Unveiled (Turner #1)(50)

But I was born Anna Margaret Dalrymple. One sentence, one admission, and all the weight of his ruthlessness would come to bear on her. He’d stopped being her enemy, but she was still his. And suddenly, she couldn’t stand the thought that the easy regard reflected in his eyes might dim.

“You’re not a pair of steel jaws and a strong spring, waiting to bite through a man’s boot if he steps wrongly.”

And why should a ridiculous compliment make her want to burst into tears? Perhaps it was the sweetness of it. Perhaps it was because, for all of Ash’s apparent traveled worldliness, there was a golden innocence about him, something clear and untainted by bitter vinegar. This was the man who laughed with the housekeeper and shrugged when his brother taught the nurse how to spar.

Instead, she looked away. Mark was watching them, his eyes narrowed. If Ash had a worldly innocence about him, Mark seemed filled with an almost impudent purity—playful when he noticed you, distracted when he was too busy thinking of his own work. But he wasn’t distracted now. He focused on her, as if he were suddenly seeing something new in her face.

“By the way, Margaret,” Ash said, his voice pitched too low for Mark to hear. “I thought of you while I was gone.”

She couldn’t help herself. She looked back at him. He smiled when she caught his eyes. His gaze seemed warm. Almost—no, she could not say it, but she couldn’t avoid it either—almost loving.

She wanted him to look at her like that forever.

But he wouldn’t. In a few days—perhaps in as little as a few hours—this would all come to an end. She would tell Ash the truth of her identity. And once he knew, he would never again tell her that she wasn’t a conniving schemer, that she wasn’t a trap to snap about a man’s foot.

This couldn’t go on.

“Did you find what you were looking for in London?” Margaret asked.

He watched her, his eyes intense. He seemed to look right through her skin, into the heart of her. And then he gave a quiet, put-upon sigh. “Almost,” he said. “Almost, which is the same thing as not at all. I’ll let you know when it arrives.”

MARGARET CAME TO HIS OFFICE as twilight fell—an action that both heartened and frustrated Ash, all at once. He had hoped that by the time he saw her again, he would have in hand what he had set out to obtain. But bureaucracy being what it was—and Ash being, at present, only a third-rate claimant to a dukedom—he’d managed only to extract a promise to have what he wanted sent on, once it arrived. It irked him that something so straightforward was taking so long.

He wanted to claim her now.

And so instead of waiting for her to come alone to his office that evening, where he would undoubtedly be tempted to break his word, he’d asked Mark to come sit with him.

She smiled as she entered, her eyes settling on Ash and Ash alone.

And then: “Good evening, Miss Lowell.” Margaret started visibly at Mark’s words, and turned to where he sat. It made Ash feel that he had somehow betrayed her by conspiring to keep her virtue.

He gestured to a chair. “Sit,” he commanded.

She glanced at him—no doubt wondering why he was barking orders at her—and sat. He wasn’t quite sure what it meant that she didn’t take the seat he’d gestured to, an embroidered chair, but instead sat on the low-backed sofa where he’d kissed her the other night. There was room on there for him to sit, room for him to slide next to her, his thighs touching hers… He could still send Mark away.

He shook his head, but while he could banish that image from his mind, he could not dispel the faintly floral scent that had swept into the room with her.

“Ash was telling me,” Mark said, “about how he got Lord Talton to agree to take his side in the upcoming battle in Parliament. You do know about the pending legislation, don’t you?”

Her jaw set. Ash could not guess whether that was because of Mark’s assumption that she might not know what must have been basic household gossip, or because even now she still held some unfortunate loyalty to the Dalrymples. She gave a jerky nod, though, and Mark continued.

“Well, Talton had refused to even see him, and—”

Ash held up his hand. “Miss Lowell doesn’t want to hear about my ruthlessness.” He emphasized that last word.

Margaret looked down, her hands clasped together in a tight grip. “I suppose you found a way to charm him,” she said. There was a hint of bitterness as she spoke. Was she annoyed with him for leaving her without saying his goodbyes, or for disrupting their renewed acquaintance with Mark as a chaperone? He needed to speak with her alone to find out.

And no sooner had he thought that, than thoughts of what he would do with her when he found her alone intruded. Last time he’d had her here, he’d had her skirts to her waist, and his hand between her thighs.

God. He was a lustful idiot.

“You know,” Margaret said, cutting into his reverie, “I don’t think you’re ruthless at all. I think it’s a sham. You pretend at it quite well, but what harsh thing have you ever done?”

“You’ve never seen me crossed,” Ash said softly.

Mark made a sour sound. “You’ve never seen me crossed,” he said. “Smite said once—”

But his brother shut his mouth and glanced across the table, as if thinking better of completing that sentence. That abrupt stop felt like a fist to Ash’s throat. He’d never been able to read his other brother, and Smite was closemouthed on all things.