Unclaimed (37 page)

GEORGE W ESTON came striding out of the mist at Harford Square early in the morning. The little stretch of green wasn’t truly a square; it was more of a park, with a small copse of trees in one corner. He headed toward Jessica with a pompous smile on his face. But his smile was split by red, angry scratches; his cheekbone marred by bruises.

“I knew you’d see it my way,” he told her. “Now, give over the account and Sir Mark’s ring.”

She would never have been rid of him, if she’d done his bidding. He would always have held power over her.

“I don’t believe I will,” Jessica said.

From behind her she heard more steps. Then:

“I say, Weston, is it your fault I was roused at four in the bloody morning? Not very kind, I tell you. Not very kind.”

Weston peered around Jessica. “Godwin?” he said. “Godwin, what the devil are you doing here?”

Mark’s voice followed. “What, don’t you know? He’s your second.”

Only Silas Godwin could have done, Mark had explained to her. Mark had chosen him. He was, he’d said, good-humored. More important, he was close-mouthed. When Mark had told him he was needed, he’d come instantly, without asking and without regard to the lateness of the hour.

“Turner?” A gob of spittle flew from Weston’s mouth. “
Turner?
You’re having me fight a duel? And who else is that you have with you?”

“This is Doctor Agsley.” Mark glanced at Weston. “It’s customary to have one present at an affair of honor.”

Jessica’s fingers found the edge of her glove as Mark spoke. She worked the leather off her hand.

“Not enough to beat me to a pulp, is it?” Weston was turning red. “No. You’re going to challenge me to a duel. Don’t tell me you’re going to fight for a whore’s honor. Even you couldn’t be so—”

Jessica slapped him with the glove she’d removed. “Don’t be daft, Weston.
I
am going to fight you for his.”

She would never have agreed to this had she felt herself in the slightest danger. But she knew Weston. She’d watch him shoot before, and she’d every faith in his inability to hit anything at thirty paces.

“You?” He put back his head and laughed. “
You?
Oh, that’s a remarkable jest. The day I stand before one such as you, and—”

She smacked him again with her glove, and while he rubbed at his cheek, she reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a pistol. “You haven’t a choice between fighting a duel and walking away. You have a choice between fighting a duel and being shot in cold blood. I told you last time that if you ever intruded on my life again, I was going to shoot you.” Her voice was steady; it was only inside that she trembled.

“I can’t fight a duel,” Weston said with a scoff. “I don’t have my dueling pistols.”

“Got them here,” Silas Godwin said cheerily. He glanced at Weston and frowned. “Is something amiss?”

Godwin’s other main qualification, besides his quiet demeanor, was that he was none too bright.

“Of course something’s amiss,” Weston snapped. “I’m not fighting a woman. It would be…ungentle-manly. Wrong. Jess, really.”

“Don’t call me Jess.”
She jerked her pistol at him.

“But, Jess—”

She took a step back from him. “You want to believe that I’m impotent. That I’m helpless. That I am yours to move about as you wish, to comfort you in your life. You want to believe that you own me. And I let you do it for far too long.”

“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 be 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.