Unclaimed (32 page)

“I—” Weston looked about and lowered his voice. “You can’t prove that.” He swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he added, belatedly.

“Oh, I could prove it,” Mark said. But he wouldn’t. He wasn’t about to thrust Jessica into the center of attention over this. The last thing she needed was to be permanently linked with this man in the public’s eye.

“How much power do you think you’d have,” Mark said, “if people knew the true you? A man so cowardly he resorts to hiring women to do his dirty business, and so untrustworthy he cheats them in the end.”

Weston took a step forward, his fists balling. “I am not a coward. You don’t want to start a fight with me, Sir Mark. I warn you.”

“No.” Mark smiled placidly. He didn’t want to
start
the fight. “I’d imagine you’re afraid. It’s not so easy to be powerful, when you have to face down someone your own size.” His calm was a scant layer of civility over an anger that had taken control of his entire being. He could almost see the moment when Weston’s temper snapped, could see his hand curl into a fist, draw back from him. Every thing seemed to happen so slowly. Mark could have moved, could have stepped out of the way of the punch that Weston threw, so languidly did it seem to drift toward him.

But if he had dodged, all of Hyde Park would not have seen Weston hit him unprovoked. Mark barely felt it land, in the haze of his fury. His head snapped back; the force of the blow knocked him to the ground. He saw the limbs of a tree wave overhead, green leaves obscuring blue sky. All around him, gasps rose, and people turned, rushing over to them.

Mark jumped lightly to his feet.

“I box regularly,” Weston said, raising his fists. “I shoot, too. There’s more where that came from. I
told
you not to start a fight with me.”

“I don’t box at all.” Mark stood in stillness, a calm contrast to Weston’s bouncing on his toes. “I wasn’t going to start a fight with you. But I was rather hoping I could finish one.”

Mark had never seen the need for boxing—especially not with the newly adopted rules that brought civility to the fighting. But then, he’d lived on the Bristol streets as a child. He’d learned to fight in a harsher environment than the London Prize Ring.

And so when Weston threw a second punch, Mark swiveled to the side. He caught the man’s fist in his hand as it passed, jerked Weston to the side and let the man’s own momentum send him crashing to the ground.

Weston gasped like a fish as the wind was knocked out of him. Mark set one hand idly against the trunk of the tree and waited.

“You tripped me,” Weston said in confusion. “But don’t think you can beat me for sheer power.”

Mark didn’t have to wait long for Weston to stand. The puzzled ridge of his eyebrows faded to anger as Mark smiled at him. With an outraged cry, he ran forward once more. Mark had no intention of grappling with the man. He sidestepped again and grabbed his arm. Weston
did
have sheer power. He was fast, and his arms were locked in position with all his strength. So when Mark swung him in a circle, he had no way to stop before he crashed into the tree behind them. He hit it face-first, barely able to raise his hands to protect his nose.

Shouts rose up behind them.

Mark wasn’t even breathing hard.

Weston turned, unsteady on his feet. He lifted one hand to his mouth and spat out a tooth. For a second, he simply stared at it in disbelief. Then he raised his head.

“You goddamned dirty bastard,” he breathed, starting forward once more. He was more wary this time, keeping his distance. Still, the next time he darted forward, Mark stepped behind him and slammed his elbow against the back of the man’s neck. As Weston fell, Mark caught his arm and yanked at an awkward angle. He could almost feel the pop as the man’s shoulder jerked out of its socket.

To his credit, Weston didn’t scream, even though his face scrunched up. “Pax,” he whispered. “Pax. Truly. I had no idea.” He backed away, leaning against the tree.

Mark strode forward.

“Truly, Sir Mark.” Weston spoke so quietly, Mark could barely hear him. “I give up. I surrender.”

Mark could dimly recall the last time he’d lost his temper this badly. At the time, he’d been at Eton and surrounded by bullies. He’d beaten the lot of them, and when they’d begged for mercy, he’d still not stopped. For years, he’d felt guilty every time he thought of his actions. He’d feared his anger, his passion, as proof that he, too, could fall prey to his mother’s excesses.

But now, seeing Weston cower before him, he realized one last thing. After he’d beaten those boys, they’d never set on anyone else again. He’d been ashamed for no reason. There
was
a place for righteous anger. And sometimes the only way to balance the worst kinds of wrongs was to meet them head-on. He didn’t stuff the tide of his anger behind a glass wall. Instead, he stalked forward.

“You misunderstand,” he said, his voice low. “I know what you did to Jessica Farleigh.”

“What I did? Hired her to seduce you. That bitch—she took my money, and—”

Mark grabbed the man by his hair and twisted. Weston hissed in pain. “I’m talking about the tea,” Mark said.

“Ouch!” Weston tried to pull away and winced instead. “Good Christ almighty, is she still going on about that? I saved her the pain of having to make the decision herself.”

“You stole the decision from her. You nearly killed her.”

“It was an accident.”

Mark let his anger take hold of him. He gripped Weston’s hair, then slammed the back of the man’s head against the tree trunk.

“Ow!” Weston groaned. “You can be commissioner. Just…just don’t hurt me anymore.”

There was a time for mercy. This wasn’t it.

“You’re pathetic,” Mark informed the man and slammed his head against the tree one last time. Weston’s knees crumpled underneath him. Around them, the crowd gasped. Mark let go of his hair, and Weston fell the rest of the way to the ground. For a long moment, Mark stared at the still body at his feet. He couldn’t hear anything except the rushing in his ears, could barely feel the cool breeze of afternoon insinuating itself around them. Finally, he knelt and found the man’s pulse. It was strong and steady.

He wasn’t going mad. He’d not lost control of his temper. He’d used it, and he was glad.

“Someone fetch a physician,” he said over his shoulder. “He’ll do very well, but he’s going to have a monstrous headache when he awakes.”

He pushed to his feet and walked away. Behind him, he heard the murmurs of the crowd.

“That was Sir Mark,” someone was saying.

“Weston must have truly deserved it,” another responded, “for Sir Mark to hit him that way. He’s a gentle, kind-spoken soul, Sir Mark is.”

“What did he do, then?”

“Something awful,” a third person responded. “Besides, I saw him. He attacked Sir Mark for no reason—he can’t be a steady character, can he?”

So easily was a reputation ruined. There was a peculiar sense of justice in that. Mark shook out his hand, which was just now beginning to sting, and headed for his next destination.

“GUESS WHAT I have?”

Mark stood in Jessica’s doorway that evening. He’d donned a wide, worn hat—one that shielded his face from view. Still, this close, even in the gathering shadows, she could see the bruise forming on his cheekbone.

She stepped aside, and he came in, shutting the door behind him.

“You forget,” she said grimly. “It’s already in the paper.” She held up the offending item, letting the headline show.

Sir Mark: Fights Weston, Obtains Special License.

“Be thankful,” Jessica said. “Parret made no untoward speculation about the object of your license, and he could have.”

Mark took off his hat and gave Jessica an unapologetic grin. “Well. So much for the surprise, then.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little premature to be purchasing a special license?”

“I’m never premature,” he told her. “I’m always precisely on time.” He pulled his greatcoat from his shoulders and set it on a hook.

She’d once dreamed of a little country cottage, of a life spent in solitude with only Amalie to keep her company. Perhaps…perhaps she’d been afraid to wish for anything else. Hope was painful, after all. But now, she couldn’t beat it back, couldn’t shove it away. She could almost make herself believe in a future that contained Mark. And not only Mark—a family.

Because when she’d seen the headline across the square, her thoughts had flown for the first time to her sisters. Surely, married to Sir Mark, she might see them again? Perhaps, with the news of her death, they’d have to meet in secret. But she wouldn’t have to be dead to them entirely, would she?

She squelched those thoughts viciously. Best not to want; that way, she’d feel no disappointment. Hope hurt.

So, she imagined, did that dark bruise on his face.

“Come here,” she said severely, taking his hand and leading him to a chair that she’d set near a basin. He sat, looking at her in bemusement. Jessica concentrated on the task before her. She steeped a cloth in the cool water of the basin and then laid it on his face.

“Ah,” he said. “That feels good.”

She’d scented the water with herbs. They released their sweet aroma into the air. It made the atmosphere take on the aspect of a dream—as if this were some wooded glen, taken from her imagination and not a room in dirty London. Her hands moved to his shoulders, and she rubbed them.

“Did Weston scream?” she asked. “Did he grovel?”

“Indeed.”

“How gratifying.”

He snorted under the damp cloth. “It was, actually. I wish you could have been there.”

“Oh, the account in the paper was lovely.” She sighed again. “I wish…I wish…”

“What do you want?”

Her hands were cool and moist from the compress. His fingers reached up and intertwined themselves with hers, warm and dry.

“It’s lovely what you did, Mark.” She shook her head. “I…I never thought he’d pay for what he’d done.”

But.
She left the word unspoken. But it didn’t make it any better. Mark couldn’t make the man give back what he’d stolen—not with any number of beatings. She still felt sick when she thought of Weston, like some creature cowering in the underbrush. It hadn’t made her feel any better. It had just made Weston feel worse.

A cause for celebration, to be sure. Still…

“Dearest,” Mark said, taking the cloth from his eye. “You
will
marry me, won’t you?”

She could choke on the hope he made her feel. Her hands shook. “I— Even if Weston stays silent and hidden, someone might recognize me. And the paper—it says you’re likely to be appointed Commissioner of the Poor Laws, with Weston in disgrace. You’ll constantly find yourself in the public’s eye. Perhaps even more than you are now, hard as that is to believe.
Someone
will speak out about me. We would be disgraced.”

“You haven’t met my elder brother.” Mark smiled. “The Duke of Parford. He’ll make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“Even a duke can’t stop gossip.”

“Stop worrying.” He said the words lightly, but she could see the tic in his cheek, the tension in his hand as it balled lightly into a fist.

“And you’re going to be Commissioner now. You didn’t even
want
to be Commissioner.”

“Well.” He didn’t deny this. “But I did want you.”

Jessica had suffered the waning of a man’s interest often enough to know the course of
want.
At first, a man was willing to give up almost anything. But soon enough, want settled into familiarity. Soon, those little deprivations would start to sting and then fester.

She could barely accept Mark’s regard. She couldn’t manage his resentment.

She held out her hand to him. There was no hope to be had, not in this. There was only tonight.

“Will you come to my bed?” she asked. It wasn’t an answer to his question. It was, instead, a different sort of offer. He looked at her hand. Slowly, he raised his own to touch her fingertips. His fingers curled about hers again, so warm, so confident.

“Yes,” Mark said, his voice low and throaty. “Yes, I will.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

WHEN J ESSICA AWOKE,
Mark was asleep beside her. In the pale light of morning, he looked innocent. Young. She was almost afraid to touch him, lest she break the spell that had brought a man like this to her.

It felt like Christmas morning as a child—that sense of unreal anticipation, that feeling that something good might be waiting for her, if only she hurried to meet the day. But it was only in bed that they could be together like this. For all his fine words last night, he had to know that she didn’t fit in his life.
He
didn’t fit in
hers.
He was a knight, Her Majesty’s own moralist. He was London’s proper darling. He was Sir Mark Turner—and she was still the woman who had seduced him.

Everything innocent about her was dead—almost literally. She could shut her eyes and remember the obituary her father had placed in the paper. She wasn’t Guinevere to his Lancelot. She was a courtesan. No knight, however skilled he was in the art of war, could take on the field of windmills that had taken her prisoner.

Still, she placed her hand against his chin. His skin was warm and rough with stubble. Whatever had happened that fate had brought her this man? How was she to send him away? And had he really given her five thousand pounds? What an idiotic, absurdly…romantic…gesture.