Unveiled (Turner #1)(84)
“But I did. I did choose.”
Mark simply glanced at him and then looked away. It was disquieting, that look—as if he’d evaluated all of Ash’s work and dismissed it. As if he had calculated its ethics, summed up its philosophies, dissected its morality, done whatever those things were that Mark had learned to do while at Oxford. Subjected to that searching analysis, Ash would never win.
“No,” he said roughly. “Don’t you dare look down on me. I haven’t your education. God knows I haven’t your intellect. But I’ll be damned if you look at me as if all my experience means nothing. It may have been instinct instead of intellect that made me understand what I had to do, but don’t you belittle that. My instinct purchased the clothing on your back, the education that lets you sneer at me in such learned precision. My instinct brought me back to Eton when the headmaster was on the verge of tossing you out on your ear. And now, my instinct tells me that you and Smite are desperately unhappy, for all that I’ve tried to remedy it.”
“Ash, I—”
“And now,” Ash said, overriding whatever it is Mark had been about to offer up, “my instinct says that I should pursue Parford. Tell me, Mark. Tell me my instinct is wrong.”
His brother didn’t respond, and the valet stepped away from Ash. Ash turned in place and glanced at his brother, who stood, watching him with a stricken look in his wide eyes.
“Ash,” Mark said finally. “You don’t think—you don’t suppose that I sneer at you, do you? Just because you didn’t attend school with me and Smite? Truly—our differences aside, I’ve never thought you less intelligent. Quite the opposite. You can do everything, without even trying. It’s almost maddening. Had you gone to Oxford and taken your inevitable first beside Smite and me, you would be just as maddening. All I want is for you to explain your reasons. I can’t try to convince you, if you won’t keep yourself open to convincing. Once—just once—can we please talk about something beyond instinct?”
It killed him, that sureness in his brother’s voice. No, Mark didn’t understand.
Mark hadn’t truly sneered at him—but only because he didn’t know. Mark thought he would have excelled at school. It was the most laughable thought ever. Instinct was all he had, all he would ever have.
I can’t read.
In his mind, he’d told his brother a thousand times. Sometimes, he imagined Mark would look on him with pity. Sometimes, he conjured up scorn. But there was one thing Ash could not imagine, no matter how many times he envisioned the scenario. He could not imagine respect.
And so he shook his head and turned away.
THE PLAN THAT MARGARET and Elaine had cobbled together had been quite simple. Margaret could not enter Elaine’s house, on her father’s orders, and so they had made an appointment to walk together in Hyde Park instead.
“Lord Rawlings is holding a select ball, three days hence.” Elaine said, as she and Margaret strolled arm in arm on the banks of the Serpentine.
The weather was unseasonably warm for November in London. The incessant fog had been washed away in a hard rain the night before, and the sun was warm on Margaret’s back. Only a breath of wind, whipping her skirts at the ankles, suggested that winter was almost here.
“I know precisely what you are thinking,” Elaine continued. “Rawlings is Turner’s creature. How could he not be? The man purchased his title, only three years before.” Elaine shook her head mournfully, as if nothing were more horrific than a man who had not been born to his title.
Margaret suppressed a grin. A year ago, she would have shared that horror—the dread that the Crown was so desperate for an influx of money that minor titles were bestowed on someone whose primary worthiness was their willingness to share their wealth.
“The express purpose of the ball is to introduce Mr. Turner to some of the lords who will decide the suit, before Parliament sits. But if Rawlings would offer you an invitation, other doors would certainly be opened to you. Not a great many of them, true, but a few. Enough.”
“And we are actually to meet Lord Rawlings here in Hyde Park? How are we to extract an invitation from him?”
“He and his friends often walk here on fine Saturday afternoons.” Elaine sniffed. “He has been badgering me to attend one of his gatherings for the past year. I may not be the most desirable spinster in town, but I come from an old family. I suppose he thinks I will lend his silly little party some measure of gravitas. He cannot very well invite me without extending you an invitation, as well. And who knows? He is new to the ton. Perhaps he won’t even know who you are.”
“If he is a friend of A— Mr. Turner’s, and furthering his case before Parliament, I don’t see how it is possible that he would be ignorant of my family.”
Elaine dismissed this unassailable logic with a shrug.
“Do be careful, Elaine. If word gets out that you’re championing me, you could be ostracized. I don’t want you hurt on my behalf.”
Elaine gave her an amused look. Then she laughed—entirely indelicately. “Margaret,” she said, “I am invited everywhere and wanted nowhere. I could hardly lose anything of value. I’m not delicate. I’m not wealthy. I am just from a very, very good family.”
Margaret bit her lip. It was one thing to know that others thought of Elaine that way. It was another to hear her laugh herself off, with so little thought. “You are also loyal and kind, and more clever than you credit. You are important in your own right.”