Unveiled (Turner #1)(83)

As she spoke, Margaret knew the obstacle was insurmountable. She could as soon beat down the Tower of London with a feather duster as foist herself on to society. That didn’t mean she would give up, though.

But Elaine pursed her lips. “What do you want?”

“I want,” Margaret said slowly, “an invitation.”

And instead of breaking into nervous laughter again, Elaine nodded slowly.

“Perhaps,” she said quietly, “I might help after all.”

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS.”

Ash didn’t answer his brother’s bare statement. He couldn’t so much as look in his direction, as his valet was carefully knotting his cravat in a style that the man assured him was the latest fashion—sure to impress the lords he’d scheduled a meeting with this afternoon. Instead, Ash glowered in front of him, pretending he had not just had news that Margaret was in town.

“Really, Ash. You don’t have to do this. Richard and Edmund Dalrymple—they’re not worth doing this to yourself.”

His valet stepped away to contemplate his work. Ash stared in front of him. “There is what they did to you. There is what Parford did to Hope. Hell, there’s what they did to Margaret herself. You tell me—would you trust either Dalrymple with the responsibility of a dukedom?”

“I’ve forgiven them.”

“You,” Ash enunciated carefully, “don’t really understand what happened to Hope.”

Behind him, he heard his brother move to one side. “Revenge isn’t meant for us mortals, Ash.”

The valet reached to adjust Ash’s collar. Just as well, because he could feel it shift. “Don’t you preach at me.” Ash’s voice was low. “I should think that we have had quite enough of that for one lifetime.”

There was a longer pause, and then Mark walked round to look him in the eyes. There was no avoiding the soft censure on his brother’s face. “Enough?” he asked. “What do you mean, enough?”

“You almost died because of our mother’s absolutist adherence to dead words. I can’t stand to see you imprisoned by them.”

“Imprisoned?” Mark’s voice was growing dangerous. But Ash was tired of tiptoeing about his brother’s sensibilities.

“Yes. Imprisoned. You and Smite both. Living in abstemious denial, when you could have the entire world laid out before you. Turning down every advantage, even before it’s offered. Our mother imprisoned you all those years ago, and even if you escaped her then, neither of you can free yourselves enough to accept what might be yours today.”

Mark moved again, out of Ash’s sight, and he was left to stare at the blank wall in front of him.

“Do you really suppose Smite and I are alone in that imprisonment?” Mark said from his side.

“Oh, any number of fools are as afflicted, I’m sure.”

“Listen to you and your talk of revenge. ‘Ye shall tread down the wicked, for they shall be ashes under the soles of your feet.’ You’re doing an excellent job of living up to your name.”

“Don’t call me that,” Ash said.

“Don’t call you what?”

“That.”

But Mark simply snorted. “Oh, you mean this? ‘And ye shall tread down the wicked, for they shall be ashes under the soles of your feet.’ That is your name, no matter how much you wish to forget it. And how do you feel, playing the avenging angel, Ash?”

Ash’s fists tightened, and his valet murmured in protest as his shoulders drew together. It took an enormous effort to keep from drawing in on himself, from curling up into a tight little ball, no matter what such a thing would do to the line of his coat.

Those words brought back childhood memories, none of them good. The smell of a fire, burning cheap and pungent coal; the feel of his mother’s hand, almost all bone, on his wrist. And the flat despair in her voice as she regaled him with his name, chapter and verse.

It made him think of those last days with Hope, of that sure, certain knowledge of his failure.

“Stop,” Ash said, feeling ill.

“You always were so stubborn. One of my earliest memories is—”

“Stop,” Ash begged. He didn’t want to remember that sick pit of despair in his own stomach, that feeling that if he stepped out of line, if he made the slightest mistake, the thing that had taken her place might actually hurt her own children.

“She was wrong,” Mark said gently. “Later, she went completely mad. She saw demons and believed that angels whispered violence in her ears. She named you for vengeance, Ash. Are you really going to pursue it?”

“What about you?” Ash croaked. “If you knew she was mad—and wrong—why do you cling to her beliefs?”

Mark glanced at him dryly. But he didn’t respond to that needling. Instead, he was relentless. “Is that who you are, Ash? Are you the man she made you?”

Ash shook his head. “I’m—I’m just me.”

“So am I.” Mark looked up at him, speaking softly. “I am who I am despite Mother, not because of her. I choose to do what I believe to be right, despite the fact that my mother’s madness ought to have poisoned the thought of all goodness. I choose to keep to chastity, for all that Mother’s ranting made me want to go out and do just the opposite in rebellion. I choose to be the man I am, Ash. You should, too.”