Unclaimed (Turner #2)(57)

Her whole body went cold.

She hadn’t ruined him. She’d thought herself prepared for the evening, but she hadn’t expected this. Even if she’d never fallen—even if she’d been Jessica Carlisle, the virtuous vicar’s daughter, Mark would have been miles above her station. He was a duke’s brother. Queen Victoria had knighted him. She was nobody.

She didn’t know what to do.

Say yes.

She wouldn’t have to ruin him. He could obtain a special license in a few days with his brother’s help. They could be married before the truth of her background was discovered. She would never have to sell herself again. She could have her freedom and Mark, too.

But there was a difference between ruining his reputation and ruining his life. The gossip she would stir up by seducing him would blacken his name for months, but it would pass. Entrapping him into marriage? She’d be robbing him of all chance of future happiness under a cloud of lies. And that would be a lie she couldn’t escape, if she were bound to him—not with any amount of money.

She couldn’t do that to him. She couldn’t do that to herself.

“Jessica, darling,” Mark said, still on one knee, “you have to say yes before I can kiss you again.”

She hadn’t let herself think the words before. Love had seemed as futile an emotion as hope. What had been the point? But she knew it now. She loved him—loved that he would care so little for the difference in their stations, loved that she hadn’t been able to seduce him from his principles after all.

But love was not gentle. Love was not kind. And love was furiously, powerfully jealous. She couldn’t have him, and in just a few minutes, he wouldn’t want her. Every good thing that touched her life had always been ripped away. And Mark had been more wonderful than…than everything she’d had since Amalie.

She pulled her hand from his. “Sir Mark—”

“Mark.” His eyes clouded slightly.

“Sir Mark,” she continued, “I didn’t think you were coming here to offer marriage.”

He frowned in puzzlement. “What else would I offer?”

She met his eyes. “You told me yesterday you wanted to be my protector. You said you wanted me.”

“I did. I do.” He pushed up off the floor, awkwardly coming to his feet. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Protection isn’t synonymous with marriage. It’s what a man offers his mistress.”

He simply shook his head, still baffled. “Having never offered for a mistress, and having had no occasion to do so, I’m unfamiliar with the precise vocabulary. But, Jessica, I’ve been talking to you of marriage since the first day we walked to the Friar’s Oven.”

He had.

She’d noticed, too. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been taken by surprise. But somewhere in her mind, after every one of his sentences, she’d appended a but. He told her he was making a promise, and her imagination whispered but not that sort of promise. He’d said she wasn’t alone, and she’d heard an unspoken for now.

He’d flat out said he wanted to know her beyond the space of three dances, so he could determine if she was the sort of woman he would marry. But the notion that he would actually decide to marry her had never entered her mind. She wasn’t the kind of woman men married. She knew that. Apparently, he didn’t.

If she could go back to the beginning, start over by telling him the truth… No. There was no way to roll her past into a neat, honest ball. Her lies trailed behind her, hard and unflattering.

“I had no first marriage,” she said, turning from him. She walked away, so he couldn’t see the betraying liquid collect in the corner of her eyes.

“What was that?” She could hear him following after her, drawing close.

“You heard me correctly,” she said to the whitewash on the wall. “I have never been married. Just ruined. Again and again and again. I’ve been lying to you from the start.”

“Perhaps—that is—surely you had a good reason.” A note of uncertainty crept into his voice. “A very good reason.” He took a step toward her.

Stay away.

“I’m not a lady, down on her luck. I’m a courtesan. A whore. George Weston offered a bounty to any woman who seduced you, and I put myself forward for the task. I planned to announce the particulars to the ton, and to destroy your reputation.” She swallowed her tears. Love was angry, furious that he could make her feel such dreadful hope again and rip it from her in the same breath. She turned to face him, her hands in fists. “I thought you’d come today to hand me my victory.”

He had gone pale. Worse than pale; his eyes glittered, freezing, losing all the kindness she’d grown accustomed to seeing. “George Weston?” he repeated. “You kissed me because George Weston paid you to do it? What the devil does Weston have to do with any of this?”

“What does it matter? If you’d come here to take me to bed,” she told him, “I would have betrayed you. I would have let you tumble me any way you wanted, every way you wanted, as much as you wanted. And then I would have written an account and sent it in to the papers.”

“Ah.” His voice was arctic. “I see. But—but didn’t you— Surely you—” He swallowed. “No. I can’t believe that you’ve been telling me lies this whole time.”