Unclaimed (Turner #2)(50)

Jess. Her family had never called her Jess. Her excitement turned to heavy lead.

“I suppose I am.”

Only one person called her Jess. If he was writing her directly, instead of sending his missive roundabout through her solicitor, he must be feeling anxious. Only a few days had elapsed since she’d last heard from him.

She didn’t want another letter reminding her of what awaited her in London. Still, the woman handed the envelope over, and Jessica took it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. Weston’s hands had covered this paper. His thumbs had rested where hers were now. It made her skin crawl, just to think of his touch on her gloves, even in such an indirect manner.

She wandered out into the square. She shouldn’t have told herself that fable about her family. Hope was a fickle friend. Gorging on it was like eating too much pudding. All that sweetness would feel wonderful for a few minutes, but once the first heady rush of energy faded, it left you tired and worn through.

After seven years, she needed to accept that she no longer existed. Her sisters had almost certainly forgotten her. Her father had banished her entirely. She was a fading memory to them. It wasn’t a crushing blow not to receive a letter from them.

It was only today that it felt like one.

She ripped open George Weston’s envelope and pulled out a half sheet of paper.

Jess, it read. Hurry it up. Lefevre is announcing his retirement at the end of next week. I want that sanctimonious ass discredited immediately. A seduction’s no good to me if I lose the role as Commissioner before you deliver.

She checked the date on his letter and calculated. Adding in time needed for her to return to London, time to secure publication, that left her with… Three days. She only had three more days to spend in his company before she had to ruin him.

“Well, then.”

The voice sounded behind her, and she whirled around, crumpling the paper in her fist.

“Sir Mark,” she gasped. She could hear the thrum of her heart, beating hard in her ears.

“Mark,” he said.

“Your pardon?”

He was serious, unsmiling. “It’s just Mark,” he said quietly. “To you.”

The sun suddenly seemed overbright. There was nobody else on the paving stones, but the taproom window looked out on the square. Anyone might see them here.

I want that sanctimonious ass discredited immediately.

“How are you today?” he asked.

She could destroy him. She had to do it. And he’d just asked her to address him by the naked intimacy of his Christian name and then inquired as to her well-being.

She wanted to scream at him, to shove him in the chest and tell him he was an idiot. She could destroy him. What else was she to do?

“Jessica?” His voice was soft and low. They stood in public, in full view of anyone who could see. “I may call you Jessica, may I not?”

“Don’t.” The word squeaked out.

“Don’t what? Admit to feeling a sense of familiarity? You know I can’t deny it. Or do you mean I shouldn’t want more? I’ve tried. I can’t help it.”

“Sir Mark, perhaps I did not make myself clear last night. I’ve been intimate with men who were not my husband. Don’t trust me.”

Just as he had last night, he didn’t flinch at her words. “Yes,” he allowed, “but still, you have this odd sort of integrity to you.”

He might as well have punched her in the stomach. Weston’s letter, crumpled in her hand, burned. She needed to hurt him. How was she to do that, when he made her want to weep?

“That’s lust talking, not discernment.” Her words were sharp. “You’re supposed to have written a practical guide to chastity. Be practical now. My integrity is not odd—it is nonexistent. You can’t like me.”

“Would it be better if I pawed over your body, rather than feel an ounce of honest affection?”

“Yes,” she spat out. “Yes. It would be a great deal easier.”

“Come, Jessica. One mistake doesn’t damn you to unhappiness forever.” His eyes softened. “And I know that you must be upset about your friend.” One mistake. One mistake. Oh, that she could count her mistakes. Instead, they filled her to the brim with choking bitterness.

“Don’t make a romance of me, Sir Mark.”

“No?” He shook his head, mystified. “What do you want, then?”

She stared at his lapels, as if all the answers she sought might be contained in the brown wool. He waited.

Finally, she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. “I want to feel alive again.” She kept her voice calm as the sea between tides—but, oh, the undercurrent pulling at her. “I want never to have to tell a lie again.” She stopped at that and shook her head. “Sir Mark. Mark. Please don’t make me have to do this.”

She had made mistakes, yes. But he was right. Even while she’d lived in the utmost sin, she’d tried to hold on to the last vestiges of her integrity. She’d sold some of her morals to survive. This was the first time she’d sacrifice her honesty. If Mark succumbed, she’d lose everything.

He couldn’t understand what she was begging him to do, and she had just enough sense of self-preservation not to tell him. Still, she wanted him to hate her, to resist the threat she posed.