Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

“Good morning.” And she smiled at him then.

This time, they really did manage to dress. Jessica found a threadbare cloak for Mark—one that would keep off the drizzle and simultaneously shield him from public view. And it turned out that nobody looked twice at him under his immense hat. Mark spoke to the driver outside Jessica’s hearing; the carriage jerked to life shortly after he entered. For the first ten minutes, Jessica made no sound. Their hands tangled together in slow, steady exploration.

Finally, she spoke up. “Where are we going? I should have thought we could find a private hotel not half a mile away.”

Mark ran his thumb over her fingers. “It will take longer. We’re not going to a hotel.”

“Perhaps you should have let me arrange it,” she continued. “After all, I have considerably more experience in anonymity than you.”

His fingers covered her lips. “I never said I was looking for a place where I would be anonymous. I said I was looking for one that was private.”

“There is a difference?”

The carriage jolted over a rut in the road.

“Yes. It has never been my plan to hide you away,” he told her. “You aren’t some hideous, shameful secret of mine.”

A curl of unease crept into her. Jessica shook her head. “What on earth do you have planned? Where are we going?”

There was a window in the door, but the glass did not appear to have been cleaned anytime in the past eight months. It was so smudged over that she could only make out vague impressions of shadows passing her by.

“We’re going to Mayfair.”

“Mayfair?”

Mark shot her a strangely reluctant look before he confessed. “My brother’s house.”

Jessica stood, cracking her head on the top of the carriage and biting her tongue in the process. The physical pain stung, but it only increased the abject horror that filled her. “Your brother!” Her wounded tongue didn’t seem to be working quite right. “You cannot be theriouth.”

“But I am.” He pulled her down to sit beside him once more. And then he ran his hand over her head, finding the sore spot where she’d whacked herself. He rubbed it gently, soothing away the hurt.

“Stop it.” Jessica pulled from his arms. “You’re mussing my hair. I didn’t dress to visit a duke.” Her panic was beginning to rise. “He’s going to toss me out the instant he claps eyes on me. What are you thinking, bringing a courtesan to see the Duke of Parford?”

Mark simply shook his head. “You misunderstand. I’m not bringing a courtesan to visit a duke. I’m bringing my future wife to see my brother. It just so happens that he is also a duke. But Ash is… Ash is… Look, he just doesn’t care about that sort of thing. He’s not the kind of person who will toss someone out simply because she doesn’t fit some preconceived notion of his. Trust me, Ash will be delighted to be able to do something for me.”

“Mark.” All her fears came rushing back. “Mark, I am a courtesan. I don’t fit in your world. Your reputation—your good name—is at stake.”

“So far as I can tell, I would greatly benefit if my reputation were to suffer. No reporters following me about. Nobody writing about my household refuse.” He sighed and leaned back. “It sounds idyllic. We could live in the country. Would you mind that?”

That notion she’d once had, of a cottage in the country, came back to her. But this time, she wasn’t alone. Mark was with her. And that made her country cottage not a place to hide away and lick her wounds, but a place to start afresh, the situation for a new life where she was liked and respected, where she had Sir Mark, where she found herself Lady Turner and not some woman who would be snubbed by the meanest letter carrier. It was so powerful a thought that she was staggered.

“Do you love me?” he asked casually. “You said you did.”

She gaped at him, unsure how to answer.

“Thought so.” He grinned at her. “I can understand that you may feel some trepidation now. But wait until you meet my brothers. They’ll adore you.”

“Awk,” Jessica managed.

“Don’t worry.”

She shook her head. “Those are the two most ineffectual words ever put together by man—don’t worry. I can’t stop worrying just because someone assures me it’s unnecessary.”

He blew out his breath. “Then do worry, if you prefer.”

His assurance did nothing to calm the fluttering confusion she felt. It peaked, sharply, as the crunch of wheels on gravel sounded, and the carriage jerked to a halt. A few moments later, a liveried footman opened the grimy door. Mark handed her down, onto a pristine half ring of white rocks outside a Portland stone building. He took her arm and then swept her through the front door as it opened.

“Sir Mark,” the butler greeted him. He did not seem to think anything was amiss with Mark’s wrinkled attire. Still, Jessica could almost envision the headline that afternoon. Sir Mark: Turning to Dissipation at Last?