The Turner Series Page 47

  “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 sisters. 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—”

  “A mercenary?” The word came out as an indignant howl. “Thinking to auction off your story to the highest bidder! Such crass concerns with filthy lucre show your true colors.”

  Jessica was still shaking her head and contemplating kicking his foot out of the door when he leaned in, crafty once more.

  “Sell it to me,” he suggested. “We can split the proceeds evenly, yes? For an exclusive interview with Sir Mark on the most mundane of subjects, I could promise you at least five pounds. Think of that staggering sum.”

  “Are you trying to drum me out of business, or prop me up?” Jessica asked in bewilderment. “If you’re going to browbeat me, the least you can do is be consistent.”

  At that, Parret’s shoulders sank, and he let out a mighty exhale. “Whichever happens to be most lucrative,” he admitted, his righteous indignation evaporating. “Business has been bad, with Sir Mark away from London. Revenues have fallen. Mrs. Farleigh, you see before you a desperate man. I have a daughter, not yet five years of age. She is an angel—and I’ve put everything I have into educating her as a proper lady. I have the highest of hopes that she might marry high indeed.”

  “You think she can catch Sir Mark?”

  Parret paled and shook his head. “Oh, no. No. Never. But…a wealthy tradesman, yes? A captain in the navy. Maybe a man of the cloth, you see?” He made a fist and ground it against his palm. “Every ha’pence to my name, I have dedicated to her. Surely you would not steal from so worthy a cause as a young girl’s dowry?”

  “Mr. Parret,” she said gently, “I don’t believe a word that you’ve said. What in heaven’s name am I supposed to think, when you accuse me of theft, offer me a business partnership and then try to enlist me in a charitable cause? The only thing I am certain of is that you care about money, and you somehow think that I am either going to deprive you of it, or hand it to you in quantity. Both beliefs, I assure you, are idiotic. I am not a reporteress. I have no intention of hurting your…your trade.”

  Parret gave his head a short little nod. “I see.” He looked at her. “Well. Perhaps it is so. And yet why else try to inveigle him into your confidence?”

  He seemed genuinely puzzled on that point. Hadn’t he managed to come by his daughter in the usual fashion?

  “Surely a gossip columnist can manufacture an explanation of why a woman would want to talk with a man.”

  “But everyone knows Sir Mark is immune to all feminine blandishments,” he mused. “I’ve watched him for months and months. Look—I don’t suppose you’d care to report for me?”

  She choked.

  “It would be worth a great deal to you,” he said slyly. “What is he reading? Is he working on his next volume?” Parret smiled at her, which made him look weaselly rather than friendly. “I would be willing to reward you.”

  “You’re mad,” she informed him.

  He didn’t deny it. “My card.” He held it out to her. When she made no move to take it, he shrugged and set it on her threshold. He walked off whistling. Jessica watched him leave through the side window, his footsteps punctuated by the thud of her heart.

  Her hands were clammy. She waited until he slipped through the hedgerow and was gone.

  She didn’t know what to think.

  She didn’t know what to say.

  She almost wanted to laugh. He’d thought she was a reporteress, come here to tell Sir Mark lies, to ferret a story out of him? No—she practiced a different species of dishonesty.

  Not so different, she remembered. She was here to seduce him, to ruin him—and if she w
anted to have any chance of collecting at the end, she was going to need this man to believe her story. She had more in common with mad Mr. Parret than she did with Sir Mark, and it wouldn’t do to forget it.

  Grimly, she opened her door and knelt down. His card weighed nothing in her hand. So why did it seem so heavy?

  Because, her conscience answered grimly, she still intended to seduce Sir Mark. Even now, even knowing he was unwilling. Her self-respect had tarnished over time, but she had never stooped so low before as to harm a good man.

  And Sir Mark…Sir Mark liked her. He liked her when she forgot herself, especially when she did not try to restrain her speech.

  Nothing was fair in love or war, but Jessica conjured up the memory of his smile.

  “I’ll make you a promise.” She might have been speaking to him. She might have been speaking to herself. “I’ll seduce you,” she said. “I have to. But no strategems. No tricks. No, Sir Mark—I’ll seduce you as myself.”

  MARK HAD FOOLISHLY IMAGINED it would be easy to extricate himself from the crowd after church service on the next Sunday. He’d been mistaken. After the last song had been sung, and the rector had stepped away, he felt as if he were wading in a sea of people just to get to the yard outside the building. Once there, all possibility of escape disappeared. He was mobbed—and aside from a few straggling gravestones that offered scant cover, there was nowhere to hide.

  “Sir Mark, we were hoping to convince you to come over for dinner at some point this week,” said the woman before him—a Mrs. Cadfall.

  At his sleeve, a man spoke. “Sir Mark, we would be most grateful if you could give us some advice as to the cattle—”

  A hand landed on his collar, another on the cuff of his coat. It was London all over again—the crowds, the din, the attention. All that was needed was a pair of reporters and a paper at breakfast that listed precisely what he’d done the night before. Mark was caught up in a cacophony of voices, all demanding his attention.

  “Sir Mark,” chimed in a voice from behind him.