Unveiled (Turner, #1)

UNSURPRISINGLY, THE mess of ink that faced him on the pages offered Ash scant comfort. The wide glass doors in the library looked out on the garden where his brothers stood. It was hot enough that the windows had been, by necessity, thrown open. The breeze that wafted in should have been cool and comforting. Instead, it carried to him the dim rumble of their laughter—an amusement he could not share, couched in words he could not make out.

He drifted to look out the window, with the sick sensation of a man scratching at a scab—knowing that the wound was best left alone, lest it fester, but unable to keep his hands away.

Mark was pointing out various features in the garden while Smite watched. Ash felt as if he were their geriatric father, stooped by age and bearded in white, rather than the sibling who was a mere handful of years their elder. His hands clenched on the frame of the window.

“Ash?”

At that quiet query, he turned around. Margaret was standing in the doorway, her brows knit in an expression of concern. He hadn’t seen her in days. He’d thought she was avoiding him.

She was dressed as she always was—in a loose frock of dark gray muslin, the only definition being the sash that pulled the dress about her waist. Her hair was pulled back into a tight knot at the nape of her neck and pinned into place. The picture would have made another woman seem severe. But the warm, interested light in her eyes softened the effect, and suddenly he no longer felt quite so isolated.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

His gaze strayed out the window once more, to Mark and Smite. They were happy, chattering back and forth between themselves. He wasn’t so selfish as to wish them miserable.

“No.” He swallowed the accompanying sigh. It sat like a lump of indigestible gristle, deep in his belly. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything is precisely as it should be.”

It must not have been an especially convincing denial, because she raised one eyebrow and placed her hand on her hip. “Usually,” she said, “when one speaks the truth, one answer suffices. You just answered me three times.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Well, then. Come see what has me in such a state.”

She came to stand by him. From this vantage point, they could see the shrubs of the formal gardens, trimmed into precise low squares. Rosebushes waved pink heads in the wind. And beyond that…

Smite’s hair was a shade darker than the bark of the walnut tree just beyond him. It gleamed in the sunlight. He was slightly taller than Mark, and he bent his head towards his brother as they talked.

“You see?” Ash said in his cheeriest tone. “My brothers are both here. What could I possibly have to grieve over?”

“You’re not grieving,” Margaret said. “I know that look on your face.”

“Do you, then?” He asked the question out of genuine interest. He’d not been faced with both his brothers before this moment. How could she possibly have seen it?

“Intimately.” Her voice was low. “I know what it’s like to stand on the outside and look in, believing I will never be accepted. I know what it’s like to yearn to be a part of something, and yet to know that it will never come. Trust me, Ash. I know.”

Of course she would know. Ash put little faith in labels; in his experience, a title had never made a man worthwhile. You judged a man—or a woman—by what he did, how he spoke, the way he met your eyes…or failed to do so. But too many others eschewed actual observation in lieu of proxies. Who your father was. Whether your parents had been married. How much wealth you had, and how long it had been in your family.

“I understand,” he said softly. “Your life would have been very different if you’d been Parford’s daughter, instead of his servant.”

She looked up at him, a sad tilt to her eyes. He had a sudden urge to burn every one of those dull, severe frocks. He wanted to replace them with vibrant silks—something to draw attention to her, to bring out the intelligent light in her eyes. Anything to chase away the haunting sadness that touched her features. It felt as if his own grief echoed through her.

She reached out and set her hand atop his. It was, perhaps, the first time she had deliberately touched him since he’d returned from London. He sucked in his breath, hoping. He could feel the warmth of her against him. He turned his hand to press hers. He hadn’t meant to grip so hard, but she did not pull away.

“I know precisely how you feel,” she said. “What I do not know is why you are in here, watching them, instead of out there forcing your way in. I can attest to the efficacy of your charm.”

She turned her face up to his, her dark eyes glinting.

“Can you, then? Attest to my charm?”

He had not let go of her hand. He ought to have, but he didn’t dare—and she was gripping him back so hard, her fingernails cutting into his palm with the best kind of pain.