Unveiled (Turner, #1)

Whap.

He crumpled to the floor, his knees slamming against hard parquet before he had the chance to brace himself. It took him a second to realize she’d kicked his legs out from under him.

And then he felt a touch against his groin. Not a blow, thank God, but no soft caress, either. He opened his eyes. He was splayed on his knees. Miss Lowell stood above him, her eyes sparkling.

“This,” she said, her slippered foot against the fall of his trousers, “is where I would have kicked you, had you actually meant me harm. Notwithstanding your stated preference for violence and pain, I assumed I should refrain.”

“Clever girl.” His throat was raspy; he had to gulp in air. Part of his shortness of breath he could attribute to the bruising fall. Part of it was that she’d revealed an inch of delicate, stockinged ankle. But mostly, it was the placement of her foot, a gentle brush against an organ that was all too pleased to be touched by her, even in so hazardous a manner.

Her smile was not wide, but her pleasure encompassed her in a full-body glow. She’d taken him well and truly by surprise with that elbow to the jaw. He almost pitied the man who tried to steal a kiss from her now.

“Oh, dear. Did I fail to mention that Miss Lowell was a quick study?” There was a too-innocent tone in his brother’s voice. Mark had done it on purpose—he’d put Ash at ease, set up this whole scenario, just to have him brought to his knees.

Ash could hardly disapprove.

“Miss Lowell,” Ash said, “is an entrancing little witch. As well she knows.”

She raised her chin smugly and stepped back, shaking her gown out to fall over her ankles.

If Ash hadn’t already been on his knees before her, he’d have gotten on them now. Her hair was slightly disheveled, little strands escaping from her pins. She seemed incandescent—a sharp contrast to the inexplicable grief she’d worn last night. Victory suited her, and all the more because it had been actually won, not handed over in pretense.

He shook his head and gestured to his brother. “Come and help me up,” he said. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“Whatever you say, older brother.” Mark strode forwards, that delighted look in his eyes. Oh, Mark had won, all right—bamboozled Ash into underestimating Miss Lowell. It was as if Mark had wrestled him to the floor himself. Ash couldn’t have been prouder. Mark reached out a hand and Ash grasped it. For a moment, it was a brotherly affirmation—hands clasped together in something akin to friendship.

Ash pulled his weight against his brother’s hand, and Mark braced himself. As he scrambled to his feet, he whispered. “Did you really believe that claptrap about my not being young any longer? For a genius, you can be terribly idiotic sometimes.”

And with one swift movement, he pushed his brother off balance, grappled his legs out from underneath him and, after a gratifying scuffle, succeeded in pinning Mark to the floor. For a second, they met eyes.

Mark smiled at him. And victory was complete.





CHAPTER SEVEN




WHEN MARGARET LEFT her father’s sickroom that evening, Ash Turner was waiting for her. He leaned against the wall, his bulk a muscled shadow clad in brown wool. She had known this moment was coming, ever since she’d left him that written apology on his desk. He was going to find her, talk to her. He might do substantially more.

But he didn’t move to do anything. Instead, he nodded at her. “Good evening, Miss Lowell.”

It was impossible for her to ignore the deep rumble of his voice, impossible not to feel the palms of her hands prickle with awareness. He had treated her with kindness. True, he hadn’t given her the prim and proper respect to which she’d become accustomed. But he’d given her something solid and quite a bit more reliable.

She swallowed. Her toes curled in her slippers. But then, she had decided this morning what she had to do.

“Good evening.” She wasn’t finished, but she felt her throat closing about the last syllable. Before she could choke on the words, she started again. “Good evening. Ash.”

He didn’t smile at that, but his eyes lit. A little defiance, he had called that. But it was a bigger defiance than he could imagine, to flout her family and to address him with such familiarity.

He’d earned it. Twice over.

He straightened. As he did so, the light from the oil-lamp behind him caught his features. With his head held high, the points of his collar no longer cast his chin in shadow.