The Turner Series

by Courtney Milan

  “You could try being kind for a change,” he said mildly.

  Diana gave him a sad smile. “After all that I’ve said? If I retract the claws, all of London society will devour me. It is either kill or be killed. If you’re not the wolf, you’re the rabbit.”

  “There are no wolves. There are no rabbits. We’re all just human. I think you will find that if you treat people decently, they will respond.”

  “If I were starting anew? Perhaps. But I can’t escape myself, Evan.”

  He knew what that felt like. He could remember it all too well—the sick feeling in his stomach, the certainty that no matter what he wanted, he was forced to continue on. If he stopped being an ass, people would laugh at him. If he changed, they would turn on him. He’d run away, but she’d not had that option.

  Diana’s eyes glistened. “I can’t stand myself,” she said, choking. “If people did not fear me so, how could anyone tolerate me?”

  He knew that feeling, too. But that kind of regard was as false as a thin crust of snow, hiding a bottomless crevasse.

  “It’s quite simple,” Evan said. “You’ll have to choose between accepting yourself and having others accept you.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “Oh.”

  Once, long ago, they’d vowed never to let each other be hurt. What they’d done with that pledge had been ugly. But the promise itself…

  “There is one thing you should know.”

  “No need to even speak it. If I hurt your Elaine, you’ll have nothing further to do with me.”

  “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

  She raised her head, and for the first time, she met his eyes. She looked weary and ragged.

  “You were my first true friend,” he said. “I have always known that you would never purposefully wish me harm. You’re the sister I never had, and if you think I will turn my back on you, you gravely mistake me. Friends do not let go of other friends. Even if matters become difficult. Even if the road becomes rocky. Even if it seems as if there is no other choice.”

  She sniffled. “And what if you marry a woman who must certainly be my mortal enemy?”

  “Even then.” He stood and pillows scattered about him. “But I think you’ll find that most people can be remarkably forgiving.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide and sad. “Even you?”

  He crossed to her and knelt beside her. “Especially me,” he said. And when she leaned against him, he hugged her, hard.

  Chapter Eleven

  UNTIL ELAINE WALKED INTO THE BALLROOM THAT NIGHT, she had not realized how much of herself she had locked away. She had always stood on the side of such rooms, dressed in colors that drew no attention.

  Tonight, for the very first time, she wore a ball gown of red satin. It hugged her waist and then flared out over a multitude of petticoats. The neckline skimmed the top of her corset, flirtatious without quite crossing over into the realm of provocation. The cut was simple—so simple, it had been fitted together in a matter of hours. The hem was still pinned in place, rather than sewn.

  It was simple, and yet when she’d looked at herself in the mirror beforehand, she’d been unable to look away. This was who she could be. For years, she’d had one purpose at gatherings like this: to make everyone look away from her.

  Tonight she wanted them to look at her. She stood on the edge of the polished wood floor, feeling like a ship clinging to the shore. Out there, amongst the crowd, there were waves and storms and monsters. Here at the edges there was safety. Her first step toward the middle of the room was the hardest. The second came more easily. With the third, people had begun to look at her and whisper behind upraised fans.

  Lady Elaine Warren didn’t wear red. She didn’t walk into the center of the room. She hid away everything about herself.

  Not any longer. For once, those whispers did not make her falter. They made her lift her chin and take longer strides. The fourth step was the easiest yet, and on the fifth…

  On the fifth, she saw Evan. He was standing against a wall, dressed in dark brown. His golden, curling hair was tamed, but when he turned toward her, something just a little wild entered his expression. His gaze dropped, and perhaps—she could not keep herself from grinning—so did his jaw. Just a little. By the time his eyes met hers, his smile matched hers, broad and unstoppable. He started toward her.

  She could not run. Not with these slippers on her feet. If she ran, the flowers would fall from her hair, and the straight-pins holding her hem in place would come undone. But her steps grew faster. She made no effort to hide her destination. They met in the center of the crowd. He reached his hands out to her, and she took them. He pulled her close—and then, with everyone watching, he kissed her. Hard.

  There might have been tongue involved. Eventually, he pulled away from her.

  “Evan,” she said, “I’m so sorry—this morning, I—”

  He set his fingers across her lips. “What did I tell you?”

  “You said when danger threatened, you were looking for someone who would hold to you and not let go. And I—”

  He glanced wryly down, where his hand still held hers. “You’re letting go, are you?”

  “No, but this morning, I—”

  “Elaine,” he repeated, “are you letting go?”

  “No,” she whispered. “No. I love you.”

  His smile broadened and he leaned down to her. “Over the years, everyone stumbles. That’s why I’ll be here for you—and you’ll be there for me. I don’t expect perfection. I want you, and you’re a thousand times better.”

  Her heart was pounding. She was looking up into his eyes. The room was quiet with an expectant hush—

  Wait, the room was quiet? For the first time since his hands had joined with hers, she glanced around her. The crowd around them had indeed gone silent—and had drawn in quite close. Everyone was looking at them. Everyone.

  And why wouldn’t they?

  Evan’s smile simply broadened. “I love you,” he said, just loud enough to send a murmur rippling through the awaiting crowd. And then he tucked her hand behind his elbow and gestured to the crowd. “Clear the way,” he said, his voice commanding. “If I don’t find Lord Stockhurst and ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage in the next five minutes, we’ll have a scandal on our hands. And none of you want that.”

  Evan wasn’t the only one smiling, now. All around them, people were grinning. And then, one by one, the members of the crowd began to clap.

  ACROSS THE BALLROOM, DIANA HELD HER HEAD HIGH, willing herself not to tear up.

  No matter what Evan said, she didn’t believe that they could remain friends—not if she continued on as before. Strange; she’d never felt nervous before in a crowd. But right now, she could sense her own vulnerability. For the first time, she was the rabbit. And lo, here were these many wolves.

  She caught sight of Miss Maria Wollton along the side of the room. Miss Wollton had pots of money, but it had all come from trade. When she spoke, she displayed a well-informed, intelligent mind. And so last month, Diana had called her a presumptuous little bluestocking. The appellation had stuck. It had been so easy to push the girl to a corner of the room.

  Diana crossed the room to her and dipped a little curtsey. “Miss Wollton.”

  “Lady Cosgrove,” the younger woman returned warily.

  “That…” Why should this be so hard? “That shade of peach is quite lovely on you,” Diana said, all in a rush. “It truly brings out the blue in your eyes.”

  Miss Wollton frowned in confusion. To her left, Diana could see the crowd gathering about Evan and Elaine, offering their congratulations. Soon, she would join in. She would have a great many things she would need to say to the two of them.

  But for now… Diana drew a deep breath and did the hardest thing she had ever done in her life.

  “Miss Wollton,” she said, “I owe you an apology.”

  Epilogue

  Two months later.


  THE CHAMPAGNE HAD BEEN POURED in generous toasts. A dizzying multitude of friends and family had gathered around and offered the young couple congratulations. Elaine’s mother had scarcely been able to contain her happiness throughout the wedding breakfast, and so Elaine had barely managed to escape her parents’ home. A carriage decked with every spring flower had taken her away—all the way to Evan’s house, all of two streets’ distance.

  Despite the beat of nervousness in her belly, she’d been introduced to his staff and he’d taken her on a leisurely tour of his home—their home now, to fill with an entire life together. He’d shown her to her chambers.

  “The bed,” he said, quite seriously, “is the finest that money can buy. I had it made new for you, you know. I hope you…sleep comfortably.” A wicked smile danced on his face, and he glanced out the window at the afternoon sky.

  Evening was still a depressing number of hours away.

  Perhaps marriage did make you of one mind, because when she sighed, he winked at her.

  “I was thinking that after our arduous day, we might consider retiring early.”

  “What an excellent idea,” she returned, doing her best to keep her face straight and serious.

  He stepped outside and gave the orders. The majority of the servants disappeared as silently as they’d come, heading to their own revels below.

  Mary scarcely had time to divest Elaine of her formal white gown and replace it with an inappropriately virginal wrapper before a tap sounded at her door.

  “His Lordship is eager,” Mary said.

  “Mmm,” Elaine replied.

  “And how could he be? After all, just last night, you were—”

  “Mary, don’t you think you’ll need to pack? You have three weeks’ leave coming to you during our honeymoon. I should want to get started, were I you.”

  Mary smiled and withdrew.

  His Lordship wasn’t the only eager one.

  But when he entered, he did not fall on her and ravish her immediately. Alas. He stood in the doorway, the light of afternoon painting his gold hair in hues of orange. He’d shed his formal coat and waistcoat; the tails of his shirt were untucked.

  “Well, Lady Westfeld,” he said finally. “Are your accommodations to your liking?”

  “Why so formal?”

  He took a step toward her. “Formal? I’m just savoring the sound of your name.” Another step. “Lady Westfeld.” Another step, and he slid a finger under her chin. “Lady Westfeld of mine,” he whispered.

  “You’ll just have to be my Evan,” she said in response.

  “With pleasure.”

  And then, step by step, he drew her into the center of the room for a kiss—and another one—and another one after that. She took hold of his arms, and she didn’t let go.

  For Wathel. Who was always my sister, even when she was very, very far away.

  Chapter One

  London, June, 1841

  SIR MARK TURNER DID NOT LOOK like any virgin that Jessica had ever seen before.

  Perhaps, she mused, it was because he was surrounded by women.

  The uneven glass of the taproom window obscured the tableau unfolding across the street. Not that she would have been able to see anything, even had she been standing in the muck of the road. After all, it had taken less than a minute for the mob to form. The instant Sir Mark had come out the door across the way, a carriage had come to an abrupt halt. A pair of young ladies had spilled out, tugged along by an eager chaperone. Two elderly matrons, strolling along the gangway, had laid eyes on him a few moments later and darted in front of a cart with surprising speed.

  The oldest woman now had one clawed hand on the cuff of his greatcoat and the other on her cane—and she was merely the most aggressive of his hangers-on. Sir Mark was thronged on all sides by women…and the occasional man, sporting one of those ridiculous blue rose cockades on his hat. Jessica could see nothing of him through the crowd but the gray of his coat and a glint of golden hair. Still, she could imagine him flashing that famous smile reproduced in woodcuts in all the newspapers: a confident, winning grin, as if he were aware that he was the most sought-after bachelor in London.

  Jessica had no desire to join the throng around Sir Mark. She had no autograph book to wave at him, and the likes of her wouldn’t have been welcomed in any event.

  Sir Mark handled the crowd well. He didn’t bask in the attention, as the men of Jessica’s acquaintance might have done. Neither did he shrink from the pressing women. Instead, he ordered them about with an air of gentle command—signing the little books with a pencil he produced from a pocket, shaking hands—all the while making his way inexorably toward the street corner, where a carriage stood.

  When Jessica thought of virgins, she imagined youths plagued by red spots or youngsters who wore thick spectacles and spoke with a stammer. She didn’t think of blond men with clean-shaven, angular faces. She certainly didn’t imagine tall fellows whose smiles lit up the dark, rainy street. It all went to show: Jessica knew nothing of virgins.

  Hardly a surprise. She’d not spoken to a single one, not in all her years in London.

  Beside her, George Weston let out a snort. “Look at him,” he scoffed. “He’s acting like a damned jackanapes—parading up and down the street as if he owned the place.”

  Jessica traced her finger against the window. In point of fact, Sir Mark’s brother, newly the Duke of Parford, did own half the buildings on the street. It would annoy Weston if she corrected him, and so for a moment, she considered doing so.

  But then, Sir Mark’s presence was irritation enough. Some days, it seemed as if every society paper in London sent out a new issue every time he sneezed. Not much of an exaggeration. How many times had she passed post-boys waving scandal sheets, headlines a half-page high declaring: Sir Mark: Threatened by Illness?

  “He must think,” Weston continued, “that just because his brother is a duke—” he spat those words “—and the Queen has shown him a little favor, that he can caper about, displacing everyone who stands as his better. Did you know they’re considering him for Commissioner?”

  Jessica slanted him another glance. No; no need to rile the man. He could work himself into a lather without any help from her, and for now, she still needed him.

  “He’s never had to try for anything,” Weston groused. “It just falls in his lap. And here I’ve been running myself ragged, trying to put myself forward. Lefevre’s spot was practically promised to me. But no—now it’s Turner’s for the asking.”

  Sir Mark reached his carriage. He smiled to one and all. Even inside the taproom, Jessica could hear the cries of disappointment as a footman closed the carriage door.

  “I don’t understand how he became such a darling of London society,” Weston vented. “Would you believe that they’ve tapped him for the office not because he has any administrative experience, but because they wish to increase public approval? Why everyone cares about him, I can’t understand. He’s unwilling to engage in even the most time-honored gentlemanly pursuits.”

  By which Weston undoubtedly meant drinking and wenching.

  “He wrote a book.” Jessica pressed her hands against her skirt. Understatement served her purposes better than truth. “It has enjoyed a run of some little popularity.”

  “Don’t start on the bloody Gentleman’s Guide,” Weston growled. “And don’t mention the bloody MCB, either. That man is a plague on my house.”

  Before Sir Mark’s conveyance could spirit him away, the footmen had to politely clear the crowd from in front of the horses. The carriage was closed, but through a window on the side that faced her, Jessica could see Sir Mark’s silhouette. He removed his hat and bowed his head. It was a posture halfway between despair and exhaustion.

  So. All those smiles and handshakes were false. Good. A man who put on one false front would put on another, and if all his vaunted moral superiority was an act, it would make Jessica’s work very, very easy. Besides, if Sir Ma
rk despaired over a little thing like a mob determined to pay him adulation, he deserved what was coming to him. One paid a price for popularity.

  And Sir Mark’s book had been very popular indeed. The Queen had read it, and had knighted its author for his contribution to popular morality. Thereafter, his work had been read in all the favored salons in London. Every Sunday sermon quoted passages from the Gentleman’s Guide. Why, just last month, a diminutive version had been printed, so that women could carry his words about in their skirt pockets—or in intimate compartments sewn into their petticoats for just that purpose.

  There was something rather ironic, Jessica thought, about proper young ladies carrying A Gentleman’s Practical Guide to Chastity as near to their naked thighs as they could manage.

  But women were not his only devotees. Some days, it seemed as if half the men of London had joined that benighted organization of his followers. They were everywhere on the streets these days, with their blue cockades and their supposedly secret hand signals. Sir Mark had done the impossible. He’d made chastity popular.

  Beside her, Weston watched with narrowed eyes as the carriage finally started up. The coachman flicked his whip, and the conveyance moved slowly through the gathered crowd. He shook his head and turned to consider Jessica. It was only in her imagination that his eyes left a rancid, oily film behind.

  “I don’t suppose you asked me here just so I could talk about the insufferable Mark Turner.” His eyes fell to her bosom in idle, lecherous speculation. “I told you you’d miss me, Jess. Come. Tell me about this…this proposition of yours.”

  He took her arm; she gritted her teeth at the touch of his fingers and managed not to flinch.

  She hated that appellation. Jess sounded like a falcon’s leash, as if she were captured and hooded and possessed by him. She’d hated it ever since she realized she had been pinioned—tamed, taught commands and trotted out on the occasions when he needed to make use of her. But she had hardly been in a position to object to his use of it.