Unclaimed (8 page)

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.

“It’s…it’s… Sir Mark.” The rector’s wife was flustered. “Truly. Perhaps somewhere in London that sort of
thing
is tolerated. But we’re good people here. Upstanding.”

“What sort of
thing
are you speaking about?”

Mrs. Lewis flushed. But Miss Lewis spoke out from under the brim of her bonnet. “It’s the décolletage,” she said simply. “If it were
here
instead of
there
…” She drew a line on her own breast.

“Dinah!”

“What?” Dinah said. “I saw all the men looking. If you would only let me get rid of this horrid lace…”

“Don’t say such things.” Mrs. Lewis glanced over at Mark and gave him a pained smile. “Dear. People will think you mean them.”

“So it’s just the neckline,” Mark heard himself say. “I can fix that.” And before anyone could stop him, he started off down the field. The dim rumble of conversation slowed behind him. And then, as it became clear that Sir Mark, the guest of honor, was approaching Mrs. Jessica Farleigh, the unwanted guest of dishonor, talk ceased altogether. The chickens scattered before him.

He stopped at the edge of her blanket.

She raised her head slowly. Three afternoons ago, he’d seen her stripped to chemise and corset. He wanted her more now.

Maybe it was the sun glinting through her hair, glancing off the ringlets that framed her face. Maybe it was the rounding of her eyes, as her gaze swept slowly up his trousers.

By the time her eyes met his, though, Mark was sure of one thing. It was not just his sense of fairness that had brought him out to see her. It was not mere curiosity. It was not even simple lust. He wasn’t sure what to call it. He only knew one thing, by the dazed roil in his stomach.

He was in trouble.

And he was enjoying it.

“Sir Mark,” she said. “How kind of you to join me.”

She spoke carefully, her words clipped, as if she expected him to cast her out entirely from the dubious heaven of a church picnic.

“This is no social call,” he said.

Her chin rose. “And so you’ve come to finish what they started.”

Mark undid one cuff link, and slid it into his waistcoat pocket. “Miss Lewis tells me that all the men are looking at your bosom.”

She made no move to cover herself. “Are they?” she asked. “Are they
all?
”

He slipped the other cuff link off. “I wasn’t watching all the men. I wouldn’t know.”

“And you?”

By way of answer, he undid the buttons of his coat, working from top to bottom. Her breath hissed in as he worked. He tugged one sleeve down, and the soft breeze touched the last layer of fabric between his shoulder and the open air. Behind him, he heard the murmur of outraged feminine conversation. He didn’t care what they said. He didn’t care what
any
of them said. He simply finished removing the jacket, and then, meeting her eyes, he held it out to her.

“Put this on.” His voice was betrayingly hoarse. It was not a suggestion.

She stared at the fabric in his hand but made no move to take it. “Why, Sir Mark, that is quite a gallant offer, but I am not chilled in the slightest.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And here I thought we had passed the point where you feigned idiocy.” He leaned closer. “You know quite well why I wish you to cover yourself.”

She shrugged, which did very interesting things to her uncovered bosom. “And here
I
thought you believed your own book. It’s chapter thirteen, is it not? Where you say that a man must claim responsibility for his own temptation, and not pin it on the woman who arouses him. It’s a gown, Sir Mark. Not even one of my more daring ones. And yet you look at it as if it were a viper, poised to strike at your virtue. Clearly, I must have misunderstood the import of your practical guide.”

“Nobody ever understands my book.” His tones were clipped. “It’s the least practical guide I could ever have written.”

“You’re not the least bit tempted?” She looked up at him. That sense of dichotomy struck him again—as if she were unsure how she wanted him to answer. As if she wanted him to
want
and yet wanted to push him away all at once.

He
was
tempted. But it was that sense of hesitance more than anything that made him release his coat so that it fell to the blanket beside her. “I don’t want you to cover yourself to withdraw
my
temptation.” And then—he wasn’t precisely sure why—he dropped his voice to a whisper. “More clothing would hardly signify in any event. I could not possibly forget a single curve of your skin, and when I take myself to bed tonight I doubt I will see anything else.”

She’d been reaching for his jacket. But she froze at that, her hand held rigidly an inch away. Her eyes widened.

“No,” he continued, “the reason I offer is not because I want to avoid my sins, but rather that I must own up to them.”

“Sins?” she repeated.

“We’ve already discussed my sins, Mrs. Farleigh. I am greedy. I am covetous. I am selfish. And one other thing.” He leaned in. “I absolutely do not share.”

“I— But I haven’t— We—” Her eyes fell from his in discomfort.

“Just because I happen to be a virgin does not mean I am content to share my fantasies at night with other men.”

She exhaled slowly. “If you were any other man,” she said softly, “I would think that you had just threatened to seduce me.”

“Worse.” He leaned down, close enough to whisper. “I threatened to
like
you. I suspect seduction would be easier for you to understand.”

A small smile touched her lips. “Sir Mark, there’s no need to threaten me with anything so drastic as
like.
Mere acceptance would be sufficiently shocking.”

Mark straightened. “One last thing, Mrs. Farleigh.” He took a deep breath and waited for her to raise her eyes to him one last time. When she did, he gave her a wolfish grin. “Red suits you,” he said, and then left.

JESSICA PICKED UP the jacket Sir Mark had dropped next to her and shook it out. She watched his retreating back, trying to find firm footing in her mind.

She had thought it would be easy to guide a virgin’s first tentative foray into sensuality. But there was nothing tentative about him. He did not deny his lusts, his wants. She didn’t know how to seduce such unbending confidence.

Yes, I want you,
he’d as good as told her,
but I won’t act on that want.

There was a bigger problem.

He looked at her with an air of such quiet expectation. She remembered what he’d said with a laugh the other day.
I rather like myself.
She could feel that certainty, spreading from him like a contagion. And now he was threatening to like her, too.

Despite her better judgment, she respected him. It was impossible not to. He was so…so forthright, so straightforward. He didn’t hide behind rules, didn’t accuse others of his own shortcomings. He didn’t flinch from his own desires.

He simply…didn’t set a foot wrong.

And for the first time, Jessica wished this was real. That she was merely a widow with a slightly tarnished reputation. That she
had
been banished here.

She wished she was free to revel in the heady feel of flirtation without feeling the future press against her in suffocating reminder of the penury that waited.

Sir Mark’s long strides had brought him back to the protective crowd of women once again.

Everyone had been watching them. Jessica stood and brushed her skirts into place. Then she shook out the jacket he’d left behind. The fabric was warm with the heat of his body. It smelled of him—clean, fresh male, with a dab of sea spray. Slowly, she donned the garment. It was large on her, and overly warm. Still, it felt like a friendly embrace—comforting and casual, without importuning her for more. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a simple hug from a man.

He was surrounded by women again—a gaggle of concerned villagers, clucking over him. No doubt making sure that he’d not been tainted by her.

He laughed and then spoke, gesturing with his hands. And then, when he’d tamed their frightened outrage, he turned and glanced at her. A warm breeze swirled up. It lifted the collar of his jacket against her neck.

No. She had no notion how to seduce a man like this. He had no pampered vanity to flatter, no hidden desires to draw out in the open. He wanted her. He thought of her. And he admitted it so openly that she feared it would be impossible to lure him into dishonesty.

Worse; he was luring
her
into the truth. He gave her a private smile, one that made a hollow of her chest.

She had thought that when she felt again for the first time, it would be something gentle, something clean. Some small and silent pleasure, perhaps. But it was not some quiet return to feeling that came to her. It was the sharp, painful tingle of a limb being slapped from sleep.

She wanted to tell him the truth. She wanted to relinquish all hope of seduction, so that she could enjoy the company of a man who didn’t lie. She wanted him to like her with the same easy confidence with which he liked himself. The impossibility of it made her ache.

Jessica reached out and plucked a dandelion from the grass. It was a fragile, delicate shell of white spores; when she snapped its stem, a few seeds detached from the round head.

He was still smiling at her, a bright golden grin as blinding as the sun.

She raised the dandelion to her mouth and blew. White seeds scattered on the breeze, whirling in his direction. Maybe it was her imagination. The spores separated too quickly for her to follow their path, and it would have been a strange wind indeed that blew those tiny parachutes across twenty yards of picnic.

Still, after a few seconds he raised his hand, almost in greeting. And then he closed his fingers, as if snatching something invisible from the air.

CHAPTER SIX

“DID YOU NOT SEE
me, Sir Mark?” James Tolliver demanded.