His hand worked, quick jerks that sent little shocks of pleasure through him. As he moved, as he grew harder, as his lust grew more insistent, Mark opened his eyes and stared out the window into the dying sun. But even that fierce, red afterimage couldn’t steal the vision he had of her.
He was tight all over—his muscles contracted—thought washed away in a rush toward pleasure. His eyes shut at last, and he was bombarded by sensation, a barrage of images. Her hands. Her lips. The curve of her waist. And then, at the very end: Jessica, fully clothed, standing on the edge of the harsh rocks of the Friar’s Oven. Her skirts belled out around her in the wind, and she looked out over a sea of mist.
His release pounded through him, sweeping him away. It was welcome, so welcome. All that pent-up lust burnt like so much tinder in a wildfire. It savaged him, choking him, ripping his breath away.
Passion ebbed, and he was left with the furious pound of his pulse, the only echo of what had come before.
Mark opened his eyes. The light in the room was fast fading to navy-darkness. He breathed out; one final jolt of pleasure shook him, before his body subsided.
It was done. He’d banished his want.
Mark gingerly unwrapped his fingers from the wood post and walked to the basin on the other side of the room. The water was cold against his skin, the towel rough as he cleaned himself. He washed his hands, his skin. He could see the night sky outside his window. A lingering line of light painted the edge of the hills in claret.
With his want satiated, his thoughts should have been clear and rational. Instead, he felt even more muddled than before. He was alone with himself in the dark.
And he was in trouble.
With the sun of his want set, he’d expected relief from the blinding light of lust. He’d hoped for an utter absence of desire. Instead, he’d discovered stars—a thousand pinpricks dancing around him; an entire constellation of yearning, sketched into his skin.
He got into bed by rote. Once there, he longed for her touch as he drifted off to sleep. For her body, to pull parallel against his, that he might explore her skin with his fingers, his mouth. Not for lust. Not for sin. For…comfort. He’d uncovered a cavernous desire that was impossible to satisfy with fingers and palm.
Mark opened his eyes and blew out his breath. With every exhale, he banished her image. He called to mind dark, cold things: caves under water, winter storms blocking all hint of the sun. He concentrated on the reckless cry of a cricket somewhere in the night. Nothing danced in front of his vision but darkness now—black of night, shadow playing on shadow.
Even with his mind cleared, he could feel the subterranean tug of his desire.
Mrs. Farleigh—Jessica—wasn’t comfortable. She wasn’t demure. She wasn’t even respectable.
She was none of those things. And yet… Mark inhaled deeply and faced a truth that he had been trying to avoid for far too long.
He was done resisting her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I DON’T SUPPOSE there’s anything here for me again today?” Jessica asked.
The post office was dark—dim enough, she hoped, to hide the familiar flush of humiliation that touched her cheeks. She hated asking after the post. It always made her feel like a beggar, ringing her bell on the street corner while passersby slunk to one side, avoiding her eyes.
The letter she’d received a handful of days past had taken away everything she’d hoped for. It was foolish to think that she’d receive any communication today. Still, hope, obstinate as that creature was, whispered that maybe she would receive something to make up for recent pain. She was owed something good in the post. It had been years since her family had sent her away. Why should today not be the day on which the embargo was lifted?
Because, Jessica thought grimly, I’ve already had a letter from my solicitor this week.
But the proprietress crinkled her forehead instead. “Happens there is.”
Jessica hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until she sucked air in, light-headed all at once. She squeezed her hands together, hard, and tried not to lunge at the woman and demand her letter. Possibilities flashed in front of her—her father had written; her mother, maybe Charlotte—
“That is, assuming you are who is meant by Jess Farleigh.”
Jess. Her family had never called her Jess. Her excitement turned to heavy lead.
“I suppose I am.”
Only one person called her Jess. If he was writing her directly, instead of sending his missive roundabout through her solicitor, he must be feeling anxious. Only a few days had elapsed since she’d last heard from him.
She didn’t want another letter reminding her of what awaited her in London. Still, the woman handed the envelope over, and Jessica took it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. Weston’s hands had covered this paper. His thumbs had rested where hers were now. It made her skin crawl, just to think of his touch on her gloves, even in such an indirect manner.
She wandered out into the square. She shouldn’t have told herself that fable about her family. Hope was a fickle friend. Gorging on it was like eating too much pudding. All that sweetness would feel wonderful for a few minutes, but once the first heady rush of energy faded, it left you tired and worn through.
After seven years, she needed to accept that she no longer existed. Her sisters had almost certainly forgotten her. Her father had banished her entirely. She was a fading memory to them. It wasn’t a crushing blow not to receive a letter from them.
It was only today that it felt like one.
She ripped open George Weston’s envelope and pulled out a half sheet of paper.
Jess, it read. Hurry it up. Lefevre is announcing his retirement at the end of next week. I want that sanctimonious ass discredited immediately. A seduction’s no good to me if I lose the role as Commissioner before you deliver.
She checked the date on his letter and calculated. Adding in time needed for her to return to London, time to secure publication, that left her with… Three days. She only had three more days to spend in his company before she had to ruin him.
“Well, then.”
The voice sounded behind her, and she whirled around, crumpling the paper in her fist.
“Sir Mark,” she gasped. She could hear the thrum of her heart, beating hard in her ears.
“Mark,” he said.
“Your pardon?”
He was serious, unsmiling. “It’s just Mark,” he said quietly. “To you.”
The sun suddenly seemed overbright. There was nobody else on the paving stones, but the taproom window looked out on the square. Anyone might see them here.
I want that sanctimonious ass discredited immediately.
“How are you today?” he asked.
She could destroy him. She had to do it. And he’d just asked her to address him by the naked intimacy of his Christian name and then inquired as to her well-being.
She wanted to scream at him, to shove him in the chest and tell him he was an idiot. She could destroy him. What else was she to do?
“Jessica?” His voice was soft and low. They stood in public, in full view of anyone who could see. “I may call you Jessica, may I not?”
“Don’t.” The word squeaked out.
“Don’t what? Admit to feeling a sense of familiarity? You know I can’t deny it. Or do you mean I shouldn’t want more? I’ve tried. I can’t help it.”
“Sir Mark, perhaps I did not make myself clear last night. I’ve been intimate with men who were not my husband. Don’t trust me.”
Just as he had last night, he didn’t flinch at her words. “Yes,” he allowed, “but still, you have this odd sort of integrity to you.”
He might as well have punched her in the stomach. Weston’s letter, crumpled in her hand, burned. She needed to hurt him. How was she to do that, when he made her want to weep?
“That’s lust talking, not discernment.” Her words were sharp. “You?
??re supposed to have written a practical guide to chastity. Be practical now. My integrity is not odd—it is nonexistent. You can’t like me.”
“Would it be better if I pawed over your body, rather than feel an ounce of honest affection?”
“Yes,” she spat out. “Yes. It would be a great deal easier.”
“Come, Jessica. One mistake doesn’t damn you to unhappiness forever.” His eyes softened. “And I know that you must be upset about your friend.” One mistake. One mistake. Oh, that she could count her mistakes. Instead, they filled her to the brim with choking bitterness.
“Don’t make a romance of me, Sir Mark.”
“No?” He shook his head, mystified. “What do you want, then?”
She stared at his lapels, as if all the answers she sought might be contained in the brown wool. He waited.
Finally, she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. “I want to feel alive again.” She kept her voice calm as the sea between tides—but, oh, the undercurrent pulling at her. “I want never to have to tell a lie again.” She stopped at that and shook her head. “Sir Mark. Mark. Please don’t make me have to do this.”
She had made mistakes, yes. But he was right. Even while she’d lived in the utmost sin, she’d tried to hold on to the last vestiges of her integrity. She’d sold some of her morals to survive. This was the first time she’d sacrifice her honesty. If Mark succumbed, she’d lose everything.
He couldn’t understand what she was begging him to do, and she had just enough sense of self-preservation not to tell him. Still, she wanted him to hate her, to resist the threat she posed.
“You know,” he said softly, “it’s not a romance I want to make of you.”
“What do you want?”
His gaze slipped down her form. She could feel where he’d touched her last night. More, she could feel where he hadn’t—the untouched skin of her belly, the nakedness of her inner thighs. But he didn’t move. “For now?” His tone was nonchalant, so at odds with the heat of his gaze. “For now, I’ll be satisfied if you call me Mark. And I wanted to ask if you’d…if you’d heard about the address I agreed to give tonight. I’m talking to the MCB.”
“About chastity.”
He nodded. “These days, I think I should deserve a medal for my restraint.” He shook his head. “Come. Let me see you home afterward. I thought…I thought you might want the company.”
She’d warned him. She’d told him to take himself away. If he insisted on throwing himself, mothlike, into her flame, who was she to tell him no? It must have been her fate to ruin him, her destiny to lead him astray as surely as Guinevere had ever seduced Sir Lancelot.
“Yes,” Jessica said softly. “I’ll be there.” The words sounded like blasphemy on her lips.
THAT EVENING, Mark noted, the church was filled well before the appointed time. There was nothing quite like the hum of whispers before one addressed a crowd. Before he started to speak, he could imagine anything happening. Riots could break out. Or, more likely, he might put everyone to sleep.
The rector had ceded the church this evening for the use of the MCB, the town hall being insufficient for the size of the crowd. The pews had filled up. It seemed as if everyone in the parish—in fact, everyone in every neighboring parish—had found their way here to attend the lecture that Tolliver had arranged, even on so short a notice.
Jessica sat near the front. They were beginning to accept her now. He liked that. No longer ostracized, she was seated next to Mrs. Metcalf. But Mark still could not help but noticing that the nearest man to her was three feet away. The nearest man, that was, excepting Mr. Lewis, who sat next to her. Jessica looked straight ahead, her face blank, as the rector spoke to her. He couldn’t hear a word, but he seemed to be lecturing her. Jessica was accepted but not trusted. It made him ache inside. He wanted her to have more than that.
The very front rows were taken up by young, male faces—eager, eyes shining, intent on hearing Mark’s words. They sported the blue armbands that designated them members of the MCB. The armbands, he’d once been told, were for indoor use, when hats—and their cockades—were not allowed. James Tolliver stood to Mark’s immediate right, and as the crowd finally found their places, he motioned for silence. It took very little time.
“Our guest tonight needs no introduction,”
Tolliver began. “We are all familiar with the great, the magnificent, the inestimable Sir Mark.”
Mark wanted to bury his head in his hands. Magnificent? Inestimable? He’d have preferred less effusive praise—“decent” was all he strove for, and considering how close matters had come with Jessica over the past week, he didn’t even merit that any longer. The thought should have made him feel guilty.
“Sir Mark, as you all know, is the author of that famous tome, A Gentleman’s Practical Guide toChastity. We here in Shepton Mallet are familiar with every sentence in that holy book.”
Holy? Mark imagined hitting Tolliver with the oversize prayer book that lay open on the podium before him.
“We have memorized its every commandment,” Tolliver intoned. “We have committed its advice to memory.”
They had made membership cards distorting said advice. It was a book, a human-written one, not deified advice engraved on stone tablets.
Tolliver continued, solemnly. “We have adopted its creed as our own—as members of the Male Chastity Brigade—and, having solemnly sworn ourselves to righteousness, we have learned to cast out temptation. Wherever we may find it.”
Mark thought of Jessica, and the way they’d cast her out at first. His fists curled.
“Tonight,” Tolliver said, “Sir Mark will address us, and tell us how best to keep to chastity. I, for one, plan to listen.”
Applause rang out, accompanied by cheers. Mark’s thoughts churned.
He couldn’t count the people who had turned out to see him. Several hundred, at least. If it was the entire parish, it might have been thousands. Mark had delivered lectures before. He never enjoyed the prospect. The only thing worse than being forced to make idle conversation with one person was to have to address hundreds. The crowd’s expectant stares stabbed into him like a hundred tiny knives.
They always expected him to be some kind of extraordinary orator. In truth, he usually managed to be an indifferent one. He’d prepared his usual remarks for tonight, a summary of a few important points he’d made in his book, followed by a plea to remember that he was just a regular man and not some kind of a saint.
The first few times he’d mouthed the latter sentiments, he had waited for the disappointed buzz. Perhaps he’d secretly hoped that someone would stand up and say, “He’s right! Did you hear what he just said? Sir Mark is a horrible fraud—why on earth have we been listening to him?”
There would be riots. The papers would turn on him as quickly as they’d taken his side, and in a few months, everyone would have forgotten him and turned their inexplicable zeal toward some more worthy object.
But the more he protested his ordinary nature, the greater the adulation. They acted as if he spoke out of some misguided, foolish humility, instead of simply giving him credit for speaking the truth. He could have announced that he had formed a financial partnership with Lucifer himself, and they would have crowded about him afterward, praising him for his business acumen. They’d have patted him on the shoulder and, when told that he had an interest in their souls, would have swooned because the great Sir Mark had taken notice.
His gaze drifted to Jessica again. He could do no wrong. Up until he’d interceded on her behalf, they’d thought she could do no right. They both commanded attention—one for praise, the other for censure. And yet Mark was certain that he had been the one who had cupped his hand around her breast when last he saw her. He had been the one to take her mouth in a kiss. And he was the one standing before a crowd now to talk about chastity when his thoughts over the past week had been increasingly obscene.
It se
emed an unbridgeable gap between them, that disparity. And then he saw the rector beside her. She was wearing an evening gown, perfectly respectable for a lecture given at night. Respectable…but creamy curves peeped from behind the lacy décolletage. The rector turned his head so he could look down her bodice ever so discreetly. And like that, Mark’s carefully planned, dull speech disappeared from his mind.
“Good evening.” His voice carried. The murmurs ceased instantly, and the crowd leaned forward. “Normally,” he heard himself say, “I would tell you all that I am just a man—not anyone special, not anyone to listen to. Normally, I’d admit to my fair share of hypocrisy. And have no doubt about it. I am a hypocrite. But for now, I’d like to set that aside. There are worse hypocrites in the room.