Unveiled (14 page)

She wanted more than a promise.

“If I stay here…” Ash swallowed and shut his eyes. He might pontificate about honor all he wanted, but the next time he caught a glimpse of Margaret's ankle, he might well lose his head again. “I'm going to London. Tomorrow. Don't expect me back for at least another week.”

 

I
T WAS NOT QUITE NOON
the next day when Margaret ducked out of her father's chamber. The sun was shining so brightly that its rays bounced through the gallery, the windows almost alight. And deep inside her she felt a fierce, almost tremulous desire.

Desire—and defiance. Even if nobody else wanted her, Ash did. This was a space of time, carved out for her, a defiant little story she might tell herself during these summer weeks, one in which the scullery girl got the prince for at least one fleeting moment.

It was a pretense—he wanted her the way all men wanted a pretty woman—but what did that matter? She'd had enough taken from her to realize that happiness never lasted. She'd savor these moments while she still had them.

For now, she could feel a fierce, evanescent joy about what had transpired the prior evening. She would pay the price for it—eventually, when he discovered who she was.

But until then… As Margaret was well and truly ruined, she had little to lose. They neither of them did; Margaret had no true reputation to think of, and even though Ash would undoubtedly despise her the instant he knew her true identity, affairs of this nature were
ephemeral things. They didn't last. His affection for her would waver soon enough, especially as she was the daughter of his enemy.

As she passed by the chambers that Ash had taken over, she found the doors to the suite closed and locked forbiddingly. No sounds issued forth from within, and in Margaret's experience, in the late morning, Ash always had his men in there, arguing.

Perhaps they'd gone out to meet with tenants. Or to catalog the oaks.

Margaret shook her head and descended the main staircase.

The entry was flooded with light. That, Margaret realized, was because both doors were thrown open. Out on the gravel of the drive, a pair of footmen maneuvered a trunk into the boot of a carriage. Two valises stood beside them, waiting to be loaded. And standing next to them, dressed in sober brown traveling attire, was Ash.

He should have been wearing the brown hat he carried, but instead he'd tucked it casually under one arm. He was laughing, as if he hadn't a care in the world. Standing next to him was his brother. Mark spoke with him, shook his head and then waggled a finger at him, mischievously.

Margaret stood at the foot of the stairs, hidden from view by the relative shadow of the entry. Ash clapped his brother on the shoulder and then, without a backward glance, stepped into the carriage. She stared, her chest hollow.

She'd known his affection for her would fade. She hadn't realized quite how fickle it was, that he could touch her the way he had last night and then leave the
next morning without saying a word to her in farewell. Margaret swallowed, but her throat remained dry.

It seemed she was to lose this, too, before it had even been found. In that too-bright sunshine, the driver leaned forwards; the reins jiggled and the team trotted off, smartly stepping down the circled drive, the carriage swaying slightly.

Well. Perhaps she didn't matter to him as much as he'd said.

The thought should have depressed her. But it didn't. Instead, her mouth curled up in amused chagrin. She had only to listen to herself. She didn't need Ash Turner—
Ash Turner,
of all people, who had destroyed her life—to tell her she mattered. If she was important, she could be important without him.

She dry-washed her hands and turned away. “Good riddance,” she muttered, wishing that she meant it more.

“Pardon? What was that?”

Margaret jerked back. Mark stood, silhouetted in the doorway. “Nothing. I said nothing.”

He shrugged and stepped forwards. “Ash wanted me to convey a message to you, Miss Lowell.”

Margaret's heart gave a treacherous little skip. No. She'd just decided she had no further need for him. But it wasn't merely
need
she felt now. She
wanted
to know. And so what slipped out was: “Oh? What did he say?”

“He apologized for not saying farewell in person. He'll be back. And he said he would have left you a note to that effect, but…” Mark shrugged again.

Margaret looked about to see if anyone was listening, and then dropped her voice. “Well, naturally he wouldn't leave me a note.”

Mark snorted and shook his head. “It's not what you suppose,” he said dryly. “Believe me. I know. Ash might be aware that it would be highly improper to send an unmarried woman correspondence, but he is unlikely to care.”

Perhaps Mark didn't know his brother had revealed his secret. “I had something else in mind, actually. He told me—”

“Ah. Did he feed you the excuse he always gives me? About how
busy
he is? Don't believe it. The truth is, Ash makes an extremely poor correspondent.”

“Well, of course he does. After all—”

“Don't you defend him, too. When I was at Eton, for years I used to send him lengthy letters. He'd respond—with a letter written by his secretary. At the end, he'd generally scrawl a few words in his own hand, as a poor pretense of closing. In fact, he had only two or three short phrases he used. They rarely changed. Smite and I used to make a game, guessing which phrase he would slap on to the end. ‘All my love' was one. ‘Be well' was another. They don't mean anything, when they're offered by rote. No. I have no illusions about my older brother. You…you shouldn't either.”

No doubt Mark thought he spoke out of kindness, to spare her feelings. But his disclosure had the opposite effect. All her fantasies of impermanence went up in smoke. Mark didn't know. He didn't know that Ash couldn't read, couldn't write. Her talks with Ash had seemed such harmless flirtation—heated, of course, and filled with pretty words she wanted to believe. She'd been telling herself he whispered sweet nothings all this time.

She couldn't think it any longer. Ash adored his brother. But it was Margaret he had trusted with his
secret. That didn't smack of a temporary love affair. She had no notion what he intended at all any longer.

Her infatuation had seemed harmless and bright, when it couldn't last. It was just a
little
defiance, one that would hurt nobody at the end of the day.

Now her emotions felt too large to fit in her tight skin. This wasn't supposed to mean anything. Her relationship with Ash was supposed to draw to a close.

“I tell you this because you should know not to do anything irrevocable. I know Ash can be overwhelming,” Mark said conspiratorially. “But—really, there's no need to be overwhelmed. He's human, just like the rest of us.”

As he spoke, Margaret realized that Mark couldn't have known. He'd mentioned to her the other day that Ash had begun to read his book. If he'd had any notion of the truth, he'd have realized how impossible that was. No; until two days ago, Ash had kept his secret entirely to himself. He'd been alone.

Alone, and still determined to reach out to a brother who wanted him to communicate via letter.

“He makes mistakes. He's fallible.” Mark glanced sideways at her. “I overheard the maids talking about him, and based on their chatter, I wanted to make sure that you understood.”

So the maids were talking about Ash. She knew Mrs. Benedict had threatened dire consequences on any who let slip the truth of Margaret's identity. But that charade could last only so long. She could feel her sunlit summer drawing to a close, even now.

“It's easy to forget,” Mark continued. “I do it, too. When I'm in his company, I simply cannot remember anything else. He's warm and kind. It's only when he's absent that it becomes obvious from his conduct that
he's not sparing me another thought. I'm out of sight, and thus out of mind.” He shrugged and glanced back at her. “I barely notice, these days.”

It took Margaret a moment to realize that his last words were a lie. He didn't even try to hide the unhappy quirk of his lips.

“After all,” he continued, only a trace of bitterness leaching into his voice, “a few scribbled words, in his illegible hand—well, at least he remembers I exist, some of the time. Even if all I get is a half-legible promise of his brotherly affection, attached to someone else's impersonal reply.”

The truth clutched at Margaret's throat.

I've learned to pen a few phrases—if I shut my eyes, I can scrawl them out by memory. But it took so long, just to learn a handful of words. I've only bothered to memorize the ones I can't get by without.
She knew how much those few scrawled words had cost Ash, even if Mark did not.

“I'm sorry,” Mark said. “I've upset you. I didn't intend to. Truly, I thought it was kinder for you to learn this way.”

The truth itched at her. She wanted to scream it out, to shake Mark, to make him realize just how hard it had been for Ash to etch out his love on the bottom of his secretary's letters. How could he not
know?
How could he not
realize?

But then, she'd fooled herself, too. She wasn't sure what she was to Ash. Not his lover, at least not physically. But she was something more frighteningly intimate than she'd supposed.

He'd been telling the truth to her all along, and she had been the one spinning falsehoods. She looked at his brother, at that half-defiant smile on Mark's face,
as if he were daring himself to care about his brother's desertion.

“I thought,” he said, “I would be glad if Ash left, because I could simply focus on my work. Turns out, it still bothers me. He promised he'd spend this last portion of the summer with me. And here we are. I don't even mean that much to him.”

Margaret shook her head, a mixture of pity and anger suffusing her. When she was finally able to speak past the lump in her throat, what she said was: “For an intelligent man, Mr. Mark Turner, you can be quite, quite stupid.”

M
ARK WAS NOT THE ONLY
stupid one. Days passed, and then a week—and still Ash did not return. August bled into September. For Margaret, the time felt strangely isolating. With Ash no longer present, Mark secreted himself in a room and worked as if in a fever. She saw him occasionally, but only in passing—and even then, he walked by her, an abstracted expression on his face, as if he were already planning out the next chapter in his book. With the Turners either physically gone or not mentally present, it was almost as if Margaret were still an honored daughter of the house.

In the days since Ash had absented himself, she had taken to walking the upper gallery in the late mornings. The wide windows faced east; in the baking heat of late summer, the room was too warm for comfort. But from that second-floor vantage point, she could catch glimpses of the London road, winding its way down green-covered hills before it dipped into the valley where her home stood. She could stand alone, and think.

As she watched the road one morning, a spiral of dust shimmered up. Margaret had felt her heart leap several times over the past days, imagining similar plumes to be horsemen. Usually, it was nothing—an illusion born of heat and dryness, or a raven, landing on the road.

Parford Manor was situated near the bottom of the hills, and the road wound in and out of view. She scanned the hills, guessing where a horseman might appear next. If he were walking at a gentle trot, he would be right there….

Nothing. Nothing but the wave of browning grasses, broken by stone walls and dark green hedgerows.

She wasn't sure why she bothered looking.

She watched the next stretch of road avidly, but nothing appeared. It was foolish of her to hope for him, even more foolish to believe that he would appear. But then, she'd recognized for weeks that where Ash was concerned, she was a fool—a conflicted, confused, yearning fool.

She watched the hills for ten minutes before turning away to care for her father.

She hadn't waited long enough. Moments after she entered the sickroom, a commotion rose up outside. While she measured out medicine—her father was too hot to object—her pulse pounded.

When her father waved her idly away, she scurried from the room. The initial hubbub of the arrival had died away, and the gallery upstairs seemed preternaturally silent. It was only when she reached the far end that she caught Ash's voice, echoing up the stairwell.

“And how is your book coming along?”

Oh. She'd
missed
him. She hadn't realized quite how much until she heard him once again. His voice was warm and lilting, the sound of it sending a little shiver down her spine. She stopped on the first landing, just to take it in. The palms of her hands trembled, and she pressed them against the cool stone of the stairwell.

“Swimmingly. I've only the final conclusion to write,” Mark responded. “Really, you ought to leave
more often—you would be shocked at my ability to produce pages when I haven't anyone to bother me.”

That rude noise could only have come from Ash. “You know, interacting with others is good for you. Man cannot live by writing books on chastity alone. Speaking of which, I don't suppose you tumbled any women while I was gone?”

Margaret knew Ash well enough to understand that this was a joke.

“As I'm not married,” Mark said dryly, “then, no. I haven't.”

“Futile hope. Ah, well. Good thing I was pinning all my hopes on the real question—did you talk to
anyone
at all while I was gone?”

There was a long pause. “Hmm. I believe I wished Miss Lowell a good day.”

Margaret took a deep breath and descended the stairs. Ash was standing in the entry next to his brother, his arms crossed, his toe tapping impatiently. “How many times?”

“Um. Once a day?” Mark scrubbed a hand through blond hair that had grown too long to be fashionable and gave his brother a helpless smile.

Ash shook his head. “This is why I don't like leaving you,” he groused. “I go away, and you retreat into your shell as if you were a little crab at the seashore. You're intelligent. You're amusing. You ought to see people—no, I don't mean all the time, so you can stop curling up like a hedgehog! Once or twice a day. You
like
people, Mark. Talk to them. Tell me that you at least said more to Margaret than a passing ‘good day.' I suspect that she, unlike you, actually
notices
when she fails to talk to people for an entire day.”

“In more important news, just this morning, I
finished a really fantastic chapter. It's all about practical ways to rid oneself of a—” Mark turned as he heard her footsteps on the final stretch of stairs, and swallowed whatever he'd been about to say.

“Rid oneself of what?” Margaret asked.

The two men had turned to her as one. It was only with the greatest difficulty that Margaret did not miss her next step. When Ash saw her, his face lit. In the dreadful heat of the oncoming noon, any additional warmth ought to have felt disagreeable. But instead, the flush that burned her cheeks felt welcome. As if he were a cool breeze and a raging inferno all at once. He didn't say her name. He didn't reach for her. Instead, he simply watched her as she descended the staircase, his eyes following her down. He placed one hand over his waistcoat pocket.

“You know what you need, Mark?” Ash said, not taking his eyes off Margaret. “You need a wife.”

She missed the last step at that, and barely caught herself from sliding to his feet by clutching at the banister.

“What?” Mark sputtered. “I'm too young to marry.”

“Women manage matrimony at a far younger age. And besides, with a wife, you'd discover more practical ways to rid yourself of…of lustful thoughts than whatever it is you came up with for your book. More importantly, if you had a wife, you would be forced to have at least ten minutes of conversation, once a day.”

“I haven't met anyone I wish to marry.”

Ash slanted Margaret a sly look and winked at her, and she felt a stab of confusion. That early talk of tumbling women, she had understood. But this? Her
brothers had never talked about other women like this. In fact, Edmund had complained bitterly when she told him to dance with her friend Elaine. He'd feared that Elaine might enlarge upon a single waltz until she believed herself about to be married.

Marriage, so far as Margaret had been given to understand, was a consummation devoutly to be avoided by men of good title and ordinary character—at least, until the passage of time and the complaints of female relatives made it inevitable.

“Is something the matter, Margaret?” Ash glanced at her. “Surely you're not opposed to the concept of matrimony. I was thinking I ought to drag my brother with me to some of the society events this upcoming Season, so he can find a woman virtuous enough to satisfy his practical needs.”

“In point of fact,” Mark said dryly, “a wedding would be of little practical use, if she remained virtuous after marriage.”

At the thought of Ash and Mark descending upon polite society… Margaret wasn't sure whether to laugh or to cry. A duke's heir with several hundred thousand pounds, and his angelic-looking brother? Oh, the schemes that would arise. The women who would swoon. The furor that would rise up, if it were bruited about that either was actively seeking a wife.

Margaret shook her head. “Aren't you worried?”

“Worried?” Ash's eyebrows rose in confusion. “Ought I be? About what?”

“About…” Margaret spread her arms wide. “You know.
Women.
You're wealthy. You're young. You're handsome, and if…if matters go your way, the two of you will be in line to inherit one of the most respected
titles in all of England. Aren't you worried that some scheming chit will trap you into matrimony?”

Ash and Mark both looked up at her, their expressions mirror reflections of concern.

Then Ash shook his head. “You have the strangest ideas in your head. In your experience, how many women are there who are intelligent enough to scheme me or my brother into matrimony, but also foolish enough to force a marriage with a man who doesn't wish to have her?”

Margaret simply stared at him. “I don't—that is to say—”

“Precisely. I'm not opposed to matrimony, should I find myself in love.” His eyes met hers, and she felt her toes curl.

He couldn't mean her. He couldn't possibly mean
her.
She was a servant, a nurse, a bastard. Dukes didn't marry bastards. But then, Ash had always stood outside of her experience altogether. And she didn't know
what
he intended. Not any longer.

The concept was so foreign to her—the notion of a man marrying without being bullied into it—that she could say no more. By the way he was looking at her, he no doubt remembered their conversation on this score. Her fiancé. The dreadful shame she had felt.

“Miss Lowell.” His voice was quiet. “I have no idea where you received your notions. No doubt you'll tell me it's no business of mine. But I find there is something I should—no, I must—say to you.” He paused and ran his tongue over his lips. “If a man ever lets you know that he sees marriage as a trap, and women as nothing but scheming connivers, you are by no means to marry him. Any man that sees your entire sex in so harsh a light has nothing to offer you.”

Put that way… Her emotions swung towards him, the needle on a compass pointing northward. Hope and despair collided within her, all twining into that word.

Marriage.

Frederick could never have thought much of her, or he'd never have used her as he did. She was better off without any of the men who had paid her court and then turned their backs on her when she was announced a bastard. There was only one man who'd looked at her and seen something worth seeing. But no. She couldn't think of marrying
him,
either. Once he discovered who she was, he would despise her.

“But—” she began to say.

He chopped his hand down, as if to end all further inquiry. “But nothing. Either it's an honor to marry a woman, or it's not to be done at all, not at any cost.”

But I was born Anna Margaret Dalrymple.
One sentence, one admission, and all the weight of his ruthlessness would come to bear on her. He'd stopped being her enemy, but she was still his. And suddenly, she couldn't stand the thought that the easy regard reflected in his eyes might dim.

“You're not a pair of steel jaws and a strong spring, waiting to bite through a man's boot if he steps wrongly.”

And why should a ridiculous compliment make her want to burst into tears? Perhaps it was the sweetness of it. Perhaps it was because, for all of Ash's apparent traveled worldliness, there was a golden innocence about him, something clear and untainted by bitter vinegar. This was the man who laughed with the housekeeper and shrugged when his brother taught the nurse how to spar.

Instead, she looked away. Mark was watching them, his eyes narrowed. If Ash had a worldly innocence about him, Mark seemed filled with an almost impudent purity—playful when he noticed you, distracted when he was too busy thinking of his own work. But he wasn't distracted now. He focused on her, as if he were suddenly seeing something new in her face.

“By the way, Margaret,” Ash said, his voice pitched too low for Mark to hear. “I thought of you while I was gone.”

She couldn't help herself. She looked back at him. He smiled when she caught his eyes. His gaze seemed warm. Almost—no, she could not say it, but she couldn't avoid it either—almost
loving.

She wanted him to look at her like that forever.

But he wouldn't. In a few days—perhaps in as little as a few hours—this would all come to an end. She would tell Ash the truth of her identity. And once he knew, he would never again tell her that she wasn't a conniving schemer, that she wasn't a trap to snap about a man's foot.

This couldn't go on.

“Did you find what you were looking for in London?” Margaret asked.

He watched her, his eyes intense. He seemed to look right through her skin, into the heart of her. And then he gave a quiet, put-upon sigh. “Almost,” he said. “Almost, which is the same thing as not at all. I'll let you know when it arrives.”

 

M
ARGARET CAME TO HIS OFFICE
as twilight fell—an action that both heartened and frustrated Ash, all at once. He had hoped that by the time he saw her again, he would have in hand what he had set out to obtain.
But bureaucracy being what it was—and Ash being, at present, only a third-rate claimant to a dukedom—he'd managed only to extract a promise to have what he wanted sent on, once it arrived. It irked him that something so straightforward was taking so long.

He wanted to claim her now.

And so instead of waiting for her to come alone to his office that evening, where he would undoubtedly be tempted to break his word, he'd asked Mark to come sit with him.

She smiled as she entered, her eyes settling on Ash and Ash alone.

And then: “Good evening, Miss Lowell.” Margaret started visibly at Mark's words, and turned to where he sat. It made Ash feel that he had somehow betrayed her by conspiring to keep her virtue.

He gestured to a chair. “Sit,” he commanded.

She glanced at him—no doubt wondering why he was barking orders at her—and sat. He wasn't quite sure what it meant that she didn't take the seat he'd gestured to, an embroidered chair, but instead sat on the low-backed sofa where he'd kissed her the other night. There was room on there for him to sit, room for him to slide next to her, his thighs touching hers… He could still send Mark away.

He shook his head, but while he could banish that image from his mind, he could not dispel the faintly floral scent that had swept into the room with her.