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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.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE DOOR SLAMMED in front of Jessica’s nose. Then, before she could quite understand what was happening, she heard the sound of a key scraping in the lock.
The sound was irrevocable, creaking out her defeat. She was drenched down to her drawers. And she’d failed.
Her hands shook as she undid her corset laces. Not from cold; she’d stopped feeling cold months before. She’d made not one, but two tremendous miscalculations. And she feared that her mistake was irreparable.
Her tiny reserve of capital was in the tens of pounds now. She might make her funds last longer by selling clothing—but, given her trade, that would be akin to eating her seed corn. Besides, a courtesan must never appear desperate for a protector. Men who were attracted to desperate women were worse than the desperation itself.
No doubt Sir Mark thought that she was driven by something like desire—or, perhaps, mere feminine curiosity. He didn’t know how truly grave her situation was. How badly she had needed him to succumb. It was that urgency that had made her misjudge the situation.
She’d convinced herself that his seduction would be easy—that he’d fall, if only he believed that nobody would find out. Worse. She’d fooled herself into believing that after what had happened to her, she could stomach another man’s touch of ownership on her skin again.
She had been awfully, horribly wrong.
It had taken her months to recover from her illness. Back then, it had only been the physician’s commands that had made her take her medicine, choke down a few spoonfuls of gruel. Amalie, her dearest friend, had come over daily and forced her to care for herself. Even now, she still had to remind herself to eat.
That was what had decided Jessica on this particular course of action.
Jessica knew what happened to courtesans who ceased to care for themselves. She had seen it too many times in the years she’d been in London. When a woman stopped caring, she no longer took pains to choose her next protector. One mistake—one man who liked hurting his mistress a little too well, one fellow who managed to hide a bawdy-house disease—that was all it took. Soon, the emptiness in a woman’s heart grew to encompass her eyes.
She’d seen women take to gin or opium within months of making that first mistake. From there, it was nothing but a long, slow slide into the grave.
In her first year in this life, when Jessica had been young and naive, she’d told herself it wasn’t so bad, being a courtesan.
It hadn’t been what she’d dreamed of, but she’d embraced her survival with open arms. And she’d discovered that the scandalous Jess Farleigh enjoyed freedoms that the gently bred Jessica Carlisle dared not contemplate. During the days, she could think about commerce, manage business accounts, talk with her fellow courtesans about the things that happened between men and women. And the nights…she’d wanted to forget what she’d lost, and so she’d thrown herself into the evenings with abandon. At first, it had seemed one endless soiree, where men tripped over themselves to give her what she wanted.
In the years that followed, she’d learned that the glittering finery was a trap, that the soiree was not endless. It eroded you, piece by irrevocable piece. It made a mockery of love, and if you did not look after your heart with a ferocious care, you’d find, bit by bit, that you’d traded it for silk ribbons and baubles on gold chains. It took only one mistake to turn a cosseted courtesan into an empty-eyed whore, willing to do anything to forget what men had made of her. Jessica had watched it happen far too often.
The successful courtesan, Jessica had learned, had much in common with the successful gamester. The trick of winning was knowing when to leave the table. Anyone who stayed past her time lost. She lost everything.
Jessica pulled her shift off her shoulders and hung it to dry before the fire. The carpet was thick beneath her feet—warmer than the stockings she removed and placed on a chair to dry. The fire flickered against her skin. She was sure the flames radiated heat. But she no longer felt it. She no longer felt anything.
Sir Mark was supposed to be her final throw of the dice. She’d wagered her reserves on him. And she’d misjudged him—had let her cynicism do all the thinking for her. She had never imagined that his belief was real, that he would give up an opportunity to slake his lust. Principles had never mattered, not with the men she’d known.
She’d made a mistake—and one she could ill afford.
It wasn’t money she was fighting for—not truly. It was all the things money could buy: the opportunity to escape her past, to have a cottage in a quiet village. To feel the sun against her face as warmth, instead of a cold, pale light. She wasn’t going to be one of those women—the dim-eyed cousins of courtesans—giving up her soul to strangers nightly against a cold stone wall, just so she could purchase the gin she needed to forget.
No. After all these years, she was going to do what she did best. She was going to survive.
