Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author
COURTNEY MILAN

“An addictively readable tale of revenge and redemption,

love and family, Unveiled is brilliant.”

—Booklist

“An exquisitely sensual and unforgettable romance by one of the genre’s incandescent new stars.”

—Booklist (starred review) on Trial by Desire

“Milan’s strength of writing draws the reader into her deeply emotional love stories, which are romantic yet brimming over with sexual tension and marvelous characters…filled with enough wit and wisdom to make it a ‘keeper.’”

—RT Book Reviews on Trial by Desire (Top Pick)

“Historical romance fans will celebrate Milan’s powerhouse debut, which comes with a full complement of humor, characterization, plot and sheer gutsiness.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review) on Proof by Seduction

“A brilliant debut…deeply romantic, sexy and smart.”

—New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James on Proof by Seduction

“One of the finest historical romances I’ve read in years.”

—New York Times bestselling author Julia Quinn on Proof by Seduction

“With a tender, passionate romance, a touch of sly humor, and a gruff and incredibly sexy hero, Courtney Milan’s Proof by Seduction is a delicious read from the first page all the way to the very satisfying ending.”

—New York Times bestselling author Elizabeth Hoyt

Unclaimed
Courtney Milan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

I’ve always wanted to write a rock-star hero. Unfortunately, I write historical romances, and that means no burning guitars, no long, unkempt hair. I had pretty much chalked that one up to “lost causes” for good. Then I started thinking about the sorts of things that would be popular in the nineteenth century. Sure, they wouldn’t go for Bon Jovi. But there were popular men back then—men like Beau Brummel or Lord Byron. Once you venture into early Victorian times, you can imagine what would prove popular: Novelists. Prince Albert. Books on public morality….

Which is why my Victorian-era rock star is Sir Mark Turner, who wrote a book on chastity. Mark is more than a little embarrassed by his popularity. And unlike modern celebrities, he can’t fall back on “sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll.” He doesn’t do drugs. Rock ’n’ roll hasn’t been invented yet. And as for sex…well, you’ll have to read the book to find out.

I thought you might enjoy a membership card to his most embarrassing fan club for kicks.

Courtney

Once again, an army went into making this book as strong as it could be. Tessa, Amy and Leigh all helped with brainstorming. Kristin Nelson, my amazing agent, and the rest of the agency staff, Sara, Anita and Lindsay, smoothed the way on a thousand counts. My editor, Margo Lipschultz, tirelessly worked to make this the best book it could be, and didn’t flinch too much when I said the hero was a virgin. Thanks to Libby Sternberg, for copyediting above and beyond the call of duty. The team at Harlequin produced my favorite cover yet.

The Vanettes helped with cover copy. The Pixies, Destination Debut and the Loop that Must Not Be Named helped with sanity. Franzeca Drouin, as always, saved me more times than I could count. Elyssa Papa holds a special place in my heart for catching a mistake that would have been very embarrassing, and Kim Castillo made my life easy in a thousand other ways. And my husband didn’t complain (much) when I went to England without him.

Last but not least, I owe a debt of gratitude to those who helped with the research for this book. Lorraine Pratten and Sue Wilson at Shepton Mallet’s Tourist Information and Heritage Centre answered numerous questions. I relied extensively on Fred Davies and Alan Stones’s accounts of historical Shepton Mallet, and would never have found Friar’s Oven without the walking guide from the Mendip Ramblers. Thanks!

Unclaimed

For Wathel. Who was always my sister,

even when she was very, very far away.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

CHAPTER ONE

London

June, 1841

SIR MARK TURNER did not look like any virgin that Jessica had ever seen before.

Perhaps, she mused, it was because he was surrounded by women.

The uneven glass of the taproom window obscured the tableau unfolding across the street. Not that she would have been able to see anything, even had she been standing in the muck of the road. After all, it had taken less than a minute for the mob to form. The instant Sir Mark had come out the door across the way, a carriage had come to an abrupt halt. A pair of young ladies had spilled out, tugged along by an eager chaperone. Two elderly matrons, strolling along the gangway, had laid eyes on him a few moments later and darted in front of a cart with surprising speed.

The oldest woman now had one clawed hand on the cuff of his greatcoat and the other on her cane—and she was merely the most aggressive of his hangers-on. Sir Mark was thronged on all sides by women…and the occasional man, sporting one of those ridiculous blue rose cockades on his hat. Jessica could see nothing of him through the crowd but the gray of his coat and a glint of golden hair. Still, she could imagine him flashing that famous smile reproduced in woodcuts in all the newspapers: a confident, winning grin, as if he were aware that he was the most sought-after bachelor in London.

Jessica had no desire to join the throng around Sir Mark. She had no autograph book to wave at him, and the likes of her wouldn’t have been welcomed in any event.

Sir Mark handled the crowd well. He didn’t bask in the attention, as the men of Jessica’s acquaintance might have done. Neither did he shrink from the pressing women. Instead, he ordered them about with an air of gentle command—signing the little books with a pencil he produced from a pocket, shaking hands—all the while making his way inexorably toward the street corner, where a carriage stood.

When Jessica thought of virgins, she imagined youths plagued by red spots or youngsters who wore thick spectacles and spoke with a stammer. She didn’t think of blond men with clean-shaven, angular faces. She certainly didn’t imagine tall fellows whose smiles lit up the dark, rainy street. It all went to show: Jessica knew nothing of virgins.

Hardly a surprise. She’d not spoken to a single one, not in all her years in London.

Beside her, George Weston let out a snort. “Look at him,” he scoffed. “He’s acting like a damned jackanapes—parading up and down the street as if he owned the place.”

Jessica traced her finger against the window. In point of fact, Sir Mark’s brother, newly the Duke of Parford, did own half the buildings on the street. It would annoy Weston if she corrected him, and so for a moment, she considered doing so.

But then, Sir Mark’s presence was irritation enough. Some days, it seemed as if every society paper in London sent out a new issue every time he sneezed. Not much of an exaggeration. How many times had she passed post-boys waving scandal sheets, headlines a half-page high declaring: Sir Mark: Threatened by Illness?

“He must think,” Weston continued, “that just because his brother is a duke—” he spat those words “—and the Queen has shown him a little favor, that he can caper about, displacing everyone who stands as his better. Did you know they’re considering him for Commissioner?”

Jessica slanted him another glance. No; no need to rile the man. He could work himself into a lather without any help from her, and for now, she still needed him.

“He’s never had to try for anything,” Weston groused. “It just falls in his lap. And here I’ve been running myself ragged, trying to put myself forward. Lefevre’s spot was practically promised to me. But no—now it’s Turner’s for the asking.”

Sir Mark reached his carriage. He smiled to one and all. Even inside the taproom, Jessica could hear the cries of disappointment as a footman closed the carriage door.

“I don’t understand how he became such a darling of London society,” Weston vented. “Would you believe that they’ve tapped him for the office not because he has any administrative experience, but because they wish to increase public approval? Why everyone cares about him, I can’t understand. He’s unwilling to engage in even the most time-honored gentlemanly pursuits.”

By which Weston undoubtedly meant drinking and wenching.

“He wrote a book.” Jessica pressed her hands against her skirt. Understatement served her purposes better than truth. “It has enjoyed a run of some little popularity.”

“Don’t start on the bloody Gentleman’s Guide,” Weston growled. “And don’t mention the bloody MCB, either. That man is a plague on my house.”

Before Sir Mark’s conveyance could spirit him away, the footmen had to politely clear the crowd from in front of the horses. The carriage was closed, but through a window on the side that faced her, Jessica could see Sir Mark’s silhouette. He removed his hat and bowed his head. It was a posture halfway between despair and exhaustion.

So. All those smiles and handshakes were false. Good. A man who put on one false front would put on another, and if all his vaunted moral superiority was an act, it would make Jessica’s work very, very easy. Besides, if Sir Mark despaired over a little thing like a mob determined to pay him adulation, he deserved what was coming to him. One paid a price for popularity.

And Sir Mark’s book had been very popular indeed. The Queen had read it, and had knighted its author for his contribution to popular morality. Thereafter, his work had been read in all the favored salons in London. Every Sunday sermon quoted passages from the Gentleman’s Guide. Why, just last month, a diminutive version had been printed, so that women could carry his words about in their skirt pockets—or in intimate compartments sewn into their petticoats for just that purpose.

There was something rather ironic, Jessica thought, about proper young ladies carrying A Gentleman’s Practical Guide to Chastity as near to their naked thighs as they could manage.

But women were not his only devotees. Some days, it seemed as if half the men of London had joined that benighted organization of his followers. They were everywhere on the streets these days, with their blue cockades and their supposedly secret hand signals. Sir Mark had done the impossible. He’d made chastity popular.

Beside her, Weston watched with narrowed eyes as the carriage finally started up. The coachman flicked his whip, and the conveyance moved slowly through the gathered crowd. He shook his head and turned to consider Jessica. It was only in her imagination that his eyes left a rancid, oily film behind.

“I don’t suppose you asked me here just so I could talk about the insufferable Mark Turner.” His eyes fell to her bosom in idle, lecherous speculation. “I told you you’d miss me, Jess. Come. Tell me about this…this proposition of yours.”

He took her arm; she gritted her teeth at the touch of his fingers and managed not to flinch.

She hated that appellation. Jess sounded like a falcon’s leash, as if she were captured and hooded and possessed by him. She’d hated it ever since she realized she had been pinioned—tamed, taught commands and trotted out on the occasions when he needed to make use of her. But she had hardly been in a position to object to his use of it.

Someday. Someday soon. It was not a promise she made as he led her to the table in the back room. It was a last breath of hope, whispered into darkness.

Jessica sat in the chair that Weston pulled up for her.

Six months ago, she’d sent him on his way. She’d thought she would never have to see him again. If her plan succeeded now, she would not have to. She would be free from Weston and London…and this life in its entirety.

Weston took his seat at the head of the table. Jessica stared across at him. She had never loved him, but for a while, he had been tolerable. Neither generous nor overly demanding. He had kept her safe and clothed. She hadn’t needed to pretend too hard; he’d not wanted her false protestations of affection.

“Well, Jess,” Weston said. “Shall I ring for tea?”

At the words, her hands clenched around the sticky wood of the taproom table. She could feel each of her breaths, sharp inside her lungs. They labored in the cavern of her breast, as if she were climbing to the top of a tower. For just an instant, she felt as if she had ascended some great height—as if this man was a small, distant specimen, viewed from on high. Reality seemed very far away.

What she managed to say was: “No tea.”

“Oh.” He glanced at her sidelong. “Ha. Right. I’d forgotten entirely. You’re not still put out over that, are you?”

She had always thought that the life of a courtesan would take its toll slowly over time. That she might tolerate it for at least a decade to come, before her beauty slowly faded into age.

But no. Six months ago, her life had become unbearable over the course of one cup of tea. She didn’t respond, and he sighed, slouching in his chair.

“Well, then. What is it you want?” he asked.

What she wanted sounded so simple. When she went outside, she wanted to feel the sunlight against her face.

She hadn’t realized how bad matters had become until the first sunny day of spring had arrived. She’d gone outdoors—had been chivied outside, in fact, by a friend—to promenade in the park. She had felt nothing—not inside her, nor out. She hadn’t felt cold. She hadn’t felt warm. And when the spring sun had hit her face, it had been nothing but pale light.

This man had made her into dark gray stone, from the surface of her skin to the center of her soul. No nerves. No hopes. No future.

“I didn’t come here to tell you what I want,” she said firmly.

She wanted never again to have to fill another man’s bed, telling falsehoods with her body until her mind could no longer track her own desires. She wanted to rid herself of the murk and the mire that had filled her. This life had bound her as effectively as if she were a falcon tied by a leather shackle, and she wanted to be free.

She steepled her fingers. “You’ve offered a reward to the woman who seduces Sir Mark Turner.”

These words had an immediate effect. Weston sucked his breath in. “How did you know that was me? I thought I kept that quiet.” He looked at her. “It’s supposed to be quiet. It’s no good if I ruin the man at the expense of my own reputation.”

She shrugged. “A little research. There’s not much secrecy among courtesans.”

“I shouldn’t have bothered. A reward of three hundred pounds, and the finest whores in all of London have failed. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of taking him on, Jess.”

She met his gaze without flinching.

“You are thinking of it.” Weston’s lip curled. “Of course you are. You’re between protectors. Honestly, Jess. If you’re that desperate for funds, I’ll take you back.”

After what he’d done to her six months ago, the offer should have made her skin crawl. As it was, the proposition felt like nothing more than the cold gray of shadow.

She should have yearned for justice. She should have wanted revenge. She should, at a minimum, have wanted to extract something from him, of a size and shape to fill the desolate wasteland of nothingness he’d left inside her.

But she’d learned years ago that there was no justice, not for a woman like her. There was no way to crawl backward, to unravel the harms that had been done. There were only small, timid paths to be found through tangled underbrush. If you were lucky, you might hit upon one and escape the dark forest.

“It happens,” she said, “that I have something none of those other women had.”

Weston rubbed his chin. “Well, what is it?”

Desperation, she thought.

But what she said was, “Information. Sir Mark is returning to his boyhood home for the summer—a small market town called Shepton Mallet. I gather he wants to escape the adoring throngs for a period. He’ll be away from his loving public. Staying, not in his brother’s mansion, packed with servants, but in an isolated house, with only a few villagers to come by and take care of his needs.”

“That’s not precisely a secret.”

“With nobody watching him, he’ll have the opportunity to stray from his righteous path. He wouldn’t dare, here in London—he’s the center of everyone’s attention. Out there…?” She trailed off suggestively. “At a very minimum, I should like the chance to try.”

“If you know I made the offer, you know the rules. Seduce him. It needs to be believable—I’ve tried to ruin him with false accounts already, so you’ll have to prove it by getting his ring. Tell the entire ton your experience through the gossip sheets and destroy Sir Mark’s good reputation. Do all that, and you’ll get your money.”

Jessica tapped her lips. “I will be investing far more than an evening’s work. He’ll have to think me available. Not good enough to marry, but genteel enough that I’d make good…company. I’ll be hiring a house in the country. Retaining servants.” It would stretch her last reserves to the breaking point. If this failed, she would have no choice but to find another protector. She stared flatly at the table in front of her. “If I do it, I want three thousand.”

Enough to purchase a small home in the country in a tiny village where nobody knew her. Enough to have morning after morning to herself, to lift her face to the sun. They said time healed all wounds. Jessica prayed it was so, that one day she might feel more than this impossible emptiness.

Weston clapped his hands. “So. The vicar’s daughter has learned to bargain. Admit it, Jess. I made you who you are. You owe me.”

She did owe him. He had made her, twice over. But there was no point in dreaming of a revenge that would never come. Right now, she just wanted to survive. “Three thousand,” she repeated coolly.

“One thousand pounds,” he countered. “Ruin Sir Mark, and I’ll consider it a bargain at the price.”

She’d be damned if she agreed. But then, she was already damned. The only question was whether she’d get full value for her soul.

“Fifteen hundred,” she told him, “and not one penny less.”

“Agreed.” He held out his hand, as if he honestly expected her to shake it.

For one brief second, she imagined grabbing hold of the fireplace poker, not too distant, and smashing it into his arm. Hard. He would fall to his knees… The imagined jolt of the impact shook her from her reverie. “Agreed, then,” she said, pushing to her feet.

Still, she didn’t shake his hand.

CHAPTER TWO

Shepton Mallet

Two weeks later

PEACE. AT LAST.

Sir Mark Turner had walked all the way from the small house on the northern edge of Shepton Mallet into the very center of town, without attracting any more attention than any other newcomer who might make his way to Market Place in the early morning. He’d received a few nods, a few long stares. But there had been no choking crowds, no cries of recognition. No men had followed him, aghast that he walked about without an honor guard twelve-strong.

He’d wanted distance and anonymity to think about the proposal he’d received, to join the Commission on the Poor Laws. Here he’d found it.

He stood in the midst of the market, unmolested. Tomorrow, the rectangular pavement would be filled with butchers and cheesemongers. Today, it was blissfully quiet: only a few individuals could be seen.

Mark had grown up in Shepton Mallet. He knew the history of this square—a mix of the new, the old and the downright ancient. The public house, off to the side of the market, had been built centuries before Mark had been born. An elderly woman had taken shelter from the early-morning sun under the stone arches of the structure that marked the center of the square. Market Cross was a haphazard combination: half gothic spires, half hexagonal stone gazebo. Its tallest tower was topped by a cross. It stood alone in a sea of cobblestones, as if it were the confused, lost nephew of the stone church that stood on the corner.

In the two decades since Mark had left it, the town had changed. People he dimly remembered from childhood had grown older. He’d walked past a building on the way here that had once been a bustling wool mill; now, it was nothing but a burned-out shell. But those minor alterations only underscored how slow change was in arriving. Shepton Mallet was very distant from the frenetic hustle of London. There was no hurry here. Even the sheep he’d encountered on his walk seemed to bleat at a slower rate than the livestock in London.

A few people stood on the edges of the square, conversing. From here, he could not make out individual words—just the rough lilt of Somerset farm country, a rise and fall that, from a distance, sounded like…home.

He hadn’t been back in more than twenty years. Long enough to lose the accent himself, long enough that his tongue felt too fast, too sharp in his mouth, an unwelcome, foreign invader in this familiar place. London sped along at the frenzied pace of steam and piston; Shepton Mallet strolled, like cows returning from the field at the end of a long summer day.

If anyone heard his name, they might recall his mother. They might even conjure up an image of his father, which was more than Mark himself could bring to mind. Perhaps they would also remember Mark: a thin, pale child, who’d accompanied his mother on her charitable missions. They wouldn’t think of Sir Mark Turner, knighted by Victoria’s hand, author of A Gentleman’s Practical Guide to Chastity. They wouldn’t see a shining beacon of saintly virtue.

Thanks be to God. He’d escaped.

He turned slowly. It was early on a Thursday morning, but the market was exactly how he remembered it. The ancient stalls of the marketplace—rough, broad-wood benches—were no doubt still in use because in all the centuries of their service, nobody had ever considered replacing them. They were even called by their old name here: the Shambles. Doubtless, they’d seen as many centuries of service as the public house.

Mark smiled. With all this aging history around him, not one person would care who he was in the present.

“Sir Mark Turner?”

Mark whirled around. He’d never met the man who stood at his back, one hand raised in tentative greeting. He was a plump fellow, dressed in clergyman’s black, with a stiff white clerical collar to match.

The man dropped his raised hand. “I’m Alexander Lewis—the rector of the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul. Don’t look so startled. I’ve been expecting you ever since news got out that your brother the duke had purchased the old Tamish house.”

It wasn’t the old Tamish house; it was the old Turner house. But then, this fellow was one of the few things that was new to Shepton Mallet. As the rector, no doubt he concerned himself with comings and goings. His curiosity was natural. He wasn’t the harbinger of a sudden throng. Mark relaxed slightly.

“I’d heard of your family from my predecessor,” the man was saying. “Welcome back to Shepton Mallet.”

So he was to be the prodigal, returning after decades of desertion. Even better. “The town’s almost exactly as I recall,” Mark said. “But surely you can tell me. What is the latest news?”

As Mark had suspected, Lewis needed little encouragement to begin talking. In minutes, he’d produced a stream of words that Mark needed only half his mind to monitor. After all, they both knew that the only thing that changed in Shepton Mallet was the degree to which the abandoned mills deteriorated every year.

“But times are looking up,” Lewis was saying, capping off a monologue on those selfsame mills. “There’s a new shoe factory beginning to make its mark. And the crepe manufacturers have been seeing redoubled orders. After Her Majesty purchased the silk for her wedding gown from Shepton mills, we’ve seen more patronage.”

This was what small-town life meant. This last was not news—at least, not in the sense that it was new. It was a measure of how slowly time passed in sleepy Shepton Mallet, that the primary topic of conversation was the Queen’s marriage, an event that had taken place more than a year in the past.

Mark had been right to come here. Here, they might have heard of his book and his knighthood. But in this little town, he could escape the inexplicable swarms that had gathered in London. He would be left in peace.

People might even believe that he was human here—the sort of person who had faults and who committed sins—instead of some sort of saint.

“Why,” the rector continued, “I assure you, everyone here feels a debt of gratitude to you on that score.”

The first discordant note sounded in Mark’s bucolic dream. “Gratitude?” he asked in befuddlement. “To me? Why on earth would anyone be grateful to me?”

“Such humility!” Lewis beamed at him. “Everyone knows it was your favor that brought Her Majesty’s eye upon us!” As he spoke, Lewis leaned forward and tapped Mark’s lapels lightly.

A deep dread welled up inside of him. This was not a forward, grasping sort of fumble. Instead, it was a reverent little touch—the way one might dip a forefinger into a font of holy water.

“Oh, no,” Mark protested. “No, no. Really, you mustn’t put that complexion on it. I—”

“We here in Shepton Mallet are truly grateful, you know. If the silk manufacturers had failed…” Lewis spread his arms wide, and Mark looked around. The few people dispersed around the square were all staring at him in avid curiosity.

Not again. Please. He’d come here to escape the adulation, not to be feted once more.

“This town owes you much. Everyone’s been waiting for me to make your acquaintance, so I might show you around. Let me start with this introduction.”

Lewis motioned with one hand, and a figure slouching against one side of the Market Cross straightened. The man—no, however tall the figure, it was a boy—came dashing over, nearly tripping over ungainly feet.

Whoever this young man was—and he could not have been a day older than seventeen—he was well-dressed. He was wearing a top hat. He raised his hand to adjust it every few seconds, as if the article of apparel were new to him after years of the quartered caps that boys favored.

“Sir Mark Turner,” Lewis was saying, with all the pomp of a high-church official, “may I present to you Mr. James Tolliver.”

James Tolliver wore a blue ribbon cockade, artfully formed into the shape of a rose, on the brim of his hat. Mark’s hopes, which had so recently soared as high as the church’s tower, fell eight stories to dash on the cobblestones underfoot. Please. Not a blue rose cockade. Anything but a blue rose cockade. Maybe the ornament was just an accident. Maybe some peddler had brought through a batch, without explaining their significance. Because the alternative—that he was not escaping the hubbub of London, that he had not left behind the hangers-on and the constant reports in the gossip columns—was too appalling to contemplate. He’d come to Shepton Mallet to relax into its relative timelessness.

But Tolliver was peering up at him with wide, brilliant eyes. Mark knew that look—that gaze of utter delight. Tolliver looked as if he’d just received a pony for Christmas and couldn’t wait for his first ride.

And by the way he was staring, Mark was the pony. Before Mark could say anything, his hand was captured in an impassioned grip.

“Forty-seven, sir!” Tolliver squeaked.

Mark stared at the earnest young man in front of him in confusion. The boy had barked out those words as if they had some special significance. “Forty-seven what?”

Forty-seven people who might accost him on the street? Forty-seven more months before society forgot who he was?

The boy’s face fell. “Forty-seven days,” he said, sheepishly.

Mark shook his head in confusion. “Forty-seven days is a little long for a flood, and a bit short for Michaelmas term.”

“It’s been forty-seven days of chastity. Sir.” He frowned in puzzlement. “Didn’t I do it right? Isn’t that how members of the MCB greet one another? I’m the one who started the local division, and I want to make sure our details are correct.”

So the cockade was real, then. Mark stifled a groan. It had been foolish to hope that the MCB had restricted itself to London. It was embarrassing enough there, with those cockades and their weekly meetings. Not to mention the secret hand signals—somebody was always trying to teach him the secret hand signals.

Why was it that men had to take every good principle and turn it into some sort of a club? Why could nobody do the right thing on his own? And how had Mark gotten himself embroiled as the putative head of this one?

“I’m not a member of the Male Chastity Brigade,” Mark said, trying not to make his words sound like a rebuke. “I just wrote the book.”

For a moment, Tolliver simply stared at him in disbelief. Then he smiled. “Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “After all, Jesus wasn’t Church of England, either.”

Beside him, the rector nodded at this piece of utter insanity. Mark wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or weep.

Instead, he gently removed his hand from Tolliver’s grip. “One thing to consider,” he said. “Comparing me to Christ is…” Ridiculous, for one, but he didn’t want to humiliate the poor boy. A logical fallacy, for another. But this young man, however exuberant, meant well. And he was trying. It was hard to be angry about a youth throwing his heart and soul into chastity, when so many others his age were off pursuing prizefights and fathering bastards instead.

But without any chastisement on his part at all, the boy turned white. “Blasphemous,” he said. “It was blasphemous. I was just blasphemous in front of Sir Mark Turner. Oh, God.”

Mark decided not to mention he’d blasphemed again. “People are allowed to make mistakes in front of me.”

Tolliver lifted adoring eyes. “Yes. Of course. I should have known you’d have the goodness to forgive me.”

“I’m not a saint. I’m not a holy man. I just wrote a book.”

“Your humility, sir—your good nature. Truly, you are an example to us all,” Tolliver insisted.

“I make mistakes, too.”

“Really, sir? Might I inquire—how long has it been for you? How many days?”

The question was invasive and impolite, and Mark raised an eyebrow.

Tolliver cringed back a step in response. Perhaps he’d recognized the impertinence.

“I—I’m sure it’s in all the papers,” he said, “but we only get a handful of them, when someone visits London. I…I surely should know. P-please forgive my ignorance.”

Perhaps he hadn’t. And what did it matter if he asked Mark? Mark had written the book on chastity. Literally. He sighed and performed a rough calculation. “Ten thousand,” he replied. “Give or take.”

The boy gave an impressed whistle.

Mark was less impressed. If there was a local MCB here, all that remained to cut up his peace was—

“Your worshippers are not restricted to the men, of course,” Lewis said. “On Sunday, after service, I hope to introduce you to my daughter, Dinah.”

—that. The constant efforts to thrust suitable women in Mark’s way. In all truth, Mark wouldn’t have minded meeting a woman who actually suited him. But beside him, Tolliver frowned, rubbing his chin, and glanced at Mark in consternation, as if the man had set himself up as a sudden rival. If this Dinah was someone that interested the youthful Tolliver, it meant that this exchange was following the usual pattern. After all, the only women that others deemed suitable for a gentleman of his supposed righteousness were—

“She’s a sweet girl,” Lewis was saying, “obedient and chaste and comely. She’s biddable—a confident, strong man such as yourself would make her an extraordinary husband. And she’s not quite sixteen, so you could form her precisely as you wished.”

Of course. Mark shut his eyes in despair. Write a book on chastity, and somehow the whole world got the notion that your preferred bride would be a malleable child.

“I’m twenty-eight,” Mark said dryly.

“Not yet twice her age, then!” the rector said, with a smile that contained not a hint of awareness. He leaned forward and whispered confidentially, “I should hate to see her saddled to an old man. Or—” he cast a pointed look at Tolliver “—a young pup, who scarcely knows his own mind. Now. I know you’re keeping a bachelor household. I can start drawing up a rotation immediately. If we have you scheduled for tea and supper on a daily basis, why, within six weeks, all of the best families—”

“No.” There was nothing for it. Mark was going to have to be rude. “Absolutely not. I came here for peace and solitude—not daily engagements. Certainly not twice daily engagements.”

The man’s face fell. Tolliver flinched, and Mark felt as if he had just kicked a puppy. Why, oh, why, could his book not have disappeared into a sea of anonymity, as most books did?

“Weekly,” Mark conceded. “No more.”

The rector gave a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose. Perhaps if we had larger events. A church picnic? Yes. That should answer. Followed by—oh, dear.” Lewis glanced across the square and his voice hardened. “Well. At least this way, we can keep you from the unsavory elements.”

Mark followed his gaze. A few rays of sun shone through the clouds, brightening the produce in the market shambles across the square. The patrons at the marketplace had arrayed themselves so that they all had a view of him. But the rector was staring at a woman who had entered the square.

For an instant, all Mark could see was her hair—an ebony spill of ink, braided and pinned up in intricate loops that just kissed her shoulders, covered with the barest excuse for a lace bonnet. He’d always thought of black as a colorless hue, but her hair seemed so black it was every color at once, the rays of the sun spangling it. And there was a great mass of it on her head. Freed from the pins and braids, rid of that flimsy bit of lace, all that dark hair would reach past her thighs. It would be a great warm cloud of silk in his hands.

She moved smoothly, almost gliding over the cobblestones. Her strides suggested long, lean legs beneath her flowing skirts. She stopped before the public house. Even though it was not yet market day, the greengrocer had begun to gather goods for the next morning. She peered at the items and made the act of examining a head of cabbage seem like a verse of poetry.

It was only then that he noticed precisely what the rector was staring at. Her gown was the lightest shade of pink, but she had cinched it at her waist with a cherry-red ribbon. Yet more ribbons were threaded through the bodice of her gown, drawing attention to the curves of her breasts. Not that her bosom needed attention to be drawn to it; her figure was, to put it mildly, stunning. She wasn’t impossibly thin and delicate; nor was she extraordinarily buxom. Still, she somehow made every woman around her seem wrong and ill-proportioned by comparison.

For just one second, Mark felt a wistful tug. Why doesn’t anyone ever try and foist women like her off on me instead?

In London, she would have garnered second and third glances—more out of curiosity and admiration than contempt. Here? No doubt the inhabitants of Shepton Mallet had no idea what to make of a woman like this one—or a gown as daring as the one she wore. But Mark knew. That was the sort of dress that commanded: look at me.

Mark had never taken well to commands. He turned away.

“Ah, yes,” the rector said. “Mrs. Farleigh.” The stuffy tone of his voice suggested that Mrs. Farleigh was an unwelcome inhabitant of the village, but it was belied by the rector’s posture. He watched her, his eyes following her across the square with an expression that was closer to avarice than outrage. “Just look at her!”

Mark wasn’t one to gawk. In his mind, he built a wall of glass bricks—clear, yet impenetrable. With every inhalation, he reminded himself of who he was. What he believed. Breath by breath, brick by brick, he built a fortress to contain his want before it had a chance to roar to uncomfortable life. He stood behind it, lord of his own desire, until nobody could command anything of him.

Not want. Not desire. And definitely—most definitely—not lust. When he was in firm control, he looked again. Even with that gut-struck feeling of stupidity walled off, she was objectively, undeniably beautiful.

“She arrived almost two weeks ago. She’s a widow. Still, she’s said little about her people or her past. I suspect it’s because she feels it’s best left unsaid. One has only to look at her to imagine what she’s done.”

Rectors, Mark supposed, were as free to imagine lascivious goings-on as anyone else. He didn’t think they should gossip about them, though. Mrs. Farleigh looked up across the market square, and her gaze fell on him. Her expression didn’t change—which was to say, that small mysterious curl of a smile stayed on her lips.

Still, even through his fortress of glass, he felt a tiny jolt of electric resonance, as if lightning had struck nearby. She started in his direction.

Before she could come much closer, the rector snapped into motion. He darted through the stone arches of the Market Cross and took hold of Mrs. Farleigh’s shoulder. Not in a friendly, rectorlike way. Nor even as a rebuke. His gloved hand landed rather too close to her breast for any of that.

Mrs. Farleigh’s artful smile suggested that she was worldly. Her revealing gown shouted that she was a temptress. The rector’s gossip said she was worse. But when Lewis placed his hands on her, she flinched—no more than a half step backward, a twitch of her skin, but that was enough. For one instant, she had more the look of scalded cat about her than graceful swan, and that half second of response betrayed her air of worldly sensuality. She was not who she appeared at first blush.

Mark was suddenly interested—interested in a way that a low-cut gown and a striking figure could never have accomplished.

From these yards away, he could barely make out the conversation. No doubt neither believed they could be overheard. But they stood just on the other side of the Market Cross, and the acoustics through the stone were unexpectedly good.

“Come, Mrs. Farleigh,” the rector was whispering harshly. “As it’s not market day, there’s no need to display your wares so openly. Nobody here is buying those sorts of goods.”

Mrs. Farleigh had flinched at his touch. But at the intimation that she was selling her body, she did not react in the slightest. “Oh, Reverend,” she replied, equally softly. “Whatsoever is sold in the shambles…”

She trailed off, invitingly, and Mark automatically filled in the remainder: Whatsoever is sold in the shambles, that, eat, asking no question for conscience sake. The words took him two decades back, to his earliest memories—reciting Bible verses while his mother looked at the wall behind him, her head nodding in time to music that only she seemed to hear. Those words he’d memorized were still burned into him, that sharp juxtaposition of right and horribly, terribly wrong.

Lewis shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We sell corn here. And cattle.”

Her smile ticked up another notch, and Mark’s respect for her increased. The rector—upstanding, breast-grappling citizen that he was—hadn’t noticed that the godless Mrs. Farleigh had just quoted the Bible at him. He probably hadn’t even recognized the verse. Mrs. Farleigh’s hand drifted to her shoulder, to the point where the rector’s hand lay. She picked his gloved fingers up between thumb and forefinger, as if a dead leaf had landed on her, and then let his arm drop to his side.

“I shan’t keep you, Rector,” she said, her voice gentle. “I’m sure there are a great many things you would like to purchase. Maybe the other wares you examine will actually be for sale.”

She turned away, not looking at Mark. The rector stared after her, folding his arms about his chest in dissatisfaction. He watched her go with rather more interest than a rector ought to have had. Finally, he turned to face Mark. “There,” he said, in a loud, carrying voice, as he wiped his hands together. “Don’t you worry, Sir Mark. We’ll make sure that the likes of her never bother you again.”

Mark glanced once at Mrs. Farleigh, who was walking back toward the greengrocer. The red of her sash made the stack of radishes look pale by comparison. She made the entire town seem faded and washed out, like a poor watercolor painting of itself.

He was chaste, not a saint. And he was just looking.

But she’d already made a contradiction of herself, one as stark and intriguing as the light color of her dress, juxtaposed against the vibrant slash of color at her waist. She’d called the rector a hypocrite to his face, and the man hadn’t even noticed. What would she say if she looked Mark in the eyes?

Would she see a saint? An icon to be worshipped?

Or would she see him?

The possibility hung in the air, too powerful to be ignored. No. No use telling himself falsehoods. He wasn’t just looking at her. He wanted to know more.

CHAPTER THREE

JESSICA HAD NOT considered what it meant, that Sir Mark was returning to his childhood home for the summer. She’d lived in—or near enough to— London for the past seven years of her life. Her protectors had taken her along on their excursions to the country. But improper as her role had been, they would never have introduced her to the neighbors. She’d imagined the country as a smaller, more private version of the city—just with fewer people and no operas. So quickly had she forgotten her childhood.

In a way, she did have more privacy. Jessica had found a cottage on the outskirts of town, half a mile past the point where cobblestones gave way to dirt and houses to fields. She sometimes went hours without seeing a soul besides the maid-of-all-work she’d brought with her from London.

But for precisely that same reason, she was unlikely to meet Sir Mark ambling down the country lane that led to her abode.

And that meant there was only one place she could go, knowing for certain he would attend: church. Early on a summer morning, the stone walls were still cool. But the bodies packed inside made the interior warmer than she’d expected. There was a hierarchy to the rows, no less. The wealthiest families sat up front in reserved pews; the simple folk stood in the back.

The people of Shepton Mallet had not yet worked out where Jessica belonged. She had enough money to let a house and bring a servant with her. But she’d answered no questions about her family or her origins—a sure sign of dubious morality on her part. On top of that, she was beautiful, and beautiful women were not to be trusted.

In London, nobody trusted anyone, and so the mistrust never bothered her. Here, she had taken a place halfway toward the rear of the church.

Sir Mark, of course, sat in the first row, the entire congregation as interested in him as they were in the rector leading service.

Jessica had tried to make his acquaintance before service began, but half the town had the same idea. The other half—having already met him—had been equally determined to keep him from Mrs. Farleigh of the unknown origins. Still, she couldn’t regret her dubious reputation. She wanted to seduce him, after all, not inveigle him into offering marriage. She needed to be the kind of woman whom a man like him wouldn’t marry. It all made a kind of frustrating sense…but she’d not yet made his acquaintance.

His attention had not strayed from the rector through the entire service. But as Lewis wound into his inevitable conclusion, Sir Mark turned in his seat. It was not idle inattention that turned his head. He looked straight at her. As if he’d known where she sat. As if he had realized that she was watching him.

Their eyes met. She didn’t duck her head or avert her gaze—any of the things that a shy, retiring lady might have done. Instead she met his eyes calmly.

His gaze dipped.

For a second, she regretted the unfortunate habit that had led her to wear a respectable gown to service. All these years, and she still reached for a sober, high-necked gown.

His eyes came up, met hers again—and then, very deliberately, he winked at her.

She had only a moment to stare at him before he turned to the front once more.

What had that meant? What had he intended? Her stomach knotted, for all the world as if she were a young girl, wanting to misconstrue every last glance given her by the boy she fancied. But this was no girlish desire that caught her breath. It was her livelihood, her survival, her very future that flashed by her in the wink of his eye. It had to mean something.

Her questions echoed, even after the congregation rose and began to disperse. Sir Mark was surrounded the instant he got to his feet; by the time he’d made his way to the rear of the chapel, he was bethronged.

Jessica waited by the iron fence that surrounded the churchyard. She was not going to him. She would not be one of a score of girls begging for his attention, surrounding him in a positive frenzy of innocence. Still, she almost wished that she could have been one of them—that she could have looked at him and seen bright hope.

Instead, she had nothing but stone-cold calculation. She abhorred trickery. She disliked the idea of deceit. But she was long past the careful weighing of morality. She’d given up that part of her long ago. And if he didn’t come to her before her remaining funds ran out, she’d have to resort to a stratagem of some kind.

He caught sight of her and held up one hand. The babble of voices cut off around him, as if it were a conjurer’s trick.

“Wait here,” he said, and the multitude assembled about him—a motley collection of elderly matrons, young men and hopeful, unmarried ladies—all held their collective breath. He walked toward her across the yard. A few gravestones stood between them; the grass was bright green, the sun too hot. His hair seemed almost too blond, too gold, and it sparkled like a king’s treasure hoard.

He stopped a few feet before her. “I did ask for a proper introduction,” he said, his voice quiet enough not to be overheard by his waiting audience, “but oddly—nobody was willing to perform it.”

“That,” Jessica said, “is because I am a very, very wicked woman.” She took a step closer and held out her gloved hand to him, steeling herself for his touch. “Mrs. Jessica Farleigh, official town disgrace. At your service.”

He didn’t bow over her fingers, as any other gentleman would have done. But neither did he falter at this introduction. Instead, he clasped her hand in his and shook it—as if they’d entered into a secret compact together. Even through her glove, she could feel the press of his ring against her flesh. What she needed was so close…

“Sir Mark Turner,” he said. “I speak with the tongues of a thousand angels. Butterflies follow me wherever I go. Birds sing when I take a breath.”

He relinquished her hand as easily as he’d taken it. She could feel the phantom pressure of his grip against her palm, strong and steady. She stared at him, unsure how to respond to that introduction. If Sir Mark had actually been mad, surely the matter would have been broached in the London papers.

“That must be rather disconcerting,” she finally said. “You appear to have lost your butterflies.”

A light danced in his eyes. “I propose we come to an understanding. I won’t accept the gossip about you on its face, so long as you don’t believe everything that’s said about me.”

“Sir Mark!” The call came from behind him, and one of his braver admirers ventured forth. No doubt they judged that he’d spent too long in her tarnishing company already. They wouldn’t want the town’s golden child tainted, after all.

Jessica had only a few moments of this comparative privacy left with him. “You are not what I expected to find, after reading the London papers.”

“You’ve read that? Forget it all. I implore you.”

She turned her head slightly and gave him her most captivating smile. As she did, she could see it captivate him. He was better at hiding his reaction than most men, but his mouth curled up just a little more. He stood just a little straighter. And his body canted toward hers ever so slightly. He was attracted to her—very much so. He was caught.

And she had only to reel him in. He’d been so easy after all.

But the crowd was bearing down on him. It wasn’t as if she could consummate his downfall in the churchyard anyway.

“You mean,” she said, “that you’re not a saint? Sir Mark, your public will be shocked.”

His eyes met hers once more.

“No,” he said quietly. “Don’t canonize me. I’m a man, Mrs. Farleigh. Just a man.”

He turned from her, just as a lady in purple bombazine reached to tap his elbow. Jessica did not miss the venomous gaze that the elderly woman shot her way. Once again, Sir Mark walked in the throng. The women parted to let him through—and closed about him afterward.

I’m just a man.

If Jessica knew anything, she knew men. She knew what men wanted, and she knew how to give it to them. And if the remnants of her conscience pricked at the thought of what she must do… Well. She wouldn’t force him to do anything.

She wouldn’t have to.

No; as with all men, she only needed to imply she was available. Sir Mark would be a willing participant in the destruction of his own reputation.

She was only going to need one little stratagem, after all, to hurry him along.

MARK’S FIRST WEEK in Shepton Mallet was taken up in thought.

Ever since he’d been discreetly approached about filling an upcoming vacancy on the Poor Law Commission, he’d been in turmoil. On the one hand, the Commission, responsible for overseeing the workhouses, was universally hated. He’d been approached simply because they’d hoped his popularity would quell the public outrage about recent mishandlings. Mark suspected that, quite to the contrary, the appointment would merely sink him in the eyes of the public.

After all, the whole present policy of poor relief was an utter mess. Mark might make a real difference in the lives of unfortunates if he threw all his energy into the project—and if he’d been granted popularity by a capricious fate, surely he had the responsibility to use it for good. On the other hand, the entire theory behind the system of workhouses seemed fundamentally flawed to Mark. He wasn’t sure if it could be fixed.

He’d expressed these rational concerns to the poor undersecretary who’d paid him a private visit. But there was yet another side that he’d not mentioned, and it was one that echoed most strongly here in Shepton Mallet, between the walls of his childhood home. He’d grown up here. His brother had nearly died here. And all because his mother had gone mad.

Dedicating her life to serving the poor had sounded noble in practice. But she’d taken it to the furthest extreme: giving away the family’s modest competence, until almost nothing was left. Of his three brothers, Mark was the only one who truly understood why she’d done it. It was no comfort that he so easily made sense of the world as seen through the eyes of a madwoman.

Perhaps that was why he’d retreated here after all. He hated the idea of entering politics. Even if he’d wanted to spend his life serving the poor, he’d not have chosen to do so by regulating the day-today administration of workhouses. And yet…

He’d often thought that if he had any work to do on this earth, it was to put his mother’s unquiet legacy to rest. She’d insisted on perfection; Mark had written a practical guide to chastity, that allowed for the merely human. She’d flown into rages at the slightest provocation; he’d worked hard to bring his own temper, never even, under his control. She’d been every righteous impulse, taken to excess. Mark aimed for moderation.

So he hadn’t said no, not yet. Perhaps this was the opportunity he needed to show that he could dedicate his life to the poor while tempering his zeal.

Maybe.

He’d come back here, to his old childhood home, repository of a hundred memories. It had seemed as good a place as any to contemplate the offer. Better; he’d insisted on privacy, and here he’d found it, at least in some small measure.

Today, with rain drumming down on the roof, had been the best day of all.

He’d sent his charwoman home at noon, and the boy who saw to the gardens only came by every other day.

Best of all, with this downpour, the paths were no doubt mud to the ankle. No rational person would come visiting today. Why, Mark might avoid all crowds until the church picnic in two days’ time.

He’d have plenty of time to spend in contemplation.

But just as he’d settled down in a chair with one of his mother’s old journals, a knock sounded on the door. Mark bit back a groan.

He should have realized. When it came to him, nobody was rational.

For a moment, he stared fixedly at the fire in front of him and considered ignoring the summons. It could be the rector—no doubt with his poor bedraggled daughter in tow.

Unbidden, his imagination summoned up another possibility: it might be Mrs. Jessica Farleigh, damp and spangled all over with raindrops. She would be lost, wet and in need of—but no. That sort of ridiculous schoolboy fancy made better entertainment in the dead of night, when he could more appropriately deal with the lust it would engender.

It was probably his charwoman, Mrs. Ashton, come to check on him. No doubt she’d taken one look at the rain when it started, donned oilskins and galoshes and trudged the three miles back to his home, just to make sure he was comfortable. She meant well.

They all did.

With a sigh, he rose to get the door. Truly, it was almost certain to be plain, plump Mrs. Ashton, perhaps with a crock of butter and a loaf of freshly baked bread carefully wrapped in oiled paper. No other rational possibility existed. He threw the door open.

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.

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.

“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.

Mark pulled his gaze from Mrs. Farleigh’s form to contemplate the skinny child by his side.

“Your pardon, Tolliver. Were you trying to catch my attention? My mind is…” He trailed off, thinking of the red silk of Mrs. Farleigh’s skirts, spread on the blanket she’d set out. The carmine of her gown had been in perfect contrast to the pale perfection of her skin. But it wasn’t the cold marble of her complexion that drew him. It was the hint of fire that he’d sensed beneath. As if she were unstable, dangerous and all too enticing. The buzz of insects swirled around him, loud in his ears. “My mind is elsewhere.” Mark turned his head to focus on the young man. “My thoughts have all gone awandering.”

“I didn’t mean just now. I meant before you left to speak with Mrs. Farleigh. I made the signal.” Tolliver held up his hand, his thumb curled to meet his two middle fingers. He twisted it at an angle.

“A signal?”

“The signal,” Tolliver corrected.

Mark stared at the boy’s hand in puzzlement. With his little finger peeled back that way, his hand looked like a small dog, ear cocked, looking on quizzically.

Tolliver tapped the blue rose on his hat, glanced at the women around them with a glare that bespoke a world of suspicion and dropped his voice. “You know. The signal.”

“I’m not familiar with that.” Mark didn’t lower his voice.

Tolliver blushed and looked about furtively. “Shh! Do you want them to hear?”

“I hadn’t realized we were in enemy territory. Who is this them that we fear?”

Tolliver made the signal once again and pointed to his hand. “Didn’t I do it right? It’s supposed to be the signal for ‘Watch out—Dangerous Woman Ahead.’”

Mark counted slowly. One. Two. Three…

“Tolliver,” he finally said, “where did you learn that signal?”

“It was in the introductory pamphlet. A Youth’s Guide to the MCB, by Jedidiah Pruwett, which I—”

“There’s a pamphlet?”

“Yes, advertised in the paper! Send one shilling to…” Tolliver trailed off, glancing at Mark. Maybe it was the curled fists, or the clenched teeth, that gave away Mark’s anger. “That…that wasn’t your pamphlet?”

“No.”

When Mark had sold the rights to his book to a publisher, he’d not given a thought to any potential profit. Philosophical volumes—even ones written for the common man—rarely sold well. And besides, he didn’t need the money. His publisher had paid twenty pounds for exclusive and unlimited rights to the work; Mark had been convinced they’d only given so much because his brother was a duke. Said brother had tried to convince him to hold out for royalties, but Mark only cared to see the volume in print. He’d donated his twenty pounds to charity and thought nothing more of it.

He’d not minded when he heard that the book was in its third printing—or even its twelfth. But then had come the Illustrated Edition. Followed shortly by the Royal Edition—printed particularly for Queen Victoria, bound in leather dyed to match her favorite color. The Floral Edition. The Edition with Local Commentary—that one had included little woodcuts of Parford Manor, Mark’s room at Oxford and his brother’s home in London. Not to mention the infamous Pocket Edition.

He suspected his publisher had a Woodlands Edition ready for production, complete with illustrations of adorable talking deer. Somehow, they would find a way to make the creatures look like him.

No. It wasn’t the money Mark regretted relinquishing. It was the control. And even without a Woodlands Edition, he’d lost it completely. Between the newspapers that tracked his every move and Jedidiah Pruwett, who’d founded the Male Chastity Brigade, he’d had no peace at all.

“Don’t tell me where you sent your money.” Mark drummed his fingers against the seam of his trousers. “I’d really rather not know.”

Tolliver shook his head in confusion. “In any event, that’s where I learned that signal. And I used it today because she’s a danger, she is.”

“That’s what the MCB is teaching? To avoid dangers like that?”

Tolliver swallowed, looking around. Mark’s outburst had drawn the attention of everyone around him. Miss Lewis, the rector’s daughter, had frozen midconversation with her mother and a few others. They turned to Mark as one.

He hated being the center of attention. Especially here in Shepton Mallet, with the green, familiar silhouette of the hills framing the gathering. It reminded him of his childhood, of those months when everybody would pay attention to his mother, watching her as if she were some crazed beast about to spring. As if they might goad her into doing so.

Nobody was thinking of that now—nobody but Mark. His own personal preferences counted not one whit when it came to a matter of right and wrong. He took a deep breath. Unlike his mother, he didn’t need to gibber. He didn’t need to scream. He didn’t need to threaten. People liked him, and that gave him a responsibility.

“I assure you,” Mark said, more quietly, “I have never endorsed such unkind behavior.”

“But, Sir Mark! She’s wearing scarlet. She made you give up your coat. You can’t really believe she’s an innocent. She…she could be a fallen woman!”

“There is no such thing as a fallen woman—you just need to look for the man who pushed her.” He shouldn’t say that, not here. So many people might recognize its source. But no one cringed from his mother’s aphorism. Instead, the rector’s wife gave a thoughtful shake of her head, looking back to Mrs. Farleigh.

“Tolliver,” Mark said, “I adhere to the law of chastity because I don’t believe in pushing women. That’s what it means to be a man. I don’t hurt others simply to make myself feel superior. Gossip can ruin a woman as surely as unchaste behavior. True men don’t indulge in either. We don’t need to.”

Tolliver raised stricken eyes to Mark. “I—I didn’t think of that.”

Most people didn’t.

Mrs. Farleigh had donned his coat. Even that unrelieved, ill-fitting navy could not dim her beauty.

“When someone falls,” Mark said, “you don’t throw her back down in the dirt. You offer her a hand up. It’s the Christian thing to do.” But the thought of taking her hand didn’t make him feel Christian at all. His mind kept slipping back to that evening. Not to her form, dripping wet, but to the wild light that had come into her eyes the moment when she’d told him she hated him. The memory still sent a queer little thrill through him. He didn’t understand it at all.

To his credit, Tolliver didn’t flinch. “What…what do I do?” he asked.

Miss Lewis stood and said, “We go and escort her over here.” She cast her mother a defiant glance. Mark held his breath as the two started across the field. But nobody stopped them.

JESSICA WASN’T SURE what Sir Mark intended when he came up to her an hour later. The picnic was breaking up. Blankets were being folded, and the remains of the repast tucked away for future consumption.

He’d not talked to her in all that intervening time, but she was sure he’d said something about her. The rector’s daughter had come up to her and had admired her gown and hair. The girl had even walked with her, introducing her to women who’d not so much as turned in her direction a week ago at service. She’d promenaded beside Miss Lewis in a growing muddle of confusion, and the passage of time had only served to strengthen it.

Sir Mark stood before her now, and she wasn’t sure if she should be grateful to him. She had been practically an outcast before this afternoon. He’d diverted the flow of gossip, as if he were Hercules and shifting a river on its course was no hardship.

It wasn’t merely that the people had heeded his sterling reputation. Another man might have been diffident and uncomfortable, standing before everyone in his shirtsleeves. Sir Mark, though, acted as if his dishabille were normal. He managed to look fully attired—so much so that she would have felt awkward and ungainly had she pointed out that he lacked a coat.

He didn’t say anything. He simply watched her from a few feet distant. She snapped the blanket she had brought in the air. He snagged one corner as it floated past him and helped her fold it once, then twice, before he passed his gathered ends to her.

He did it so carefully that their hands did not touch. Still he didn’t speak.

Jessica broke the silence. “Thank you for your assistance. You must be…here for your garment.”

One of her hands had already gone to the cuff when he shook his head.

“You’re wrong about that. I’m here to walk you home,” Sir Mark said. “You live up the road beyond the old sawmill, do you not?”

Jessica placed the blanket in her basket. “What do you mean, walk me home?”

“Walk.” He held up two fingers and mimed. “Most people learn how to do it at a young age. I’ve observed that you’re reasonably proficient in the activity.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jessica sputtered.

“Then perhaps you are unsure as to the meaning of the word home? Although—fair warning—I do mean to take you a roundabout way, if you can bear my company for a full half-hour. I thought we’d go along the Doulting Water, and then up the hedgerow.”

“But—”

“Ah, it’s the middle word you’re objecting to, then.”

“Middle word?”

His eyes met hers, intensely blue. She swallowed hard, her stomach clenching. “You.” He said the word as if no other person existed, as if the dissipating crowd stood at a distance of many miles.

She couldn’t say anything. She carefully set her basket on her arm and looked away. She glanced about helplessly, but for once, nobody was hurrying over to separate them, to save Sir Mark from conversing with a woman like her. What had he said to them? And why was he doing this to her?

She straightened, not wanting him to see her confusion. “Surely you plan on defining that term as well?”

“Even if I had the temerity to explain you to yourself, I lack the ability. I don’t know you well enough. That is, after all, the purpose of the endeavor in the first place.” He held out his arm for her. As if she could take it. As if they were just two friends walking together.

Sir Mark did not make any sense at all.

“But—but— This can hardly be—”

“Proper?” He shrugged. “I have been assured it is. Country rules, after all—I have it on the best of authority that a demure little walk is perfectly acceptable, so long as we stick to the lanes and the hedgerows.” He reached out and took her hand, just long enough to guide it to his elbow in unthinking assurance. Even through her gloves, she felt the warmth of his arm through the linen of his shirt. And it was just his shirt that lay between his flesh and her hand. He wasn’t wearing his coat—she was. But he took no notice of it, while she was painfully aware of the lack.

“The best of authority! I should like to see that etiquette book.”

“I didn’t consult a book.” He gave an unconcerned wave to the rector’s wife as he walked her out toward the gate, as if the woman’s suspiciously narrowed gaze were nothing to worry about. “I wrote to the Duchess of Parford and asked.”

She bit her lip, her hands clenching. It took her a moment to identify the emotion that fluttered in her stomach: dazed bewilderment. “The Duchess of Parford. You wrote to the Duchess of Parford about me?”

“Twice now.”

Jessica fell silent, unsure how to respond. He spoke in such an easy way—as if he dashed off letters to duchesses on a regular basis. Well. His brother was a duke, after all. He probably did. She supposed it shouldn’t come as such a surprise. She’d simply forgotten how high his family was. No, not forgotten; he’d made her overlook it, through some trick of his easy manners.

Perhaps that was why she let him guide her down the cobblestoned street in comparative silence. It wasn’t until they reached the shade of the trees that lined the water that Jessica spoke again.

“What did you say to the duchess?”

“She is my sister, you know—married to my brother. And not nearly so intimidating as her title makes her sound. I wanted to stave off any talk in town, so I thought that getting her imprimatur would be useful. After I’d sent the first letter, Margaret naturally bombarded me with questions.”

“Questions?” The river was running through high, grass-covered banks. A wood bridge crossed over one arm of the water, rushing into a millrace, but the main body burbled by noisily to her right.

“She wanted to know how long I’ve known you. Are you pretty? Clever?” He cast her a sly glance. “I told her, not long enough, and to the last two—very.”

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