Unclaimed (Turner #2)(56)

His hand twisted in hers, slipping, caressing her palm through her glove, her wrist. Then his fingers found the edge of her glove. Slowly, he stripped it off, baring her hand to the cool night air. To his touch. Skin slid against skin.

“I’ve been miserable ever since,” she finished.

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

He didn’t say anything to that, just drew her closer, pulling her hand, leading her as if in a dance until she stood inches from him.

His other hand moved to her chin and tipped it up.

“Jessica,” he said gravely, “I will be your champion, if you let me. If I have to take on the role of knight, I want to be yours. Let me be your protector.”

The words sent a flurry of confusion through her. “You’re offering to be my protector? You’ll get no honor from association with me.”

In response, he kissed her. Not a short, chaste kiss. Not even a long, lingering kiss, sweet and yet still chaste. No. It was heat. It was fire. It was everything he’d been holding back. His body pressed against hers, hard, leaving no secrets. His mouth took hers without question.

She dissolved in his touch, disappeared as his hands cupped her face, pulling her closer still. Not chastity, this, but an invitation. A prelude to sin and scandal. It made no sense, not with what he’d just told her.

“Hang honor,” he whispered, pulling away to breathe kisses against her neck. “Hang my reputation. I don’t care what the world thinks of me.”

He pressed against her once more. His words were as drugging as his kiss, threatening to overwhelm her.

She set her hands on his chest and pushed away. “You can’t mean it. You’ve lost your head over a kiss. You can’t mean that you’d give up fame, your prestige, your rank in society—”

“It will hardly be so dire. But yes, Jessica. If that’s what it means to have you.” He sighed, blew out his breath. “I’m getting rather ahead of myself.” His voice was rough. “I…I’d like a chance to do this properly. Might I call on you tomorrow evening?” His voice dropped. “Alone.”

Tomorrow evening. She’d have precisely one day to ruin him, then. How…how convenient.

Yes, Sir Mark. I’ll ruin you.

Yes, Sir Mark. I’ll meet you alone and take you to bed.

Yes, Sir Mark. I’ll steal your honor and your good name, and trade it for thirty pieces of silver.

“Don’t freeze up on me. I’ve been thinking of nothing other than you for days. Nights, too.”

Oh, yes. She’d won. But this wasn’t the victory she’d hoped for when she first came up with this plan. She needed it to be strictly lust that drove him to her bed, not this quiet consideration. She wanted her own emotion to be calm and disengaged. She wanted his surrender to be nothing but the cold, clinical slide of male into female.

There was nothing clinical about the touch of his hand on her face. It wasn’t lust that had her sipping the air he breathed. And it wasn’t just her body he wanted.

You are not alone. Let me be your protector.

Victory was bitter. It hurt.

She looked up into his eyes. There’s an odd sort of integrity to you.

He was wrong. He was so wrong. Still, what was she to do? If she walked away from him now, she’d have nothing. If she did this to him…

But what choice did she have? Nothing awaited her in London but more debts, more dishonor. She couldn’t do this to him, but she couldn’t go back to London, couldn’t resume her old life. She just couldn’t.

No, Jessica. If you can survive Amalie’s death, you can survive this, too.

“Jessica?” His hand touched her cheek. “I want this. I want you.”

It would utterly damn her to destroy the trust of the only good man she’d ever met. But then, she was already damned. If she was going to be hanged for a lamb, she might as well be hanged for the entire flock.

“Yes, Mark,” she said softly. “You may call on me. Shall we say seven in the evening? I’ll make sure we’re alone.”

He nodded briefly and then leaned in and touched her lips once more with his. The contact was quick, warm—and yet it felt like a death knell, sealing her fate.

She was going to ruin him. She only prayed that she didn’t destroy herself in the process.

JESSICA HAD HOPED Mark would change his mind. Instead, he brought her flowers. He’d even picked them himself—a riotous mess of cow parsley and lilies. She could almost hear her heart crack when he handed the bouquet over.

While she found a container to put them in, he removed his hat and gloves. He held them in his hands, turning them about uneasily before setting them in a heap on a side table. It was the first time he’d seemed visibly uncomfortable.

“You’re nervous,” she remarked. “Don’t be.”

He smiled faintly. “I’m still unsure of my reception.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Truly, Mark?”

His smile flickered, fading into resolve. His chin rose. And he took a step toward her. But he didn’t take her in his arms. He didn’t press his body full-length against hers. He didn’t even press a kiss on her. Instead, he took her hands in his. His fingers were warm and smooth.

And then, to her horror, he sank to one knee in front of her. He fumbled with the ring on his finger and slipped it into her waiting hand. “Jessica,” he said, his voice low, “will you do me the very great honor of granting me your hand in marriage?”