Unclaimed (Turner 2)

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 pressu

re 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.”