Unveiled (Turner, #1)

But he didn’t stop. “Your father seems to have no care for anything any longer. Your brothers have been too busy, scrambling to save their own hides. When have you had a chance to mourn, Margaret?”


She stepped away to examine the pots that stood on a window ledge. “She’s still here,” Margaret said. “She loved this house. The gardens. And the roses especially. Sometimes I can almost hear her footsteps around the corner. I can see her nodding in approval when the house runs smoothly. So long as—”

She caught her breath as the end of the sentence slammed into her.

Pick a house, her mother had once advised her on love, not a husband. Husbandly interest will fade. But a house will always be yours—yours to arrange and command, yours to gift over to your sons, warmer and more welcoming than you found it, when the time comes. A house will hold all your affection and shower love back upon you.

That philosophy hadn’t worked so well for her mother. At the end of her life, even the house hadn’t truly been hers any longer. And whatever fiction Margaret maintained about this place, once Ash took the reins…

“So long as what?” Ash asked quietly.

“She’ll be here,” Margaret said, her throat closing, “so long as nothing changes.”

But everything was changing. Over the course of the next few months, her brothers would present their case to Parliament. Her father’s remaining health might slip away. She couldn’t bear to stay here, to see the last vestiges of her mother’s care disappear. And that meant that this was goodbye.

To the house. To her mother. And to Ash, as well.

She’d known it the instant her brother had spelled out precisely what marriage to Ash would mean. She’d always known that whatever time they had was transient and fleeting. She’d just assumed that he would be the one to end it.

She walked back to him and set her hands on his shoulders. He acquiesced when she pushed him to the bench. But when she leaned over him and straddled him, he pulled back from her kiss.

“There’s something I must tell you,” he began.

She put her fingers over his lips as she settled her thighs against his.

“Be quiet, Ash. I am trying to remember you.”

In the lamplight, shadows collected on his face as his eyebrows drew down. He must have taken her meaning, because he shook his head. “Well. I am trying to have you.” His voice was fiercely possessive. “Not for one night, nor even two. I want you every evening—mine outright, not a few hours stolen here or there. I want you during the day, on my arm. I want to know that when we’re apart you’re missing me; I want to know when we’re together, I’m the one who puts the smile on your face.” He punctuated each phrase with a kiss—against her chin, the line of her jaw, the hollow of her neck. As he spoke, his hands drifted down her sides. The light silk of her wrapper rendered his touch diffuse.

“Not that. I can’t.” But she didn’t push his hands away.

“You will.” His fingers cupped her breasts lightly, sending little shivers through her. She’d wanted one last night with him for physical comfort. She hadn’t wanted this intimate courtship.

“I’m leaving on the morrow.”

“So you have claimed,” he said, his breath hot against her neckline.

“This is the last time we can speak— Oh.”

He had slid her robe aside and taken her nipple in his mouth, almost roughly. His tongue circled the tip, and she could feel it draw up into a tight bud, could feel the corresponding pulse of desire between her legs. As if he, too, felt that need, he reached between them and undid his breeches. The rough fumblings of cloth rasped against her legs.

But he continued to taste her, almost leisurely. As if he were sure of her physical surrender—as sure as he was of everything else. There was no urgency in his caress, just languid pleasure. He was firmly in command, in control. His other hand freed his erection from its confines. She could feel it, straight and rigid and hot, against her thighs. With his free hand he steadied her against it, moved it into position between her legs. She felt her wetness rub against him.

“Hear this,” he growled in her ear. “I didn’t withdraw last night. I’ll be damned if I do it now. And if I get you with child—and Margaret, I hope I have already done so—you will marry me.”

She’d known it, deep inside her. She just hadn’t let herself think it.

“I will never do to you what your father did to your mother. I will always be here for you.” He sat on the table, and pulled her down to him.

He would. She knew it. Loyalty was in his nature, as surely as patience, understanding and the steady offer of support.