Unclaimed (Turner #2)(60)

“Not in the least,” Mark informed him. “I didn’t think you needed a dog. I thought the dog needed you.”

Smite looked up, his expression momentarily stricken. He looked down at the dog. “Thank you,” he said quietly. It was the only acknowledgment Mark was likely to get from him.

Gently, his brother disentangled the dog’s teeth from his coat. “Cease that behavior, Ghost,” he admonished. “Here—you may chew on this instead.”

Mark clouted him on the shoulder. “That’s my satchel, you buffoon.”

Smite didn’t answer, and when the pup grabbed one end of the strap and pulled clumsily, a smile lit his face. “Good dog.”

It was almost an hour later—after the dog had been taken outside twice, and then fed remnants of chicken, had a ball of rags constructed and rolled on the floor, and a box found for it and lined with blankets—before Smite looked over at Mark. “In the normal course of things,” he said, “I would send you out to a hotel, where you might be comfortable. I assume that’s not a good idea tonight.”

Mark had almost forgotten it. But with those words, the past few weeks crashed in on him. He’d been certain that Jessica was the one, right up until he’d had the numbing realization that she most decidedly wasn’t. It hurt all over again.

“Probably not,” Mark said, aiming for nonchalance. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Hmm.” Smite tucked the edge of a rag into the ball. “You told me she was gorgeous and intelligent. I presume she’s virtuous, too. If she has any brains at all, I can’t imagine what the problem could be. Don’t tell me her parents don’t approve. Just get Ash to charm some sense into them.”

“Not you, too.” Mark put his head in his hands. “Why does everyone think that my dearest wish is to have some innocent little wisp of a virgin?”

“I can’t imagine,” Smite said dryly. “It couldn’t be because you wrote a book about chastity.”

Sarcasm. It flowed between them as naturally as breathing. He needed that, now—something familiar to grab on to, something besides anger and some deep, dark, cavernous want.

“It turns out George Weston hired her to seduce me. She’s actually a courtesan. Can we talk of something else?”

“You asked a courtesan to marry you?”

“Just be quiet about it already.”

Smite was silent for a while longer. “Do you care for her?” he finally asked.

“I asked her to marry me. What do you suppose?”

“That answer goes to whether you cared for her in the past. I did not ask you that question. I asked you whether you care for her now. In the present.”

“I don’t know. How could I? I was utterly misled. How could I have been so wrong about her?”

His brother leaned forward and set his hand on Mark’s shoulder.

“That’s simple,” Smite said. His voice was low and soothing, the gentle brush of his fingers comforting.

Smite was not one to indulge in physical affection. He froze when Mark embraced him, shied away from all contact beyond a handshake. Mark could hardly blame him, under the circumstances. And so if Smite thought it necessary to touch him in comfort, he must be in a bad way indeed.

He’d always wanted to protect Smite from this. For all that his brother was the elder, they’d been forged in the same place—Smite the anvil, Mark the hammer. They’d come to blows often enough when they were younger. But when it had come down to it, they’d faced the fire together.

Perhaps his brother was right, and it was a simple case. Just clouded judgment.

But, oh, how his judgment had clouded. He’d wanted her, yes—but he’d wanted other women before. He knew what mere physical want felt like. With Jessica… He’d wanted her. He’d wanted to win her regard. And he’d thought that she’d seen him, really seen him, both bad and good. This was so much more than a simple rejection. He’d wanted to know her, not just her body, but her entire self.

She’d not wanted to know him at all.

“I wish it were simple.”

“It is simple,” his brother corrected. “I know precisely why you were wrong about her.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” Smite patted his shoulder. “It’s because you’re an idiot.”

That won a weak chuckle, but at least it was real. So. There was hope after Jessica. It only felt as if he was being torn to pieces. He would survive.

“Probably,” he admitted. “But you know—it runs in the family.”

THE CARD THAT Jessica had saved directed her to the middle floor of a Cheapside flat. A young maid-of-all-work let her in and deposited her in a faded parlor. The white of the walls had gone to yellow, and the brown of the upholstery had bleached to sand. Even the wood of the furniture seemed muted.

Jessica sat on a chair, as directed; it squeaked ominously, even under so slight a weight as hers. Jessica was tired. After Mark had left, she and her maid had spent the night packing frantically so that Jessica and her trunks could be loaded onto a dogcart in time to reach the railway station at Bath. The train had been delayed, though, and she’d stayed on the smoky platform two hours.

Her last few coins had paid passage for herself and Marie. When they’d arrived in London, she’d scrawled a note to her solicitor, advising him to give the girl enough to survive on and a reference. Jessica, after all, would soon have no need for a maid.