“Come now, Jess. You’re upset, I see that. But let’s be rational about this.”
Her voice was shaking. “I am not your victim. And I am being rational. The only way to win is to rid myself of you. You look at me and the only thing you can see is a possession, something that you can pick up and use however you want.”
“Jess, we both know how poor a shot you are. This is utterly ridiculous, this notion of a duel.”
“That’s what you want to believe. You’re telling yourself that you’re safe, that surely a woman couldn’t hurt you. You’re telling yourself that you have nothing to fear, and that once you’re released from this situation, you won’t need to be afraid again. But maybe I’m not a poor shot. And maybe, this time, when you try to hurt me and mine, I won’t just walk away.”
He gave her a flat look. “You just go on and think so, then. Insist on this charade if you must, but when I emerge unscathed, we’ll… We’ll talk again.” He cast a wary glance at Mark. “Assuming I’m allowed to do any talking. Some people here have already shown their bad faith and ungentle-manly conduct.”
“I didn’t box to your rules,” Mark said quietly. “Think about what you’ve done.”
“What? What did I do?”
“Weston,” Jessica said, “I came within three inches of death because of you. What makes you think I’ll let you off?”
He yawned. “Let’s get this over with.”
Her blood was pounding as they faced away from each other. Their seconds—Godwin, on Weston’s part, and Mark, on hers—counted the paces. Each stride seemed interminable. It was unbelievable that this should be happening to her, that she should be taking him on.
They turned. Weston was a shrouded figure, almost disappearing in the mist. He was also a pitiable man; she couldn’t believe that she’d believed herself powerless before him. She could feel her whole body trembling. On the sidelines, Godwin held up a handkerchief.
She didn’t need to fire first. She braced herself, let her stance still. He wouldn’t hit her. In this fog, at this distance—it was entirely out of his capabilities.
The white cloth fluttered down. In that instant, as Jessica stood on the cusp of pulling the trigger, Weston turned toward Mark. It must have happened quickly, because Mark had not even begun to react when Weston raised his gun on him. Still, the space between one beat of her heart and the next seemed to take forever. The barrel trained on Mark with an ominous certainty. Seeing that weapon swerve toward the man she loved—
Jessica fired. The report of his gun sounded, almost atop her shot. Someone shouted. The recoil snapped her arm back; the black powder smoke obscured everything. Jessica was running before the shreds cleared away, running as fast as she could, her heart and hands like ice.
They were both on the ground, Mark and Weston. But Mark was calmly pressing a handkerchief to Weston’s shoulder, while Godwin huddled ineffectually in the background.
“My dispute has always been with Sir Mark,” Weston was saying. “Any other course would have been foolish.”
“This is irregular,” Godwin was repeating to himself, as if he had finally noticed. “Most irregular.”
“Precisely my point.” Weston winced as Mark pressed harder. “There are no rules of honor in an affair like this.”
“Should we…should we tell others?” Godwin asked.
“And admit a woman winged me? God, no.” He glanced at Jessica. “You missed.”
“You missed,” Mark said. “And you were standing at six paces.”
The doctor was coming up behind them. The man knelt beside Weston, probed the wound. “It’s just a flesh wound,” he reported. “Straight through the shoulder. But had it been three inches to the side…” The man whistled and pulled a flask from his bag. “Here. You’ll be needing this.”
“I didn’t miss,” Jessica said as Weston raised the flask to his lips. “You came within three inches of killing me. I gave you those three inches.”
His eyes met hers, and he turned white.
“Next time,” she said, “I won’t feel so generous. What you did to me—it was a hanging offense. You have nothing on me, Weston. You can embarrass me, but I can do far worse to you. I have the power of life and death over you. This—” she pointed at his wound “—this was so you would know that next time you bother me and mine, I’ll not be afraid to use it.” He swallowed.
“But then there won’t be a next time. Will there, Weston?”
He shook his head. And this time, this time, she believed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MARK BUNDLED Jessica into the waiting coach and then entered himself.
He’d had many sleepless hours to think of the harsh words she’d spoken last night, to hold them up and examine them from all sides. He’d reread the serial she’d published, too. And he’d come to one inevitable conclusion: part of her really did hate him. They’d not talked of it much, and it still hung between them unresolved.
She sat awkwardly across from him on the carriage seat, not meeting his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” She fixed her gaze on the leather squabs. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did last night.”
“Don’t apologize.” His gaze was steady. “When I first met you, you flinched from my touch. Well, I’ve realized you didn’t stop flinching—at least not inside.”
She shut her eyes at those words.
“I think,” he said, “you told me the truth of it all the way back in Shepton Mallet. You hate that I’ve had it so easy, while you’ve had to struggle for everything. You despise me because I like myself. And Jessica…I suspect you still think you don’t deserve happiness.”
She let out a shaky breath. “Happiness leaves. And it hurts so much when it does.”
“Try it for a year. I think you’ll grow accustomed to it.”
“Happy for a whole year?” she said.
“Happy for a whole lifetime,” he responded. “Happy and surrounded by people who love you—brothers and sisters, friends and children. Horses, if you wish, and cats and ducks.”
“Ducks?”
“Yes,” he said obstinately. “Ducks. And a husband.”
She lifted her face at that. A faint line of crystal tears had collected in the corner of her eyes. “Today,” she said quietly, “I stopped running from my past. Maybe I can stop fleeing husbands and ducks, as well.”
He crossed to her side of the coach. He gathered her up in his arms and kissed her, soft and sweet and gentle, as if it were her first kiss and he wanted to savor it. And maybe it was something new, because for the first time, she relaxed against him in truth. His hands framed her face, and she kissed him as if he were a future she finally wanted to hold to. She kissed him as if she planned to keep him.
“I love you,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Now, about that special license. Maybe we should use it after all.”
He kissed her on one cheek. Again on the other. And then he pulled away and looked into her eyes. “No, Jessica,” he said gravely. “I think the time for the special license has passed.”
Those eyes widened, and her hands clutched his elbows.
“I’ve been thinking about family,” he told her. “And I’ve decided the special license was a mistake. There’s something more important.”
MARK DIDN’T THINK he would need any introduction to Alton Carlisle, vicar of Watford, a small town outside of London. Still, he’d come prepared. When he stood on the steps of the vicarage, he handed over the letter of introduction to the woman who was brought to the door, along with his card.
The maid must have passed the card on to Mrs. Carlisle, because she arrived scant seconds later. She ushered him in, her hands fluttering. “Mr. Carlisle is out in the garden,” she said, her voice breathy. “I’ll go fetch him. At once.”
She swept him into a side parlor, lit by morning brilliance. The embroidery was fading, but it felt homey.
“Please b
e seated.”
But instead of leaving immediately, she opened another door. “Ellen!” she called. “You’re needed. We’ve a very important guest. Do come keep him company.”
Mark heard a murmur in reply but couldn’t make out any words. Mrs. Carlisle’s back was turned, and so Mark could not see her expression. But the young lady who walked into the room had her chin set in a rebellious line. She cast one glance at Mark—and then quickly looked away. Mark could guess what her mother had communicated with waggled eyebrows.
Look, here’s a splendid catch! Be polite to him.
They were still trying to throw fourteen-year-old girls at him. Ellen Carlisle, however, seemed to have no interest in being thrown. He was, she supposed, pretty. She had too much of Jessica in her not to be. But her long dark hair was still in childish braids. And she folded her arms over her chest, as if daring Mark to flirt with her.
Oh, yes. This was definitely Jessica’s sister.
“Do you always appear on so little notice?” she demanded, once her mother was safely out of ear-shot.
Mark shrugged. “Think of me as John the Baptist. I am of no interest in myself. I come merely to prepare the way.”
This got him an exasperated stare. “I’m to think of you as John the Baptist, am I? Your confidence is simply stunning. And here I am, entirely without silver trays.”
Good. He liked her already. Mark took his watch from his pocket and set it on the table. “How sweet. Don’t worry. You’ll adore me in…oh, six minutes and twenty-two seconds.”
She rolled her eyes. “Please don’t tell my father that. It will only raise his hopes, and he shall use it as an excuse to utterly ruin my life.” She scowled. “As usual.”
“Don’t worry,” Mark said. “I’ve as little interest in marrying you as you do me.”
She let out a little huff at that, her eyes cutting toward him. Mark almost wanted to laugh at that petulant conceit. Of course she didn’t want to marry him—but she had hoped he was interested, so that she might have the fun of turning him down.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mark growled. “You’re a very pretty girl, I’m sure, but you’re too young for me, and besides, I’m in love with your sister.”
Miss Ellen’s eyes widened. “Charlotte? But she’s married.”
“Not Charlotte. Jessica.”
The color washed from her face. All that haughty indifference fell away. “Jessica?” Each syllable wavered, as if she spoke an impossibility. Her hands fell to her sides, and then she darted across the room, kneeling before him and grabbing for his hand. “You know of Jessica? I’m not to speak of her, not to say her name, never again. But—is she well? How do you know her? Can I see her? I shall do anything you ask, if you just—”
“Ellen!” The sharp tenor sounded like a whip crack from across the room. “What do you mean by such forward behavior? Sir Mark—I’m dreadfully sorry for my daughter’s conduct.”
Mark realized how the scene must look. Ellen Carlisle was on her knees before him, her eyes glittering with tears. Ellen glanced once at her father and bit her lip.
Mr. Carlisle, after all, was the one who had declared Jessica dead. He was the one to whom she addressed the letters she sent—the ones that had gone unanswered. He had banished her and lied about her.
And yet the man in front of him didn’t seem like a monster. He had graying hair, a narrow face—and an expression that was exasperated and embarrassed, but not stern. He had Jessica’s lips. Surely, that lift of her chin had come from him.
Mark strode forward and offered his hand. “Sir Mark Turner.”
The man shook it. “Alton Carlisle. At your service, sir. Your book—it’s been a pleasure to be able to quote from it in my services. An even greater honor to have you in my home. You’ll stay to dinner? There will be no repeat of that foolishness.”
“You’ll have to excuse Miss Ellen,” Mark said quietly. “She’s merely overcome. You see, I have decided to marry your daughter, and Miss Ellen has just discovered it.”
“Marry my daughter.” Mr. Carlisle stood, his face going slack. Mark could tell precisely when he began to think again—when the advantages presented themselves. The connection to a duke, a son-in-law who had the favor of the Queen. There followed a small, proud smile as he realized that somehow, his offspring had landed the most desired bachelor in five counties.
It took only a few seconds before the man was nodding. His breath rushed out. “My permission—of course. You have it.”
“I’ve already settled five thousand pounds on her,” Mark said conversationally. “For her separate use, and for our children, should we have any.”
“Yes. Of course.” Mr. Carlisle shook his head. “Pardon my stupidity—but I am convinced this must be a dream. I had not even known that you were acquainted with my daughter. Certainly, you and I have never been introduced.” He scrubbed his hand through his thinning hair. “Next, you will tell me that you wish to marry her by special license, in a grand ceremony held in St. Paul’s. This…this can’t be happening.”
“There your dream ends,” Mark said. “I don’t want to marry by special license. I want you to call the banns in your church. I want you to tell your entire parish that your daughter is marrying me. I want you to acknowledge her by name.”
At Mark’s feet, Ellen began to cry softly.
“Of course, of course. It will all be as you wish. Precisely as you wish.”
“One last thing,” Mark said.
“Whatever you say.”
“From now on, when she writes you letters, I want you to answer them. And when she arrives on your doorstep, which she should do in, oh…” Mark peered over his shoulder at the watch on the table. “In two minutes, then I want you to welcome her inside.”
Mr. Carlisle swallowed hard. He looked at Mark. He looked at Ellen, where she’d curled her legs about her on the floor. He looked back at Mark.
“You surmise correctly,” Mark said. “This is no dream. I’d never met Miss Ellen before today. I mean to marry your eldest daughter, Jessica.”
Mr. Carlisle pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. “I can’t announce banns for Jessica. Every one thinks she died.”
“Everyone will have to be disillusioned. How you go about it is, quite frankly, not my problem to solve.”
“I had to think of my other daughters. They—they wouldn’t have been allowed anywhere if it had come out that their sister had been so ruined. I—”
“I do understand,” Mark said. “You were frightened. You had to think of your position, your reputation. But as for Miss Ellen’s prospects—we rather thought the Duchess of Parford might sponsor her Season. I don’t think you understand what I am offering you. I am going to marry your daughter. My brother is going to welcome her into the family with open arms. If you think that the two of us cannot counteract any scandal you can imagine, you are greatly mistaken.”
“Sir Mark, perhaps you don’t understand—”
“You don’t understand. I did not come to ask permission to make your daughter my wife. I am asking if you would like to make my wife your daughter once again.”
“Yes.” He stood up, his voice breaking. “Yes. Yes. You have to ask? You think I didn’t read her every letter and hope that I could find a way? Do you think that a single night passed in which I didn’t regret what had happened? I didn’t know what else to do. And by the time I’d acted, it was too late. Too irrevocable.”
For a moment, Mark thought of reminding the man that he’d had seven years to act. That he’d let it all slip away, knowing what his daughter had faced out there. But now was the time for reunion.
“It’s not too late now. She’s waiting at the door. Come on, now. She’s missed you.” He glanced at Ellen and gave her a smile. “She’s missed all of you.”
Three weeks later.
THERE WAS NOTHING Jessica could do to calm her nerves on the morning of her wedding.
She
tried pacing in the nave. She tried braiding her hair. Her sisters distracted her by fussing with her gown, pinning flowers to the hem of her skirt…and just by being present. It was lovely having sisters again. She’d spent the past weeks with them. At the first service, her father had introduced her to the congregation and announced that he’d told a lie when he said she had passed away, and that he was deeply ashamed—but then he’d said nothing further, not one word against her. When he’d called the banns, everyone had forgotten everything else. And for the remainder of the time, she and her sisters had been free to take calls and talk to one another.
Then there had been Mark. He’d gone on walks with Jessica and her sisters. He’d held her hand chastely through three weeks’ worth of afternoon rambles through country lanes. She had dined with his brothers; he had engaged her father in a philosophical conversation that ended up with the two of them arguing over texts for hours. And after dinner last night, she’d scarcely had any time to see him alone. Still, he’d pressed her against the back wall of the garden in the few minutes they’d found and he’d kissed her—soft and sweet, but with the force of three weeks of pent-up longing. He’d kissed her until they were both dizzy with anticipation, until she could scarcely stand for wanting him. And then, when he’d finally pulled away, he’d whispered in her ear: “Tomorrow. Finally.”
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