Unveiled (Turner #1)(94)

This was not the way to win him over.

“Lord Lacy-Follett,” Ash said from the pavement. “A pleasant evening we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Full marks for temerity, Turner.”

Ash’s chin was beginning to throb. “He called—” He stopped, before he gave voice to the unbecoming whine. He called me ignorant. If he were going to be strictly truthful, he’d have to add one last point. And I hit him because he was right. Ash let go of Dalrymple and scrambled away.

“That is to say,” Ash said, “Dalrymple called on me this evening so that we might settle our differences.”

“I see,” Lacy-Follett said in a tight voice. It would have been hard for him not to, with the pair of them rolling on the ground like schoolboys. He continued. “Gentlemen.” Oh, yes, there was definitely an ironic tinge to that word. “Parliament exists for reasons other than pursuing personal gain and vengeance. It has other matters to see to than the all-consuming question of who will become the next Duke of Parford. Matters such as governing the country. Learning to act in concert with our new sovereign. Solidifying our place in the world.”

Dalrymple had moved away from him. Ash slowly gathered himself into a crouch on the pavement. “As you say, Your Lordship.”

“I, for one, have had enough of these antics. But everywhere you…you gentlemen go, people can talk of nothing else. When Parliament resumes, I have no wish to experience months of this insanity. Particularly not if the differences are settled in this juvenile form.”

Ash swallowed, but his throat was still dry. “What, precisely, are you proposing?”

A click; the sudden scent of tobacco. Lord Lacy-Follett was taking snuff. When he’d finished, he answered. “Come and see me at Saxton House in two days’ time. Both of you.”

“And what,” Dalrymple asked tentatively, “will be the purpose of this visit?”

“Why, for you to present your case to those of us who are undecided. To have the decision made. To end this foolish game, once and for all.”

The night was thick, and an insect grated a harsh complaint into the heavy air. Slowly, Ash clambered to his feet.

“I trust,” Lacy-Follett said into the darkness, “that you will both be present.”

They would. They would.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A LADY NEVER VISITED a gentleman’s house alone. And Margaret—arriving in a hired hack, dressed in a heavy cloak—had most definitely come alone. But given her destination, her brothers would never have accompanied her, and the maids would never have kept silent.

Still, the butler showed Margaret inside without a word, not questioning the assumed name she’d given him.

Ash’s house was beautiful. Beautiful and new— Portland stone without, honey-wood floors within, the walls painted and papered in vibrant, warm colors. The ceiling was cunningly wrought plasterwork, gilded all over. It was rich without being ostentatious.

That understated elegance reminded Margaret of Ash.

She was conducted into a parlor, where Ash sat. His fingers drummed on his desk, and he looked up at her with a smile on his face. But he betrayed nothing else to the manservant who conducted her in.

“Ah,” he said. “Miss Laurette. How good of you to come see me.”

A flick of his hand dismissed the servant. Ash waited until the door shut before he stood and strode towards her.

“Margaret.” Her skin prickled—his hands found her waist, and then he was drawing her close in a rough, possessive embrace.

“Margaret,” he repeated, his breath warming the top of her head. His hand made seductive little circles against her back, caresses that she felt all the way through the fabric of her gown. And then he was tipping her chin up, lowering his head to hers. Not asking, not waiting, just slipping into intimacy as easily as he might put on a pair of old, comfortable slippers.

“No. Wait. You need to hear me out first.”

He raised his head. His hands tightened around her waist. “What is it?”

Last evening, after they had all come home, her brother had told her what awaited them at the gathering Lord Lacy-Follett had organized. And her wants had crystallized.

She’d held a piece of meat to Richard’s blackened eye as he spoke to her. And right now, she could see the faint echo of a bruise on Ash’s jaw, a discoloration of skin under stubble. She wanted the people she loved to stop hurting one another. She’d thought of nothing but this impossible tangle all night long.

“Oh, Ash.” Her fingers ran along his face, and she wished she could make him well once more. “I do want to marry you.”

“Now that is an easy request to grant.” His lips touched her forehead. “Do you wish a large wedding or a small one? Shall we hold it soon?” He kissed her nose. “Or sooner?”

“You’re speaking with Lord Lacy-Follett tomorrow.”

He froze, pulled away from her an inch. “Yes. And you’ve realized that after that decision is made, there’s no reason to hold back any longer. Either Dalrymple will prevail or…” He drew out the pause, and she could feel his lips curve into a warm smile against her cheek. “Or,” he continued, “he won’t. Either way, it won’t matter.”

Margaret drew a deep breath for courage. “But it could matter.”