Unveiled (Turner 1)

“What?” said Mr. Turner. “There’s more than the one?”

“Gentlemen,” pleaded Mrs. Benedict, but to no avail.

“What do you say, Miss Lowell? Would ladies have any interest in such a guide?” Mark smiled at her. “Ash tells me you’ve no family to speak of. Does that mean no brother has ever taught you to defend yourself?”

Edmund had taken her aside when she turned fourteen and advised her that if she kept her legs and her mouth clamped shut, she might land a marquess. That had been the end of his helpful advice. She shook her head.

The lines about Mark’s eyes softened. “Well, then I’ll have to show you.” He shot a glance at his brother across the table and smiled again—this time, more impishly. “After all, I have no problem if my brother is forced to embrace chastity.” He picked up his fork, applying himself to the meat in front of him as if no further conversation were necessary.

Perhaps he’d not fully realized what he’d implied with those careless words.

By the dour look in Mr. Turner’s eyes, and the slow shake of his head, his brother was not amused.

Margaret heard both the words and the meaning behind them. So much for Mr. Turner’s vaunted honor, his claim that he wouldn’t prey upon a woman alone. The realization turned the bite of turnip in her mouth to charcoal. They’d talked about her already, as brothers were wont to do. In the space of one day, Mr. Turner had already made plans to seduce her—plans so firm, he’d shared them with his younger brother. She’d heard Edmund speaking with his friends often enough, discussing this widow or that willing wife, when they didn’t know she could hear their conversation.

No doubt Mr. Turner thought she would fall into his bed. Women probably did, for him. That relentless pull tugged her now, even when she wasn’t looking at him. Women laid their hearts at the feet of men like him—a man so ruthlessly intense as to take one’s breath away, and cheerful enough to make one laugh while he did it.

But then, for all his cheerful intensity, he’d aimed that ruthlessness at her before.

A year ago, she’d been the belle of the ball, the toast of the town, a diamond of the first water, engaged to a peer of the realm. She’d been the closest thing to a princess that there was.

Then Ash Turner had intruded in her life. She had been nothing but an afterthought to him, if that. Still, the toast had been charred by the fire; the diamond had turned out to be carved ice, destined to melt in the first heat of gossip.

He’d robbed her of her name, her dowry, her everything. If after all of that, Mr. Turner thought he would get one scrap of affection from her, he was badly mistaken.

ASH NEEDED TO HAVE a conversation with his brother about discretion.

After that first frozen stare, half horror, half betrayal, Miss Lowell had simply stopped looking at him. And that, Ash decided, was a very, very bad thing. The pudding came—a mercy to kill the conversation—and she sat in place at table, moving the mixed fruit and cream about with her spoon. Her lips pinched together and her complexion went from pale pink and animated to gray and closed.

There was a gold chain around her neck. The necklace disappeared into the high neck of her gown, weighted into a narrow V, as if there were some heavy locket suspended on it. He felt a hint of jealousy, wondering who had given it to her, and what she might hold inside it.

No doubt she was wondering how to fight him off. That made him feel like some sordid roué, thinking of nothing but his own pleasure. But as little as he’d been in polite company, even Ash knew better than to issue a clarification. “No, Miss Lowell,” Ash could imagine himself saying, “I would never force myself on you. I mean to seduce you into willingness. That’s all.” That would get him a fork stabbed through his hand, by the black look she gave her pudding.

Thank God the knives had been removed along with the beef.

She finished moving the fruit around her plate. Supper was breaking apart—Mark made the customary excuses on behalf of the gentlemen—and still she’d not met his eyes. This was wrong. He couldn’t let it continue.

When she left, he followed her. They had barely reached the landing of the stairs before she turned on him. There was a ferocious light in her eyes, and he held up his hands to show he intended her no harm.

“Miss Lowell. I’m afraid my brother has given you the wrong impression.”

She let out a puff of air. “I know how gentlemen talk when they are amongst themselves,” she said dismissively. “Don’t imagine you can hide it.”

By “gentlemen,” she likely meant men like Richard and Edmund Dalrymple. Ash could just imagine what those worthless parasites would have said about a too-pretty nurse, with her too-kissable lips and that alabaster skin. No doubt there’d been other indignities visited upon her when they’d been in residence. That was likely the reason Mrs. Benedict had thought it necessary to establish rules of conduct from the beginning. Neither of those worthless boys had ever understood concepts like honor or consent. Ash felt a current of anger go through him, just imagining the importunities that might have been visited upon her. He wasn’t like them.

“No,” he said curtly. “I don’t think you know what I’m like.”

“You want to take a kiss. You want to take me to your bed. And you’ve boasted to your brother that you’ll do it. Don’t prevaricate, Mr. Turner. You want what every so-called gentleman wants.”

“You don’t know what I want.” His voice sounded hoarse and he found himself looking at her. She was just the right height for him—tall enough that he might simply tip her head back and take that kiss, without even asking.

“Oh?” Her voice echoed with scorn.

He stepped towards her. For all her brave words, her eyes widened. But she didn’t move when he reached out to her. She stood her ground, her expression stoic, as if his touch were just one more burden to be endured.

What had happened to her, that she didn’t even flinch when he touched her shoulders? He ran his finger lightly along the line of her gold chain, tracing it back along her collarbone to the nape of her neck.

“If this is your idea of a prelude to seduction,” she said haughtily, “all you’ve managed to do is make my skin crawl.”

Ash doubted that was true, by the slow change in her breathing. He undid the hook his fingers found in the necklace and slid the chain from her neck. It was heavy; the expected locket came from between her breasts as he pulled the chain. It was a surprisingly well-made piece, ornate and with a hint of aged tarnish that suggested it was an heirloom.

She snatched for it, but he turned swiftly, holding it away from her.

He wondered whose face he might see if he were to undo the catch of the locket. He didn’t want to know. If it were Richard, or worse, Edmund…

“Give it back.” She grabbed again.

He fished in his waistcoat pocket with his free hand until he found the bounty he’d received earlier that day.

“This,” he said holding up the prize, “is the master key to the manor. I received it from Mrs. Benedict just this afternoon. It unlocks every door here. Including, presumably, yours.”

He held it up by its iron shank and slid the gold chain of her locket through the bow made by the sword. When he let go, the key slid down the necklace and clanged against her locket. She jumped. He reached for her hand and piled the whole thing in her palm—chain, locket and key.

“I don’t want to take a kiss,” he said. “I don’t want to take you to bed.” He closed her hand about the locket, pressing her fingers into it. “I don’t want to take anything from you. Do you understand?”

She swallowed and shook her head.

“I want you to give me a kiss. I want you to forget the idiot man who gave you this and then walked away, leaving you alone.” He squeezed the hand that held her locket. “I want you to know that if you don’t wish to kiss me, you can rid yourself of me with this simple expedient. Look me in the eyes and say, ‘Ash, I have no desire to be your sordid love slave.’ And I will s

imply walk away. Go ahead. Try it.”

She met his gaze. “Mr. Turner—”

He brought his hand to her lips, not touching her, but close enough that her breath warmed his fingers. “No good. You at least have to call me Ash.”

She pulled away from him, playing with a strand of hair that had escaped the knot atop her head. Even bound together, that mass of dark hair made an impressive coil. If she brushed it loose, it might reach her waist.

“Come now,” he said. “Such a little thing I’m asking for.”

“What kind of a Christian name is Ash?” She shook her head. “What is wrong with Luke or John or Adam?”