Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

Instead, he released a sigh and pulled his hand away. “No,” he repeated. “And I should. Under ordinary circumstances, I should be delighted to accompany you home. Too delighted, in fact. I hope you’ll understand when I say that tonight, I must leave you to make your own way back.”


Jessica looked up at him. And in that instant, she remembered what she was supposed to be doing. She’d vowed to seduce him. She needed to do it, needed the money quite desperately. He’d made her forget all that. She’d forgotten everything—everything except the feel of his mouth on hers.

“Surely a saint like Sir Mark can stand up to a little temptation,” she said.

But he didn’t smile at the jest. Instead he shook his head. And this time, he truly was grave. “Not tonight, Mrs. Farleigh. Not tonight I can’t.” And before she could answer, he turned and walked away from her.

She watched him go, her stomach twisting. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. She wasn’t supposed to want him, too. She was supposed to seduce him—but it felt dreadfully as if he were the one seducing her.

You can do better.

All she had to do was take her own advice and stop thinking about seduction. She liked him. She liked his style, to the point and honest and unstudied. She liked that she could make him lose his head. She liked that he made her forget, if only for a few minutes, everything but the primal attraction between them.

But most of all, she loved that he’d wanted her to win.

Men had complimented her beauty, and she’d stayed detached. They’d written poems about the timbre of her voice, and she’d been unmoved. But just the thought of Mark, saying in a voice roughened by desire that she could do better…that had brought her to the edge.

It was the first time in years that she’d liked it when a man kissed her. And therein lay the danger.

Maybe she could seduce him simply by not thinking too hard, by letting herself slide into an infatuation that came all too naturally to her. But could she then turn around and heartlessly betray him to Weston?

She’d done a great many stomach-churning things in the name of survival. She could do this, too. It wasn’t as if she had so much choice. All she had to do was let herself feel the heady thrill of attraction. She could tumble headlong into…into like with him, letting that nascent admiration grow. And then, when she respected him—when she appreciated him—when she longed for his touch and couldn’t bear to see him hurt, why, then all she had to do was betray him.

She wanted to vomit.

Instead, she sighed, took a deep breath to settle her stomach and collected her rifle.

THERE WAS ANOTHER letter from her solicitor when she stopped by the post office on the way home from the competition. The envelope was thicker than usual; it must have contained several pages. She ripped it open as soon as she was in private.

The first sheet was little more than an introduction—a few more bills left off the last note sent and a final tally of her accounts. The amount—something under nine pounds—was not something she cared to contemplate.

That sense of nausea had not dissipated, and the truth of her finances did nothing to ease her worries.

There was another letter from Weston enclosed—a terse note, really, demanding that she give him news. She passed over that one quickly and turned to the final sheet.

It was filled with her solicitor’s writing. She frowned and began reading as she walked.

I regret to inform you…

Her steps slowed in the path, then came to a standstill.

She read on. Her hands didn’t dare to tremble. Her feet didn’t dare to misstep. She could not look away from the page—the words it contained seemed impossible.

She’d had one good thing in her life, and while she’d been here in Shepton Mallet, flirting with Sir Mark, it had been ripped away. And Jessica hadn’t even had the chance to say farewell.

She should have been crying, but her eyes stayed dry. There was nothing tears could do to change the situation in any event.

Amalie had taught Jessica all the rules of being a courtesan. Stupidly, they came to mind now.

Never trust a man who gives you diamonds; whatever he needs to apologize for isn’t worth the jewelry.

Every new man is a risk; better the man of moderate means, who stays for two years, than the wealthy protector who abandons you after a month.

And most importantly of all: Every courtesan needs a friend. We would never survive without each other.

For the past seven years, Amalie had been that friend. Amalie had taken the place of Jessica’s sisters. She’d been the constant warmth in Jessica’s life.

But Amalie wasn’t here, and none of her advice could see Jessica through this blow.

Don’t think. Act. That wasn’t Amalie’s advice; it was what Jessica had told Sir Mark earlier today. And like that, she was turning in the path, fighting the burn in her lungs for breath. It might feel like a mistake tomorrow, but tonight, she needed a friend.