Unclaimed (Turner #2)(2)
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 prom ise 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.