Unveiled (Turner, #1)

“Every time I look at you,” she said, “I see an echo of her. Looking at you is both bitter and sweet, painful and so wonderful at the same time. It was my mother’s dearest wish that her son would have her house—that her labor of love would pass on to her children. I thought that if I found a way to make her dream come true, that I might find some peace. This isn’t about choosing my brothers over you. It is about trying to find a way to look at you without feeling any of that pain any longer.”


“Oh,” he said lamely. “Margaret.”

“I didn’t come here to beg you to give up the dukedom simply because I wished to hand you an ultimatum. I came because no matter how much I love you—and I do love you, Ash—I simply could not bear knowing that I married the man who destroyed my mother’s dreams. I don’t know how I could look at myself again if I did.”

“Oh. Margaret.” He did come forwards then, did take her in his arms. And he leaned forwards, just enough to press his lips against her forehead one last time.

“God,” he said. “I can’t give my brothers up. I can’t.”

“I know,” she said softly. “Neither can I.”

Her words fell between them—so quiet, and yet so suffocating. There was nothing further to say, no way around this impasse. He held her. But when she gently removed his hands from her waist, he didn’t stop her. When she turned and left him, he did not follow after.

Now, with everything said, even Ash could no longer come up with a reason to pursue her.



THE AFTERNOON SEEMED almost unreal to Ash. The pale light of a clammy autumn day cast ghosts of shadows across the carpet of Lord Lacy-Follett’s receiving room. Ash stood shoulder to shoulder with Richard Dalrymple.

An outside observer might have thought them joined in a common purpose. Dalrymple’s jaw was set, his shoulders drawn rigidly together. If the aching clench of Ash’s own muscles was any indication, he looked about as comfortable.

But despite that apparent solidarity, the only solid feeling between them was a mutual desire to defeat each other—at any price. Even, Ash thought, the cost that he could never forget: the sight of Margaret leaving him, and he left with nothing to offer that would make it better. He’d lain awake all night, twisting and turning, trying to upend everything Margaret had said. But she seemed impossible. Distant.

The nine lords Lacy-Follett had assembled sat in high-backed chairs, arranged in a half moon. Only a thin table separated Ash from them.

“Gentlemen.” Lord Lacy-Follett spoke from his seat at the very center. “There must be some sort of amicable agreement that we can come to.”

Ash glanced over at Richard Dalrymple. With Margaret gone, all hope of amity had fled. Dalrymple’s hands were clenched around a fat sheaf of papers, which he’d rolled up. His lips were pursed; his eye had purpled. And for the first time, Ash noticed a similarity between his profile and Margaret’s—a curve of the lips, a jut of the chin. He’d tried not to think what it meant, that Dalrymple was her brother. He’d tried to separate it out. It was damned unnerving.

“My lords,” Dalrymple spoke with a palpable unease. He cast a tight look at Ash, and then snapped his gaze forwards to concentrate on the nine men in front of him. “If I can convince but one of you to support my suit, I’ll have all the support I need to pass the Act of Legitimation through Parliament. And I am wagering that I can convince one of you to support me.”

Lord Lacy-Follett glanced at Ash, as if measuring the effect of his words. He conferred, behind cupped hand, with the man sitting to his right, and then looked up at Dalrymple. “That is not our current estimate of the votes,” he said.

“The votes have changed.” A tight smile crept over Dalrymple’s face—one that seemed at odds with his clutched fingers. “Lord Forsyth, and five others, have come to support my suit.”

Ash felt a muscle in his jaw twitch, but he kept silent. Forsyth had teetered on the brink of a decision for weeks, before tentatively declaring himself for Ash.

There was another exchange of glances. And then a man behind Lacy-Follett—Lord Dallington—spoke up. “I spoke with Forsyth just three days ago. Given…ah, given his financial situation, I find this news very unlikely.”

That smile expanded across Dalrymple’s face—not a pleased one; almost a grimace. “The earlier version of the Act of Legitimation, which you might have seen circulated before this? It’s changed.” He unrolled the papers he’d been gripping and spread the sheets in his hand. “This is the current act, which will be put to the vote.”

He slid the papers across the table to the men who sat in front of him. After a pause, and with some hesitation, he handed Ash a sheet, as well.

Ash took it and glanced down at the meaningless letters. In front of him, the men were silent. Reading. Ash felt a slow beat of fear inside him. He tamped it down; he’d bluffed his way through similar situations before. He could do it again.

“My God,” Lacy-Follett said. “I suppose that would take care of Forsyth. And his financial problems.”

Beside him, Lord Dallington licked his lips and set the paper down. “Mr. Turner. What think you of the proposed act?”

Ash ran a hand down the paper. “I don’t quite understand how this would mollify Forsyth’s concerns.”