Unclaimed (Turner #2)(91)

She swept him into a side parlor, lit by morning brilliance. The embroidery was fading, but it felt homey.

“Please be seated.”

But instead of leaving immediately, she opened another door. “Ellen!” she called. “You’re needed. We’ve a very important guest. Do come keep him company.”

Mark heard a murmur in reply but couldn’t make out any words. Mrs. Carlisle’s back was turned, and so Mark could not see her expression. But the young lady who walked into the room had her chin set in a rebellious line. She cast one glance at Mark—and then quickly looked away. Mark could guess what her mother had communicated with waggled eyebrows.

Look, here’s a splendid catch! Be polite to him.

They were still trying to throw fourteen-year-old girls at him. Ellen Carlisle, however, seemed to have no interest in being thrown. He was, she supposed, pretty. She had too much of Jessica in her not to be. But her long dark hair was still in childish braids. And she folded her arms over her chest, as if daring Mark to flirt with her.

Oh, yes. This was definitely Jessica’s sister.

“Do you always appear on so little notice?” she demanded, once her mother was safely out of ear-shot.

Mark shrugged. “Think of me as John the Baptist. I am of no interest in myself. I come merely to prepare the way.”

This got him an exasperated stare. “I’m to think of you as John the Baptist, am I? Your confidence is simply stunning. And here I am, entirely without silver trays.”

Good. He liked her already. Mark took his watch from his pocket and set it on the table. “How sweet. Don’t worry. You’ll adore me in…oh, six minutes and twenty-two seconds.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please don’t tell my father that. It will only raise his hopes, and he shall use it as an excuse to utterly ruin my life.” She scowled. “As usual.”

“Don’t worry,” Mark said. “I’ve as little interest in marrying you as you do me.”

She let out a little huff at that, her eyes cutting toward him. Mark almost wanted to laugh at that petulant conceit. Of course she didn’t want to marry him—but she had hoped he was interested, so that she might have the fun of turning him down.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mark growled. “You’re a very pretty girl, I’m sure, but you’re too young for me, and besides, I’m in love with your sister.”

Miss Ellen’s eyes widened. “Charlotte? But she’s married.”

“Not Charlotte. Jessica.”

The color washed from her face. All that haughty indifference fell away. “Jessica?” Each syllable wavered, as if she spoke an impossibility. Her hands fell to her sides, and then she darted across the room, kneeling before him and grabbing for his hand. “You know of Jessica? I’m not to speak of her, not to say her name, never again. But—is she well? How do you know her? Can I see her? I shall do anything you ask, if you just—”

“Ellen!” The sharp tenor sounded like a whip crack from across the room. “What do you mean by such forward behavior? Sir Mark—I’m dreadfully sorry for my daughter’s conduct.”

Mark realized how the scene must look. Ellen Carlisle was on her knees before him, her eyes glittering with tears. Ellen glanced once at her father and bit her lip.

Mr. Carlisle, after all, was the one who had declared Jessica dead. He was the one to whom she addressed the letters she sent—the ones that had gone unanswered. He had banished her and lied about her.

And yet the man in front of him didn’t seem like a monster. He had graying hair, a narrow face—and an expression that was exasperated and embarrassed, but not stern. He had Jessica’s lips. Surely, that lift of her chin had come from him.

Mark strode forward and offered his hand. “Sir Mark Turner.”

The man shook it. “Alton Carlisle. At your service, sir. Your book—it’s been a pleasure to be able to quote from it in my services. An even greater honor to have you in my home. You’ll stay to dinner? There will be no repeat of that foolishness.”

“You’ll have to excuse Miss Ellen,” Mark said quietly. “She’s merely overcome. You see, I have decided to marry your daughter, and Miss Ellen has just discovered it.”

“Marry my daughter.” Mr. Carlisle stood, his face going slack. Mark could tell precisely when he began to think again—when the advantages presented themselves. The connection to a duke, a son-in-law who had the favor of the Queen. There followed a small, proud smile as he realized that somehow, his offspring had landed the most desired bachelor in five counties.

It took only a few seconds before the man was nodding. His breath rushed out. “My permission—of course. You have it.”

“I’ve already settled five thousand pounds on her,” Mark said conversationally. “For her separate use, and for our children, should we have any.”

“Yes. Of course.” Mr. Carlisle shook his head. “Pardon my stupidity—but I am convinced this must be a dream. I had not even known that you were acquainted with my daughter. Certainly, you and I have never been introduced.” He scrubbed his hand through his thinning hair. “Next, you will tell me that you wish to marry her by special license, in a grand ceremony held in St. Paul’s. This…this can’t be happening.”