Unclaimed (Turner #2)(15)
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.