Unveiled (Turner 1)

Once, Margaret would have been one of the ones speculating as to the whys and wherefores. She would have wondered whether Turner had extended the invitation out of some dark motive, in order to settle the dispute in some wicked way once and for all. She might have asserted that he’d taken one look at Parford’s daughter and tumbled headlong into love. Once, she’d have been the one sitting with her friends in the corner and guessing.

But today, she arrived with her brothers. And while everyone was interested in what would happen to her, and what delicious events might make fodder for the evening’s conversation—nobody was interested in her. Not as herself.

After all, the evening’s company had been made up of those members of society who took Ash’s side in things. She and her brothers stood alone, a determined clump on the edge of the ballroom.

It was a relief when Diana, Lady Cosgrove, came flitting through the crowds. She was the first of Margaret’s old friends to greet her here. Her door had been barred to Margaret for months, but maybe, with this invitation, all could be forgotten.

Lady Cosgrove wore blue silk with white roses in her hair, and as she approached, Margaret thought that she was one of the most beautiful women in the room. She wanted to embrace her.

“Margaret, you dear!” she exclaimed. “How have you been this past six-month?”

Lady Cosgrove could have discovered the state of Margaret’s well-being at any point during the past half year, by the simple expedient of taking one of her calls—or, if she’d not wanted to exert herself that much, by reading one of the letters Margaret sent. But then, if Margaret was to retake her place in society, she would have to nod complacently through a great many lies, told for politeness’s sake.

And so she simply smiled at Lady Cosgrove.

“And to think,” the lady was saying, “you spent the summer rusticating in the country. Such a shame, when there were so many house parties to be attended. But then, you couldn’t have come.”

And here Margaret had thought they would make do by simply not referring to that period. Her friend’s smile brightened incongruously, and for the first time, Margaret considered the possibility that perhaps Lady Cosgrove had not come to renew their acquaintance.

“No,” Margaret replied. “I could not. I was, after all, in mourning.”

“In mourning!” Lady Cosgrove stepped back in surprise. “But of course—no wonder you’ve worn gray tonight when the color simply doesn’t suit you. It’s still half-mourning for you, isn’t it?” And then she raised her fan to her mouth and tittered, just in case Margaret had missed her attempt at a set-down.

Margaret supposed she was intended to be hurt by that remark. Really. Did Lady Cosgrove think that after Margaret had been declared illegitimate, a little aspersion cast on the color of her gown would set her back?

It is all a sort of delusion, Margaret could remember Ash saying indulgently, this notion of class. Apparently, in the months since she had last seen her friend, Margaret had stopped being deluded.

Lady Cosgrove had never shown this side to Margaret before. But then, Margaret had been a duke’s daughter, engaged to an earl. Back then she’d been placed too highly in society for Lady Cosgrove, a mere viscount’s wife, to sharpen her claws upon.

And so rather than tearing up, as her once-friend no doubt hoped, Margaret laid her fan across Lady Cosgrove’s wrist. It might have seemed a friendly gesture to anyone who watched. “You may find this curious to contemplate,” Margaret said languidly, “but would you imagine, after I buried my mother, the absolute last thing on my mind was the color of my gown.”

“You don’t say!” The other woman smiled impudently. But before she could find another way to insult Margaret’s toilette, a distinct laugh sounded in the crowd behind them. Lady Cosgrove pushed Margaret’s fan away. It was at that moment that Margaret realized that she had seen this side of the woman before. Her jabs had merely been directed at someone else.

“Oh, dear. It’s that dreadful Lady Elaine coming again.” Lady Cosgrove caught sight of her and made a face. “Do not tell me she is wearing feathers in her hair. Feathers were last season. Everyone knows that this year it’s flowers. Quickly, dearest—let’s go and find Eva. I know she’s about.”

Had Margaret ever been so sly, so unthinking? Had she assumed that because she was a duke’s daughter, she deserved only the most scintillating company?

“Come now,” Lady Cosgrove was saying. “Quickly, quickly! Oh, no. Don’t tell me you plan to be kind to the unfortunate little spinster again? You know I absolutely hate when you do that. How could you be so cruel to me, your dearest friend?”

No. Margaret had never been as bad as this woman. But she had not thought about what she had done. She’d enjoyed talking with Lady Cosgrove, enjoyed her fawning attentions, back when the woman believed Margaret above her in station. And when she said those horrid things about others, Margaret hadn’t interfered. She felt that inaction now, with a keen sense of shame.

“Actually,” Margaret said, “I was thinking of having a dinner party, with Elaine as the guest of honor. Shall I seat you across the table from her?”

“Cruel!” Lady Cosgrove said. “So cruel, Margaret, and I your oldest friend. You shouldn’t jest with me in such a way. But come, we must talk. After all, I am dying to hear what you have to say about— Oh!”

“Ouch!” Margaret tried to wrest her arm from the talon of Lady Cosgrove’s grip. To no avail. Her erstwhile friend paid no notice to Margaret’s attempt to escape.

“Oh,” she breathed again. “It’s he. Did he really walk up to you in a park? Did he really simply point at you and tell Lord Rawlings to invite you? Just like that? What a dreadful waste. As an unmarried woman, you could not even take proper advantage.”

It was only when Ash turned in their direction that she finally let go, so she could smooth her blue dress over her form. Strange; Margaret had thought Lady Cosgrove quite pretty when she approached, but now she noticed there were unattractive little lines gathered at her eyes.

Margaret didn’t bother to answer. Instead, she rubbed her wrist and watched him. Ash stood half a head higher than the men who surrounded him, dressed in unrelieved black—black coat, black trousers and a black cravat tied in a complicated pattern. He was talking, politely, with those around him. But even as he conversed, he scanned the crowd.

When his eyes rested on her, he stopped. He’d been smiling before, in a friendly fashion. But what lit his face when he saw her was more than a smile, more than a grin. It was as if someone had thrown aside the curtains of a sickroom on a glorious morning, to let sunlight spill into every darkened corner.

What was he doing? Everyone would know how he felt. He simply made no effort to hide it. She could feel the heat of his expression, even from halfway across the room.

The whispers began to swirl up around them.

He strode towards her, step by step, the crowd seeming to part before him. He didn’t stop. He just looked in her direction and wanted her. And lo, she waited.

“Oh, God. He did. He did simply walk up to you in a park. He’s doing it again.” Lady Cosgrove poked at her ringlets. “Margaret, darling, you must introduce me. He is a doll of a man. And my husband has not yet returned from France.”

Margaret glanced at her incredulously, but Lady Cosgrove seemed to have no sense of irony at all. She really did imagine that Ash might become her personal plaything and that Margaret would be willing to facilitate it.

Ash skirted around another cluster of men and women and stopped before Margaret. “Lady Anna Margaret,” he said, giving her a correct little bow.

“Mr. Turner.”

“May I have your first waltz?”

Oh, no. No, he could not. They couldn’t. They could not do this, and certainly not in the open. Her face would reflect the turmoil she felt. And if she danced with him, his incandescent response to her would be displayed to the world.

But before she could muster up an answer, he gently too

k the card dangling from a ribbon on her wrist and pulled it to him. She perforce followed, the short length of ribbon pulling her towards him. He glanced at the heavy stock in his hands once—her heart held still, as she wondered if he could make out the difference between the waltzes and the simple country dances that were listed on the card—and then before she could subtly direct him, he scrawled his name on the correct line.

His thumb brushed the skin of her wrist, just beyond the edge of her glove. To anyone else, it would appear to be an accident. Margaret knew it was a caress. A promise.

“Margaret,” Lady Cosgrove was saying softly at her side. “I say, Margaret.”

Ash glanced at her. “And who is your friend?”

“Diana, Lady Cosgrove, may I present to you Mr. Ash Turner. Heir presumptive to the duchy of Parford. Mr. Turner, Lady Cosgrove.”

The woman tittered softly.

“Hmm.” Ash’s voice was a trifle wary. “Should I be dancing with Lady Cosgrove?” He met Margaret’s eyes as he spoke.

“Oh, please,” Lady Cosgrove breathed.

Well. If they were going to occasion gossip, it was best that they did it properly.

“No,” Margaret said distinctly. “You should not. Her husband would certainly not approve.”