Unclaimed (Turner #2)(52)
But the more he protested his ordinary nature, the greater the adulation. They acted as if he spoke out of some misguided, foolish humility, instead of simply giving him credit for speaking the truth. He could have announced that he had formed a financial partnership with Lucifer himself, and they would have crowded about him afterward, praising him for his business acumen. They’d have patted him on the shoulder and, when told that he had an interest in their souls, would have swooned because the great Sir Mark had taken notice.
His gaze drifted to Jessica again. He could do no wrong. Up until he’d interceded on her behalf, they’d thought she could do no right. They both commanded attention—one for praise, the other for censure. And yet Mark was certain that he had been the one who had cupped his hand around her breast when last he saw her. He had been the one to take her mouth in a kiss. And he was the one standing before a crowd now to talk about chastity when his thoughts over the past week had been increasingly obscene.
It seemed an unbridgeable gap between them, that disparity. And then he saw the rector beside her. She was wearing an evening gown, perfectly respectable for a lecture given at night. Respectable…but creamy curves peeped from behind the lacy décolletage. The rector turned his head so he could look down her bodice ever so discreetly. And like that, Mark’s carefully planned, dull speech disappeared from his mind.
“Good evening.” His voice carried. The murmurs ceased instantly, and the crowd leaned forward. “Normally,” he heard himself say, “I would tell you all that I am just a man—not anyone special, not anyone to listen to. Normally, I’d admit to my fair share of hypocrisy. And have no doubt about it. I am a hypocrite. But for now, I’d like to set that aside. There are worse hypocrites in the room.
“For instance,” Mark said, sweeping his gaze over the blue-arm-banded boys who sat in self-satisfied honor in the front of the room, “the members of the MCB are the biggest lot of liars I have ever met.”
There was a pained silence at that—as if several hundred people had suddenly forgotten how to breathe.
Mark glared at Tolliver beside him. “You claim that you’ve committed my book to memory, but as far as I can tell, you haven’t bothered to read a single word. At least, I must presume you haven’t, because the MCB has failed to understand the central message. Let me start by revealing your secrets.”
He made the hand signal Tolliver had showed him at the picnic earlier. “That is not a signal that appears in A Gentleman’s Guide. Not anywhere. And yet I was told that it is a warning. A signal that men might use, to let each other know that a woman is dangerous.”
Tolliver’s nose crinkled, and he frowned at Mark.
“The import of the whispered accusations, those sly hand signals, is that a man who has been unchaste is a man in need of saving, and he can redeem himself by a renewed adherence to principle. A woman, however, who makes a mistake—well, she is unclean, and must be forever cast from good society.”
A few fans rose at this and worked the air furiously.
“I don’t blame any of you,” Mark said. “It’s not as if you could learn proper conduct from a rector who sees nothing wrong with manhandling a woman, simply because he thinks that nobody will notice.”
Across the distance, Jessica lifted her eyes to his. She smiled faintly, but her eyes were still sad. The rector started, his chin lifting suddenly, as he pulled his eyes from her bosom. Good.
“And so,” Mark continued, “I will explain this to you, since you seem to never have heard the concept. There is no such thing as a dangerous woman. If a woman makes you want to lose your head and forget what is right, it is you who are dangerous—to yourself, and even more possibly, to the woman in question. I simply do not believe that any of you who claim to hold me in adulation could have read my book, if you do not understand that basic principle.”
He was caught on the tide of his fury now. For once, he felt no need to restrain his temper.
“There are no unchaste women, or profligate men.” He set his hands on the podium. “There are no saints. None of you men want to hear me say that. After all, if it’s not a woman who’s led you astray, you’ve gone down the wrong path all on your own. If I am just an ordinary man, it means that chastity is attainable for everyone. It means that you are all responsible for your own mistakes, that you must own up to the wrong you have done without laying the blame on anyone else’s doorstep. It means you can never hold a woman scapegoat for your shortcomings again, not even if she is pretty and lively and intelligent.”
Jessica had not taken her eyes from him. They were wide and luminous—and still sad.
“When you make the secret hand signal that suggests that a woman is dangerous, you do not prove yourself strong. You prove yourself weak. What kind of man hides his weaknesses behind a woman? What kind of man places the blame on someone else, rather than admit that he is fallible? And so, yes, I don’t think much of the lot of you right now. I think you’re a pack of cowards and cheats.”
Jessica’s mouth was ajar. Had nobody ever taken her side, then? Who had ever stood as her advocate? Who had defended her? An emotion besides rage presented itself—something cold and prickly, rising up from the depths of him.
“There is one other basic concept that I think you have failed to comprehend,” Mark said. “If you think that women are your nemesis in some struggle for your soul…well. You’ve bungled everything. Completely.”