She wouldn’t have to.
No; as with all men, she only needed to imply she was available. Sir Mark would be a willing participant in the destruction of his own reputation.
She was only going to need one little stratagem, after all, to hurry him along.
MARK’S FIRST WEEK in Shepton Mallet was taken up in thought.
Ever since he’d been discreetly approached about filling an upcoming vacancy on the Poor Law Commission, he’d been in turmoil. On the one hand, the Commission, responsible for overseeing the workhouses, was universally hated. He’d been approached simply because they’d hoped his popularity would quell the public outrage about recent mishandlings. Mark suspected that, quite to the contrary, the appointment would merely sink him in the eyes of the public.
After all, the whole present policy of poor relief was an utter mess. Mark might make a real difference in the lives of unfortunates if he threw all his energy into the project—and if he’d been granted popularity by a capricious fate, surely he had the responsibility to use it for good. On the other hand, the entire theory behind the system of workhouses seemed fundamentally flawed to Mark. He wasn’t sure if it could be fixed.
He’d expressed these rational concerns to the poor undersecretary who’d paid him a private visit. But there was yet another side that he’d not mentioned, and it was one that echoed most strongly here in Shepton Mallet, between the walls of his childhood home. He’d grown up here. His brother had nearly died here. And all because his mother had gone mad.
Dedicating her life to serving the poor had sounded noble in practice. But she’d taken it to the furthest extreme: giving away the family’s modest competence, until almost nothing was left. Of his three brothers, Mark was the only one who truly understood why she’d done it. It was no comfort that he so easily made sense of the world as seen through the eyes of a madwoman.
Perhaps that was why he’d retreated here after all. He hated the idea of entering politics. Even if he’d wanted to spend his life serving the poor, he’d not have chosen to do so by regulating the day-today administration of workhouses. And yet…
He’d often thought that if he had any work to do on this earth, it was to put his mother’s unquiet legacy to rest. She’d insisted on perfection; Mark had written a practical guide to chastity, that allowed for the merely human. She’d flown into rages at the slightest provocation; he’d worked hard to bring his own temper, never even, under his control. She’d been every righteous impulse, taken to excess. Mark aimed for moderation.
So he hadn’t said no, not yet. Perhaps this was the opportunity he needed to show that he could dedicate his life to the poor while tempering his zeal.
Maybe.
He’d come back here, to his old childhood home, repository of a hundred memories. It had seemed as good a place as any to contemplate the offer. Better; he’d insisted on privacy, and here he’d found it, at least in some small measure.
Today, with rain drumming down on the roof, had been the best day of all.
He’d sent his charwoman home at noon, and the boy who saw to the gardens only came by every other day.
Best of all, with this downpour, the paths were no doubt mud to the ankle. No rational person would come visiting today. Why, Mark might avoid all crowds until the church picnic in two days’ time.
He’d have plenty of time to spend in contemplation.
But just as he’d settled down in a chair with one of his mother’s old journals, a knock sounded on the door. Mark bit back a groan.
He should have realized. When it came to him, nobody was rational.
For a moment, he stared fixedly at the fire in front of him and considered ignoring the summons. It could be the rector—no doubt with his poor bedraggled daughter in tow.
Unbidden, his imagination summoned up another possibility: it might be Mrs. Jessica Farleigh, damp and spangled all over with raindrops. She would be lost, wet and in need of—but no. That sort of ridiculous schoolboy fancy made better entertainment in the dead of night, when he could more appropriately deal with the lust it would engender.
It was probably his charwoman, Mrs. Ashton, come to check on him. No doubt she’d taken one look at the rain when it started, donned oilskins and galoshes and trudged the three miles back to his home, just to make sure he was comfortable. She meant well.
They all did.
With a sigh, he rose to get the door. Truly, it was almost certain to be plain, plump Mrs. Ashton, perhaps with a crock of butter and a loaf of freshly baked bread carefully wrapped in oiled paper. No other rational possibility existed. He threw the door open.
And stopped in stupefaction. It was the schoolboy fancy after all. Mrs. Jessica Farleigh stood on his stoop. Whatever gown she’d been wearing had been soaked through by the torrential downpour until it clung to her form in a sodden, limp mass. His hands curled appreciatively, as if to cup the heavy spheres of her breasts and wipe those drops of water away. The dark half circles of her aureoles were visible through translucent muslin; the nub of her nipple itself was occluded—barely—by a corset.
She might as well not have been wearing a gown at all. He could make out individual stitches, pale green vines, on her undergarments. He could see every seam of her stays, molded to her frame. And when his eyes dropped farther—he was only human—he caught a glimpse of petticoats plastered to hips that might cradle a man’s body.
Schoolboy fancy? No. She was a grown man’s desire. Ravishing. Too convenient. And therefore, entirely untrustworthy.
Slowly, deliberately, Mark raised his eyes to her face. Yes, he commanded his unruly wants, to her face, nothing else.
It didn’t help. A drop of water rolled to the tip of her patrician nose, and he had a sudden desire to reach out and wipe it away. Instead, it hung, suspended in midair, in defiance of all the laws of nature.
Well. She wasn’t the only one who could defy nature. Glass bricks. He reached for them, building that wall. Behind it, he’d feel no desire. No want. No urge to step forward and lick the beads of rain from her lips.
“Sir Mark.” Her voice was clear and gentle, like a caress. “I am so dreadfully ashamed to impose upon you, but as you can no doubt see, circumstances have made it necessary.” She held her drenched bonnet in one hand.
He looked into her eyes. They were so dark he could not make out their expression, not in the dim light that filtered through the rain clouds. She spoke that lie without flinching, without even looking away.
“You see,” she continued, “I was walking, not paying attention to the time or the weather—”
“Without shawl or cloak or umbrella.” His own voice sounded curiously flat to his ears, as stale as water left to sit in a bucket for too long. “Even before the rain began, it was dismally cloudy this morning, Mrs. Farleigh.”
“Oh, I should have had the forethought to bring at least a wrap.” She let out a too-bright laugh. “But I was thinking of other things.”
Her hair was wet. It should have been stringy and unkempt. It should have been flat and colorless, nothing but unrelieved black. Instead, several strands had fallen out of the knot she kept it in. When wet, it curled—just enough to wrap about a man’s finger.
It was easy to set aside his arousal, after all. He was actually rather disappointed.
Mrs. Farleigh made herself sound quite stupid—as if she were the sort of forgetful female who regularly traipsed about outdoors in the wet. Some men of Mark’s acquaintance might have believed the act. After all, they believed all women were stupid.
Not Mark. And most definitely not this woman. If he had to guess, he would have said that she chose every item of apparel with the same care a clockmaker employed when selecting springs.
He let out a sigh. “Mrs. Farleigh, if you were that idiotic, you would have perished years before now. As you are quite robust, I’m afraid I must call your story what it is—a fabrication.”
She blinked up at him, irid
escent beads of water clinging to impossibly long lashes. Her brow furrowed in disbelief.
“You see? I am by no means as kind or generous as rumor has it. If I had been, I would never have called you a liar.”
Her eyelashes flickered down. She clasped her hands behind her back. “Very well. I admit. I was curious about you. Given my reputation—and yours—I knew we would never have a chance to hold a conversation of any length.”
He would have found a way. He’d already been thinking about it—about her clever retorts, about that curious contradiction between her dress and her manner. About her smile, wise and sad and wary all at once. He’d have insisted on conversing with her. But this little escapade left him with nothing but the bitter tang of copper in his mouth. No doubt she’d imagined that she had only to present herself in all of her dripping glory, and his intelligence would dry up and dissipate into nothingness.
“If all you wished was conversation,” he said dryly, “you could have worn a cloak.” He glanced upward. “You didn’t even need to wait for rain.”
She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide, her chest expanding on another breath. He hadn’t wanted an introduction to a polished seductress. He’d wanted to know about the other part of her, the side she didn’t present to the world. He wanted to know the woman who whispered clever set-downs to the rector when she thought nobody else listened.
And that, perhaps, was Mark’s own personal fancy, exerting a more powerful pull on him than all her wet curves. He’d wanted someone to see him. To see past his reputation.
“Mrs. Farleigh, you seem a woman of some experience.”
She licked her lips and gave him a brilliant, encouraging smile.
Mark did not feel encouraged. “Do you know what the difference is between a male virgin and the Elgin Marbles?”
That smile faded into confusion. “Oh, I could not say.” She peered at him in manufactured befuddlement. “They seem quite similar to me—are they not both very hard?” Her tone seemed innocent; her words were anything but.
He shook his head. “More people come to look at the virgin.”
Her eyebrows drew down, and she studied him quizzically. Come, now. If she’d been curious for any sort of knowledge of him, except the Biblical sort, that should have at least garnered a request for explanation. Instead, she licked her lips again.
He tried another joke. “What do you suppose sets a male virgin apart from a pile of rocks?”
“Both seem hard again.”
“The rocks,” he replied, “are more numerous. And more intelligent.”
Laugh at me, he wanted to tell her. See me—not some obstacle to overcome.
“Oh, no,” she exclaimed. “That can’t be, as you’re so clever.”
Maybe he had imagined that quick wit. He was wont to do so, he knew. He wanted it too badly. He wanted to be seen not as flawless, but as himself, faults and all.
“Very well, Mrs. Farleigh,” he said. “You prevail. You went out for a stroll in stormy weather, risking health in defiance of all good sense, just to have a look at me. You did so on a Tuesday afternoon, when the lad who weeds my vegetables is off. And so here we are, completely alone.” Mark shook his head. “I cannot in good conscience send you on your way. It’s miles back to the village. You are no doubt cold, and I have a fire lit inside. No matter your reasons, you don’t deserve to risk your health.”
“Thank you, sir. Your hospitality is appreciated.”
Not by him, it wasn’t. This would pose even more of a delicate challenge than he’d feared. His was a bachelor household, and she was soaked to the skin. She would need to remove everything and dry her wet things by the fire before he could toss her outdoors again. He could hardly hand her a pair of his trousers while she waited.
He turned and strode down the hallway, thinking. He could hear her follow, her footsteps soft and squelching. A small fire crackled in the parlor where he led her. She turned about, around and around again, taking in the surroundings.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“I’ll be back shortly.” He watched her face. “With some towels and a dressing gown, so you can dry yourself.”
Her face did not change. It was unnatural, that lack of response. It seemed as if she were not entirely present. What exactly did she intend? Once was her landing on his doorstep, wet and bedraggled. Twice was her lying about her intentions. Third time…now, that would be the way to find out what she truly intended.
“Two minutes,” he told her. “I’ll return in two minutes. And I am the only one in the household. It will have to be me who returns. Do we understand each other, Mrs. Farleigh?”
She nodded.
Mark left. He desperately wanted to be wrong about her. It was stupid of him—he knew nothing of her except the gossip in the village and the cut of her gown. But he so wanted to believe there was more.
Here was his grown man’s fantasy: he wanted to come back and find her fully clothed. He wanted to engage her in conversation without anyone watching with assessing eyes. He wanted, in short, to like her. He’d been inclined to do so from the start. In the market, he’d been led away from her before they’d had a chance to exchange greetings. In the churchyard, they had only talked for a minute.
He’d been curious about her ever since he’d seen that flinch. Like a callow youth, he’d enlarged upon it in his mind. See? There is more to both of us than anyone else will acknowledge.
But of course not. He was nothing more than a challenge to be scaled, a man to be brought down.
He took the towels with a shake of his head and returned, steeling himself against what he would see. He’d left the parlor door open. When he entered again, he was prepared.
And it was just as well. She’d shed her gown and petticoats. She was standing, her back to him, her arms wrapped about herself as she struggled with her corset laces. He could see her ankles, delicate and fine, rising to pale calves underneath a thin, wet layer of linen. His eyes traced the curve of her legs up through the damp cloth of her shift.
She turned. “Oh! Sir Mark! How embarrassing!”
“Spare me.” His tone was flatter than ever.
She flushed. “But—”
He kept his eyes trained on her face. He felt as if he stood at the top of a cliff overlooking a perilous sea. At any instant, he might be assaulted by vertigo if he dared to look down. “Spare me your excuses. Pay me the compliment of understanding. What was it you imagined I would do at this juncture? Am I supposed to be so overcome with lust that I cannot hold myself back?”
“I— That is—” She took a deep breath and started walking toward him.
“Do you think that an eyeful of breast and buttocks will have me so besotted that I will forget all my principles? I’m a virgin, Mrs. Farleigh. Not an innocent. I’ve never been an innocent.”
Her jaw set, and she stopped in front of him. Close enough that he could have grabbed her. That he might simply push her against the chair behind her and warm the cool expanse of her still-wet skin with his hands.
“At this point,” he said scornfully, “I am supposed to be so overwrought with desire that I cannot reason.”
He dropped the towels and the dressing gown in a heap on the floor.
“Sir Mark, forgive my forwardness. I just thought…” She reached out, her fingers stretching for his lapels. Before he could think, he grabbed her hand.
Not lightly. Not kindly. It was a trained grip, one that he and his brother had perfected years ago. No matter how strong a man was, he wouldn’t stand up to a boy who bent his thumb backward. He and his brother had practiced the hold for hours, for days until the fluid motion came automatically in response to a threat.
When she reached for him, he reacted without thinking, stepping to the side. Her hand crumpled in his, and his fingers pressed against the meat of her palm.
And she flinched. Not because he’d hurt her—he hadn’t applied the slightest pressu
re to the joint of her thumb. But she flinched, just as she had when the rector grabbed her in the market. For no other reason than that he’d touched her.
If he had been the sort to curse, he would have done so now. Because if there was one thing more disappointing than a woman who saw him as a target for seduction, it was this: a woman who tried to seduce him, without even wanting him in the first place. She was standing close to him, and flinch or no, she tilted her head up as if she thought he might kiss her.
“Most men,” he said, through gritted teeth, “would not look a gift horse in the mouth. Not at this juncture.”
“And you?”
“If I were of a mind to purchase horseflesh,” he told her, “I’d examine every tooth. And if I found one flaw, I would walk away, with no regrets whatsoever.”
Unclaimed Page 4
