“Twice now.”
Jessica fell silent, unsure how to respond. He spoke in such an easy way—as if he dashed off letters to duchesses on a regular basis. Well. His brother was a duke, after all. He probably did. She supposed it shouldn’t come as such a surprise. She’d simply forgotten how high his family was. No, not forgotten; he’d made her overlook it, through some trick of his easy manners.
Perhaps that was why she let him guide her down the cobblestoned street in comparative silence. It wasn’t until they reached the shade of the trees that lined the water that Jessica spoke again.
“What did you say to the duchess?”
“She is my sister, you know—married to my brother. And not nearly so intimidating as her title makes her sound. I wanted to stave off any talk in town, so I thought that getting her imprimatur would be useful. After I’d sent the first letter, Margaret naturally bombarded me with questions.”
“Questions?” The river was running through high, grass-covered banks. A wood bridge crossed over one arm of the water, rushing into a millrace, but the main body burbled by noisily to her right.
“She wanted to know how long I’ve known you. Are you pretty? Clever?” He cast her a sly glance. “I told her, not long enough, and to the last two—very.”
If she’d been fifteen, she’d have blushed. As it was, Jessica felt a warmth collect on her skin, in her lungs. “If I didn’t know better, I should think you were flirting with me.”
He gave her an unreadable look. “Well. If you say I’m not, you must be correct. Still, I don’t endorse your conclusion.”
This left her equally confused. “But you’re—you’re—”
“A virgin?” There was a note of amusement in his voice. “True. But just because I don’t believe in poaching out of season doesn’t mean I can’t hunt.”
Her mouth dried.
“And here I’d thought we had left those polite protestations behind us,” he said. “I like you, Mrs. Farleigh. It’s that simple.”
“I—I—”
“And you hate me.” He smiled at her, as if he’d seen through her contrivance. “You see, it’s perfectly safe for the both of us. You know I shall never impose upon you. And until you’ve decided not to hate me, I need not worry that you’ll enlarge on our acquaintance. We neither of us have expectations.”
“Safe. You think I’m safe.” She glanced at him. He seemed perfectly sane—no hint whatsoever of madness showed, except his appalling words. “Must I remind you that I tried to seduce you?”
“True.” He shrugged. “But I don’t put much store by that, as you weren’t very good at it.”
Jessica gasped, pulling her hand from his arm. “Why, you—you—”
“You didn’t really mean it,” he said, with a wave of his hand that wasn’t much of an apology.
Jessica turned on him. “I’ll have you know I meant every word of it! If you’d been any other man, I’d have succeeded. And you’d have—”
“You’d have lost your nerve.” But he was watching her now, the solemn expression on his face belied only by a tiny quirk of his lips.
“And I don’t know what you mean when you say I wasn’t any good at it. I was excellent.” She turned to him. “I am excellent. Why, I could still have you, right now, you arrogant cad. And I would, except—”
“Except for the little fact that you hate me.” His eyes twinkled at her.
“Yes.” She folded her hands. “Except for that.”
They walked on in silence. Any other man, at being told that he could be seduced were it not for the fact that the woman in question hated him, would have been livid. Sir Mark, however, whistled tunelessly as they walked and leaned to pick up a stone. He skipped it across the water, as soon as they passed a calm section.
“I’m learning a great deal about you,” he finally remarked. “For one, you’re a competitive little creature. I’ll wager you were one of those children who would do anything, if dared to do it.”
“I am docile as a lamb.”
“A great big bull, you mean, tossing its horns.”
“If this is your idea of hunting,” she threw back, “you aren’t very good at it.”
But the insult did not seem to bother him. He merely smiled. “You needn’t think you can put me off that way,” he said calmly. “It’s what I like best about you—your willingness to insult me to my face. I like a great deal about you, which I must say gives you a deuced unfair advantage, since you despise me so.”
“Oh?”
“You see, you remind me of my brother.”
She paused, her eyebrows raised. “I remind you of your brother? Sir Mark, scores of men have flirted with me. I do not hesitate to tell you that you are absolutely the worst. You must work on your compliments. No woman wants to be told she brings a man to mind—even if the man happens to be a duke.”
“Not my brother, the duke. My middle brother. You see, if you want to know what Smite means, you have to watch what he does, not what he says. His speech is entirely at odds with his actions.”
“Now you’re calling me a liar.” She shook her head. “You’re hopeless. Truly hopeless.”
“You see,” he barreled on, ignoring her protestations, “you keep telling me that you could seduce me.”
“I could bring you to your knees.”
He stopped dead in the road. Slowly, he turned to her. “That,” he said quietly, “should have been obvious by now.”
The lane they had turned down was empty. A hedge of blackberries in full white flower hid the house that stood nearby. Suddenly, the dusty track seemed very small—too small for the both of them. He took one step toward her, his eyes pinning her in place. Her lungs filled with some hot, molten liquid. She willed her feet to stay rooted in place, her backbone to remain straight and tall. She looked into his eyes, unflinching.
Slowly, he raised his hand. He was going to touch her. Her skin tingled with anticipation. And despite that, under it all, there was still that cold prickle, that silent protest. No. No. There was nobody about—it was just her and him, and if she was to have any hope of success, she had to yield to him, to let him touch her, anywhere he wanted without protest… She imagined herself an automaton, constructed of some ungiving metal. Something that would freeze in place when his hand landed on her. Something that had no feelings, no heart.
No misgivings.
He raised one eyebrow. “Mrs. Farleigh,” he said gently, “you are steeling yourself not to flinch.”
“No. No, I am not. I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know precisely what I mean. You are frozen in place, as if you were some statue made of ice.”
“I am not.”
He reached for her and placed his hand near her cheek. She caught her breath, not wanting it to hiss in.
“Yes, you are.” His fingertips grazed her skin.
That light brush was too much. Even tentative as it was, she stepped back, her heart pounding. She could taste the dark despair in her mouth, the certainty of failure. She waited until her voice ceased to tremble. “Nonsense. I—I—”
He didn’t move. “I can’t make you out,” he admitted. “You can’t bear to be touched. And yet…”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“No?” He pulled his hand away, and she took in a gasp of air. He cocked his head and peered at her. His eyes were so intense, so inescapable.
She felt as she had in his parlor, two days prior: stripped bare before him and nothing to show for it. Nothing to offer him but a taste of the truth. Her eyes fluttered shut. “Men touch their horses to calm them,” she said distantly. “They caress their falcons to remind them that they are bound. Touch smacks of ownership, and I am weary of being a possession.”
“Has no one ever touched you for comfort? For friendship? No brothers or sisters?”
She didn’t dare open her eyes. It had been seven years since she’d seen her sister
s. Ellen would be almost grown now. She had Amalie, her dearest friend, but she was back in London.
Amalie had held her close, afterward. And so, no. It wasn’t the comfort she minded. It was the sense of proprietary ownership.
“And is that why you would touch me?” she asked. “For friendship? Or comfort? I had not thought you were the type to employ euphemisms.”
He straightened. “I’m not.”
“Everyone else thinks that because you’re a virgin, you’re safe. But I know how you look at me. I know what you see. You’re a man like every other man, and you want what every other man wants. Truly, Sir Mark. Why else would you be standing with a woman of no particular reputation on a deserted road?”
Surely it was an illusion, that she could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek. He wasn’t close enough.
“Mrs. Farleigh.” His words were choked. “You have no idea how long I have waited for someone to recognize that. I’m not an innocent. I’ve never been innocent. And yet I’m treated as if I were some sort of divine being, untouched by lust.”
She swallowed.
“It cheapens what I’ve accomplished,” Mark said, “to imagine me a saint. To believe I am untempted, that I pass through this life without feeling lust or want or desire. I said it in the first chapter of my book, and yet nobody seems to believe me. Chastity is hard.”
“I hadn’t thought—”
“I want. I lust. I desire.” He scrubbed his hand through sandy blond hair at that, shaking his head. “No. You’re right. You don’t deserve euphemisms. I want you. I lust after you. I desire you.”
She might have been the only woman in the world, pinned by his gaze.
“But what I don’t do is act.”
Her gut twisted.
“If you want to know what I am doing with you on this deserted road…I would trade every one of my hangers-on for one true friend. For someone who would look in my eyes and tell me that I am a man like any other man. I don’t dare possess you, Mrs. Farleigh. I fear that I’d break something irreplaceable.”
She swallowed. “Sir Mark.”
He reached out one hand again, almost to her face, before he stopped himself. “I do want, but you’re safe with me.”
Safe. The earth seemed to spin about her with alarming speed. For years, every conversation she had with a man had been colored by calculation. Would she put him off if she spoke her mind? What did he want her to say? When a man took a mistress, he purchased not just the rights to her body, but the content of her thoughts.
Sir Mark wanted her as she was, not as he wished her to be. The thought made her head hurt.
Safe? He was the last thing from safe.
He tipped his hat at her, with that dreadful smile on his face—as if he knew that he’d rattled her to her core, and he was pleased. He was halfway down the lane before her mind cleared.
“Sir Mark!”
He stopped, turned.
“You’ve forgotten your coat.” She started to ease her arms out of the sleeves.
But he simply shrugged. “No, I haven’t. I left it with you on purpose. That way, I’ll have an excuse to accompany you home from service.”
Her mouth dried.
He winked at her. “Until then.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN THE KNOCK SOUNDED at Jessica’s door the next day, her heart leaped. The neighbors did not call on her, she expected no deliveries, and the letter carrier always managed to avoid her house.
But while the name her maid whispered to her seemed familiar, she didn’t quite recognize it. Confused, she followed the woman to the front room. A small, weedy man stood before her. His hair was a brownish-red, mostly taking the form of a florid mustache. His coat was wrinkled, his cravat poorly tied. When he saw her, his eyes narrowed. And then he frowned at her, letting his fob watch fall back into his pocket as if she were late for an appointment.
He patted a pocket, as if in reminder, and then drew himself up.
“Can I help you?” Jessica asked.
“I should think not.” The fellow spoke in belligerent tones. “Can you help me? Hmph.”
His mouth was set in a stubborn line, and his shoulders hunched, a pose that would have been menacing if he’d not been half a head shorter than she.
Jessica was quite used to being insulted but not in her own home.
“Pardon me.” She crossed to the front door and opened it pointedly. “Have we been introduced?”
The man folded his arms. “You know damned well we haven’t.” He spoke in an accusatory tone. “Just as you know damned well what I’d told you— I’m Mr. Nigel Parret, the Parret, of London’s Social Mirror.”
Oh. The name suddenly fell into place. Parret was the man who had published all those articles on Sir Mark—in fact, he’d made them the cornerstone of the little paper he owned. She’d studied his accounts faithfully.
When she’d first heard of Weston’s offer, it had been from a woman who’d tried and failed to seduce Sir Mark. She had thought to have her money anyway, by manufacturing a story. But it wasn’t the first time a woman had claimed to have seduced the man. It was Parret who had investigated the claims, Parret who had denounced the few stories that had first come out, by proving that Sir Mark could not have been where the women claimed. It was Parret who had told her friend, and through him, George Weston, that he’d never believe a story of seduction unless the woman in question took Sir Mark’s ring—a thick gold ring with a dark stone. It was supposed to be an heirloom from his father, and he was never seen without it.
So why on earth was Parret here?
“Here you are,” Parret was saying, “tramping all over the turf that I have so faithfully developed, without so much as a by-your-leave. From what I’m hearing in the village, you somehow managed to get an exclusive interview with him.”
“What are you speaking about?”
“Oh, don’t play so innocent,” he sneered. “I’m all too familiar with your type—inviting confidences, taking in good men who otherwise would not stray.”
The comments cut rather too close to the bone. “That’s quite enough. Good day, sir.” Jessica took the man’s elbow and guided him the three steps out the door. But before she could slam it on his nose, Parret insinuated his foot in the doorway.
“And you think you can get rid of me so easily! After stealing from me. Yes, stealing!” He nodded emphatically as Jessica stared at him in astonishment. “That’s what I call it! Theft! Taking the very bread from my daughter’s table!”
“Sir, you seem to have forgotten yourself. I must insist—”
Mr. Parret had gradually turned red all over his bald head, as if he were a sunburnt little egg.
“Insist! You have no right to insist upon anything. Now, who are you working for?”
His hands were on his hips, his chest thrust forward. Jessica felt her cheeks chill. He knew. Somehow, he knew what she was trying to forget. She’d come here for money; she planned to betray Sir Mark to his enemies, to ruin his reputation. This man knew.
“Ha!” His face lit, and he jabbed a finger at her. “I knew it. Your silence reveals everything. Is it Miller, of Today’s Society? Or Widford, at The Daily Talk?”
Jessica shook her head, confused all over again.
“You can’t hide it now,” Parret gloated. “I know what you are. You,” he said, in stentorian tones, “are a reporteress.” His hands landed on his hips in righteous indignation. His chin jerked, once, in satisfaction. And his nose twitched, as if being a female reporter were somehow an occupation that made one smell more vile than a chimney sweep on the day before his yearly bath.
“I see you don’t deny it,” he continued on. “We must stand together and resist all such incursion! We must come together in brotherhood and toss out those like you—women who take a man’s job, who rob a man of the ability to feed his family.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Jessica peered at the empty
green hedge behind him. “You appear to be alone.”
“I speak for all working men! Sir Mark is my territory. My story. I developed him. I created his reputation. I made him the darling of all London. And now you seek to profit from my hard work. I heard all about what happened in the churchyard the other day—he greeted you privately, away from all the others. He’s agreed to allow you an interview, hasn’t he?”
“You’re laboring under a misapprehension,” Jessica said. “I’m not working for anyone—”