Unclaimed (Turner #2)(14)

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.”