Unveiled (Turner, #1)

Delicately, she stretched out one leg. Her foot flexed, and then her toes found the floor. He was helpless. Just seeing her push to her feet got him hard. And seeing her in his room—on his bed—made every part of him reverberate with the rightness of it.

She shook her head at him. “Still nothing to say? Lord Lacy-Follett and his group will vote down the bill in Parliament. I told them to do it. They agreed—every one of them—but to get them all on board, they wanted to ensure the duke’s line would continue. They insisted that we marry.”

“Have you any plans tomorrow?”

She held up one hand. “I’d like to ask for a wedding gift. Not—not an allowance for my brother. But an independence. I know it’s possible to obtain titles, if you make a donation to the Crown. If you know the right people. Could you do that for him?”

“After what he did to you?”

“Yes. After what he did to me.” She tilted her head, and her unbound hair spilled over her shoulders. “Because we’ve had enough of vengeance between us. Because I don’t want to be so caught up in what has been done that I forget what we could have in the future instead.”

“And what of you?” Ash asked hoarsely. “When we talk of what could be, what of you?”

“Yes, indeed.” Her smile broadened. She minced towards him, stopping mere inches from him. He could have reached out and drawn her against him. He might have leaned down and taken her lips in a kiss. “What of me, Ash?” she asked.

Instead, he laid one finger on the gold chain of her necklace. He hooked his little finger underneath it and then undid the clasp. “Here,” he said, dropping the master key back onto the necklace. “That’s yours, my love.” He let it drop, and the key slid down the chain. It hit her locket with a clank.

Ash fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, until he found what he was looking for. “And this—” he pulled a second key from his waistcoat “—this will unlock my rooms in town.” He let it fall down the chain, as well, and it slid to clank against the other key.

She opened her hand, and he let the tangled mass of chain and keys and locket fall into her waiting palm.

“It’s yours,” he said. “As am I, Margaret. Always. Now what are you going to do with me?”

Her mouth curled up. But she turned from him and glided to the door. For a second, he thought she might actually walk through it—but instead of turning the handle, she jiggled the key he’d just given her into her hand. And she locked the door.

“You mean, before I marry you?” She gave him a saucy smile, freed of sadness. “Until you can get that license, what are you doing for the next few hours?”

He walked forwards, his steps finally sure.

“Margaret.” He meant to say her name softly, but it came out on a growl. She watched him come close, and she smiled as he did so. He didn’t stop, not until he’d placed his hands on each side of the door, until he’d pressed his chest against hers, until she was flattened against him, her heart beating in concert with his.

He breathed in the scent of her hair, as intoxicating as a sweet white wine. His lips found her neck; his hands slid down her body to rest on her waist. He drew back just enough to look into her eyes.

“For the next few hours,” he said quietly, “I believe I shall be occupied with you. Only you.”





EPILOGUE




Parford Manor, June, 1840

THE SUN WAS HIGH IN a blue sky, untroubled by clouds, but Margaret could not relax. The servants had set the al fresco luncheon off to the side of the house. A pile of old rugs and a low table, brought out for this occasion, graced the north lawn, just beyond the waving heads of the rosebushes.

They’d lunched outside often enough in the nearly three years since Margaret’s marriage—when the weather was fine, when Ash’s brothers visited. There was nothing unusual about the sight of that old, dented wood, graced with uneaten crusts and the green tops of strawberries. What made this day different was the sight just beyond the table.

Ash had stripped off his coat and his cravat, and had rolled his cuffs to his forearms. And he was circling Richard, who was garbed similarly.

“Keep your fists up,” Ash advised. “No, up—what part of up makes you think you should let them hang by your belt?”

“The part that wants to protect the bits just below my waist,” Richard shot back.

Margaret held her breath. For years, she’d been inviting her brother to visit. For years, he’d refused. He’d been angry with her and ashamed of himself, all at the same time, which hadn’t made for fond conversations. But after a year, they’d begun to exchange letters. At first, they had been tentative, awkward missives.

This year, he’d finally accepted her invitation to visit. And on this, his last full day at Parford Manor, somehow Ash had inveigled him into a sparring match. A friendly sparring match.

Or so she hoped. Her heart stood still.