Unclaimed (Turner #2)(86)

By the time Jessica reached the end of the first page, her hands were trembling. By the time she finished the letter, she was plunged into cold again.

“It’s rough,” Parret was saying. “But—at least I won’t be the one printing the story. You can trust in that.”

“That’s kind of you.” Her words emerged as a dull whisper.

“Humph.” Parret shifted uneasily. “The duke would likely sue me for defamation of character. There’s no profit in that.”

Jessica smiled wanly. “You do a lovely imitation of a greedy man, Parret. But could you…could you please leave me?”

He set one hand briefly on her shoulder, in scant comfort. And then he left.

The door shut behind him, and Jessica collapsed against it.

Nothing had changed; she’d only been reminded how little had altered.

There was something about surviving. She felt a constant fear, a pressing worry. Her muscles never truly relaxed. Her belly always felt a little sour. These things had been her stalwart companions for seven years.

She had hoped—just today, she had led herself to believe—that she’d left all that behind. But no. She could still taste fear.

Mark was good, better than anything she’d imagined. So good that he scared her. How could she have forgotten? Good never lasted in her life. Instead, she brought its opposite with her. He wasn’t going to save her; she was going to destroy him.

By the time Mark came to her door, she had worked herself into a near panic. She would have fled, if only she knew how to flee her own desires.

He smiled, and she felt warmth. He took her hands, and she felt safe. And it was all an illusion—an illusion that she’d allowed herself to believe, because she was so desperate for comfort from any quarter.

He smiled at her. “I have good news,” he said cheerily. “I’ve found a new Commissioner of the Poor Laws. Neither Weston nor I are suitable for the position. But it turns out, there is a fellow who has a passion for good works and a good amount of administrative experience. He even has some measure of popularity. I needed only to broach the idea and perform the introduction. After we marry in three days, I’ll have no reason whatsoever to stay in London.”

“Marry,” she said wildly. “Three days?”

“How many times must I say it? There’s no need to worry. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

No. She was going to hurt him. She was going to hurt his family. She was going to be the wedge that Weston used to break apart their lovely little group.

“And besides,” he said, “I love you. You cannot doubt that.”

No. She couldn’t. She knew it was true, and that’s what scared her the most—the sheer rightness, the wonder of it all. How had London’s most desirable bachelor fallen in love with her? How much would it hurt when he stopped loving her, when he began to resent what she’d cost his family?

“Mark,” she said faintly, “You can’t change fundamentals. I’m—”

“You are the woman who can outshoot me. Who will argue me to a standstill—and don’t think I don’t love that about you. I love you, Jessica. And I believe you care for me. What else matters?”

“You’re a duke’s brother. A knight. And I’m a whore.”

He grabbed her wrist. “Don’t call yourself that. I wouldn’t let anyone else talk about you that way—why should I let you?”

“Very well. Call me a fallen women, then.”

“Do you think that matters to me? My mother used to say that there was no such thing as a fallen woman. You just had to look for the man who pushed her down.”

The look in his eyes made her want to scream. But this, at least, was something she could dispute. Something she could argue. She needed something to fight, because she couldn’t push away the darkness that filled her.

Jessica took a deep breath and came to a realization. She couldn’t win against Weston, but she could thwart him. If Mark walked away from her, if she simply left… Weston could threaten him with nothing but innuendo, and that society might simply chalk up to jealousy. “No, Mark. Nobody pushed me. I fell.”

“A man seduced you. And your father, your own father, told everyone you were dead—”

“I could have said no.” Jessica spoke softly. “He didn’t force me.”

“You were fourteen—”

“I was fourteen, not a baby. You believe that you were capable of reason at ten, and able to discern right from wrong. I knew what he was doing, and I let him do it.” She looked at him and willed him to believe her. If he walked away, she could run. She could vanish before Weston appeared, and Mark’s reputation would stay intact. He’d survive, and his family would see him through.

“But—”

She put her hands on her hips. “I don’t exonerate him entirely, but I chose to fall. I chose to leave with him and go to London. It may have been stupid and it may have been wrong, but you belittle me when you relieve me of the responsibility of making it. You would make everything I’ve done a collection of events that has happened to me.”

He was growing more and more confused. “Jessica. I don’t mean that you’re incapable of choice, just that—”

“What am I supposed to think, when you imagine me pure as the driven snow? I am not a child. If you strip me of the responsibility for my decisions, you strip me of the capacity to make them, as well. I am not a kitten, to be rescued from the jaws of a wolf. I’m a grown woman. And it is not your place to solve my problems without asking me for my opinion.”