Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

If it had been silent before, it was like death now. Actually, some wicked part of him whispered in response, I have no problem being rigid, too, if that’s what the situation demands.

Thank God that this little public slip had happened in Shepton Mallet rather than London. People here would talk—but gossip would alter their words entirely. And while the gist of the conversation might be repeated in shocked tones from here to Croscombe, at least it wouldn’t be trumpeted in every paper by breakfast tomorrow.

As if conjured entirely from his imagination, a thin weedy voice spoke. “I say, Sir Mark. Could you repeat that?”

No. No. It couldn’t be.

The owner was hidden by the crowd. But Mark knew the speaker all too well. He could see the fraying edge of a top hat at the very edge of the group, obscured by heads and shoulders.

Nigel Parret. What was he doing in Shepton Mallet?

No point even asking the question. Parret pushed through the crowd, closer to Mark. He held a tiny notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other. He looked up at Mark. No man with a mustache like that should ever try to look innocent, Mark decided. It could never work. Besides, Mark knew the man all too well. Nigel Parret was not just a reporter. He was the worst kind of gossip.

“My dear Sir Mark!” Parret shouldered in front of Mrs. Farleigh, casting her a glittering look that Mark could not quite decipher. “It has been so long. So, so long since we last spoke!”

It had been weeks, glorious weeks, since Mark had last brushed the man off.

“Perhaps you could tell me your feelings on seeing me after such a lengthy vacation?”

“Certainly,” Mark said. “Two words.”

The reporter’s pencil poised over paper. Ten thousand people really would read those words, if Parret had his way.

“Push. Off.”

Parret looked up. “Sir Mark. That’s not a very kind thing to say. And we are such friends, are we not?”

Mark simply stared at him.

“Now,” Parret said, “what were we saying then?”

He looked up through the crowd and caught Mrs. Farleigh’s eyes. Mark could feel his minor flirtations, all the nascent like he felt for her drying up. Nigel Parret could ruin Mrs. Farleigh faster than Mark could decide what he wanted with her.

He’d imagined seeing her home from church. He’d imagined conversations. Walks outside. Oh, very well—he’d imagined more, but what he’d truly yearned for was not the touch of her hand, but to break through the brittleness of her facade. He’d wanted to slowly come to know her—all without the entirety of London watching in vicarious interest.

“We weren’t saying anything,” Mark said coldly. He tipped his hat to the crowd, avoided Mrs. Farleigh’s eyes and gave the man a jerk of his head.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

He watched her go out of the corner of his eye, letting the village conversation swell up around him.

No. No. He wasn’t going to let this one slip away. Not without a fight.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JESSICA HAD NOT YET finished her breakfast the next morning when her maid interrupted her. “ He’s here to see you,” she whispered.

It took Jessica a few moments to realize who the woman meant. Sir Mark had not walked her home after service, as he’d promised. After their too-public exchange—and after Mr. Parret had appeared—he’d seemed to abruptly lose interest in her.

Her heart thudded painfully in anticipation. What was he doing here, and so early in the morning? Her hair still hung loose around her shoulders, just brushed after being taken from its braids. She didn’t take the time to put it up, instead ducking out to the front room of her cottage.

Sir Mark stood there, contemplating the items she had on her shelf: two porcelain figures that she’d obtained over the past seven years, and one broken shell—a present her youngest sister had given her nine years ago, and her only memento of home.

“Sir Mark?”

He turned to her. For a moment, he simply froze in place, his mouth open. Then he shook his head.

“Oh, that is utterly unfair. I came to make my apologies, and make amends. But that—that is utterly beyond the pall. I don’t think I can ever forgive you.”

“What? What did I do?”

He rubbed his forehead. “Never mind. I came to ask you whether you had any interest in taking a walk with me this morning.”

“Sir Mark, I feel that I must remind you of the last few words we have exchanged. Twenty-four hours ago, you announced to an entire crowd that you wanted to have intercourse with me. This morning, you tell me that I am appalling. Now, I’m supposed to step out with you?”

He looked up into the corner of the room and then shrugged. “That’s pretty much the lay of the land, yes.”

“Do you know what people are going to think if they see us together after what you said on Sunday?”