Unveiled (Turner #1)(46)

She stared at him in disbelief, and then shook her head. “It isn’t enough. I doubt you’re the sort who needs to force your way into her room, when it comes down to it.” But she sounded less sure of herself. For a second, he had thought she was going to snap his head off for giving the master key to not only a servant, but a servant beneath the housekeeper. But then, this household was filled with surprises.

Hell. The only thing Ash knew was that it would take only a few more nights like this one for Margaret to grant him that impassioned yes he so longed to hear. And then it would be a tumble, not a voyage—a glorious, wicked, unchaste tumble headlong into sin. It all sounded very well for him, but for a servant, with no prospects?

No. She deserved better than that.

“I know. That is to say…” Ash heaved a great sigh. “You’re entirely right, Mrs. Benedict.” He’d promised the housekeeper he wouldn’t despoil the staff. He’d promised himself the same, because these people were his dependents. He couldn’t just debauch Margaret. And yet now that she was willing, keeping his hands off her would prove nearly impossible.

He shook his spinning head, trying to find his way out of this mess. And then he knew—simply knew, with an intensity that rattled him—how he could set this all to rights. How he could have Margaret, and his tumble, too. Of course. Of course. He’d already understood it in some corner of his mind, since the day he’d seen her on the steps. He’d just needed to realize it.

“Of course I’m right.” She set her hands on her hips and glowered at him. “But I was right the last time I admonished you on this score, as well. The only thing I need to know is what you’ll do about it.”

She wanted more than a promise.

“If I stay here…” Ash swallowed and shut his eyes. He might pontificate about honor all he wanted, but the next time he caught a glimpse of Margaret’s ankle, he might well lose his head again. “I’m going to London. Tomorrow. Don’t expect me back for at least another week.”

IT WAS NOT QUITE NOON the next day when Margaret ducked out of her father’s chamber. The sun was shining so brightly that its rays bounced through the gallery, the windows almost alight. And deep inside her she felt a fierce, almost tremulous desire.

Desire—and defiance. Even if nobody else wanted her, Ash did. This was a space of time, carved out for her, a defiant little story she might tell herself during these summer weeks, one in which the scullery girl got the prince for at least one fleeting moment.

It was a pretense—he wanted her the way all men wanted a pretty woman—but what did that matter? She’d had enough taken from her to realize that happiness never lasted. She’d savor these moments while she still had them.

For now, she could feel a fierce, evanescent joy about what had transpired the prior evening. She would pay the price for it—eventually, when he discovered who she was.

But until then… As Margaret was well and truly ruined, she had little to lose. They neither of them did; Margaret had no true reputation to think of, and even though Ash would undoubtedly despise her the instant he knew her true identity, affairs of this nature were ephemeral things. They didn’t last. His affection for her would waver soon enough, especially as she was the daughter of his enemy.

As she passed by the chambers that Ash had taken over, she found the doors to the suite closed and locked forbiddingly. No sounds issued forth from within, and in Margaret’s experience, in the late morning, Ash always had his men in there, arguing.

Perhaps they’d gone out to meet with tenants. Or to catalog the oaks.

Margaret shook her head and descended the main staircase.

The entry was flooded with light. That, Margaret realized, was because both doors were thrown open. Out on the gravel of the drive, a pair of footmen maneuvered a trunk into the boot of a carriage. Two valises stood beside them, waiting to be loaded. And standing next to them, dressed in sober brown traveling attire, was Ash.

He should have been wearing the brown hat he carried, but instead he’d tucked it casually under one arm. He was laughing, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Standing next to him was his brother. Mark spoke with him, shook his head and then waggled a finger at him, mischievously.

Margaret stood at the foot of the stairs, hidden from view by the relative shadow of the entry. Ash clapped his brother on the shoulder and then, without a backward glance, stepped into the carriage. She stared, her chest hollow.

She’d known his affection for her would fade. She hadn’t realized quite how fickle it was, that he could touch her the way he had last night and then leave the next morning without saying a word to her in farewell. Margaret swallowed, but her throat remained dry.

It seemed she was to lose this, too, before it had even been found. In that too-bright sunshine, the driver leaned forwards; the reins jiggled and the team trotted off, smartly stepping down the circled drive, the carriage swaying slightly.

Well. Perhaps she didn’t matter to him as much as he’d said.

The thought should have depressed her. But it didn’t. Instead, her mouth curled up in amused chagrin. She had only to listen to herself. She didn’t need Ash Turner—Ash Turner, of all people, who had destroyed her life—to tell her she mattered. If she was important, she could be important without him.

She dry-washed her hands and turned away. “Good riddance,” she muttered, wishing that she meant it more.