Unveiled (11 page)

“Walked to Parford Manor? How far was it?”

He shrugged. “Twenty miles. It can be done.”

“And how…how young were you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Parford didn't provide any assistance.”

“No. He laughed at me, and told me that the fewer Turners there were in this world, the happier he would be. And then he gave me a sixpence to hire myself a bath. So I returned home. Over the course of the next weeks, I watched my sister fade away. When she was gone—when she was buried outside the churchyard, in a pauper's grave—I vowed I would never be helpless again. I would never have to beg for my brothers' well-being.”

She was watching him, her lips pressed together.

“What is it,” he asked her, “between
you
and Parford?” He took another step towards her.

Her eyes widened, but she didn't move away. Instead, her expression darkened. “It was the duchess,” she said quickly. “I can't bear it, some days. If he had any notion what he'd done to her, any sense of grief at her loss, perhaps I might be able to stand it. But…since he fell sick, he's become so…so selfish. So different. I couldn't bear to see him, unwilling to even lift a finger to help the ones he has most sinned against.” Her voice choked with emotion, and she looked up at him. “I do not want to be like him.” Her words sounded harsh. “I do not want to be the sort of person who casually abandons loved ones, merely because it is convenient or amusing to do so.”

Ash still didn't quite understand. But in that reckless little speech, one thing had become clearer. “Who was he?” he asked.

“Who was whom?” She seemed wary and wound up, like some clockwork toy twisted to the breaking point.

“Who was he, who sinned against you?”

She did look up at him at that, and all that wary tension relaxed into sadness. “Who
wasn't
he?”

“He wasn't me, that's for damned sure.”

Her lips parted. For one second, he almost thought she was going to contradict him. Instead, she shook her head. Her chin lifted in stubborn insistence. “If you must know,” she said in cool, clipped tones, “he was my fiancé.”

His blood stopped in his veins. When he spoke, the words seemed to come from very far away. “You have a fiancé.”

“Not any longer.”

His breath started again in painful relief.

“We were betrothed when I was nineteen. The betrothal lasted several years.”

“Isn't that rather long for an engagement?”

“It's a delightful length for a man who doesn't wish to marry.”

He itched to touch her, to run his hand down her spine until her eyes warmed. “Is it churlish of me to admit I'm glad you cried off?”

“Not churlish. Just not…based in truth. A year ago, when he visited, I brought the matter to a head, to see if he ever really intended to marry me. It was not the first time I had asked. But it was the most forceful.”

“And he admitted he had no intention of doing so.”

“Wrong again, Mr. Turner. He insisted he intended to do so in his own good time. He was more than willing to give me a token of his good intentions.” Bitter disdain touched her voice.

“I take it his token was not a wedding date.”

“No. It wasn't. His logic went something like this:
once he deflowered me, I could trust his word as a gentleman that he'd do right by me. Eventually.”

“Christ.” Ash simply stared at her. He could imagine how that had transpired. It was not a true betrothal she was talking about; it was a secret one. So secret, apparently, that the man forgot to mention it to his friends or family. Nothing but an excuse to kiss her. Touch her. To
have
her, while sweeping her protestations under the rug. No doubt she'd been young and vulnerable when it had started, and as it had gone on, his lies had no doubt made her all the more vulnerable. No wonder she shied away from gentlemen who found her attractive.

“Pardon me,” he said. “That has to be the most mangled logic I have ever heard. I have heard men say some damnably stupid things to get a woman in bed, but that particular line could win a prize in a tavern contest.”

“And I believed him.” Margaret spoke softly, but now he could hear that line of anger in her voice. “I
believed
him. And then I found out—” She stopped again, briefly, and collected herself. “I found out it was all lies.”

He wanted to kiss her now. Not for pleasure. Not for the sensual joy of her. But for comfort. To tell her that not all men were untrustworthy liars. But that kiss would have been for his benefit, not hers. The last thing she needed now was more physical importunity. What she truly needed after that confession…

Ash sighed. “Was he at least any good at it?”

She choked and jerked away from him. “Ash,” she said, her voice unsteady, “I just told you I was not a virgin. Half the men out there would believe that my virtue was gone. That it wouldn't be a rape if you took me, even if I protested.”

What an appalling sentiment. “Well,” he said after an awkward pause, “that answers my question. He was terrible.”

She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed. He simply looked back at her, and waited for her breath to fall into evenness.
See? I shan't hurt you.

“Yes,” she said slowly, as if she were just realizing the truth of it. “He
was
terrible, wasn't he? In fact, he was really, really bad at it.” As she spoke, a small smile touched her lips.

Perhaps it was the first time she'd discovered the power of words. No doubt the memory had been a source of torment for her. It always helped to be able to place the blame squarely where it belonged, instead of allowing it to eat you up inside.

“Was it painful?” he asked.

She looked down. “It was boring,” she finally admitted. “All that fuss—and once he got started, all I could think was, my God, when is this going to be over?”

Ash tamped down a smile. She wasn't going to find it boring with him. He was going to worship her, from the smooth column of her neck to the tight rosettes of her nipples. He was going to set her aflame, coaxing every last desire from her body.

She tilted her head up to look at him. No, not just
look;
she was studying him, as if he were a painting whose import she had yet to divine. Her eyebrows drew down in puzzled slashes. And then, slowly, she lifted her hand.

He didn't dare breathe. He felt as if he'd spent weeks leaving crumbs for a bird, only to have it land on a stone wall beside him. It was hell to keep still, to
wait
for that moment. But then she brushed her fingers down the side of his face and it was sweet heaven. Her touch
was wary, as if she feared a sudden movement on his part. His hands clenched at his sides. God, he wanted to touch her back. He wanted to grab her to him, to press his body against hers. He wanted that kiss against his lips.

But it was exploration, as she tentatively stroked the line of his jaw. When she traced the contours of his lips, she was asking him a question.
Am I safe with you?
And no matter that he wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold her close, he could have only one answer for her.
Yes, darling. Always.
Even more than he needed the feel of her lush body beneath his, even more than his thumbs yearned to part the slick depths of her sex, he wanted her to be sure of him. It was as if she were seeing him for the first time. As if he'd been veiled in mists all the days of their acquaintance and she was only now making out his features.

These tentative caresses were discovery on her part. Not seduction. This wasn't seduction.

But damn it, he was seduced anyway. She stepped in closer—so close her skirts brushed his trousers, so close that it would be the work of a moment to trap her in his arms. He had a vast well of patience to call upon. But beneath it all, a deeper current welled up. He wanted her. Not just this tremulous reconnaissance. He wanted more than the feel of her body clasping his, more than the certainty of her physical surrender. He wanted to possess
all
of her—from her fierce loyalty to the wary strength he sensed hidden inside her.

Her hands drifted down to his shoulders. He'd shed his jacket long before, but even through his satin waistcoat, he could feel the warmth of her fingers. They pressed down on him as she lifted up onto her toes. She leaned into him, her breasts sliding against him,
her arms coming round his neck. Her lips were a light flutter against first his chin, then his cheek. He bowed his head, trading every ragged exhalation with her. If she pressed against him just a little more, she would know just how badly he wanted her. He was painfully, exquisitely erect.

And she wanted him, physically. He could not miss the signs—the flush on her cheeks, the unsteady rhythm of her breath. The sway of her body against his.

Her lips found his, and a stab of exquisite desire shot through him. Finally. Endlessly.
This
was what he had been waiting for, all this time. Not a stolen embrace, to be wrested from her in the dark of night. A gift, freely given. One that he would keep forever in some small part of his soul.

Damn. He wanted to grab her to him and show her precisely how not-boring he could be. His hands clenched at his sides.

She subsided onto her toes and looked up at him.

She'd been hurt—badly. So badly that tonight may well have been the first time she'd taken that memory out and given it a firm shake. It had made her feel helpless, vulnerable. Ash knew that feeling. He hated it. He also knew how to banish that feeling of powerlessness: promise that it would never happen again, and make good on that promise through action. She'd given him a kiss. He could give a gift in return.

He reached out and touched her nose. “You told me once I was the most cheerfully ruthless man you'd ever met. Well, sweetheart, how would you like to see what happens to men who bore you? Shall I destroy him for you?”

Her eyes widened. “I haven't even told you his name.”

“Really?” He favored her with a droll look. “A years-long engagement, formed young—likely kept secret, for you not to have brought the point upon him. A
gentleman,
you claim. How many gentlemen have you met, Miss Lowell, here at Parford Manor?”

She blinked at him in confusion. Perhaps she hadn't realized how much she'd revealed. It was all of a piece. What sort of man would so cavalierly treat a woman that way? There was the secrecy. The willingness to say anything, just to get a taste of female flesh. These facts all pointed in one direction.

“Oh, I can guess the identity of your hapless fiancé easily enough. It must have been either Richard or Edmund Dalrymple.”

Her lips parted, and she took a step back. “No,” she said. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Ash said softly. “And now that I know about it, I do believe I'll destroy them both.”

A
S
M
ARGARET LEFT HER
father's chambers the next evening, she could not even pretend that she'd spent the day doing anything other than thinking of Ash. He presented a confusing mix of pain and pleasure to her. Pain, because he'd taken from her everything that once she'd thought mattered—because he still opposed her brothers' attempt to win back their place in society.

She'd done her best last evening to dissuade him from taking revenge on her brothers. But he'd lured her into telling him a piece of the truth. He'd seemed so safe, so trustworthy, that she'd almost forgotten who he was. Then he'd blamed her brothers—as if they would ever do such a thing—and she'd remembered all too well why she needed to keep her distance. But despite that pain, there was pleasure, too. Everything she'd once thought had mattered—her family name, her position—had washed away. Ash had looked past her ruin and seen someone important.

She walked through the gallery, the sunset painting the walls in variegated shadows—not dark, not light, but a dizzying blend of the two, echoing the muddle in her mind.

She wanted him to be right. She needed him to be wrong. And while that sounded as if she were confused,
confusion
implied uncertainty. And Margaret was dead certain that he was both the last man on earth
that she
should
kiss, and the only one she dreamed of holding.

A little defiance. That's what he offered her.

A few kisses. A handful of stolen evenings. A few nights in which she might rebuild her shattered confidence. And in the end, it wouldn't matter, because their flirtation could never outlive the truth. He liked her only so long as he was ignorant about her.

The door to his chambers was thrown open to the gallery in silent, beckoning invitation. Margaret was beckoned—first by the warm lamplight, casting shadows against the walls. But as she crept to the doorway and peered inside, she was beckoned by him, too. He sat in a chair, his back to her, so that she could see nothing but the dark curl of his hair. She yearned to feel those strands against her fingers. To touch him, as she had yesterday evening. Except this time, more.

She tiptoed forwards.

He was frowning at a book. More were stacked on the table before him. As she padded up silently behind him, she could make out what he was reading: a text on agriculture—something about soil. By the pristine condition of the binding and the uncut pages, the book was new. He rubbed at his forehead testily and frowned at the page.

It was nearly nine in the evening, and far from drinking spirits, he was learning about farming. It took Margaret a moment to understand the twinge of pain that flickered through her.

Her father's land steward had tried to impress upon him the importance of an understanding of agricultural theory. To the best of her knowledge, her father had never read any of the texts the man had offered. That, the duke had snorted, was why he
hired
keen young
fellows to manage his operation—so he wouldn't have to do it himself and could spend his time cultivating port instead of potatoes.

Ash shook his head, as if arguing with the words. She padded closer behind him and glanced down at the page.
The addition of lime to hard-used soil
—she read, before his hand intervened, cutting off her view. He spread the page flat and picked up the penknife. His hands were large, broad, long-fingered.

A wisp of appreciation curled through her, as he eased the knife into the crease of the uncut pages. There was a gentleness to his movements. Despite his size, despite the fact that his hand covered the bottom half of the book, he moved carefully. Could any man truly be as perfect as he seemed? And why had this perfect man descended upon her family, destroying everything? Why couldn't it have been someone else?

The knife slid. But instead of parting the pages in one smooth motion, his knife slipped, the page ripped unevenly, and—

“Damn it,” he swore, sticking his finger in his mouth before the blood could well up. “
God
damn it.”

Margaret felt herself smile, even though she knew she shouldn't. Well. That answered the question of whether Ash Turner was perfect. Thank God he was not.

He pulled his finger from his mouth and searched his pocket for a handkerchief. “Damn books. Damn words. And libraries and cold dark rooms can go to hell.” He slammed the tome shut against the table—and just as he did, he turned enough to catch Margaret's eye.

He froze, his face a mask of obvious, inexplicable guilt. His fingers splayed across the book's cover. They
lay there, still for just an instant too long, before he ran his hands down the leather that covered the front chapboards. He looked as embarrassed as a man caught beating a puppy, his fingers petting the pages in an insincere, unconvincing half caress.

Margaret's smile broadened.

He must have realized how ridiculous he appeared, because he shook his head. “No, madam,” he said. “There's no problem here. We were having ourselves a friendly fight, we were—between me and this book.” He drawled out those words, mirroring the accent of the local men, as if he were some common laborer caught by the tavern keeper in the act of raising a chair.

She converted the giggle that rose up into a ladylike clearing of the throat, and put her hand on her hip. “We won't stand for any trouble here, sir. Must I fetch the constable?”

He glanced at the book and then back at her. Finally, he sighed. “I can tie fifteen different sorts of knots, you know.”

She wasn't sure what that had to do with the price of tea in agricultural texts, but she raised a single eyebrow at him.

“I can whittle a linked chain out of a single stick of wood.”

“I'm sure you can.”

“I can purchase goats in twelve different dialects of native India.”

“Of course.” She glanced at him. “You must have a great many goats, then.”

He heaved himself to his feet and turned away from the book—and towards her. Her toes curled unconsciously in her slippers as he fixed that gaze on her. There was no trace of humor on his face.

“But you've just stabbed yourself while cutting pages in a book. Oh, dear, Mr. Turner. An imperfection. Whatever will you do?”

He didn't smile in response. Instead, he rubbed his hands together. On another man, that gesture might have betrayed nervousness. But Margaret couldn't imagine strong Ash—gentle Ash—
confident
Ash—having anything so crass as nerves.

He scrubbed his hand—his unstabbed hand, that was—through his hair. “I suppose it's just as well you find out.”

“Mr. Turner,” Margaret started. She stopped as his eyes narrowed at her. “Ash,” she continued. “Perhaps you may not have realized this, but I have discovered that you are imperfect before. This hardly comes as a surprise.”

She
had
discovered it. Over the course of their acquaintance, she'd been made aware of the many, many ways in which he failed at perfection. It was just that he kept making her forget them all.

“All things between the two of us considered,” he said slowly, “there is something else you ought to know.” His eyes met hers. “It's rather a secret, and so I'd prefer you not spread it about.”

He could not have been considering
all
things, since he didn't know who she really was. Still, his smile made her wish that he
did
know everything. And that, having been apprised of the truth, he still thought she was worthy to hear his secrets.

She felt a sick lump form in her throat. He might be the only person in the world who believed she mattered. It would be the most extraordinary gift she could imagine, if she told him who she was, and if he still looked at her with that light in his eyes—

“After all,” he said with a wry shrug of his shoulders, “if the Dalrymples ever discovered this, they'd tear me to shreds and leave my corpse to be ravaged by buzzards.”

—but no. He wouldn't.

“But I'm babbling,” Ash said with a sigh. “Here it is.” He swallowed and blew out his breath. “I can't read.”

Margaret's wistful longings evaporated in a shocked curl of smoke. Her mouth dropped open, and before she could stop herself, a gasp escaped her.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Not like that. I'm capable of making out words on a page. I know my alphabet. It's just…I am not any good at making sense of all those symbols. I can pick out words, but by the time I've got the next one down, I've practically forgotten the last. They never quite manage to coalesce into sentences.” His voice was whisper-quiet, but he spoke with a dire urgency.

Of all the things Margaret could have imagined Ash telling her, this…this came dead last.

“But you're so…” Margaret waved a hand, almost futilely, trying to describe what she meant. “So competent.”

There were a great many people who couldn't read. But most of them were chimney sweeps and milkmaids. Not heirs to dukedoms. Not nabobs from India, who had amassed personal fortunes in the hundreds of thousands of pounds.

“How have you possibly done all this?” She spread her arms wide as she spoke, indicating the library, the desk, the
account books
in front of him.

Ash shrugged and turned one shoulder away.

Margaret followed. “You're a successful businessman. You don't speak as if you were…”

He turned to her abruptly. “Stupid?” He was suddenly standing too close, his eyes tight, his lips compressed.

Margaret shook her head, unable to respond.

“Don't ask me to explain,” he said. “I don't know what it is. I just can't understand words when they're written down. They feel slippery in my mind. Now, if someone were to have a conversation with me about any subject, I could follow along, and gladly. And, for some reason, numbers have never posed a problem. I can figure. But I can never understand the back-and-forth of negotiations if I cannot look a man in the eyes.
That's
what I need.”

“But how is it that you never learned? Your father was a wealthy mill owner. Surely you had tutors. Some sort of education.”

Ash shrugged. “I had a tutor. He taught me my letters. And once he realized there was a…a problem with the rest, he was as eager to hide the truth as I was. After all, if he couldn't teach a five-year-old child to read, he'd have been sacked for gross incompetence. After my father died, there were no tutors at all. Perhaps if I'd gone to Eton, as my brothers did, I'd have learned.” He sounded dubious.

As he spoke, he looked into her eyes. Margaret shivered.

“Or perhaps I wouldn't have. Paper isn't enough for me. I need to see.” His voice dropped low. “To hear. To smell.” His gaze wandered down her face. She could feel a flush rise on her cheeks as he stopped at her lips. “To
taste.
” He raised his eyes to hers again, and
a small smile played across his face. “I can understand anything, if I but look it in the eyes.”

She felt her chest expand on an inhale. The air was painful in the confines of her lungs. She knew
this
about him. He didn't even know her true name. “Ash,” she said, her voice trembling, “that note I left you—I didn't know.”

“I understood.” His fingers constricted around hers. “Even on paper, I understood.” He sat down again, this time sitting directly on the surface of his desk. As he did, his arm brushed hers.

“There you are,” he said. “I'm not very ducal, am I? Tell me you'll keep my secret.”

It was a measure of how deeply she had fallen under his spell, that she had not realized until this moment that she could use this against him. The news that Mr. Ash Turner had difficulty reading would send a ripple of consternation through the House of Lords. After all, how many bills would pass his desk for a vote? How many papers would he be expected to keep abreast of?

The truth would sink him, in their minds. Instantly and without question. Confirming a commoner as one of their own was one thing, if they begrudgingly admitted he had the bloodlines in his distant past. Confirming a near illiterate? It would never happen. They'd legitimize her brothers in an instant. She should have been singing for joy.

So why did she feel like weeping instead?

He gestured at the table. “One of my men is copying out the book Mark is writing,” he said quietly. “I keep hoping that somehow, after everything I've accomplished, this time the words will come out right. I promised Mark, after all.”

A flicker of emotion crossed his face—something powerful and vulnerable at the same time. The look of a man who had been knocked down but was determined to get up as many times as necessary to march on ahead.

“Besides,” he added mulishly, “I heard that until Parford's setback, he spent hours in the evening in his study.”

A hint of jealousy, too. She could take this opportunity to insinuate doubt into the conversation—something to magnify the vulnerability she saw on his face. It wouldn't take much. A sentence. A few words, even, to plant seeds of uncertainty in his mind.

That seemed a shabby recompense for what he'd given her.

Instead, Margaret took his hand. The cut across his palm was a brief line of red—not even bleeding. His fingers were warm and dry, and as she touched him, he lifted his eyes to hers. For all his vulnerability, there was an unquenchable relentlessness in his eyes. He wouldn't give up, no matter how much doubt she planted. And she didn't want him to give up on
her.

She stood and silently tugged him to his feet and led him out the door. In the gallery, she dropped his fingers, lest a passing servant spot them. She padded through the columned space, Ash's footfalls echoing behind her.

She stopped at the door before her father's bedchamber and fumbled with her necklace.