns out,” he said, “I don’t give a fig for my spotless reputation. What I care about is chastity itself. And, in any event, I doubt I’d ever be tempted to stray by a woman who flinches when I put my hands on her. Dry your clothes.” His voice was harsh. “It might take some time. If you become bored in the meantime, there are books to read.” He gestured to the wall.

She took one step toward him.

There was only one way to end this argument: Mark closed the parlor door on her. The last thing he saw was the look on her face—not outraged, not desirous, but cold with fear.