Unveiled (Turner, #1)

He’d signed with a flourish. She stared at the words, her lip curling in dismay.

That was all he had to say? No words of encouragement, nor of thanks? No other response to the missives she’d sent his way? She could have read him quite a lecture. But it was pointless remonstrating with a man who was many miles distant. Richard was busy and no doubt just as taken over by worries as she was. He’d focused on what he thought was the most important point: her welfare. She couldn’t fault him for that.

And yet…Mark Turner, dangerous? The notion seemed laughable. Richard couldn’t have been talking about the Mark she knew, with his philosophical writings about chastity. He couldn’t have heard Mark’s quiet, careful, educated speech. Mark had been teaching her a few ways to avoid unwanted advances. He was the last man she might ever imagine as dangerous.

Or. Well.

Come to think of it, there were those lessons. She’d seen her brothers box together on occasion. There had been a strict code to the blows allowed—fists only, aimed at the torso and definitely no lower. She doubted very much gentlemen discussed the precise angle at which to punch a man, so as to most effectively break his nose.

How on earth had gentle, quiet Mark learned such ungentlemanly tricks?

She sat back, dissatisfied. At that moment, her father gave a quick snort; the tenor of his breathing changed from the even ebb and flow of sleep to the harsher arrhythmia of wakefulness. He gave a rasping cough.

Margaret stood and walked over to him. It took a few minutes to see to his physical needs—a little soup, some barley water—that was all he would take. As he ate he shut one eye and looked at her, a hint of confusion on his face.

Blink. Blink. He shook his head, and then blinked again.

“Is something the matter?”

“No. I feel delightful. I might be ten years old. I’m staying in my bed for the sheer enjoyment of laziness, don’t you know.” He let out a puff of breath. “Yes, something is the matter, you foolish girl. I’m dying, and it’s awkward and not particularly entertaining.”

There was no response to be made to that piece of impoliteness. He was still her father, but since the day he’d awakened and found himself unable to stand without assistance, he’d become more belligerent. Crueler, harsher. The same man, and yet vastly different. He’d always been so controlled; being bedridden likely didn’t agree with his nature.

“Besides,” he muttered, “it will pass in a few minutes. It always does.”

“Is that an indication that something is amiss, aside from the usual? Shall I fetch a physician?”

“Why put yourself to the trouble? The physician can have only two things to say: either I will continue to waste away at a predictable pace, or I have begun to perish faster. Neither possibility seems of particular assistance to me at the moment. I would rather not be poked and prodded if I am about to go on to my eternal rest.” He continued to blink his eyes, and then he began to wink with his left eye.

His behavior had become increasingly erratic, but there was little Margaret could do about it.

Margaret sighed. “Very well, then. I’ve a letter for you from Richard. Shall I read it aloud, or would you prefer to read it yourself?”

“From whom?”

“From Richard.”

He stared at her blankly.

“You do recall your eldest son, Richard.”

“Nonsense.” He snorted and waved a hand. “I haven’t got any sons.”

Margaret felt her hands clench around the paper. He’d been acerbic this past year, but this was the first indication she’d seen of the forgetfulness that sometimes plagued the elderly.

“Sons,” her father continued, “by definition can inherit. As Richard cannot, I must assume he’s classified as a daughter.” He met her eyes. “And that means he’s essentially worthless.”

Oh. So he was just exceptionally hurtful today, then. Not forgetful. Margaret’s jaw set. He was ill. He was unhappy. He was also being particularly cruel. But if she stood up and walked away now, nobody else would take care of him.

“Well,” she finally said, “let me pour some more of this worthless soup down your gullet. And then I believe I shall manufacture an answer to Richard’s letter and pretend it comes from you. I shall send him your love and affection. Perhaps I shall add—for myself—that as you spoke of him, a tear of remorse trickled down your cheek.”

“Remorse?” he groused. “That’s the best you can manage for me? A puny, girlish emotion like remorse? None of you have an ounce of spirit. You can write whatever you wish, so long as I needn’t listen to Richard’s endless hand-wringing.”

“I shall dot your i’s with flowers,” she told him without mercy, “and cross your t’s with a line of hearts.”