Unveiled (Turner #1)(31)
She’d shown neither hide nor hair in England in the decades that followed, until she made more than a minor sensation of herself, testifying on the matter at Ash’s behest.
So, yes. Dukes’ heirs did sometimes marry their mistresses. But Ash surely knew that it never turned out well. Not for the duke in question, nor for the mistress and most especially not for the family, waiting in confusion on the margins.
Thoughts of family made Margaret think of Richard’s letter. She’d tucked it into her lap desk, so that she might answer it at a more fortuitous time. She was supposed to tell him what she’d discovered about Ash. She was supposed to be finding evidence to undermine his claim before Parliament, not yearning for his kiss.
And yet, without attempting to do so, she’d succeeded. All she would have to do was write a letter that looked something like: Mr. Ash Turner believes the notion of class is an antiquated delusion. Additionally, he is so hasty that he doesn’t read his contracts before he signs them.
Two pieces of very valuable information. The first sentiment alone was frightfully revolutionary. Nobody would install a lord who espoused such radical sentiments. And if he hadn’t meant his comments in a political way…why, that was simply the price that was sometimes paid in these fracases. A little twist of the truth, and she could end this farce right now. All she would have to do was write the words down.
A simple prospect to set pen to paper. There was only one problem.
She could still feel the heat of his presence, an unconscious echo reverberating through her. She could still feel him leaning over her, his lips so close to hers. She could hear her own protest: You know almost nothing about me. This time, as she went over the memory, she added the truth. I’m Lady Anna Margaret Dalrymple, and I have been lying about my identity so that I can better ferret out your faults. You mustn’t trust me.
Still, in her mind, he gave her that enigmatic smile. I don’t need facts to understand how magnificent you are, how eminently trustworthy. I’m not wrong. I’m never wrong.
He was this time. He was utterly mistaken. She was going to betray him, and in doing so, she would tear all his calm certainty to shreds.
Except…she didn’t want to do it. If he was wrong about her trustworthiness, he would have no special insight. He might be wrong about every last thing, starting with his assertion that she mattered. Margaret wanted to matter.
More than that. She didn’t want to betray Ash. She didn’t want to twist his words of kindness into weapons of war. She didn’t want to be the one who first introduced doubt into his eyes. She wanted to kiss him, and she couldn’t do that with a conscience sullied by betrayal.
She took a deep breath and reached for a sheet of paper. She would write her letter—but she would leave out what she had learned. Nobody would understand his words, not as he had meant them. If she was going to betray him, she would have to betray him with the truth, not with some twisted version of it. And so her letter was simple—uninformative, plain and, at the end, the only lie she told was when she sent her brother their father’s love.
When she was done, she snuffed the single candle flame and let darkness fall.
“ASH!” MARK’S VOICE interrupted Ash’s morning conference. His usually even tones were tinged half with despair, half with anger.
Ash turned slowly in his chair. His brother stood in the open doorway, his hands clenched into fists. He hadn’t donned a coat yet, and his gray waistcoat was unbuttoned. His hair was wild, as if he’d pulled it into blond little knots, and his eyes were wide.
“What have you done with it?” he demanded.
Ash had been waiting for this moment. He’d been waiting for it ever since last night, when he’d issued the order. But instead of answering directly, he pretended puzzlement. After all, the role of an elder brother was to make a younger one pull out his hair—just a little bit—before smoothing everything over.
Mark’s spine straightened and he stalked forwards, placing his hands on the table. “Is this your way of punishing me for yesterday’s events?”
Two of the clerks Ash had brought up from London sat next to him. They had turned to look at Mark. At this query, they schooled their faces to careful blankness. They were, after all, in on the joke.
Ash let his look of bewilderment grow. “What sins did you commit yesterday that cried out for punishment?” he mused aloud. “Did I miss an opportunity?”
“Nothing that would justify this!” Fists came up before him in an unconscious fighting stance. “Where, in the name of all that is holy, is my book, Ash? I’ve been working on it for two full years. Do you want me to get down on my knees and beg for its safe return? I will, if only—”
“Ohhhh.” Ash let the syllable slide from his lips, as if he’d had no notion of what they were talking about up until this moment. “Your book. Cottry, can you enlighten my brother as to the whereabouts of his book?”
Mr. Cottry slid him an unamused look but replied evenly. “I believe Farraday has it, Mr. Turner.”
“Farraday has it?” Mark echoed. “Why ever would Mr. Farraday have it?”
Ash gestured at Cottry.
“Mr. Farraday,” Cottry said simply, “is making a copy.”
The fury on Mark’s face smoothed out into gratifying confusion. He glanced from Ash to the clerk and then back again, but made out nothing other than careful blankness.