Unveiled (25 page)

“You almost died because of our mother's absolutist adherence to dead words. I can't stand to see you imprisoned by them.”

“Imprisoned?” Mark's voice was growing dangerous. But Ash was tired of tiptoeing about his brother's sensibilities.

“Yes. Imprisoned. You and Smite both. Living in abstemious denial, when you could have the entire world
laid out before you. Turning down every advantage, even before it's offered. Our mother imprisoned you all those years ago, and even if you escaped her
then,
neither of you can free yourselves enough to accept what might be yours today.”

Mark moved again, out of Ash's sight, and he was left to stare at the blank wall in front of him.

“Do you really suppose Smite and I are alone in that imprisonment?” Mark said from his side.

“Oh, any number of fools are as afflicted, I'm sure.”

“Listen to you and your talk of
revenge.
‘Ye shall tread down the wicked, for they shall be ashes under the soles of your feet.' You're doing an excellent job of living up to your name.”

“Don't call me that,” Ash said.

“Don't call you
what?
”

“That.”

But Mark simply snorted. “Oh, you mean this? ‘And ye shall tread down the wicked, for they shall be ashes under the soles of your feet.' That is your name, no matter how much you wish to forget it. And how do you feel, playing the avenging angel, Ash?”

Ash's fists tightened, and his valet murmured in protest as his shoulders drew together. It took an enormous effort to keep from drawing in on himself, from curling up into a tight little ball, no matter what such a thing would do to the line of his coat.

Those words brought back childhood memories, none of them good. The smell of a fire, burning cheap and pungent coal; the feel of his mother's hand, almost all bone, on his wrist. And the flat despair in her voice as she regaled him with his name, chapter and verse.

It made him think of those last days with Hope, of that sure, certain knowledge of his failure.

“Stop,” Ash said, feeling ill.

“You always were so stubborn. One of my earliest memories is—”

“Stop,”
Ash begged. He didn't want to remember that sick pit of despair in his own stomach, that feeling that if he stepped out of line, if he made the slightest mistake, the thing that had taken her place might actually hurt her own children.

“She was wrong,” Mark said gently. “Later, she went completely mad. She saw demons and believed that angels whispered violence in her ears. She named you for vengeance, Ash. Are you really going to pursue it?”

“What about you?” Ash croaked. “If you knew she was mad—and wrong—why do you cling to her beliefs?”

Mark glanced at him dryly. But he didn't respond to that needling. Instead, he was relentless. “Is that who you are, Ash? Are
you
the man she made you?”

Ash shook his head. “I'm—I'm just me.”

“So am I.” Mark looked up at him, speaking softly. “I am who I am despite Mother, not because of her. I
choose
to do what I believe to be right, despite the fact that my mother's madness ought to have poisoned the thought of all goodness. I
choose
to keep to chastity, for all that Mother's ranting made me want to go out and do just the opposite in rebellion. I choose to be the man I am, Ash. You should, too.”

“But I did. I did choose.”

Mark simply glanced at him and then looked away. It was disquieting, that look—as if he'd evaluated all of Ash's work and dismissed it. As if he had calculated
its ethics, summed up its philosophies, dissected its morality, done whatever those things were that Mark had learned to do while at Oxford. Subjected to that searching analysis, Ash would never win.

“No,” he said roughly. “Don't you dare look down on me. I haven't your education. God knows I haven't your intellect. But I'll be damned if you look at me as if all my experience means nothing. It may have been
instinct
instead of intellect that made me understand what I had to do, but don't you belittle that. My instinct purchased the clothing on your back, the education that lets you sneer at me in such learned precision. My instinct brought me back to Eton when the headmaster was on the verge of tossing you out on your ear. And now, my instinct tells me that you and Smite are desperately unhappy, for all that I've tried to remedy it.”

“Ash, I—”

“And now,” Ash said, overriding whatever it is Mark had been about to offer up, “my instinct says that I should pursue Parford. Tell me, Mark. Tell me my instinct is wrong.”

His brother didn't respond, and the valet stepped away from Ash. Ash turned in place and glanced at his brother, who stood, watching him with a stricken look in his wide eyes.

“Ash,” Mark said finally. “You don't think—you don't suppose that I
sneer
at you, do you? Just because you didn't attend school with me and Smite? Truly—our differences aside, I've never thought you less intelligent. Quite the opposite. You can do everything, without even trying. It's almost maddening. Had you gone to Oxford and taken your inevitable first beside Smite and me, you would be just as maddening. All I want is for you to explain your reasons. I can't try to
convince you, if you won't keep yourself open to convincing. Once—just once—can we please talk about something beyond
instinct?
”

It killed him, that sureness in his brother's voice. No, Mark didn't understand.

Mark hadn't truly sneered at him—but only because he didn't know. Mark thought he would have excelled at school. It was the most laughable thought ever. Instinct was all he had, all he would
ever
have.

I can't read.

In his mind, he'd told his brother a thousand times. Sometimes, he imagined Mark would look on him with pity. Sometimes, he conjured up scorn. But there was one thing Ash could not imagine, no matter how many times he envisioned the scenario. He could not imagine respect.

And so he shook his head and turned away.

 

T
HE PLAN THAT
M
ARGARET
and Elaine had cobbled together had been quite simple. Margaret could not enter Elaine's house, on her father's orders, and so they had made an appointment to walk together in Hyde Park instead.

“Lord Rawlings is holding a select ball, three days hence.” Elaine said, as she and Margaret strolled arm in arm on the banks of the Serpentine.

The weather was unseasonably warm for November in London. The incessant fog had been washed away in a hard rain the night before, and the sun was warm on Margaret's back. Only a breath of wind, whipping her skirts at the ankles, suggested that winter was almost here.

“I know precisely what you are thinking,” Elaine continued. “Rawlings is Turner's creature. How could
he not be? The man
purchased
his title, only three years before.” Elaine shook her head mournfully, as if nothing were more horrific than a man who had not been born to his title.

Margaret suppressed a grin. A year ago, she would have shared that horror—the dread that the Crown was so desperate for an influx of money that minor titles were bestowed on someone whose primary worthiness was their willingness to share their wealth.

“The express purpose of the ball is to introduce Mr. Turner to some of the lords who will decide the suit, before Parliament sits. But if Rawlings would offer you an invitation, other doors would
certainly
be opened to you. Not a great many of them, true, but a few. Enough.”

“And we are actually to meet Lord Rawlings here in Hyde Park? How are we to extract an invitation from him?”

“He and his friends often walk here on fine Saturday afternoons.” Elaine sniffed. “He has been badgering me to attend one of his gatherings for the past year. I may not be the most
desirable
spinster in town, but I come from an old family. I suppose he thinks I will lend his silly little party some measure of
gravitas.
He cannot very well invite me without extending
you
an invitation, as well. And who knows? He is new to the
ton.
Perhaps he won't even know who you are.”

“If he is a friend of A— Mr. Turner's, and furthering his case before Parliament, I don't see how it is possible that he would be ignorant of my family.”

Elaine dismissed this unassailable logic with a shrug.

“Do be careful, Elaine. If word gets out that you're
championing me, you could be ostracized. I don't want you hurt on my behalf.”

Elaine gave her an amused look. Then she laughed—entirely indelicately. “Margaret,” she said, “I am invited everywhere and wanted nowhere. I could
hardly
lose anything of value. I'm not delicate. I'm not wealthy. I am just from a very, very good family.”

Margaret bit her lip. It was one thing to know that others thought of Elaine that way. It was another to hear her laugh herself off, with so little thought. “You are also loyal and kind, and more clever than you credit. You are important in your own right.”

Elaine looked at her. “What a very curious thing for you to say.”

Yes. She'd changed. Before, Margaret had been a quiet, pitiful creature—passive, waiting for her life to come to her. But then all the trappings of politeness had been swept away. And she'd discovered she wasn't empty inside. She was magnificent. Even if nobody yet recognized it.

She inhaled and threw her head back. The pale sun touched her face; the wind caught at the ribbons on her bonnet and they flapped noisily.

But at that moment, Elaine reached over and grasped her wrist. “Margaret! Is that him?”

“Who? Lord Rawlings? You know perfectly well what Lord Rawlings looks— Oh.”

Margaret followed Elaine's gaze, and her heart stopped. Two long months without seeing Ash suddenly disappeared.

Her hands actually fluttered, as if she were a debutante seeing her first duke. Her stomach trembled. Nothing had changed between them—nothing except
that she'd learned precisely what it meant to wake up day after day without him near.

The space he'd once filled seemed an empty chasm. But seeing him didn't fill her cavernous yearning. It deepened it.

“Yes,” she said softly. “That's him.”

He was walking along the path in conversation with Lord Rawlings. He was dressed in black, his attire relieved from sobriety by a velvet waistcoat shot through with gold. It glittered in the sun. On another man, those colors might have seemed garish. On Ash, they illuminated. His hands were clasped behind his back; he walked slowly, as if he were marching to a funeral dirge. He looked vaguely weary.

“Oh.” Elaine let the word escape in a wistful puff of air. “A shame he won't inherit the dukedom. He's rather a fine-looking man, isn't he?”

“Rather.” He was wearing a top hat, trimmed with a ribbon to match his waistcoat.

“He'd almost be worth it
without the dukedom.
With those shoulders.”

Margaret smiled ruefully. Coming from snobbish Elaine, that was the highest of compliments.

“Of course,” Elaine added loyally, “I should
never
do such a thing to you. I could never marry such a man.”

As if aware that he was the focus of their conversation, Ash looked up. He saw Margaret across the way. For one moment, he froze, just as she had. Then, he raised one hand, touching the brim of his hat in silent acknowledgement.

Elaine's grip on Margaret's wrist tightened. “He's
looking at us,
Margaret. Oh, dear. What are we going to do?”

Maybe he'd forgotten her. Maybe he'd already discarded his vow to have her again.

Maybe Elaine's anxiety had infected her with foolish doubts that meant nothing to her. She watched him across the lawn. He looked at her, as if waiting for her to make some move towards him.

If she simply picked up her skirts and ran, he would catch her.

But she'd made her choice, and no matter how it ate at her, she had to abide by it. But…doing nothing seemed too bare, too unkind. Not after everything he meant to her.

Margaret reached up and unlaced the ribbon holding her straw bonnet in place. She needed only tip her chin up to feel the sunlight against her lips—a warm kiss, laden with a mere hint of chill. Rare weather, for November. Then the wind did the rest—grabbing the straw brim and pulling it off, to go skirling away behind her.

Margaret smiled. It was a small act of defiance.

“Oh, Margaret!” Elaine said. “Your bonnet. And with that dreadful Mr. Turner looking on, too. Whatever are we to do?” She glanced behind her. “Must we chase after it?”

“We'll let it go.” Margaret spoke, not even looking at her friend. Instead, she met Ash's eyes across all that distance. She could not make out their color, their expression. But she could not possibly have imagined the smile that spread across his face. He turned to her and started forwards across the lawn, his long legs eating up the distance between them. Lord Rawlings scampered after him.

Elaine turned from contemplation of the absconding
bonnet. “Margaret, he's
coming over here.
My God. Must we cut him for your brothers' sake?”

“No,” said Margaret, simply, and Elaine let out a sigh of relief.

He came to a stop before her. Rawlings trailed after him uselessly, and glanced at Margaret, uncertain of the etiquette of such a situation. Nobody knew. Everyone likely imagined that they hated each other. Rawlings shrugged, as if to say,
I had nothing to do with this. Don't blame me.

“Lord Rawlings.” Ash spoke the words, but his eyes were on Margaret, warm and filled with greeting.

“Y—yes?”