Unclaimed. Courtney Milan

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 pressure 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.”

      She brought her free hand up. Even now, with her fingers clenched in his grip, she ran her hand down his jaw. “What a shame. I consider my flaws my primary attraction.” She spoke as if she were almost purring. “I’d make a poor broodmare, Sir Mark, but then, I don’t think that’s what a man like you needs.”

      She did a good job of pretending to want him. But her tone didn’t match the thready beat of her pulse against his fingers. It didn’t match the wary tension of her body, strung tight as a harp string and vibrating next to his.

      “As it turns out,” he said sharply, “I’m not in the market for flesh of any variety.”

      “No?” Her finger drew a line down his chin. “You’re a man. You have desires, like anyone else. As for me…I’m a widow, but I’m not dead. I shouldn’t mind a little comfort, and like you, I should very much like it to be discreet, so that no censure falls on me.” Her hand traced that line down his neck, his shoulder. “Our interests are much aligned. You might have your spotless reputation, and indulge yourself, as well.”

      Her fingers, cold and still slightly damp, slid along his wrist. He told himself it didn’t matter. She was touching glass, not flesh; granite, not skin. No doubt, tonight he’d relive the sinuous line she’d drawn on his skin. Tonight some lustful part of him would wish he’d pulled her close and taken the comfort she offered.

      He made himself stone instead. “You know nothing of my interests. That’s not what I want.”

      “If you don’t want me,” she asked silkily, “then why are you still holding me?”

      “A point of clarification.” He pressed his fingers against the joint of her thumb—lightly, not to hurt her, but enough to show her exactly what he could do, should he choose. “I am holding you at bay,” he said dryly. “That is far removed from actually holding you. As for the rest, you are the one who is trembling. Not I. Really, Mrs. Farleigh. You must think that because I have never been in anyone else’s skin, I cannot be comfortable inside my own.”

      He relinquished her hand and stepped back through the parlor door. Her hand dropped to her side, and she stared at him, befuddled once more.

      “As it turns out,” he said, “I don’t give a fig for my spotless reputation. What I care about is chastity itself. And, in any event, I doubt I’d ever be tempted to stray by a woman who flinches when I put my hands on her. Dry your clothes.” His voice was harsh. “It might take some time. If you become bored in the meantime, there are books to read.” He gestured to the wall.

      She took one step toward him.

      There was only one way to end this argument: Mark closed the parlor door on her. The last thing he saw was the look on her face—not outraged, not desirous, but cold with fear.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      THE DOOR SLAMMED in front of Jessica’s nose. Then, before she could quite understand what was happening, she heard the sound of a key scraping in the lock.

      The sound was irrevocable, creaking out her defeat. She was drenched down to her drawers. And she’d failed.

      Her hands shook as she undid her corset laces. Not from cold; she’d stopped feeling cold months before. She’d made not one, but two tremendous miscalculations. And she feared that her mistake was irreparable.

      Her tiny reserve of capital was in the tens of pounds now. She might make her funds last longer by selling clothing—but, given her trade, that would be akin to eating her seed corn. Besides, a courtesan must never appear desperate for a protector. Men who were attracted to desperate women were worse than the desperation itself.

      No doubt Sir Mark thought that she was driven by something like desire—or, perhaps, mere feminine curiosity. He didn’t know how truly grave her situation was. How badly she had needed him