Unveiled (29 page)

“The Duchess of Parford's marriage settlements—or at least, sixty thousand pounds of them—had been set in trust for her lawful female issue. If the Act of
Legitimation fails to pass, his sister the duchess has no lawful female issue, and the trust reverts to him.”

“I see,” Ash said slowly. Even though he didn't.

“Now that the suit no longer names Lady Anna Margaret,” Dallington continued, “there is no danger of Forsyth losing the money.”

It was all Ash could do to keep from gasping. As it was, he felt as if he had been punched in the kidneys. He bent slightly, his hands striking the table in front of him, before raising his eyes to Dalrymple. “You—” He bit back the epithet he'd been about to hurl. “You left your own sister off. You'll leave her illegitimate, just so you can have your dukedom back.”

Well. At least that explained why the man's expression of triumph seemed so unvictorious. At least he had the grace not to be proud of what he was doing. Margaret had gone to Ash and begged on her brothers' behalf. She might have had Ash. She might have been the Duchess of Parford herself. But she'd refused to abandon her brothers to illegitimacy.

“I didn't hit you nearly hard enough the other night,” Ash growled. “Is that what you Dalrymple men do? You abandon your women to bear the brunt of society's hurt, just so that you can have an easy life?”

“You think this was an
easy
decision?” Dalrymple demanded.

Ash took a step closer—swiftly enough that Dalrymple flinched from him.

“Gentlemen!” Lacy-Follett said. “The point of this meeting is to avoid further violence, not to foment it.”

Hitting Dalrymple had done little good so far. Violence would only convince more men to support the man's suit. Dalrymple's faithless, ugly suit.

Ash turned away, his hands fisting at his sides. What was it going to do to Margaret when she discovered that her brother had betrayed her into illegitimacy, as her father had? What would she say? How would she feel?

He could imagine her pain with a startling intensity.

And for just one second, Ash could see how to use this. Dalrymple still needed
one
of these men for his suit to go forwards. Instinct clamored inside him. A man who would betray a sister was no candidate for the dukedom. He could make the case. He could win all these men over to his side, settle the dispute once and for all.

But…but what if he did?

He had always thought of the suit in Parliament as pertaining to her brothers. Ever since Ash had met her, he'd been assiduously courting votes in Parliament to defeat the act that Dalrymple proposed. But until this afternoon, that act had included
all
the duke's children. Including Margaret.

That little detail had seemed unimportant—so unimportant, in fact, that he'd never considered it, and she had never mentioned it. But if Ash won,
he
would be the one to betray her. He would make her a bastard, twice over. He'd been trying to keep her a bastard all this time.

He had not only destroyed her life unwittingly, before he'd met her; he had continued to destroy it, even after he knew who she was. Even after he loved her.

Ash opened his eyes and glanced at his foe. The man stood, his shoulders drawn together. For all of Dalrymple's flinching cowardice, Ash felt a shameful sense of kinship with him. They'd both been too foolish
to realize what they were doing to Margaret—or, perhaps, too selfish to care.

The other lords were looking at Dalrymple in barely concealed distaste.

“I do love my sister, you know,” Dalrymple said defensively. “It was either this, or have nothing.”

Ash's stomach burned. Inside him, irrepressible instinct clamored out.

Fight. Win
. He could still have the dukedom. He could have his vengeance. He could raise his brothers high—give them every last thing they'd ever dared to want. He would never fear again that he had nothing to offer. And all he would have to do was to betray the woman he loved. Ash swallowed, but his throat remained dry. He could look back over his shoulder and finally understand the devastation he'd wrought. So.
This
was how it felt to be a conquering hero.

There was no way to repair the damage, no way to heal what he'd done to her.

“Let me see if I understand this,” Ash said to the lords in front of him. “If the lot of you support Dalrymple, he won't need Forsyth and the votes he carries any longer.”

“That is correct.”

When it came down to it, he had no choice at all.

Ash strode over to Dalrymple and yanked the last paper from his hand. “You sicken me,” he said. He ripped it into quarters and threw the pieces to the ground.

“My lords,” he said. “Here is your amicable solution. You vote for Dalrymple's bill. But only—and I do mean
only
—on condition that he rewrite it to include his sister.”

Dalrymple's jaw went slack.

Lord Lacy-Follett stared at Ash. “So there is some truth to those rumors after all. Mr. Turner, if you want a different solution, something else might be arranged.” He cast a glance at Richard, and sniffed. “I, for one, am not best pleased with the first scenario that was proffered to us. There are some things gentlemen ought not do, and sacrificing women for personal gain stands high on my list.”

Dalrymple flinched. But Ash simply shook his head, too weary to fight any longer. Not now. Not when he'd finally understood what he was doing to her.

Lord Lacy-Follett tapped his lips. “We shall be here all afternoon discussing the matter. But gentlemen, unless you have anything further to add, you
are
excused.”

Dalrymple took one shaky step towards the doors. As he did so, Ash grabbed his lapels. Not hard, not violently, but Ash twisted them just enough to let the man know that, had he wished, he could have sent him flying across the room. He leaned in. And then, as Dalrymple's eyes widened in terror, Ash whispered, “If you don't take care of her, I shall truly hunt you down. You won't be duke long enough to enjoy it.”

“I
T'S OVER
.”

Margaret stood from the seat by the side of her father's bed as Richard stepped into the room. The afternoon light fell on a lavender bruise on his face. The decoration made him look tired. Tired and almost limp. “That is, my part in this is finished.” He was looking down at the carpet, and so she could not see his eyes. She couldn't tell whether he was weary in victory or weary in defeat.

The towel cut into her hands. She wasn't even sure which outcome she should pray for. For Ash? For Richard? Either one would tear her in half. Her tongue felt too thick to actually use for anything so mundane as speech. Instead, she stared at him.

He sighed and shook his head.

“What happened?” she managed to croak.

Richard shook his head. “Turner, damn his eyes, abdicated.”

Her head seemed light, very light. She might have floated away in dazed, uncomprehending wonder. “Pardon?”

Richard came to stand near her. “He told them to support my suit, on condition that you be included in the bid for legitimacy.”

Those words returned her to earth swiftly, painfully. Her ears rang. Her knees threatened to wobble, and she
locked them, grabbing hold of one of the oak posters on her father's bed.

“What do you mean, on condition that I be included in the suit? I thought I
was
included.”

Richard picked up her father's signet ring from where it lay on the table. Idly, he turned it about, and the sword carved in the stone reflected afternoon light at Margaret. As Ash had done long ago, he tried to slip the band around his finger.

It didn't fit him either, and he set it once more on the table. Finally, he looked up. It wasn't victory she saw in his eyes. It was something deeper, and just a little more shameful. “No,” he said softly. “I had you taken out of the bill to win Forsyth over.”

He couldn't be saying this. It couldn't be true. Margaret's hands clenched. “Tell me it was Edmund's idea.” It had to have been—Edmund was a little more hasty, a little less thoughtful. Only Edmund would have—

“No, Margaret.” Richard shook his head slowly. “It was mine. I knew when I suggested it that if I did, I would regret it the rest of my days. I just supposed that I would rather regret being a duke than regret being a bastard. I didn't expect Turner to give it all up,” he added bitterly. “Just like that. And then what do you suppose that idiot did?”

She shook her head. Anything was possible—anything other than Ash giving up his claim on the duchy of Parford.

“He pulled me aside and ordered me to take care of you. As if I would do any differently.”

Margaret simply looked back at him. “No, Richard. I think you've demonstrated precisely how well you would look after me.”

He looked away, and it was as if that set her emotions free at last. Pain came first, scalding hot. And then the realization of what Richard had done really hit her. He'd been about to make her a bastard again. Her loyalty had meant everything to her. She'd been determined to prove that she wouldn't betray her brothers the way her father had betrayed them all.

It seemed she had been the only one.

Richard heaved a great sigh. “And now, after what he's done, I'm beholden to that impossible ass. For the rest of my life. It doesn't sit well with me.”

Her own brother had just told Margaret that he'd tried to barter her place in society for his dukedom, and his primary concern was that because he'd failed to do so, he found himself in Ash's debt?

And then there was Ash. Margaret swallowed hard. He'd given it up. He'd given it all up—for her. And she knew, more than anyone else, what the dukedom had meant to him. It meant his brothers. His security. His certainty.

From behind him, her father stirred. Richard shook his head. “Well,” he said. “I should let you get back to…get back to looking after him. Margaret, for what it is worth…I am sorry. The lords will be discussing the matter at Saxton House all the rest of the afternoon, and it makes me ill to think matters could have gone as I'd intended. To be honest, I think if Turner hadn't acted as he had, they would all have spoken against me, and I'd have lost it all for nothing. It was that close.” He shook his head. “They're still deliberating, but they'll come round to me.” He spoke more as if he were still trying to convince himself than to convey information to Margaret.

“And if you had it to do over again, what would you tell them?” Margaret asked.

He looked at her and then shook his head ruefully. “Precisely what I did before,” he said. “Some things cannot be changed.”

Margaret shut her eyes. Richard was gentle. Richard had been quite kind to her in the past. But every time he'd had to choose between his own skin and Margaret's well-being—it had been Margaret he had sacrificed. He hadn't given his loyalty to Margaret, the way Margaret had delivered hers to him.

Behind them, her father stirred. In the months since his apoplectic fit, he'd improved. Which was to say, that tiny hint of vulnerability that she'd seen in him that long-ago night had disappeared, replaced by this irascibility.

“There you are,” her father said, meeting Richard's eyes. “And how did the meeting go? Do I have a man for a son?”

Richard's gaze slid to Margaret and then back to his father. “You do,” he said quietly. “I'll inherit everything.”

Margaret waited for her father to come up with some cutting rejoinder, some harsh remark. But instead, her father's gaze rested on Richard. “That's good,” he said. And then, more softly: “That's my boy.”

Margaret's vision swam in front of her. Her brother stood, paused before her, his hand raised in benediction. He wiped at his eyes suspiciously and then he shook his head and turned away. “Yes,” he said quietly, standing at the door. “I suppose I am.”

The door closed behind him.

“What, Anna? You're not sulking, are you?”

Loyalty was a curious thing, Margaret realized.
She'd placed it in the care of someone who did not return the favor. She stood up and set her towel in front of her. As she did, her gaze fell on her father's signet. The heavy, carved sapphire twinkled up at her.

She reached for it. The gold was warm in her hands, heavy. Not so heavy as it had once been; the band had been resized for an invalid's hand.

Or perhaps a woman's.

It slid neatly over her knuckle, clasping her finger. The sword in the sapphire winked up at her.

I think if they could find a way to disinherit me, after the trick I played…
Somewhere out there, Lord Lacy-Follett and his companions were still discussing the matter. With no intervention, they would settle on supporting Richard.

Perhaps they could still find a way not to do so.

“What are you doing?” her father asked.

“Putting on your ring.” It felt well there. Right.
Warm.

“Richard's ring,” her father corrected. “We'll have to get it adjusted to fit him.”

She had never wanted to be like her father, betraying her family. But from here on out, she was going to have faith in someone who deserved it. The man who had stood by her, who had never hurt her. Who had told her, from the very first, that she mattered, and demonstrated it by his choices.

“Richard is my son now,” her father was saying.

Margaret leaned over him. “No,” she said, her voice harsh. “No, he is not.”

“He will be, when—”

“By your definition,
I
am the only son you will ever have.”

He blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

She hadn't known she was going to say it, but the words seemed
right
coming out of her mouth. “I am going to Saxton House to present my case. I am going to marry Ash Turner. If what Richard said is correct, the lords there are looking for any reason to abandon him. A continuation through the female line is not traditional, but the excuse will suffice. So understand this:
I
will choose the next Duke of Parford.
I
will inherit the estate.
I
will have the entailed property.” Margaret's hand clenched into a fist.

“I can't believe I am hearing this.” Her father stared up at her in dim incomprehension. “What would your mother say, if she could see you now?”

What would her mother say?

Her mother had carefully tended the estate, training servants, choosing decorations, caring for the gardens. She'd built a home to pass on to her children. It had killed her to believe that Parford Manor would go to a stranger. But then, with Margaret married to Ash…it wouldn't.

Margaret's hands balled into fists. “I believe,” she said softly, “that if she could speak at this moment—if she knew that
I
would inherit her house—I believe that she would be cheering.”

Her father stared at her in stupefaction. She had waited all this time for some sign that the man she remembered was still inside her father. But maybe that part of him had vanished, along with his strength and ability to stand. Maybe he'd lost the piece of himself that cared for her. Maybe she would never see it again—at least not now.

Margaret leaned forwards to kiss him on the forehead. “Someday,” she said quietly, “when you truly un
derstand everything that's happened, you'll be cheering, too.”

And then, still wearing the ring, she turned and walked from the room.

 

H
OME.
I
T SEEMED A STRANGE
place for Ash to return to, after everything that had transpired that afternoon. After he'd left Saxton House earlier, he'd not wanted to return here. But when he stepped inside, Mark was waiting for him in the entry. Ash had felt so bruised, he'd not wanted to believe that time would continue to pass.

But Mark smiled at him, all light and innocence. Ash felt a last bitter tinge. Seeing his brother only drove home how much he had really lost.

“You would be proud,” he finally said. “I realized that I didn't have to do any of this. I didn't.”

“The news has traveled even to me,” Mark said. A cryptic description, but Mark seemed unfazed by the loss of the dukedom.

Ash looked at him. “I'm sorry,” he finally said. “I know you didn't care about any of this for yourself. But—I just had this notion, see. I knew, somehow, that if I were the Duke of Parford, someday I'd have made things different for you. I didn't want to give up on that. But then…”

“I've always managed to take care of myself,” Mark said dryly. “Today should prove no exception. You know I would never be angry at you for doing the right thing.”

“I've abandoned you enough.”

“Abandoned me?” Mark's hand was curled about itself, and he turned to Ash with a quizzical expression on his face. “When have you ever abandoned me?”

“There was the time I went to India.”

“Which you did in order to make enough funds for the family to survive. I can hardly begrudge you that.”

“And there was that time at Eton. You'd told me that Edmund Dalrymple had begun to single you out. That he was pushing you around. And you begged me to take you home.”

“I recall. You read me quite the lecture—told me, in fact, that I had to stay there.”

“Two weeks later, I returned to find you battered and bruised, your face bloodied, your eyes blacked and your fingers broken. And all I could think was that I had done that to you. I'd abandoned you, for no reason other than my personal pique and vanity, and you paid the price.”

“Vanity?” Mark shook his head. “I thought that was one of your ridiculous instincts, Ash. Horrible to hear about. Impossible to argue with. And as usual, entirely right.”

Ash felt his throat go dry. “That wasn't instinct.”

Mark raised one eyebrow. “Really? Nonetheless, it was still the right thing for you to tell me.”

Ash had to say it. He had to tell him, before his nerve gave out and he let another decade slip by. “That,” Ash said quietly, “was fear. You had to go to school. I didn't want you to turn out like me.”

“Oh,” Mark said with a roll of his eyes, “I see. Because you're so unimpressive a specimen.”

Ash took a deep breath. “No. Because I'm illiterate.”

“Well, you don't even appreciate Shakespeare, and that does rather speak against you.” Mark shook
his head and reached for Ash's hand. “Here. I have something—”

Ash pulled his fingers away. “I meant that in the most literal of senses. I can't read. Words don't make sense to me. They never have.”

Mark fell silent. He looked at Ash as if his world had been turned on his head. He frowned. “I don't understand.”

“I can't read. I can't write. Margaret read your book aloud to me.”

“But your letters.” Mark leaned heavily against the wall. “You—you sent me letters. You wrote on them. I know you did.” He paused, and then said in a smaller voice, “Didn't you?”

“There are a few phrases I've committed to memory. I wrote them over and over, hour after hour, until the words came out in the right order. Until they said what I intended, without my having to look at what I wrote. There were some things I needed to be able to tell you, when you were away.”

“Your postscripts always said the same thing,” Mark said. “‘With much—'” he broke off.

“‘With much love,'” Ash finished hoarsely. “With more than I could possibly write.”

Mark passed his hand briefly over his face. When he looked up at Ash, he lifted his chin.

“Nobody knows,” Ash warned him. “If anyone were to find out, it would—it would—”

“You protected me.” Mark's voice was uneven. “All these years, you protected me. From Mother. From the Dalrymples. From my own wish to go build a cocoon and stay there. Do you think I don't know that?”