Unveiled (Turner #1)(90)

“Edmund,” Richard said gently, “she can’t be held to account for the money, at least.”

Margaret shook her head, but in the dark, nobody could see her denial. She shut her eyes, but it didn’t help. Darkness was darkness, and there was no guidance either way. “I don’t want to choose between you and Ash.”

Edmund made an exasperated noise. “Don’t be a naive little goose, Margaret. This is not about what you want. Everyone is choosing between us. That’s what this act in Parliament is about—it’s about the lords choosing either Turner or Richard. And this, now, is about choosing your future. Do you want to be a bastard all your life? Do you want to be ostracized from society for the remainder of your years? Choose out of selfishness, for God’s sake. You know that until you’ve been legitimized, unthinking people will forever be giving you the cut.”

Lady Cosgrove sprang to mind. “Small hardship,” Margaret said with asperity. “If unthinking people won’t talk with me, then I shall make friends with people who think. Which, oddly enough, seems like a good idea to begin with.”

“La-di-da,” Edmund said, his tone reminding her of their father. “Would you listen to that show of logic? If you won’t think of yourself, then think of us.”

Richard sat next to her. At those words, he reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “He doesn’t mean it,” he whispered. “He is only so rude because he is so very, very worried.”

If it had just been Edmund, she might have been tempted to give in to Ash. Even though he was her brother. Even though she loved him. Even though she knew she would regret such a hasty dismissal later.

But Richard… He didn’t always think about what he did, but when he actually took notice, he stood by her. He had never deserted her. And if she ruined this for him, he would be a bastard. He would have a little money—a few thousand pounds, enough to scrape by, but by no means what he deserved. And while Ash had once offered her father more, she was not sure the offer was still open—or that Richard would accept it if it were made.

But both Ash and Edmund had urged her to think of herself. When she thought of herself, it wasn’t legitimacy or money that came to mind. It wasn’t even Ash himself. It was, instead, the gift that Ash had given her back at Parford Manor: the solid, sure certainty that she was someone worth having. That she was better than her father.

If she did to her brothers what their father had done to them, she could not be so certain any longer. Family didn’t betray family.

She swallowed and shut her eyes. Edmund was right. It was foolish to imagine that she could avoid a choice. “What must I do?” she asked weakly. But she already knew the answer.

“People are talking already. You need to give them something substantially less romantic to discuss. We’ve been invited to the Rutledges’ rout,” Edmund said. “Turner will be there. And the instant he sets eyes on you, you are to give him the cut direct.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MARGARET ENTERED THE Rutledges’ town house filled with dread. She’d had days to consider what she needed to do. She just didn’t want to do it.

She could feel all of society’s eyes on her, could feel the lascivious interest that rose around them. She was swept away by a flood of colored evening gowns and dark suits. All she had to do was turn away from Ash when she saw him and pointedly show her lack of interest.

So simple—and yet so impossible.

She hadn’t realized quite how impossible it was until she finally saw him in the crowd. He caught sight of her. And all of her worst fears came true as he looked up at her and gently, oh, so gently, smiled. He smiled when he saw her. That should not have felt like such a death knell. But it made what she had to do so much more of a betrayal—a betrayal of not just her own desires, not merely his inclinations, but of something precious between them.

She didn’t smile back. She looked away. Those two things sent a rush of murmurs through the watching crowd—as if she had just been merely impolite, instead of utterly false. But not looking at Ash was as impossible as not inhaling. No matter how hard she tried to hold back her next breath, the best she could hope was to delay it for a while. All the while, her lungs burned. She ached all over. And Ash…

Oh, Ash. Through the corner of her eye, she could see him advancing on her.

Of course. Her brothers’ plan was sheer idiocy, and she should have known it. Strict rules of propriety governed the interactions between men and women. There were books devoted to the art of turning away men one didn’t wish to address. A complicated dance that everyone adhered to. But Ash had never read those books.

Trying not to love him was improbable. Keeping him from loving her? Now that was downright impossible. Why, oh, why, of all the men in the world, did Ash have to be this one? He was trying to destroy her brothers. He’d broken her heart twice over and had mended it again, better than new.

He was only a few yards away from her now. “Lady Margaret?” There was a calm, cool confidence in his voice. He knew she would turn. He knew she would look at him. He had no doubts. He never did.

And he would never stop trying, just because she looked in another direction.

There was only one way Margaret could respond. She turned and ran.

A crescendo of babble rose about her in full-voiced speculation as she darted through the crowd. She ducked through a side door, almost invisible in the ornate carving of the ballroom. She found herself in the servants’ quarters. As soon as she went through the door, she knew it wasn’t enough. He would follow her. He would find her here. She couldn’t face him, couldn’t talk to him.