Unclaimed (Turner #2)(27)

“My dear Sir Mark!” Parret shouldered in front of Mrs. Farleigh, casting her a glittering look that Mark could not quite decipher. “It has been so long. So, so long since we last spoke!”

It had been weeks, glorious weeks, since Mark had last brushed the man off.

“Perhaps you could tell me your feelings on seeing me after such a lengthy vacation?”

“Certainly,” Mark said. “Two words.”

The reporter’s pencil poised over paper. Ten thousand people really would read those words, if Parret had his way.

“Push. Off.”

Parret looked up. “Sir Mark. That’s not a very kind thing to say. And we are such friends, are we not?”

Mark simply stared at him.

“Now,” Parret said, “what were we saying then?”

He looked up through the crowd and caught Mrs. Farleigh’s eyes. Mark could feel his minor flirtations, all the nascent like he felt for her drying up. Nigel Parret could ruin Mrs. Farleigh faster than Mark could decide what he wanted with her.

He’d imagined seeing her home from church. He’d imagined conversations. Walks outside. Oh, very well—he’d imagined more, but what he’d truly yearned for was not the touch of her hand, but to break through the brittleness of her facade. He’d wanted to slowly come to know her—all without the entirety of London watching in vicarious interest.

“We weren’t saying anything,” Mark said coldly. He tipped his hat to the crowd, avoided Mrs. Farleigh’s eyes and gave the man a jerk of his head.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

He watched her go out of the corner of his eye, letting the village conversation swell up around him.

No. No. He wasn’t going to let this one slip away. Not without a fight.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JESSICA HAD NOT YET finished her breakfast the next morning when her maid interrupted her. “ He’s here to see you,” she whispered.

It took Jessica a few moments to realize who the woman meant. Sir Mark had not walked her home after service, as he’d promised. After their too-public exchange—and after Mr. Parret had appeared—he’d seemed to abruptly lose interest in her.

Her heart thudded painfully in anticipation. What was he doing here, and so early in the morning? Her hair still hung loose around her shoulders, just brushed after being taken from its braids. She didn’t take the time to put it up, instead ducking out to the front room of her cottage.

Sir Mark stood there, contemplating the items she had on her shelf: two porcelain figures that she’d obtained over the past seven years, and one broken shell—a present her youngest sister had given her nine years ago, and her only memento of home.

“Sir Mark?”

He turned to her. For a moment, he simply froze in place, his mouth open. Then he shook his head.

“Oh, that is utterly unfair. I came to make my apologies, and make amends. But that—that is utterly beyond the pall. I don’t think I can ever forgive you.”

“What? What did I do?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Never mind. I came to ask you whether you had any interest in taking a walk with me this morning.”

“Sir Mark, I feel that I must remind you of the last few words we have exchanged. Twenty-four hours ago, you announced to an entire crowd that you wanted to have intercourse with me. This morning, you tell me that I am appalling. Now, I’m supposed to step out with you?”

He looked up into the corner of the room and then shrugged. “That’s pretty much the lay of the land, yes.”

“Do you know what people are going to think if they see us together after what you said on Sunday?”

“I’m not planning to see people. We’ll see cows.” He sighed. “Besides, one advantage of having a sterling reputation is that no one thinks the worst of you. Even when you’re thinking the worst of yourself.” His gaze slipped again, down to her waist, below, and then slid up to her face. “I must ask one question. Have you ever cut your hair?”

Suddenly, the disjointed nature of his conversation began to make sense. “No.”

“Hmm,” was all he said.

“I need to go put my hair up. Get half boots and a spencer.”

“Yes,” he said absently.

“I’ll just slip out the back, while you’re waiting, and fetch a pig to serve as chaperone, too.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“She breathes fire,” Jessica clarified. “The pig, not me.”

He looked up, shaking his head. “My apologies. What were you saying?”

“If I had challenged you to a debate and taken my hair down, would you have been able to string together one coherent sentence?”

His eyes rose to meet hers ruefully. “What do you think?”

She clucked sympathetically. “Never mind.”

But in her upstairs room, with her maid pinning her hair into a ruthless bun, she could make no sense of it. Sir Mark liked her. This didn’t surprise her; men usually liked looking at her. She was accustomed to that much.

But he was not like other men. He wasn’t indifferent, not in the least. But for all that he claimed to be attracted to her, he’d rejected her advances. What kind of man did that? If he didn’t plan to take her to bed, what did he want from her? And if he did want to take her to bed, but refused for chastity’s sake…why was he throwing himself in temptation’s way?