Unclaimed (Turner #2)(58)

It had been hard to tell him the truth. It was harder still to force her lips into the semblance of a smile, to let her eyes reflect nothing but smug satisfaction. She turned back to him. “Yes,” she said, “I was very believable, wasn’t I? I can’t believe you ate up every word.”

And, oh, how she wanted him to protest again.

Foolish, foolish hope. He looked at her with the tiniest curl to his lip, as if she were a snake polluting his garden and he was about to cast her out. “And here I thought that you’d overcome your initial distaste of me. Apparently I was wrong. You must have been laughing at me dreadfully, then, behind my back—mocking my lovesick ways—”

“Lovesick?” Her temper flared. “You don’t know what love means. If you think you have been sick with love, you must never have had the influenza. You’ve held yourself back at every turn. Every time I provoked a passionate response from you, you drew away. And why did you do it, Sir Mark? Because you’re not that kind of man. Because you wouldn’t stoop to letting yourself want. Do not pretend that I have done anything other than hurt your pride, substantial as that is.”

He stared at her grimly, his hand contracting at his side. “I would have forgiven almost anything—”

“Yes,” she said. “And how lovely that would have been for me, ten years down the road. To know that my husband had condescended to forgive me. To know that he always thought himself above me, that my sins were always a blot on my record, one that I could never make up. That every day he woke up knowing that he was my superior. I wager it made you feel quite proud of yourself, knowing that you were good enough to stoop to my level.”

His jaw set. But he didn’t deny what she’d said.

“You know,” she said, “I had some moral qualms about my role in this piece. It didn’t seem right to me to use you so. But truly, Sir Mark, you could stand to be knocked into the dust once or twice. Then you might think twice about how magnanimous you are in forgiving me my sins.”

“You have no idea.” His voice was low. “You have no bloody idea where I’ve been. And you have no idea what I want—wanted of you.”

Jessica raised her chin in the air. “I know enough to know that whatever it is you wanted, deep inside your skin, you’d never have let it out. Just as I know that as much as you’d like to smack me at this moment, you never will. No, Sir Mark. I do believe that whatever you might be feeling right now, you’ll bottle it up with the rest of your sentiment. You’ve kept yourself in too much of a cage to let a whore like me truly overset you.”

He took one step toward her. “By God. If you knew—”

She waved one hand in the air. “But I won’t know, will I? You’ll forget this all soon enough.”

He stepped toward her, his eyes darkening from furious to murderous. “Don’t. Tell. Me.” His hands landed on her shoulders. “Don’t tell me what I’ll forget.” His grip tightened. Had he been any other man, she would have been frightened. But this was Mark; even now, his body gave the lie to the harshness of his tone. Her breath cycled in tune with the heave of his chest. His grip was firm, not hard.

“You,” he said, “have absolutely no idea.” And then his lips were on hers, pressing into her. Not just a kiss; nor even an embrace. His body pressed into hers. His skin was heated with passion; the hard ridge of his member pressed into her belly.

Love was angry. Love was hurt. And love would take anything it could get, even if it was his hands pushing her against the wall, his tongue slipping between her lips in furious anger. His hips grinding against hers. There was no love in his touch, none of the cherished sense of wonder she’d sensed in his kiss before. Just lust.

His head dipped. His teeth nipped down her neck. Jessica threw her head back and let him touch her.

I love you. Her hands found his elbows, cupped them.

He pulled away. “Print that in the paper,” he said scornfully. “I’m sure Nigel Parret would love to see it. Print that you brought me to the last edge of desire, to the point where I could scarcely pull away from you.”

“Sir Mark—”

“Print that I told you secrets I’d never dared to tell another soul.” He raised his hand to her face, moving slowly, as if to touch her in farewell. “Print that you brought me to my knees, and that when you had me there, you laughed.”

She didn’t much feel like laughing. Jessica felt beyond tears—as if she’d killed something sweet and innocent. And she had—as she’d known she must. Everything good always failed. She’d known from the start that this—his regard, his goodwill—would not last past her unmasking.

“I—I had so little choice, Mark.” Her hands fluttered. “I had to get away. I needed the money. It was this, or—”

He shook his head. “Or what? Participate in the ruin of a man who was not a willing dupe?”

She bowed her head. Her hands trembled, and she pressed them into her skirts. “You’ll never have to see me again. I’ll be gone by tomorrow.” Although heaven knew where she would go now. Or what she would do.

“Don’t bother.” His voice was tight. “I’m leaving in the morning. I don’t want to see you again, not ever.” He stepped back from her.