Unclaimed

by Courtney Milan

  She brought her free hand up. Even now, with her fingers clenched in his grip, she ran her hand down his jaw. “What a shame. I consider my flaws my primary attraction.” She spoke as if she were almost purring. “I’d make a poor broodmare, Sir Mark, but then, I don’t think that’s what a man like you needs.”

  She did a good job of pretending to want him. But her tone didn’t match the thready beat of her pulse against his fingers. It didn’t match the wary tension of her body, strung tight as a harp string and vibrating next to his.

  “As it turns out,” he said sharply, “I’m not in the market for flesh of any variety.”

  “No?” Her finger drew a line down his chin. “You’re a man. You have desires, like anyone else. As for me…I’m a widow, but I’m not dead. I shouldn’t mind a little comfort, and like you, I should very much like it to be discreet, so that no censure falls on me.” Her hand traced that line down his neck, his shoulder. “Our interests are much aligned. You might have your spotless reputation, and indulge yourself, as well.”

  Her fingers, cold and still slightly damp, slid along his wrist. He told himself it didn’t matter. She was touching glass, not flesh; granite, not skin. No doubt, tonight he’d relive the sinuous line she’d drawn on his skin. Tonight some lustful part of him would wish he’d pulled her close and taken the comfort she offered.

  He made himself stone instead. “You know nothing of my interests. That’s not what I want.”

  “If you don’t want me,” she asked silkily, “then why are you still holding me?”

  “A point of clarification.” He pressed his fingers against the joint of her thumb—lightly, not to hurt her, but enough to show her exactly what he could do, should he choose. “I am holding you at bay,” he said dryly. “That is far removed from actually holding you. As for the rest, you are the one who is trembling. Not I. Really, Mrs. Farleigh. You must think that because I have never been in anyone else’s skin, I cannot be comfortable inside my own.”

  He relinquished her hand and stepped back through the parlor door. Her hand dropped to her side, and she stared at him, befuddled once more.

  “As it turns out,” he said, “I don’t give a fig for my spotless reputation. What I care about is chastity itself. And, in any event, I doubt I’d ever be tempted to stray by a woman who flinches when I put my hands on her. Dry your clothes.” His voice was harsh. “It might take some time. If you become bored in the meantime, there are books to read.” He gestured to the wall.

  She took one step toward him.

  There was only one way to end this argument: Mark closed the parlor door on her. The last thing he saw was the look on her face—not outraged, not desirous, but cold with fear.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE DOOR SLAMMED in front of Jessica’s nose. Then, before she could quite understand what was happening, she heard the sound of a key scraping in the lock.

  The sound was irrevocable, creaking out her defeat. She was drenched down to her drawers. And she’d failed.

  Her hands shook as she undid her corset laces. Not from cold; she’d stopped feeling cold months before. She’d made not one, but two tremendous miscalculations. And she feared that her mistake was irreparable.

  Her tiny reserve of capital was in the tens of pounds now. She might make her funds last longer by selling clothing—but, given her trade, that would be akin to eating her seed corn. Besides, a courtesan must never appear desperate for a protector. Men who were attracted to desperate women were worse than the desperation itself.

  No doubt Sir Mark thought that she was driven by something like desire—or, perhaps, mere feminine curiosity. He didn’t know how truly grave her situation was. How badly she had needed him to succumb. It was that urgency that had made her misjudge the situation.

  She’d convinced herself that his seduction would be easy—that he’d fall, if only he believed that nobody would find out. Worse. She’d fooled herself into believing that after what had happened to her, she could stomach another man’s touch of ownership on her skin again.

  She had been awfully, horribly wrong.

  It had taken her months to recover from her illness. Back then, it had only been the physician’s commands that had made her take her medicine, choke down a few spoonfuls of gruel. Amalie, her dearest friend, had come over daily and forced her to care for herself. Even now, she still had to remind herself to eat.

  That was what had decided Jessica on this particular course of action.

  Jessica knew what happened to courtesans who ceased to care for themselves. She had seen it too many times in the years she’d been in London. When a woman stopped caring, she no longer took pains to choose her next protector. One mistake—one man who liked hurting his mistress a little too well, one fellow who managed to hide a bawdy-house disease—that was all it took. Soon, the emptiness in a woman’s heart grew to encompass her eyes.

  She’d seen women take to gin or opium within months of making that first mistake. From there, it was nothing but a long, slow slide into the grave.

  In her first year in this life, when Jessica had been young and naive, she’d told herself it wasn’t so bad, being a courtesan.

  It hadn’t been what she’d dreamed of, but she’d embraced her survival with open arms. And she’d discovered that the scandalous Jess Farleigh enjoyed freedoms that the gently bred Jessica Carlisle dared not contemplate. During the days, she could think about commerce, manage business accounts, talk with her fellow courtesans about the things that happened between men and women. And the nights…she’d wanted to forget what she’d lost, and so she’d thrown herself into the evenings with abandon. At first, it had seemed one endless soiree, where men tripped over themselves to give her what she wanted.

  In the years that followed, she’d learned that the glittering finery was a trap, that the soiree was not endless. It eroded you, piece by irrevocable piece. It made a mockery of love, and if you did not look after your heart with a ferocious care, you’d find, bit by bit, that you’d traded it for silk ribbons and baubles on gold chains. It took only one mistake to turn a cosseted courtesan into an empty-eyed whore, willing to do anything to forget what men had made of her. Jessica had watched it happen far too often.

  The successful courtesan, Jessica had learned, had much in common with the successful gamester. The trick of winning was knowing when to leave the table. Anyone who stayed past her time lost. She lost everything.

  Jessica pulled her shift off her shoulders and hung it to dry before the fire. The carpet was thick beneath her feet—warmer than the stockings she removed and placed on a chair to dry. The fire flickered against her skin. She was sure the flames radiated heat. But she no longer felt it. She no longer felt anything.

  Sir Mark was supposed to be her final throw of the dice. She’d wagered her reserves on him. And she’d misjudged him—had let her cynicism do all the thinking for her. She had never imagined that his belief was real, that he would give up an opportunity to slake his lust. Principles had never mattered, not with the men she’d known.

  She’d made a mistake—and one she could ill afford.

  It wasn’t money she was fighting for—not truly. It was all the things money could buy: the opportunity to escape her past, to have a cottage in a quiet village. To feel the sun against her face as warmth, instead of a cold, pale light. She wasn’t going to be one of those women—the dim-eyed cousins of courtesans—giving up her soul to strangers nightly against a cold stone wall, just so she could purchase the gin she needed to forget.

  No. After all these years, she was going to do what she did best. She was going to survive.

  And so it didn’t matter that he’d locked her in this room. That his eyes had narrowed in distrust. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have a whore’s chance in heaven of convincing him to smile at her again. She was going to seduce Sir Mark. She was going to get her fifteen hundred pounds. She was going to find a nice cottage in a tiny village, she a
nd Amalie, and together they would finally be able to let go of everything that had come before.

  She had to sell her body one last time, but this time, she wasn’t trading it for anything less than her heart. Nobody—nothing—not a locked door, nor even the great weight of Sir Mark’s morals—would stop her.

  She even thought she knew how to do it. She’d mistaken him once. She’d not do it again.

  This time, she had to tell him the truth.

  THE RAIN HAD STOPPED, and Jessica’s clothing had dried by the time he came for her. His knock sounded twice on the door, echoing ominously.

  “Come in.”

  A silence.

  “It’s safe,” she added. And it was safe. For him. She sat, demurely dressed, before the fire. There would be no more mistakes. She couldn’t afford a single one.

  The key scraped in the lock. He opened the door a few inches. His face was obscured by the shadows in the hall. “The weather should hold,” he said to the window near her, “long enough for you to make your way home. I would have offered you tea, but…” He trailed off with a shrug that had more to do with explanation than apology for his lack of hospitality.

  She wouldn’t have taken tea in any event.

  “Let me show you out.” He turned his back to her, and she stood. Her muscles twinged, sore, as if she’d run a great distance. Sitting and waiting for him had been arduous enough. His shoulders were rigid as he walked, at odds with the fluidity of his gait. At the front door, he fumbled for the handle.

  Jessica stayed a few feet back. “Sir Mark. I owe you the truth.”

  He’d not looked at her, not since he’d opened the parlor door. But at these words, he paused. His shoulders straightened, and he glanced at her over his shoulder—a brief look, before his gaze flitted back to the door. He pressed the handle down.

  “The truth is plain enough.” For all the harshness of his words, his tone was gentle. “I was rather too cruel earlier. There’s no need to embarrass yourself. Speak no more of it.”

  He might as well have said, speak no more to me. And that outcome was unacceptable.

  “But I owe you the truth as to why I did it.”

  He didn’t turn, but he let go of the door handle.

  “I did it,” she said, “because I hated you.”

  That brought him turning slowly around, this time to really look at her. Most men wouldn’t have smiled at being told they were hated. And in truth, it wasn’t a happy smile that took over his face. It was a bemused look, as if he held his breath.

  “I hated you,” she continued, “because you have done nothing more than abide by rules that every gentlewoman follows every day of her life. Yet for this prosaic feat, you are feted and cosseted as if you were a hero.” She felt nothing as she spoke, but still her voice shook. Her hands were trembling, too. “I hate that if a woman missteps once, she is condemned forever, and yet the men who follow you can tie a simple ribbon to their hats after years of debauchery, and pass themselves off as upright pillars of society. And so, yes, Sir Mark. I came here to seduce you. I wanted to prove that you were only too human. Not a saint. Not an example to follow. Not anyone deserving of such worship.”

  Her voice had begun to rise. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought herself upset, her calm unraveling like the edge of an old scarf.

  But she did know better. She felt nothing—just the cold sweat of her palms, the tremor of her arms wrapped around herself. Her body, apparently, felt what her heart could not. There was truth in her words—too much of it.

  He must have heard it because his eyes widened. The smile slipped from his face. He contemplated her silently for a while. Jessica set her jaw and returned his gaze.

  “You are quite right,” he eventually said. “I agree with your every sentiment, with my whole heart.” And then he did smile at her—not just a bemused little curl of his lips, but a brilliant grin. “Pardon me. I agree with almost every sentiment.” He leaned back against the door. “I must make an exception for one tiny particular. You see, I rather like myself.”

  She’d never met a man before who preferred facts over flattery. He seemed torn from the pages of a child’s fable—a dazzling hero, pure and upstanding. Incorruptible. And what role did that give her in this fairy tale?

  “You would be a more comfortable man if you were not so good.”

  “No, Mrs. Farleigh. You mustn’t believe that. You were doing so well at avoiding all those pesky illusions. I’ve told you before, I’m no saint. In fact, I am eaten up by mortal sins. It’s refreshing for someone else to notice.”

  “Sin? You must not mean the typical ones that gentlemen engage in.”

  “Typical enough.” He shrugged. “I harbor a great deal of pride.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh.” He met her eyes. “You see, I’m not some shiny bauble to be strung onto a necklace and displayed for all the world to see. I’m too proud to ever be anyone’s conquest.”

  It was both warning and explanation all at once. She could see that now, in the set in his jaw. Her direct approach to seduction would never have worked even if he’d been more inclined to sin. This was a man who wanted to work for his prize.

  “Besides,” he added, “I’m much too proud to ever want a woman who did not like me.”

  “Liking has nothing to do with it. Can you tell me the difference between a mounting block and a male virgin?”

  He shook his head.

  “The virgin,” Jessica said, “is a far easier conquest.”

  He laughed—simple and uncomplicated. “Yes,” he said. “I far prefer this side of you. For what it’s worth, Mrs. Farleigh, I don’t hate you. I don’t even hold you in dislike, however disreputable your intentions may have been this afternoon. I don’t imagine your situation is easy.” He looked down briefly and then glanced up, his blond radiance almost overwhelming. “I’m willing to forgive a great deal from clever women who see through the veneer of saintliness.”

  She wasn’t certain what he meant by that. But he was smiling at her. He’d not thrown her out and told her never to speak with him again. She had a chance—one last chance at success. It was going to be hard. Practically impossible. And she was going to have to move with painstaking slowness.

  “It’s becoming harder to hate you, knowing that you’re more than a collection of moral aphorisms. But I am rather perverse.”

  “Be careful.” His words were a warning, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m proud enough that I might decide to convince you to like me after all.”

  “No, no. We can’t have that.” She pitched her tone to playfulness. “If I actually liked you, I might decide to tempt you again—not to prove a point, but just for the pleasure of having you in my bed.”

  She hadn’t realized she meant it until she said it. She didn’t want Sir Mark in her bed in any sexual sense—it had been years since she’d felt true desire.

  No. She meant what she’d said in the most wistful sense possible. Despite his protestations, he seemed like a nice man. She’d never had a nice man in her bed.

  But standing as close to him as she was, she could hear his indrawn breath. She could see his pupils dilate. He didn’t rake his gaze down her body in possessive desire, as the jaded roués of her acquaintance might have done. But he didn’t squeeze his eyes shut, like a young boy trying to deny the truth of his vision.

  Instead, he raised his head. His gaze caught hers—steady and just a bit mischievous. And she swallowed. Sir Mark wasn’t anything like what she had imagined a virgin would be. He was too masculine. Too certain. Without breaking her gaze, he opened the door behind him—a signal, perhaps, that they’d passed some threshold and the conversation had come to an end.

  “Mrs. Farleigh,” he said, “you are interesting. And you paid me the compliment of your honesty.” He stepped to the side, and the cool air of early evening touched her skin. The clouds had dissipated enough that the sun, hovering abo
ve the horizon, left her blinking.

  “And so I shall be honest in return.” He gave her a tight little smile. “You can tempt me all you like. But you won’t succeed.”

  She would. She had to. But for now, she simply smiled at him. “I do believe you’ve made that clear.” She passed through the door.

  He set his hand on her wrist as she went by. His bare fingers met her glove—not holding her back, but just touching her lightly. She paused.

  His fingers brushed up her arm—half an inch across kidskin, no more. An unthinking movement, surely; not a caress. Not from him. For one second she thought he looked hesitant. But then he turned toward her, and the low rays of the sun caught his face, coloring his skin with rust. He leaned in, supremely confident. He was close enough that she could see his eyes—blue, ringed with brown. His scent was fresh male, soap tinged with salt. He was close enough to kiss her.