Unclaimed by Courtney Milan Read Free Book Online Page A

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 to succumb. It was that urgency that had made her misjudge the situation.
    She’d convinced herself that his seduction would be easy—that he’d fall, if only he believed that nobody would find out. Worse.