Unveiled (Turner #1)(37)
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.
Her father’s land steward had tried to impress upon him the importance of an understanding of agricultural theory. To the best of her knowledge, her father had never read any of the texts the man had offered. That, the duke had snorted, was why he hired keen young fellows to manage his operation—so he wouldn’t have to do it himself and could spend his time cultivating port instead of potatoes.
Ash shook his head, as if arguing with the words. She padded closer behind him and glanced down at the page. The addition of lime to hard-used soil—she read, before his hand intervened, cutting off her view. He spread the page flat and picked up the penknife. His hands were large, broad, long-fingered.
A wisp of appreciation curled through her, as he eased the knife into the crease of the uncut pages. There was a gentleness to his movements. Despite his size, despite the fact that his hand covered the bottom half of the book, he moved carefully. Could any man truly be as perfect as he seemed? And why had this perfect man descended upon her family, destroying everything? Why couldn’t it have been someone else?
The knife slid. But instead of parting the pages in one smooth motion, his knife slipped, the page ripped unevenly, and—
“Damn it,” he swore, sticking his finger in his mouth before the blood could well up. “God damn it.”
Margaret felt herself smile, even though she knew she shouldn’t. Well. That answered the question of whether Ash Turner was perfect. Thank God he was not.
He pulled his finger from his mouth and searched his pocket for a handkerchief. “Damn books. Damn words. And libraries and cold dark rooms can go to hell.” He slammed the tome shut against the table—and just as he did, he turned enough to catch Margaret’s eye.
He froze, his face a mask of obvious, inexplicable guilt. His fingers splayed across the book’s cover. They lay there, still for just an instant too long, before he ran his hands down the leather that covered the front chapboards. He looked as embarrassed as a man caught beating a puppy, his fingers petting the pages in an insincere, unconvincing half caress.
Margaret’s smile broadened.
He must have realized how ridiculous he appeared, because he shook his head. “No, madam,” he said. “There’s no problem here. We were having ourselves a friendly fight, we were—between me and this book.” He drawled out those words, mirroring the accent of the local men, as if he were some common laborer caught by the tavern keeper in the act of raising a chair.
She converted the giggle that rose up into a ladylike clearing of the throat, and put her hand on her hip. “We won’t stand for any trouble here, sir. Must I fetch the constable?”
He glanced at the book and then back at her. Finally, he sighed. “I can tie fifteen different sorts of knots, you know.”
She wasn’t sure what that had to do with the price of tea in agricultural texts, but she raised a single eyebrow at him.
“I can whittle a linked chain out of a single stick of wood.”
“I’m sure you can.”
“I can purchase goats in twelve different dialects of native India.”
“Of course.” She glanced at him. “You must have a great many goats, then.”
He heaved himself to his feet and turned away from the book—and towards her. Her toes curled unconsciously in her slippers as he fixed that gaze on her. There was no trace of humor on his face.
“But you’ve just stabbed yourself while cutting pages in a book. Oh, dear, Mr. Turner. An imperfection. Whatever will you do?”
He didn’t smile in response. Instead, he rubbed his hands together. On another man, that gesture might have betrayed nervousness. But Margaret couldn’t imagine strong Ash—gentle Ash—confident Ash—having anything so crass as nerves.