Unveiled (Turner #1)(52)

“But what…” She stopped, looking down, and then looked up at him, her eyes filled with inexplicable entreaty. “What about the innocents who are hurt by your actions?”

“What innocents?” He spat the word.

Her eyes fluttered down again. “The duchess.”

“That…that was unfortunate. In truth, if it had come to it, if she’d survived… I don’t want true innocents to suffer. Hell, I’d make some provision for the Dalrymples. I would certainly have done something for her.”

“If you had thought about it,” Mark put in gently.

Margaret’s lips were almost white. “And what about Parford’s daughter?”

“Parford’s daughter.” Ash shook his head in confusion. Then he realized she must have known the woman, conversed with her during the course of the duchess’s illness. “Wasn’t she married off earlier? I seem to recall hearing about an engagement, years ago. I don’t keep abreast of such matters. I suppose she must have suffered some embarrassment, then. But I also suppose she was used to the feeling. Wasn’t she the girl who fainted in the fountain, her first year out?”

A flush touched Margaret’s cheeks. “I find it quite odd that you can be so kind to mere servants, and yet so cavalier to everyone else. Had you simply not thought of how your actions would affect everyone connected with the Dalrymples?”

“What does it matter?” he asked in bewilderment. “She married some other fellow. She’s well and truly out of it.”

“No. I don’t believe she married.”

Ash snorted. “Let me guess. She fainted before she said ‘I do.’”

Margaret didn’t smile. Ash had the feeling that he’d fallen into a world where down had become up and right had turned into left. “Oh, come now. That was at least a little clever. Whatever her name might be— Anna, is it?”

He should have known, but then, how was he to discover such things? Consult Debrett’s?

He took a deep breath. “I’m sure she is a perfectly acceptable specimen of a lady, if you like such things. But you must admit, she must be a poor creature to topple over so easily. If she did not do it to draw attention to herself.”

Margaret met his gaze for the first time that evening. It was then he realized what lay behind her unease—a cold, inexplicable fury. “Let me guess,” she said. “You have never worn a corset and a ball gown for seven hours.”

He grinned casually. “Now there’s a daring wager. Even if I did, I shouldn’t lace them so tightly as to squeeze out my breath, no matter what the occasion. If someone is such a slave to fashion—”

“It’s not merely the lacing. Ball gowns aren’t laced as tightly as some other dresses; you need to allow more room for movement. It’s the heat. And the layers. Do you know how a ball gown is assembled?”

This was what happened when he used his brother as a shield. He ought to have met her alone and convinced her to take port with him. Now, instead of getting pleasantly drunk and snuggly, Miss Lowell was lecturing him on the construction of ball gowns. He must have lost his mind. He’d certainly lost his touch.

“Yes,” he said in a dry tone of voice. “I know how ball gowns are made. They are made of fabric.”

She snorted. “And?”

“Thread? Ribbons? Buttons?”

She simply looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Whalebone? Metal? No, wait—now I see. They are composed of lead, and are purposely made heavy, to force women to walk in a slow and elegant fashion.”

She still didn’t laugh. “They are sewn in place. That means there is no way to remove one once the ball has begun. Once it is on, it stays on for the entire evening. Think about what that means. One cannot simply relieve oneself at the drop of one’s breeches. One cannot, in fact, use the necessary at all. So before a ball, ladies do not drink or eat anything. Not for hours. During a ball, one can only wet one’s lips.”

He glanced at her. “Really?”

Somehow, that tone of disbelief made her blush, too. “Indeed. I’ve heard the maids talk about it. Eight hours on an empty stomach, whirling about, clad in seven petticoats. You would topple over, too.”

“I had no idea society ballrooms were so barbarous.” He said it with a smile, but still Margaret didn’t return the expression.

“No doubt,” she said with a lift of her chin, “you would think me a poor creature, too, if you swathed me up in layers of silk and withheld all water, just to see what would happen. I daresay I wouldn’t last the evening. Think, Mr. Turner, before you speak. If you rely on rumor, you will never understand.”

“You wouldn’t collapse.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

He stood up, taking a step towards her. “You don’t comprehend what I mean, Margaret. You’re stronger than that. You’d reach deep down into yourself—just as you’re doing now—and you would look the possibility in the face and tell it to go to the devil. Yes, just as you’re doing with me, at this moment. Some people crumble when they’re dealt a blow. You might stagger a bit, I suppose. But you? You would never collapse.”

“I wish I could hate you,” she said passionately.