Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

“Is Ash still at breakfast? Is Smite here?”


“No, sir, and yes, sir. Mr. Smite Turner is at breakfast.” The butler paused, contemplating his words. “Mr. Smite Turner informed me that you’ve spent the last two nights with him, and that I’m to expect you to be out of sorts.”

That latter, Jessica decoded, was a hint that his brothers were already spinning stories to save his reputation.

“Ah,” Mark said. “I see. Is Ash in his office?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Busy, is he? Could you have him duck into the blue parlor when he’s got a chance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is…” Mark paused and cast a look askance at her. How awkward. He probably didn’t even recall her true name. “This,” he said again, “is my fiancée. Do tell Ash.”

There was a slight pause, as the butler turned to look at her. He waited, no doubt expecting a name. When none was forthcoming, he nodded. “I’ll do that.”

“Oh,” Mark added, “please send a tray up, as well.” He conducted Jessica into a room on her right.

She’d known his family was wealthy—he had, after all, thrown five thousand pounds her way without thinking. But she hadn’t quite understood the extent of it until this moment. She felt as if she might have been in a royal palace. Blue velvet cushions lay on delicate rosewood chairs. A tapestry covered one wall; a globe sat on a table, the countries fashioned of amber and turquoise and lapis lazuli.

Jessica didn’t even have a name worth giving. She set her finger on Africa and gave the globe a spin. Mark came to stand by her as it whirled.

“I didn’t introduce you properly,” he said in a low voice.

“I noticed.” Continents passed under her gaze.

“Until I speak with Ash, and we determine how to proceed, I thought it best to wait.” He reached out and stopped the earth as it turned on its axis. “Once we tell the servants who you are, there’s no going back.”

“Of course.” It all made perfect sense. Still, it heightened the feeling that she might not truly be present. This was a room for other people—wealthy, respectable people. Even the candle sconces were decorated with crystals that sent rainbows shimmering about the room.

In the hall, footfalls sounded, heavy and fast.

“That didn’t take long.” Mark turned.

The door burst open. “Mark,” the man in the doorway said, “what in God’s holy name can you have been thinking?” The man crossed the room in three strides and engulfed Mark in what looked like a ferocious hug. “You idiot,” the man was saying. “You mope for a week, and then you disappear for forty-eight hours without leaving word at all. I’ve heard nothing of you but what Margaret was able to glean from the papers. Have you any idea how worried I was?”

“Stop fussing, Ash. I am an adult. I told you where I was going.” Mark pulled away, and Jessica got her first good look at the newcomer. The two men looked…nothing alike. The Duke of Parford was broader than Mark and taller—a physique that seemed suited more to a laborer than to a peer and a businessman. His hair was coffee-dark; his skin tanned.

“Fuss, fuss,” Parford muttered, and he reached out and ruffled Mark’s hair.

Oh, to be part of a family again. It almost hurt to watch. It hurt more when Parford looked over and his eyes fell on her. She could see the wariness creep into his expression, the tight lines collecting on his cheeks. Not much reaction from him, but she felt as if he’d slammed a door in her face.

“We do have a great deal to talk about,” the duke said.

Mark was turning to her. “Ash, this is Jessica Farleigh. She is—”

The duke looked her over, and then slowly, he crossed to her and put out his hand. Jessica blinked at him and then took it.

“So. I suppose we’ll have to figure out how to keep you from hanging in the court of public opinion.”

“I…I suppose we will,” she said.

He nodded politely to her. But as he did, he spoke under his breath. “Hurt my brother,” he told her, “and I will hang you up myself.”

For some reason, the threat made her feel more at ease than mere friendliness.

The duke pulled away and gestured. “Come, Mark, speak with me in my office.”

“Don’t try and exclude Jessica. This is about her, too, and—”

“Leave off, Mark.” Ash rolled his eyes. “Margaret arrived here yesterday—didn’t you hear me say so? She wants to talk to your Jessica. It’s some sort of woman conversation. We’re supposed to take ourselves off and leave them alone.”

“Oh, well, then.” Mark brightened. “You’ll like Margaret. And she’ll love you—I’m her favorite brother.”

In Jessica’s estimation, duchesses didn’t take kindly to women who preyed on their virtuous younger brothers. Especially not when the brother in question was her favorite. “Hmm,” she said. “How comforting.”