Unclaimed (33 page)

On that thought, his eyes fluttered open. He blinked twice and looked at her.

“There’s nothing to eat,” she told him gravely.

“Just as well.” He sat up, rubbing his eyes. She waited for him to come to his senses. Surely
now,
he must have reconsidered.

“Good morning,” he said, and he leaned over and touched his lips to hers.

For one lovely second, she could believe the promise in his kiss: that this would not fade, that she would wake up to him for a thousand mornings to come. Ten thousand mornings.

She pulled back abruptly. It had seemed
safe
to love him, when she’d believed him far beyond her touch. But she didn’t know what she believed any longer. She only knew that everything she held dear eventually crumbled to dust.

“I wish we’d put some thought into your clothing last night,” she mumbled. “It’s been lying on the floor all evening, and it’s probably wrinkled.”

“I hung it in front of the fire,” he offered. “After you’d gone to sleep.”

She cast him a baleful look. Really. He was
too
good, sometimes.

“I’m sure there’ll be some wrinkles,” he continued, “but nothing too unseemly. Can you tie my cravat?”

“Tight around your neck,” she muttered.

He shrugged away her foul mood. “Oh, stop worrying. Come. Break your fast with me.”

“I told you—”

“Not here.”

“You want to have breakfast with me, out
there?
You are mad.”

His eyes glittered at that last word, and she almost called it back.

But he spoke in precise tones. “I want to have an entire life with you, out there. Do keep that in mind.”

She couldn’t even imagine breakfast. She tried to envision Sir Mark entering a public house and asking for kippers and tea. Here in London, he would be besieged within minutes. One look at his wrinkled shirt and his disreputable companion, and his good name would cease to be so good. And once he’d tasted the censure of society, he’d not be so sanguine about linking himself to her.

“In any event,” he said, “I don’t intend to go
out
precisely. I had in mind somewhere private.”

“But the servants—”

“Will say my intended is beautiful and gracious.” He glanced up at her. “You do recall how to be gracious, do you not?”

Jessica winced and set her hands over her face. She was being uncivil and for no other reason than that Sir Mark had not yet given her up. He was anticipating marriage; she, despair.

“You’re quite right,” she finally said. “I’ll feel more myself once I’ve had something to eat.” After all, it wasn’t fair to punish him for sins he had yet to commit. “Help me dress,” she added, “and I’ll help you.”

It took Jessica too long to get ready—in part because Mark’s help was of dubious value. She had no sooner pulled on her shift than his hands fell on her hips, smoothing the fabric into place. And instead of pulling her corset tighter when she asked, he put his own arms about her, holding her tight. Kissing the back of her neck. His hands roamed the front of her body. She twisted in his grasp—she’d intended to tell him to get on with it, then—but even her foul mood couldn’t last when he held her face and kissed her as if she were some precious thing.

It felt fragile, that kiss. As if this, too, would break. As if the future could rise up and choke the life from even this mutual desire. But he pressed her against the wall, and there was nothing delicate about his want. She couldn’t envision the future, but she comprehended this
now
—the hard ridge of his lust against her belly, the demands of his mouth, her own lust rising, hard and fast. She brought one leg up to draw him in. “Hold me,” she explained, guiding his hands to her hips. It took a few moments for him to get the idea—a few seconds until he slid inside her once more.

Each thrust speared through her uncertainty, each kiss grounded her. His hands held her up. When she came, it shattered her anxiety, splintering dark fears away.

His orgasm followed, fierce and relentless. Jessica shut her eyes and held on to his arms, letting the fury of his pleasure sweep everything else away. When he was done, he pressed another kiss against her skin.

He was the first man who had ever cared to kiss her
afterward.
Maybe this would work. She opened her eyes to see him watching her.

“Mark,” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“Good morning.” And she smiled at him then.

This time, they really did manage to dress. Jessica found a threadbare cloak for Mark—one that would keep off the drizzle and simultaneously shield him from public view. And it turned out that nobody looked twice at him under his immense hat. Mark spoke to the driver outside Jessica’s hearing; the carriage jerked to life shortly after he entered. For the first ten minutes, Jessica made no sound. Their hands tangled together in slow, steady exploration.

Finally, she spoke up. “Where are we going? I should have thought we could find a private hotel not half a mile away.”

Mark ran his thumb over her fingers. “It will take longer. We’re not going to a hotel.”

“Perhaps you should have let me arrange it,” she continued. “After all, I have considerably more experience in anonymity than you.”

His fingers covered her lips. “I never said I was looking for a place where I would be anonymous. I said I was looking for one that was
private.
”

“There is a difference?”

The carriage jolted over a rut in the road.

“Yes. It has never been my plan to hide you away,” he told her. “You aren’t some hideous, shameful secret of mine.”

A curl of unease crept into her. Jessica shook her head. “What on earth do you have planned? Where are we going?”

There was a window in the door, but the glass did not appear to have been cleaned anytime in the past eight months. It was so smudged over that she could only make out vague impressions of shadows passing her by.

“We’re going to Mayfair.”

“Mayfair?”

Mark shot her a strangely reluctant look before he confessed. “My brother’s house.”

Jessica stood, cracking her head on the top of the carriage and biting her tongue in the process. The physical pain stung, but it only increased the abject horror that filled her. “Your brother!” Her wounded tongue didn’t seem to be working quite right. “You cannot be theriouth.”

“But I am.” He pulled her down to sit beside him once more. And then he ran his hand over her head, finding the sore spot where she’d whacked herself. He rubbed it gently, soothing away the hurt.

“Stop it.” Jessica pulled from his arms. “You’re mussing my hair. I didn’t dress to visit a duke.” Her panic was beginning to rise. “He’s going to toss me out the instant he claps eyes on me. What are you thinking, bringing a courtesan to see the Duke of Parford?”

Mark simply shook his head. “You misunderstand. I’m not bringing a courtesan to visit a duke. I’m bringing my future wife to see my brother. It just so happens that he is also a duke. But Ash is… Ash is… Look, he just doesn’t care about that sort of thing. He’s not the kind of person who will toss someone out simply because she doesn’t fit some preconceived notion of his. Trust me, Ash will be
delighted
to be able to do something for me.”

“Mark.” All her fears came rushing back. “Mark, I am a
courtesan.
I don’t fit in your world. Your reputation—your good name—is at stake.”

“So far as I can tell, I would greatly benefit if my reputation were to suffer. No reporters following me about. Nobody writing about my household refuse.” He sighed and leaned back. “It sounds idyllic. We could live in the country. Would you mind that?”

That notion she’d once had, of a cottage in the country, came back to her. But this time, she wasn’t alone. Mark was with her. And that made her country cottage not a place to hide away and lick her wounds, but a place to start afresh, the situation for a new life where she was liked and respected, where she had Sir Mark, where she found herself Lady Turner and not some woman who would be snubbed by the meanest letter carrier. It was so powerful a thought that she was staggered.

“Do you love me?” he asked casually. “You said you did.”

She gaped at him, unsure how to answer.

“Thought so.” He grinned at her. “I can understand that you may feel some trepidation now. But wait until you meet my brothers. They’ll adore you.”

“Awk,” Jessica managed.

“Don’t worry.”

She shook her head. “Those are the two most ineffectual words ever put together by man—don’t worry. I can’t stop worrying just because someone assures me it’s unnecessary.”

He blew out his breath. “Then do worry, if you prefer.”

His assurance did nothing to calm the fluttering confusion she felt. It peaked, sharply, as the crunch of wheels on gravel sounded, and the carriage jerked to a halt. A few moments later, a liveried footman opened the grimy door. Mark handed her down, onto a pristine half ring of white rocks outside a Portland stone building. He took her arm and then swept her through the front door as it opened.

“Sir Mark,” the butler greeted him. He did not seem to think anything was amiss with Mark’s wrinkled attire. Still, Jessica could almost envision the headline that afternoon.
Sir Mark: Turning to Dissipation at Last?

“Is Ash still at breakfast? Is Smite here?”

“No, sir, and yes, sir. Mr. Smite Turner is at breakfast.” The butler paused, contemplating his words. “Mr. Smite Turner informed me that you’ve spent the last two nights with him, and that I’m to expect you to be out of sorts.”

That latter, Jessica decoded, was a hint that his brothers were already spinning stories to save his reputation.

“Ah,” Mark said. “I see. Is Ash in his office?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Busy, is he? Could you have him duck into the blue parlor when he’s got a chance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is…” Mark paused and cast a look askance at her. How
awkward.
He probably didn’t even recall her true name. “This,” he said again, “is my fiancée. Do tell Ash.”

There was a slight pause, as the butler turned to look at her. He waited, no doubt expecting a name. When none was forthcoming, he nodded. “I’ll do that.”

“Oh,” Mark added, “please send a tray up, as well.” He conducted Jessica into a room on her right.

She’d known his family was wealthy—he had, after all, thrown five thousand pounds her way without thinking. But she hadn’t quite understood the extent of it until this moment. She felt as if she might have been in a royal palace. Blue velvet cushions lay on delicate rosewood chairs. A tapestry covered one wall; a globe sat on a table, the countries fashioned of amber and turquoise and lapis lazuli.

Jessica didn’t even have a name worth giving. She set her finger on Africa and gave the globe a spin. Mark came to stand by her as it whirled.

“I didn’t introduce you properly,” he said in a low voice.

“I noticed.” Continents passed under her gaze.

“Until I speak with Ash, and we determine how to proceed, I thought it best to wait.” He reached out and stopped the earth as it turned on its axis. “Once we tell the servants who you are, there’s no going back.”

“Of course.” It all made perfect sense. Still, it heightened the feeling that she might not truly be present. This was a room for other people—wealthy, respectable people. Even the candle sconces were decorated with crystals that sent rainbows shimmering about the room.

In the hall, footfalls sounded, heavy and fast.

“
That
didn’t take long.” Mark turned.

The door burst open. “Mark,” the man in the doorway said, “what in God’s holy name can you have been thinking?” The man crossed the room in three strides and engulfed Mark in what looked like a ferocious hug. “You idiot,” the man was saying. “You mope for a week, and then you disappear for forty-eight hours without leaving word at all. I’ve heard nothing of you but what Margaret was able to glean from the papers. Have you any idea how worried I was?”

“Stop fussing, Ash. I am an adult. I
told
you where I was going.” Mark pulled away, and Jessica got her first good look at the newcomer. The two men looked…nothing alike. The Duke of Parford was broader than Mark and taller—a physique that seemed suited more to a laborer than to a peer and a businessman. His hair was coffee-dark; his skin tanned.

“Fuss, fuss,” Parford muttered, and he reached out and ruffled Mark’s hair.

Oh, to be part of a family again. It almost hurt to watch. It hurt more when Parford looked over and his eyes fell on her. She could see the wariness creep into his expression, the tight lines collecting on his cheeks. Not much reaction from him, but she felt as if he’d slammed a door in her face.

“We do have a great deal to talk about,” the duke said.

Mark was turning to her. “Ash, this is Jessica Farleigh. She is—”

The duke looked her over, and then slowly, he crossed to her and put out his hand. Jessica blinked at him and then took it.

“So. I suppose we’ll have to figure out how to keep you from hanging in the court of public opinion.”

“I…I suppose we will,” she said.

He nodded politely to her. But as he did, he spoke under his breath. “Hurt my brother,” he told her, “and I will hang you up myself.”