Unveiled (Turner, #1)

She stopped and turned to him. She seemed a little dazed, unwilling to look at him. But she stopped, at least, staring at the painting nearest her on the gallery wall. He walked towards her, unsure how to proceed.

“What is it,” she finally asked, “between you and Parford? That seemed as if it were the tenth such disagreement, not the first.”

Ash wanted to ask her the same question. “When I was young, my mother began to go mad. She sold the family concerns and gave what little funds remained to the poor. We went from living comfortably with a few scattered servants to living in squalor.”

He didn’t like remembering those days. He’d been so young and helpless then. He never wanted to feel that way again.

“My sister was bitten by a rat and developed a fever. And my mother refused to have a physician in. She claimed that if God wanted Hope to live, she’d do so. So I walked to Parford Manor, laid my claim of family before the duke, and begged for his intercession. For enough to pay a doctor, some medicine…for anything, really.”

“Walked to Parford Manor? How far was it?”

He shrugged. “Twenty miles. It can be done.”

“And how…how young were you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Parford didn’t provide any assistance.”

“No. He laughed at me, and told me that the fewer Turners there were in this world, the happier he would be. And then he gave me a sixpence to hire myself a bath. So I returned home. Over the course of the next weeks, I watched my sister fade away. When she was gone—when she was buried outside the churchyard, in a pauper’s grave—I vowed I would never be helpless again. I would never have to beg for my brothers’ well-being.”

She was watching him, her lips pressed together.

“What is it,” he asked her, “between you and Parford?” He took another step towards her.

Her eyes widened, but she didn’t move away. Instead, her expression darkened. “It was the duchess,” she said quickly. “I can’t bear it, some days. If he had any notion what he’d done to her, any sense of grief at her loss, perhaps I might be able to stand it. But…since he fell sick, he’s become so…so selfish. So different. I couldn’t bear to see him, unwilling to even lift a finger to help the ones he has most sinned against.” Her voice choked with emotion, and she looked up at him. “I do not want to be like him.” Her words sounded harsh. “I do not want to be the sort of person who casually abandons loved ones, merely because it is convenient or amusing to do so.”

Ash still didn’t quite understand. But in that reckless little speech, one thing had become clearer. “Who was he?” he asked.

“Who was whom?” She seemed wary and wound up, like some clockwork toy twisted to the breaking point.

“Who was he, who sinned against you?”

She did look up at him at that, and all that wary tension relaxed into sadness. “Who wasn’t he?”

“He wasn’t me, that’s for damned sure.”

Her lips parted. For one second, he almost thought she was going to contradict him. Instead, she shook her head. Her chin lifted in stubborn insistence. “If you must know,” she said in cool, clipped tones, “he was my fiancé.”

His blood stopped in his veins. When he spoke, the words seemed to come from very far away. “You have a fiancé.”

“Not any longer.”

His breath started again in painful relief.

“We were betrothed when I was nineteen. The betrothal lasted several years.”

“Isn’t that rather long for an engagement?”

“It’s a delightful length for a man who doesn’t wish to marry.”

He itched to touch her, to run his hand down her spine until her eyes warmed. “Is it churlish of me to admit I’m glad you cried off?”

“Not churlish. Just not…based in truth. A year ago, when he visited, I brought the matter to a head, to see if he ever really intended to marry me. It was not the first time I had asked. But it was the most forceful.”

“And he admitted he had no intention of doing so.”

“Wrong again, Mr. Turner. He insisted he intended to do so in his own good time. He was more than willing to give me a token of his good intentions.” Bitter disdain touched her voice.

“I take it his token was not a wedding date.”

“No. It wasn’t. His logic went something like this: once he deflowered me, I could trust his word as a gentleman that he’d do right by me. Eventually.”

“Christ.” Ash simply stared at her. He could imagine how that had transpired. It was not a true betrothal she was talking about; it was a secret one. So secret, apparently, that the man forgot to mention it to his friends or family. Nothing but an excuse to kiss her. Touch her. To have her, while sweeping her protestations under the rug. No doubt she’d been young and vulnerable when it had started, and as it had gone on, his lies had no doubt made her all the more vulnerable. No wonder she shied away from gentlemen who found her attractive.