Unclaimed

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.

And so it didn’t matter that he’d locked her in this room. That his eyes had narrowed in distrust. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have a whore’s chance in heaven of convincing him to smile at her again. She was going to seduce Sir Mark. She was going to get her fifteen hundred pounds. She was going to find a nice cottage in a tiny village, she and Amalie, and together they would finally be able to let go of everything that had come before.

She had to sell her body one last time, but this time, she wasn’t trading it for anything less than her heart. Nobody—nothing—not a locked door, nor even the great weight of Sir Mark’s morals—would stop her.

She even thought she knew how to do it. She’d mistaken him once. She’d not do it again.

This time, she had to tell him the truth.

THE RAIN HAD STOPPED, and Jessica’s clothing had dried by the time he came for her. His knock sounded twice on the door, echoing ominously.

“Come in.”

A silence.

“It’s safe,” she added. And it was safe. For him. She sat, demurely dressed, before the fire. There would be no more mistakes. She couldn’t afford a single one.

The key scraped in the lock. He opened the door a few inches. His face was obscured by the shadows in the hall. “The weather should hold,” he said to the window near her, “long enough for you to make your way home. I would have offered you tea, but…” He trailed off with a shrug that had more to do with explanation than apology for his lack of hospitality.

She wouldn’t have taken tea in any event.

“Let me show you out.” He turned his back to her, and she stood. Her muscles twinged, sore, as if she’d run a great distance. Sitting and waiting for him had been arduous enough. His shoulders were rigid as he walked, at odds with the fluidity of his gait. At the front door, he fumbled for the handle.

Jessica stayed a few feet back. “Sir Mark. I owe you the truth.”

He’d not looked at her, not since he’d opened the parlor door. But at these words, he paused. His shoulders straightened, and he glanced at her over his shoulder—a brief look, before his gaze flitted back to the door. He pressed the handle down.

“The truth is plain enough.” For all the harshness of his words, his tone was gentle. “I was rather too cruel earlier. There’s no need to embarrass yourself. Speak no more of it.”

He might as well have said, speak no more to me. And that outcome was unacceptable.

“But I owe you the truth as to why I did it.”

He didn’t turn, but he let go of the door handle.

“I did it,” she said, “because I hated you.”

That brought him turning slowly around, this time to really look at her. Most men wouldn’t have smiled at being told they were hated. And in truth, it wasn’t a happy smile that took over his face. It was a bemused look, as if he held his breath.

“I hated you,” she continued, “because you have done nothing more than abide by rules that every gentlewoman follows every day of her life. Yet for this prosaic feat, you are feted and cosseted as if you were a hero.” She felt nothing as she spoke, but still her voice shook. Her hands were trembling, too. “I hate that if a woman missteps once, she is condemned forever, and yet the men who follow you can tie a simple ribbon to their hats after years of debauchery, and pass themselves off as upright pillars of society. And so, yes, Sir Mark. I came here to seduce you. I wanted to prove that you were only too human. Not a saint. Not an example to follow. Not anyone deserving of such worship.”

Her voice had begun to rise. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought herself upset, her calm unraveling like the edge of an old scarf.

But she did know better. She felt nothing—just the cold sweat of her palms, the tremor of her arms wrapped around herself. Her body, apparently, felt what her heart could not. There was truth in her words—too much of it.

He must have heard it because his eyes widened. The smile slipped from his face. He contemplated her silently for a while. Jessica set her jaw and returned his gaze.

“You are quite right,” he eventually said. “I agree with your every sentiment, with my whole heart.” And then he did smile at her—not just a bemused little curl of his lips, but a brilliant grin. “Pardon me. I agree with almost every sentiment.” He leaned back against the door. “I must make an exception for one tiny particular. You see, I rather like myself.”

She’d never met a man before who preferred facts over flattery. He seemed torn from the pages of a child’s fable—a dazzling hero, pure and upstanding. Incorruptible. And what role did that give her in this fairy tale?

“You would be a more comfortable man if you were not so good.”

“No, Mrs. Farleigh. You mustn’t believe that. You were doing so well at avoiding all those pesky illusions. I’ve told you before, I’m no saint. In fact, I am eaten up by mortal sins. It’s refreshing for someone else to notice.”

“Sin? You must not mean the typical ones that gentlemen engage in.”

“Typical enough.” He shrugged. “I harbor a great deal of pride.”

“Oh?”

“Oh.” He met her eyes. “You see, I’m not some shiny bauble to be strung onto a necklace and displayed for all the world to see. I’m too proud to ever be anyone’s conquest.”

It was both warning and explanation all at once. She could see that now, in the set in his jaw. Her direct approach to seduction would never have worked even if he’d been more inclined to sin. This was a man who wanted to work for his prize.

“Besides,” he added, “I’m much too proud to ever want a woman who did not like me.”

“Liking has nothing to do with it. Can you tell me the difference between a mounting block and a male virgin?”

He shook his head.

“The virgin,” Jessica said, “is a far easier conquest.”

He laughed—simple and uncomplicated. “Yes,” he said. “I far prefer this side of you. For what it’s worth, Mrs. Farleigh, I don’t hate you. I don’t even hold you in dislike, however disreputable your intentions may have been this afternoon. I don’t imagine your situation is easy.” He looked down briefly and then glanced up, his blond radiance almost overwhelming. “I’m willing to forgive a great deal from clever women who see through the veneer of saintliness.”

She wasn’t certain what he meant by that. But he was smiling at her. He’d not thrown her out and told her never to speak with him again. She had a chance—one last chance at success. It was going to be hard. Practically impossible. And she was going to have to move with painstaking slowness.

“It’s becoming harder to hate you, knowing that you’re more than a collection of moral aphorisms. But I am rather perverse.”

“Be careful.” His words were a warning, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m proud enough that I might decide to convince you to like me after all.”

“No, no. We can’t have that.” She pitched her tone to playfulness. “If I actually liked you, I might decide to tempt you again—not to prove a point, but just for the pleasure of having you in my bed.”

She hadn’t realized she meant it until she said it. She didn’t want Sir Mark in her bed in any sexual sense—it had been years since she’d felt true desire.

No. She meant what she’d said in the most wistful sense possible. Despite his protestations, he seemed like a nice man. She’d never had a nice man in her bed.

But standing as close to him as she was, she could hear his indrawn breath. She could see his pupils dilate. He didn’t rake his gaze down her body in possessive desire, as the jaded roués of her acquaintance might have done. But he didn’t squeeze his eyes shut, like a young boy trying to deny the truth of his vision.

Instead, he raised his head. His gaze caught hers—steady and just a bit mischievous. And she swallowed. Sir Mark wasn’t anything like what she had imagined a virgin would be. He was too masculine. Too certain. Without breaking her gaze, he opened the door behind him—a signal, perhaps, that they’d passed some threshold and the conversation had come to an end.

“Mrs. Farleigh,” he said, “you are interesting. And you paid me the compliment of your honesty.” He stepped to the side, and the cool air of early evening touched her skin. The clouds had dissipated enough that the sun, hovering above the horizon, left her blinking.

“And so I shall be honest in return.” He gave her a tight little smile. “You can tempt me all you like. But you won’t succeed.”

She would. She had to. But for now, she simply smiled at him. “I do believe you’ve made that clear.” She passed through the door.

He set his hand on her wrist as she went by. His bare fingers met her glove—not holding her back, but just touching her lightly. She paused.

His fingers brushed up her arm—half an inch across kidskin, no more. An unthinking movement, surely; not a caress. Not from him. For one second she thought he looked hesitant. But then he turned toward her, and the low rays of the sun caught his face, coloring his skin with rust. He leaned in, supremely confident. He was close enough that she could see his eyes—blue, ringed with brown. His scent was fresh male, soap tinged with salt. He was close enough to kiss her.

He didn’t.

“True honesty compels me to add one more thing.” She could feel the breath from his words, brushing against the bridge of her nose. “If you truly liked me enough to tempt me, I should not mind seeing you try.”

And then, as if he had not whispered that wicked ness against her skin, he bowed in farewell and closed the door.

CHAPTER FIVE

“YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE come here yourself, Sir Mark.” From behind the bar of the new post office, Mrs. Tatlock, the postman’s wife, set her hand on her hip and tapped one foot.

Through the dusty windows behind her, the sun shone brilliantly. The rays caught specks of dust as they rose in the air, turning even the dingy confines of the room around them into radiance. Technically, Mrs. Tatlock was only the letter carrier’s wife. She had no duties, collected no pay. But her husband was known to sometimes evade delivering the letters to the houses farthest out, particularly on fine summer days when he preferred to fish. She’d arranged a system where she would hold letters at the post office until her husband decided to deliver them—or the owner decided to pick them up, whichever came first.

Today was a beautiful day, every color chosen from a jeweler’s display case. Mr. Tatlock was undoubtedly fishing, and Mark had decided to fetch his own post. He’d had a beautiful, peaceful walk to town.

“Here you are,” Mrs. Tatlock was scolding, “the knight of the town, and you’re fetching your own post as if you were a servant. It’s not fitting!”

Mark swallowed a sigh. “Truly, it’s no hardship to walk.” And besides, he had a suspicion that his charwoman was sneaking glances at his correspondence. The last time she’d brought him a letter, the envelope had come unsealed. The woman had waved it off, claiming that one could never trust that newfangled paste to stay in place. Mark, however, remained dubious.

“Besides,” he continued, “the exercise is good for me. I shouldn’t like to become slothful.”

Her face softened. “Nobody would ever accuse you of sloth.” She closed the drawer before her and handed over two letters. “But we do worry that you’re not taking care of yourself. Only the two servants to do for you, and those not even in residence. Sir Mark, that would be a proper arrangement for a gentleman come down on hard times. But you’re a knight of the realm. The brother of a duke. It’s scandalous, the way you’re living. And if those London papers heard of it, Shepton Mallet would never live down the shame. To act as if we are so countrified that we can’t do for you…” She shook her head at him mournfully.

And yet they hadn’t done for him, decades past. It felt the height of decadence just to live in his mother’s house and have new bread. He’d come back here to recall that time, not to bury the memories in luxury.

“Nonsense,” Mark said. “The papers will just chalk it up to my eccentricity.”

She sniffed. “Eccentric? You? Not likely, that. You’re not the one who’s decidedly out of place—that is to say, I won’t speak any ill. Unlike some others.” She sniffed, and when Mark didn’t ask her to elaborate, she immediately broke her own dictum. “Unlike the other newcomer,” she said carefully.

Mark set his hand, palm down, on the table before him, keeping the gesture as casual as possible. There was only one other newcomer. He could see her clearly in his mind’s eye, drenched from the downpour, her hair sliding out of its pins.

But, no. He wasn’t one for gossip. He didn’t need to ask. He wouldn’t even let himself think of her.

“Ah?” he said.

Ah, he decided, was not asking.

But Mrs. Tatlock understood. “Mrs. Farleigh.” Her voice crept low, the syllables rounding out in warm west country tones. “Mrs. Farleigh, she writes letters every week.”

Mark felt his chin twitch in the barest of nods.

“Regular, like the crow of a cock, she does. Sends out two or three every time she stops by.”

“Ah.” The syllable escaped again.

“But does she receive anything in response?”

Mark’s hand curled against the wood of the counter. The missives in his pocket felt suddenly heavy. He’d known the letter would be waiting for him, had known that his brother’s wife would have penned a thorough response—never mind that she was a busy duchess. Just as surely, he’d expected his other brother’s reply—fewer in pages, but no less caring. If the letters hadn’t come, he would have worried that something had gone amiss.

Mrs. Tatlock smiled grimly. “Well,” she said slyly. “She hears from her solicitor.”

“Perhaps the letters are written to an invalid,” Mark suggested.

“Perhaps. It’s the other letters that go unanswered.” Mrs. Tatlock shuffled in the mailbags behind her and came up with two envelopes, both stamped with penny reds. The direction was written in a fine, strong hand; no curlicues or spidery lines from Mrs. Farleigh. It was addressed to a Mr. Alton Carlisle in Watford. Mark had heard of the town; he thought it somewhere closer to London, although his memory was vague. The other was addressed to an Amalie Leveque, in London proper.

“She brings these letters by every few days. And every day, it seems, she asks if she’s had any replies.” Mrs. Tatlock shook her head. “I do wonder who she’s writing to. A Frenchwoman, by the sound of it—and we know precisely what sort of people they are. No morals to speak of. And no doubt the other’s a lover, and one that’s scorned her.”

Mark thought of that flinch, of that spark of…of something he’d seen in her eyes two evenings before. He could almost hear her speaking, even now. I did it because I hated you.

“No,” he said softly, “I don’t believe she’s pining after a lover.”

He’d met women on the hunt for a lover before. She’d made a fair facsimile of one at first—the glances that dared him to draw closer, the state of undress she’d so carefully engineered. But there had been something…something brittle about her come-hither. He couldn’t imagine that she was sending letters to a lover in desperation. No matter what she’d tried to do to him, the thought of her sending out letters and receiving no response…it made him want to comfort her.

Mrs. Tatlock snorted. “What, you think she has more than one lover, then?”

He drew himself up and looked down his nose at Mrs. Tatlock. “Do you have intimate knowledge of her situation?”

“I— Well—”

“I’ve heard a great deal of gossip about Mrs. Farleigh since I’ve arrived, and yet nobody has presented any proof.”

She’d presented her own form of proof, true. And if he were the sort of tale bearer who delighted in ruining reputations, he could have destroyed hers by simply recounting the facts of their encounter. He wasn’t.

“But, Sir Mark—”

“Don’t ‘Sir Mark’ me. I consider it just as shabby to ruin a woman with talk as with action.” Mark leaned on the counter and glared at her.

“Sir Mark—I didn’t intend— I truly thought—”

“You thought? You thought I would want to see a woman ostracized and left without friends, simply because she had the misfortune to be prettier than usual?” His words slowed. He could almost feel the music of the Somerset accent, forgotten since childhood, pulling at his tongue. “Or did you think I would enjoy making sport of someone who wasn’t here to defend herself? Don’t ruin a reputation on the basis of simple gossip. Not in my presence.”

Mrs. Tatlock took a step back. Her eyes were wide; her hands clutched the gray of her skirt. “Oh, my.” She spoke slowly, her voice rising half an octave. “I hadn’t thought— I had assumed— No. Perhaps I’d let myself forget entirely. You are Elizabeth Turner’s son, after all.”

Elizabeth Turner’s son. Mark shook his head, but he couldn’t deny it, not really. He was her son—heir to both her best and her worst qualities. Her goodness. Her zeal. Her excess.

His brother, and the rise of dark waters.

He took a step back from Mrs. Tatlock. He took a step back from himself, seeing suddenly his own image superimposed on hers: cruel and unthinking and kind, all at the same time. Even though his hands clenched in denial, he let out a breath.

“Well,” he told her, “gossip about that, then. At least what you say about me happens to be true.”

MRS. TATLOCK, apparently, had not chosen to spread rumors about Mark’s defense of Mrs. Farleigh—at least she hadn’t by the time the ladies of the church arranged the picnic in his honor. Upon his arrival, he was hailed with good cheer and humor. The commons where they held the event had been emptied of all livestock except a flock of chickens, who squawked in complaint in the corner. But the sheep were not the only undesirables they’d kept hidden; they had succeeded in keeping away the less fortunate members of the community by hosting the event on a Wednesday morning. The common folk were all laboring: in the mills, in the fields, or simply doing the spinning in their own homes. The only laborers present were the servants who danced attendance.

When Mrs. Farleigh arrived, a wave of shock ran through the gathering throng. It started in gasps; it traveled in whispers. By the time she’d come halfway across the field toward them, a horde of concerned women had descended upon her. They buzzed about her, gesticulating and consulting one another in tones.

Even though he could not make out a word they said, he could imagine their scandalized conversation.

“Help,” Mark supposed Mrs. Lewis might be saying. “A pretty woman has appeared—and she has lovely breasts.”

At least that’s what he hoped she was saying. Mark couldn’t imagine why else she’d be pointing to Mrs. Farleigh’s bosom.

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Finney could have been replying, as she put her hand on Mrs. Farleigh’s elbow. “I haven’t had chance enough to embarrass my thirteen-year-old daughter by introducing her to Sir Mark. We can’t have an actual woman close to him—he might want her instead. Come over here, Mrs. Farleigh.”

The group moved together, slowly displacing the hens, who squawked in avian protest. One of Mrs. Farleigh’s hands had crept to her hip.

Mrs. Lewis gave her a bright, cheery smile, so false that Mark could discount it even from this distance. The women all nodded at her firmly, shook their heads and walked away, leaving her a full twenty yards from the gathering, with no company nearby but the chickens.

Mrs. Farleigh watched them leave. She didn’t sigh. She didn’t shake her head. She didn’t even shrug. She simply reached into her basket and pulled out a blanket. She laid it out, ignoring the poultry who pecked at its edge.

Walking back, Mrs. Lewis, the rector’s wife, rubbed her hands together briskly, as if well satisfied.

The conversation Mark had imagined had been for his own amusement. But by the look on their faces—by the stony unconcern on hers—he doubted the conversation had been pleasant for her at all.

The women returned to their places by him, chattering amongst themselves as if nothing had happened.

Really. Had any of them read his book, or had they simply placed the volume directly on the altar, as a mute object of veneration?

Perhaps that was why he turned to Mrs. Lewis as she fussed over her daughter’s bonnet. Mrs. Lewis was the epitome of a clergyman’s wife—staid and proper—and Mark caught the rumble of a lecture about ladies and the sun as she wrestled her daughter’s wide bonnet into place.

He was about to upset their shiny, clean social order.

“Mrs. Lewis.”

As he spoke, her hand dropped from the ribbons about her daughter’s chin. The crowd quieted, hanging on his words. “Why is Mrs. Farleigh seated with the hens?”

Twelve people turned to him as one, their eyes rounded.

Young James Tolliver made a choking sound and gestured urgently.

Mrs. Lewis was not much more cogent. “She—well—have you not heard the talk?”

“I’ve heard some innuendo,” he said carefully. “I’ve seen a few dresses—but nothing that is outside the typical bounds of fashion.” She was dressed beautifully—provocatively, in fact, for the country. But promenading in a London park, she would only be thought a little daring.

Heads turned again to look at Mrs. Farleigh and then turned back to Mark.