Unveiled (Turner, #1)

But it ended with an admonition for her.

Take care, Margaret. You speak well of Ash Turner, and that worries me. You seem to be distracted from our overarching goal. No need to become so neat about matters. Tell me what’s wrong with him—however small, however trivial. I need to know.

Margaret stared at those accusing words, then shredded the letter and fed it, piece by piece, into the fire.

Richard wrote in a harsh, jagged hand, without excess verbiage. She had never before noticed the lack in his words, but it was obvious now.

Her brothers had never been overly demonstrative, but they had done their duty. They’d danced with her at her come-out and introduced her to their friends, a great mass of titled gentlemen who had admired her—and her dowry—immensely. She had no doubt that if her honor had been in need of defense, Richard and Edmund would both have taken up the call.

And when she’d fainted on one warm spring night in her first year out, it was Richard who had fished her out of the fountain and covered her with his coat, Richard who had cleared the back hall and ordered everyone away. In the weeks that passed, it was Richard who had kept her by his side. He’d been too important a figure—a duke’s heir, the Marquess of Winchester—for anyone to risk alienating him with overly harsh gossip. And it had been Richard who had insisted that she return to London for a second season, claiming that another, more interesting, scandal would take precedence.

Richard had been right.

Someday soon, she would have to choose between Richard and Ash. She felt that choice lying across her, like a cold hand reaching out across the grave.

But how much of a choice would she truly have?

Ash was a worldly tradesman, and Margaret knew precisely what he intended to do with her. Even if his suit in Parliament didn’t prosper and he was denied the dukedom, he’d eventually turn his relentless gaze to one of the other debutantes out there. With his fortune and his smiling allure, he’d be able to do a great deal better than an illegitimate woman who brought neither land nor connections to the marriage.

The truth smarted.

And then, she wasn’t just any bastard. She was Anna Margaret Dalrymple. She was the daughter of his enemy, and the sister of two men that he hated. And she had been lying to him throughout their entire acquaintance.

No. She had no choice to make. It was only a matter of time until she told Ash the truth of her origins. She’d braced herself to do so last night, but then they hadn’t been alone. He’d mocked her to her face—not knowing that it was she he’d ridiculed.

Once he knew everything about her, he would recant every one of his fine compliments. Margaret wouldn’t have to make a choice. He would make it for her.

And so why not write Richard now? Why not disclose the secrets Ash had reposed in her? She could spin a tale, she realized, that would make him out to be a monster. He was a man who seduced nurses, who eschewed reading not out of choice, but by necessity. He sat at table with the upper servants, upsetting the social order. And one day, one day soon, he would become her most implacable enemy.

Perhaps she kept faith with Ash because he had not betrayed her yet. Because she wanted to be a person he could trust. Because she wanted to believe that what he’d told her was true, and that despite her fall from grace, she was still a magnificent creature.

You matter. You are important.

She had to believe that for herself, because someday soon, he would no longer believe it for her.

He would…how had he put it? He would salt the earth beneath her feet and grind her into a fine dust. He would, no doubt, tell the world that she’d masqueraded as a servant and offered him her body in exchange for information. Every one of their caresses would become gossip-fodder. If she’d been ruined before, she would be utterly cast out when he revealed the truth.

Margaret let out a little sigh. When that happened, she would fight back. She would reveal his secrets if he unveiled hers. But until then, she wanted to believe that he was right. That she was the kind of woman he could trust, that at the end of the day she would not betray him.

And so when she sent her brother another empty set of platitudes, she whispered to Ash in her mind.

See? This is how I repay you.



IT WAS ANOTHER ONE of those dreadful mornings—cloudy without rain, Ash sitting in the library pretending to make sense of an agricultural text, while his brother scribbled away at his work.

It had been two days since Margaret had stormed out of this room. Last evening, she’d not come by—even though he’d waited for her until nearly midnight. He’d been left with nothing but a pile of written words, which presumably would tell him about agriculture, if he were to sort them out.