Unveiled (Turner, #1)

Her lips found his, and a stab of exquisite desire shot through him. Finally. Endlessly. This was what he had been waiting for, all this time. Not a stolen embrace, to be wrested from her in the dark of night. A gift, freely given. One that he would keep forever in some small part of his soul.

Damn. He wanted to grab her to him and show her precisely how not-boring he could be. His hands clenched at his sides.

She subsided onto her toes and looked up at him.

She’d been hurt—badly. So badly that tonight may well have been the first time she’d taken that memory out and given it a firm shake. It had made her feel helpless, vulnerable. Ash knew that feeling. He hated it. He also knew how to banish that feeling of powerlessness: promise that it would never happen again, and make good on that promise through action. She’d given him a kiss. He could give a gift in return.

He reached out and touched her nose. “You told me once I was the most cheerfully ruthless man you’d ever met. Well, sweetheart, how would you like to see what happens to men who bore you? Shall I destroy him for you?”

Her eyes widened. “I haven’t even told you his name.”

“Really?” He favored her with a droll look. “A years-long engagement, formed young—likely kept secret, for you not to have brought the point upon him. A gentleman, you claim. How many gentlemen have you met, Miss Lowell, here at Parford Manor?”

She blinked at him in confusion. Perhaps she hadn’t realized how much she’d revealed. It was all of a piece. What sort of man would so cavalierly treat a woman that way? There was the secrecy. The willingness to say anything, just to get a taste of female flesh. These facts all pointed in one direction.

“Oh, I can guess the identity of your hapless fiancé easily enough. It must have been either Richard or Edmund Dalrymple.”

Her lips parted, and she took a step back. “No,” she said. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Ash said softly. “And now that I know about it, I do believe I’ll destroy them both.”





CHAPTER NINE




AS MARGARET LEFT HER father’s chambers the next evening, she could not even pretend that she’d spent the day doing anything other than thinking of Ash. He presented a confusing mix of pain and pleasure to her. Pain, because he’d taken from her everything that once she’d thought mattered—because he still opposed her brothers’ attempt to win back their place in society.

She’d done her best last evening to dissuade him from taking revenge on her brothers. But he’d lured her into telling him a piece of the truth. He’d seemed so safe, so trustworthy, that she’d almost forgotten who he was. Then he’d blamed her brothers—as if they would ever do such a thing—and she’d remembered all too well why she needed to keep her distance. But despite that pain, there was pleasure, too. Everything she’d once thought had mattered—her family name, her position—had washed away. Ash had looked past her ruin and seen someone important.

She walked through the gallery, the sunset painting the walls in variegated shadows—not dark, not light, but a dizzying blend of the two, echoing the muddle in her mind.

She wanted him to be right. She needed him to be wrong. And while that sounded as if she were confused, confusion implied uncertainty. And Margaret was dead certain that he was both the last man on earth that she should kiss, and the only one she dreamed of holding.

A little defiance. That’s what he offered her.

A few kisses. A handful of stolen evenings. A few nights in which she might rebuild her shattered confidence. And in the end, it wouldn’t matter, because their flirtation could never outlive the truth. He liked her only so long as he was ignorant about her.

The door to his chambers was thrown open to the gallery in silent, beckoning invitation. Margaret was beckoned—first by the warm lamplight, casting shadows against the walls. But as she crept to the doorway and peered inside, she was beckoned by him, too. He sat in a chair, his back to her, so that she could see nothing but the dark curl of his hair. She yearned to feel those strands against her fingers. To touch him, as she had yesterday evening. Except this time, more.

She tiptoed forwards.

He was frowning at a book. More were stacked on the table before him. As she padded up silently behind him, she could make out what he was reading: a text on agriculture—something about soil. By the pristine condition of the binding and the uncut pages, the book was new. He rubbed at his forehead testily and frowned at the page.

It was nearly nine in the evening, and far from drinking spirits, he was learning about farming. It took Margaret a moment to understand the twinge of pain that flickered through her.