Unclaimed by Courtney Milan

eyes had narrowed in distrust. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have a whore’s chance in heaven of convincing him to smile at her again. She was going to seduce Sir Mark. She was going to get her fifteen hundred pounds. She was going to find a nice cottage in a tiny village, she and Amalie, and together they would finally be able to let go of everything that had come before.
    She had to sell her body one last time, but this time, she wasn’t trading it for anything less than her heart. Nobody—nothing—not a locked door, nor even the great weight of Sir Mark’s morals—would stop her.
    She even thought she knew how to do it. She’d mistaken him once. She’d not do it again.
    This time, she had to tell him the truth.

    THE RAIN HAD STOPPED, and Jessica’s clothing had dried by the time he came for her. His knock sounded twice on the door, echoing ominously.
    “Come in.”
    A silence.
    “It’s safe,” she added. And it was safe. For him. She sat, demurely dressed, before the fire. There would be no more mistakes. She couldn’t afford a single one.
    The key scraped in the lock. He opened the door a few inches. His face was obscured by the shadows in the hall. “The weather should hold,” he said to the window near her, “long enough for you to make your way home. I would have offered you tea, but…” He trailed off with a shrug that had more to do with explanation than apology for his lack of hospitality.
    She wouldn’t have taken tea in any event.
    “Let me show you out.” He turned his back to her, and she stood. Her muscles twinged, sore, as if she’d run a great distance. Sitting and waiting for him had been arduous enough. His shoulders were rigid as he walked, at odds with the fluidity of his gait. At the front door, he fumbled for the handle.
    Jessica stayed a few feet back. “Sir Mark. I owe you the truth.”
    He’d not looked at her, not since he’d opened the parlor door. But at these words, he paused. His shoulders straightened, and he glanced at her over his shoulder—a brief look, before his gaze flitted back to the door. He pressed the handle down.
    “The truth is plain enough.” For all the harshness of his words, his tone was gentle. “I was rather too cruel earlier. There’s no need to embarrass yourself. Speak no more of it.”
    He might as well have said, speak no more to me. And that outcome was unacceptable.
    “But I owe you the truth as to why I did it.”
    He didn’t turn, but he let go of the door handle.
    “I did it,” she said, “because I hated you.”
    That brought him turning slowly around, this time to really look at her. Most men wouldn’t have smiled at being told they were hated. And in truth, it wasn’t a happy smile that took over his face. It was a bemused look, as if he held his breath.
    “I hated you,” she continued, “because you have done nothing more than abide by rules that every gentlewoman follows every day of her life. Yet for this prosaic feat, you are feted and cosseted as if you were a hero.” She felt nothing as she spoke, but still her voice shook. Her hands were trembling, too. “I hate that if a woman missteps once, she is condemned forever, and yet the men who follow you can tie a simple ribbon to their hats after years of debauchery, and pass themselves off as upright pillars of society. And so, yes, Sir Mark. I came here to seduce you. I wanted to prove that you were only too human. Not a saint. Not an example to follow. Not anyone deserving of such worship.”
    Her voice had begun to rise. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought herself upset, her calm unraveling like the edge of an old scarf.
    But she did know better. She felt nothing—just the cold sweat of her palms, the tremor of her arms wrapped around herself. Her body, apparently, felt what her heart could not. There was truth in her words—too much of it.
    He must have heard it because his eyes widened. The smile slipped from his face. He contemplated her