Unclaimed (Turner #2)(21)

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.”

If she’d been fifteen, she’d have blushed. As it was, Jessica felt a warmth collect on her skin, in her lungs. “If I didn’t know better, I should think you were flirting with me.”

He gave her an unreadable look. “Well. If you say I’m not, you must be correct. Still, I don’t endorse your conclusion.”

This left her equally confused. “But you’re—you’re—”

“A virgin?” There was a note of amusement in his voice. “True. But just because I don’t believe in poaching out of season doesn’t mean I can’t hunt.”

Her mouth dried.

“And here I’d thought we had left those polite protestations behind us,” he said. “I like you, Mrs. Farleigh. It’s that simple.”

“I—I—”

“And you hate me.” He smiled at her, as if he’d seen through her contrivance. “You see, it’s perfectly safe for the both of us. You know I shall never impose upon you. And until you’ve decided not to hate me, I need not worry that you’ll enlarge on our acquaintance. We neither of us have expectations.”

“Safe. You think I’m safe.” She glanced at him. He seemed perfectly sane—no hint whatsoever of madness showed, except his appalling words. “Must I remind you that I tried to seduce you?”