Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

Mrs. Farleigh’s artful smile suggested that she was worldly. Her revealing gown shouted that she was a temptress. The rector’s gossip said she was worse. But when Lewis placed his hands on her, she flinched—no more than a half step backward, a twitch of her skin, but that was enough. For one instant, she had more the look of scalded cat about her than graceful swan, and that half second of response betrayed her air of worldly sensuality. She was not who she appeared at first blush.

Mark was suddenly interested—interested in a way that a low-cut gown and a striking figure could never have accomplished.

From these yards away, he could barely make out the conversation. No doubt neither believed they could be overheard. But they stood just on the other side of the Market Cross, and the acoustics through the stone were unexpectedly good.

“Come, Mrs. Farleigh,” the rector was whispering harshly. “As it’s not market day, there’s no need to display your wares so openly. Nobody here is buying those sorts of goods.”

Mrs. Farleigh had flinched at his touch. But at the intimation that she was selling her body, she did not react in the slightest. “Oh, Reverend,” she replied, equally softly. “Whatsoever is sold in the shambles…”

She trailed off, invitingly, and Mark automatically filled in the remainder: Whatsoever is sold in the shambles, that, eat, asking no question for conscience sake. The words took him two decades back, to his earliest memories—reciting Bible verses while his mother looked at the wall behind him, her head nodding in time to music that only she seemed to hear. Those words he’d memorized were still burned into him, that sharp juxtaposition of right and horribly, terribly wrong.

Lewis shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We sell corn here. And cattle.”

Her smile ticked up another notch, and Mark’s respect for her increased. The rector—upstanding, breast-grappling citizen that he was—hadn’t noticed that the godless Mrs. Farleigh had just quoted the Bible at him. He probably hadn’t even recognized the verse. Mrs. Farleigh’s hand drifted to her shoulder, to the point where the rector’s hand lay. She picked his gloved fingers up between thumb and forefinger, as if a dead leaf had landed on her, and then let his arm drop to his side.

“I shan’t keep you, Rector,” she said, her voice gentle. “I’m sure there are a great many things you would like to purchase. Maybe the other wares you examine will actually be for sale.”

She turned away, not looking at Mark. The rector stared after her, folding his arms about his chest in dissatisfaction. He watched her go with rather more interest than a rector ought to have had. Finally, he turned to face Mark. “There,” he said, in a loud, carrying voice, as he wiped his hands together. “Don’t you worry, Sir Mark. We’ll make sure that the likes of her never bother you again.”

Mark glanced once at Mrs. Farleigh, who was walking back toward the greengrocer. The red of her sash made the stack of radishes look pale by comparison. She made the entire town seem faded and washed out, like a poor watercolor painting of itself.

He was chaste, not a saint. And he was just looking.

But she’d already made a contradiction of herself, one as stark and intriguing as the light color of her dress, juxtaposed against the vibrant slash of color at her waist. She’d called the rector a hypocrite to his face, and the man hadn’t even noticed. What would she say if she looked Mark in the eyes?

Would she see a saint? An icon to be worshipped?

Or would she see him?

The possibility hung in the air, too powerful to be ignored. No. No use telling himself falsehoods. He wasn’t just looking at her. He wanted to know more.

CHAPTER THREE

JESSICA HAD NOT considered what it meant, that Sir Mark was returning to his childhood home for the summer. She’d lived in—or near enough to— London for the past seven years of her life. Her protectors had taken her along on their excursions to the country. But improper as her role had been, they would never have introduced her to the neighbors. She’d imagined the country as a smaller, more private version of the city—just with fewer people and no operas. So quickly had she forgotten her childhood.

In a way, she did have more privacy. Jessica had found a cottage on the outskirts of town, half a mile past the point where cobblestones gave way to dirt and houses to fields. She sometimes went hours without seeing a soul besides the maid-of-all-work she’d brought with her from London.

But for precisely that same reason, she was unlikely to meet Sir Mark ambling down the country lane that led to her abode.

And that meant there was only one place she could go, knowing for certain he would attend: church. Early on a summer morning, the stone walls were still cool. But the bodies packed inside made the interior warmer than she’d expected. There was a hierarchy to the rows, no less. The wealthiest families sat up front in reserved pews; the simple folk stood in the back.