Unveiled (Turner #1)(41)

In fact, Margaret was beginning to entertain the sneaking suspicion that Ash would be a better duke than her eldest brother. Richard had always assumed that the ducal mantle would one day settle upon his shoulders; Ash had worked for everything he’d achieved. Richard believed that the running of the duchy was in his blood; Ash had no such preconceptions.

One could push a pack of truths together to make one despicable falsehood. She’d seen it, when it was done to her. Society had torn her reputation to tatters, starting with the truth that she was a bastard, and ending with whispered conversations, just loud enough for her to hear, stating, “I always knew there was something wrong with her.”

Margaret set her pen down and shoved her lap desk to the side. This cramped room, practically in the rafters of the manor, was the best she could expect for her future, if her brothers’ suit did not prosper. Duke’s daughter though she was, she would likely have to enter service. She would become a governess, a companion, a nurse in truth.

There would be no fine dresses. No house of her own. She stood and walked to the window. It was a tiny slit, cut out like all the servants’ windows from atop the roofs. Up here, the pigeons woke her in the morning with their squabbling.

It was night, and from the window she could see nothing but the thick velvet of mist, blanketing the rose garden her mother had loved. It had broken her mother’s heart to discover that her son would not inherit these lands.

And yet Margaret thought it would break something even more fragile inside herself to betray Ash’s secret in that horrible way, to expose it—and him—to the censure of Parliament. She could live without society’s blessing. She could not live with her own condemnation.

Betraying Ash’s secret would be like spilling dark paint on the picture of herself that she was only now beginning to comprehend.

And so she ended her letter to her brother with another truth—and a different kind of betrayal.

I’m sorry, Richard. I can’t help you as we had hoped.

CHAPTER TEN

DISCLOSING HIS SECRET incompetence had made Ash feel more determined, not less. More determined that this time, if he tried hard enough, he would break through that hazy barrier of symbols, that he would see words and sentences instead of a shifting mass of ink. He’d finished his affairs for the day, and now it was time for more vital business: keeping his promise to his brother.

Everything he’d ever set out to accomplish, he had done. And while he hadn’t been able to muster up the will to plow through an agricultural text, today he’d received something far more important—Mark’s book, the copy finally finished.

Mark was different from agriculture. His book would naturally prove different. And Ash had made a promise. If he wanted it, he told himself, he would simply make it happen. There was no other choice.

Thus far, the force of his will had only managed to give him a raging headache. It shifted behind his eyes, the letters sliding off the page before he could pin them down, until all he wanted was to sleep—and he’d only managed to comprehend the first three syllables.

Well. Never mind with the title page—that wouldn’t matter. It would all be better once he got to the meat of the argument. He flipped to the second page, ignoring the fact that it was filled with even more dauntingly squiggled ink.

He felt as if he were trying to catch pigs in the rain using only a pair of metal tongs. He barely recalled what each symbol stood for. Piecing them together into some semblance of coherent understanding was impossible.

It took him two full minutes to get through Chapter. One. Chastity. Is.

Before he could find out what chastity was, he heard footsteps behind him.

“Ash?”

Margaret’s voice. Oh, hell. Ash inhaled in mingled hope and desperation. God knew it would take a miracle for him to bull his way through even the first page of Mark’s book. He’d surely never manage it if Margaret distracted him with her lithe figure and the promise of more kisses. He shut his eyes, as much to ward off the incipient headache swimming behind his vision as to try to fend off that extra frisson of vitality he felt in her presence.

Behind him, he could hear her breath, could imagine the swell of her chest, rising and falling.

Shutting his eyes didn’t help. He could still remember her intimate taste from last night—her mouth warmed by brandy tempered with a floral note, her body canted over his, pressing into him. But in the here and now, her hand touched his, and he reluctantly looked at her.

Even though he’d prepared himself, the sight of her still sent a little shock down his spine. Her lips were rose-pink, and oh-so-kissably full. A handful of kisses hadn’t been enough. The faint color of her cheeks was broken up here and there by a hint of freckle. Her hair was braided and bound up, tight and proper, but her mouth pursed, and that hint of impropriety made him think of unlacing her from the confines of her gown, unpinning her curling hair…

Damn. He was distracted already.

“This,” she said, tapping the pages in his hand, “is your brother’s book. He mentioned to me earlier today you’d gotten the copy. He seemed nervous.”

Ash spread the loose pages in his hands. “As you see,” he murmured, “I’ve managed to take in so much of it already.”

She bit her lip. “I thought I might read it to you.”

The blood simply stopped in Ash’s veins. His whirling thoughts came to a crashing standstill. His throat dried out, and he coughed. She looked down.