Courtney Milan - Unclaimed

“An addictively readable tale of revenge and redemption,

love and family, Unveiled is brilliant.”

—Booklist

“An exquisitely sensual and unforgettable romance by one of the genre’s incandescent new stars.”

—Booklist (starred review) on Trial by Desire

“Milan’s strength of writing draws the reader into her deeply emotional love stories, which are romantic yet brimming over with sexual tension and marvelous characters…filled with enough wit and wisdom to make it a ‘keeper.’”

—RT Book Reviews on Trial by Desire (Top Pick)

“Historical romance fans will celebrate Milan’s powerhouse debut, which comes with a full complement of humor, characterization, plot and sheer gutsiness.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review) on Proof by Seduction

“A brilliant debut…deeply romantic, sexy and smart.”

—New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James on Proof by Seduction

“One of the finest historical romances I’ve read in years.”

—New York Times bestselling author Julia Quinn on Proof by Seduction

“With a tender, passionate romance, a touch of sly humor, and a gruff and incredibly sexy hero, Courtney Milan’s Proof by Seduction is a delicious read from the first page all the way to the very satisfying ending.”

—New York Times bestselling author Elizabeth Hoyt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

I’ve always wanted to write a rock-star hero. Unfortunately, I write historical romances, and that means no burning guitars, no long, unkempt hair. I had pretty much chalked that one up to “lost causes” for good. Then I started thinking about the sorts of things that would be popular in the nineteenth century. Sure, they wouldn’t go for Bon Jovi. But there were popular men back then—men like Beau Brummel or Lord Byron. Once you venture into early Victorian times, you can imagine what would prove popular: Novelists. Prince Albert. Books on public morality….

Which is why my Victorian-era rock star is Sir Mark Turner, who wrote a book on chastity. Mark is more than a little embarrassed by his popularity. And unlike modern celebrities, he can’t fall back on “sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll.” He doesn’t do drugs. Rock ’n’ roll hasn’t been invented yet. And as for sex…well, you’ll have to read the book to find out.

I thought you might enjoy a membership card to his most embarrassing fan club for kicks.

Courtney

Once again, an army went into making this book as strong as it could be. Tessa, Amy and Leigh all helped with brainstorming. Kristin Nelson, my amazing agent, and the rest of the agency staff, Sara, Anita and Lindsay, smoothed the way on a thousand counts. My editor, Margo Lipschultz, tirelessly worked to make this the best book it could be, and didn’t flinch too much when I said the hero was a virgin. Thanks to Libby Sternberg, for copyediting above and beyond the call of duty. The team at Harlequin produced my favorite cover yet.

The Vanettes helped with cover copy. The Pixies, Destination Debut and the Loop that Must Not Be Named helped with sanity. Franzeca Drouin, as always, saved me more times than I could count. Elyssa Papa holds a special place in my heart for catching a mistake that would have been very embarrassing, and Kim Castillo made my life easy in a thousand other ways. And my husband didn’t complain (much) when I went to England without him.

Last but not least, I owe a debt of gratitude to those who helped with the research for this book. Lorraine Pratten and Sue Wilson at Shepton Mallet’s Tourist Information and Heritage Centre answered numerous questions. I relied extensively on Fred Davies and Alan Stones’s accounts of historical Shepton Mallet, and would never have found Friar’s Oven without the walking guide from the Mendip Ramblers. Thanks!

For Wathel. Who was always my sister,

even when she was very, very far away.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

London

June, 1841

SIR MARK TURNER did not look like any virgin that Jessica had ever seen before.

Perhaps, she mused, it was because he was surrounded by women.

The uneven glass of the taproom window obscured the tableau unfolding across the street. Not that she would have been able to see anything, even had she been standing in the muck of the road. After all, it had taken less than a minute for the mob to form. The instant Sir Mark had come out the door across the way, a carriage had come to an abrupt halt. A pair of young ladies had spilled out, tugged along by an eager chaperone. Two elderly matrons, strolling along the gangway, had laid eyes on him a few moments later and darted in front of a cart with surprising speed.

The oldest woman now had one clawed hand on the cuff of his greatcoat and the other on her cane—and she was merely the most aggressive of his hangers-on. Sir Mark was thronged on all sides by women…and the occasional man, sporting one of those ridiculous blue rose cockades on his hat. Jessica could see nothing of him through the crowd but the gray of his coat and a glint of golden hair. Still, she could imagine him flashing that famous smile reproduced in woodcuts in all the newspapers: a confident, winning grin, as if he were aware that he was the most sought-after bachelor in London.

Jessica had no desire to join the throng around Sir Mark. She had no autograph book to wave at him, and the likes of her wouldn’t have been welcomed in any event.

Sir Mark handled the crowd well. He didn’t bask in the attention, as the men of Jessica’s acquaintance might have done. Neither did he shrink from the pressing women. Instead, he ordered them about with an air of gentle command—signing the little books with a pencil he produced from a pocket, shaking hands—all the while making his way inexorably toward the street corner, where a carriage stood.

When Jessica thought of virgins, she imagined youths plagued by red spots or youngsters who wore thick spectacles and spoke with a stammer. She didn’t think of blond men with clean-shaven, angular faces. She certainly didn’t imagine tall fellows whose smiles lit up the dark, rainy street. It all went to show: Jessica knew nothing of virgins.

Hardly a surprise. She’d not spoken to a single one, not in all her years in London.

Beside her, George Weston let out a snort. “Look at him,” he scoffed. “He’s acting like a damned jackanapes—parading up and down the street as if he owned the place.”

Jessica traced her finger against the window. In point of fact, Sir Mark’s brother, newly the Duke of Parford, did own half the buildings on the street. It would annoy Weston if she corrected him, and so for a moment, she considered doing so.

But then, Sir Mark’s presence was irritation enough. Some days, it seemed as if every society paper in London sent out a new issue every time he sneezed. Not much of an exaggeration. How many times had she passed post-boys waving scandal sheets, headlines a half-page high declaring: Sir Mark: Threatened by Illness?