Chapter One #3
And Carstairs had made it very clear, on that dark road before he pushed her out, that if Ashley said a single word—if she named him, he would let society see Ivy’s letters.
If Ivy’s letters ever became public, her sister’s prospects would be destroyed entirely.
A girl who wrote those things to a man she wasn’t married to.
He had smiled. What would that make her?
So Ashley had kept her mouth shut, and had endured three years of cut directs and whispered speculation, had watched her dreams of a different life fold away one by one. She had managed it. She had gotten through it. She was still here.
“He was protecting himself,” she said now to Farah.
“He knew I had nothing to gain from naming him because naming him named Ivy, too.” She looked at her hands.
“Ivy doesn’t know. She was hurt that Carstairs suddenly disappeared, but she had never learned of his suggested elopement and so she didn’t connect the dots to Ashley’s disgrace.
Ivy has no idea what he threatened, what she cost me.
She was very young, and she loved our father, and she needed someone to be kind to her. I’m not sorry.”
“Of course you’re not,” Farah said softly.
“I would do it again.” And she meant that—she knew it, the way she knew her own name.
There had been no choice she could have made that would have let Ivy be hurt.
There never would be. “That’s simply who I am.
I’m very good at appearing sensible, Farah, but I am actually a complete disaster when it matters. ”
Farah’s smile was warm and certain. “No,” she said.
“You are someone who is very good at making sure the important things are protected. Which is not a disaster. Which is, in fact, exactly what your husband needs, even if he doesn’t know it yet.
There must be some reason he hasn’t come to your bed?
If his heart is still too full of Kitty, then he needs someone to remind him our hearts are big. They have room for others.”
Ashley looked at her for a moment. Then she reached for the last biscuit on the plate, a decision she had been approaching with strategic patience for the last several minutes, and ate it with great satisfaction.
“Right,” she said. “Help me plan the disguise.”
As they sat talking, Ashley started to get excited. But it seemed so easy.
Too easy. No, she would not let doubt creep in.
But lordy, lordy if Raven found out… She wasn’t afraid of her husband.
He wasn’t the wife beating kind, but for some reason that annoyed her no end, she wanted him to like her, to respect her.
She’d already been involved in two scandals; another one would make her an outcast duchess.
She already knew people called her the lady who never behaves.
What she was planning was totally scandalous, but she would soak in Farah’s courage and joy of life. She could do this.
Once Farah had left, she poured herself a glass of sherry. Not a cup of tea. She needed something stronger.
She wanted a child and that meant Raven must come to her bed.
She wondered what questions she’d ask the women of the brothel and what they would teach her? Soon the alcohol, warmth and stuffiness of the room saw her eyes close, and she dreamed of a tall, athletic man taking her in his arms and kissing her….
*
Raven rubbed his temples as the afternoon sun was fading and he finally emerged from his study, the figures from his latest investment proposal still dancing behind his eyes.
The shipping venture to the Indies showed promise, but the initial outlay was substantial.
If he was going to beat this anonymous man who’d challenged him and Lord Marlow to this infernal wager, he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
The soft glow of firelight drew his attention to the library, where he found Ashley curled in the wingback chair by the hearth, eyes closed, with a book lying forgotten in her lap.
The flames cast golden highlights through her fair hair, and for a moment he was reminded of that night in his garden when she’d seemed so fragile, so utterly lost. She was very beautiful.
He could understand why a man might pursue her.
She could have been the toast of society, the diamond of the ton, if not for her scandal.
So far, she’d behaved like the duchess he required.
Even though he had to marry her, when he looked down at her, she looked so innocent, and he realized he wasn’t unhappy in his marriage.
He had to marry at some point, and she was proving adequate.
Besides, she was a ruined woman. He could hardly ruin her further—he started at that thought because he could.
His heart still hurt for Kitty, so he failed to understand why the sight of Ashley in his house set his body humming. She was certainly a passionate woman, as the taste of her in that garden flooded his mind and awoke repressed desires he’d been suppressing for months. Since the day he married her.
He pushed the memory aside. That night was grief and brandy talking, nothing more.
His heart belonged to Kitty. He used that excuse to stay away from his wife’s bed for three months now, but his body’s reaction every time she smiled at him proved him a liar.
He wanted his wife, but he was a coward.
In bed he would have to reveal his true sexual nature and he just couldn’t…
What if it repulsed her… He would have to live his life with a woman who despised him…
Besides, she’d shown no indication that she desired his attentions.
She probably wasn’t a virginal miss, so if she found him attractive, surely she’d have approached him by now.
“Good evening,” he said, pausing in the doorway.
She looked up, startled from her nap. “Oh. Raven. I didn’t hear you.”
“I’ve been buried in correspondence most of the afternoon.” He stepped into the room, noting the way she straightened in her chair, suddenly alert.
She sat up and swung her legs down from where they were curled on the seat. He caught a glimpse of her ankle and calf and swallowed. “Would you like some refreshments? I can call for tea. Or I could pour you something stronger.”
He looked at the eagerness on her face and wondered why she suddenly wanted his attention.
He supposed they hadn’t conversed for a few days, but he thought she’d be busy with her friends making plans to redecorate.
He’d given her carte blanche and a huge budget.
“I thought you’d be getting ready. We have plans for the evening. ”
A peculiar expression crossed her gorgeous features—disappointment. For a moment he wished he could sit and have a drink with her. She frowned. “Our plans? I… What are yours?”
“We’re dining with Lord and Lady Skye tonight, remember? At eight.” He pulled out his pocket watch, frowning. “Surely, you’ve checked the schedule for the week. I gave it to you on Monday.”
“Ah.” She placed a hand to her forehead with a theatrical sigh. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you tonight. Ladies’ troubles, you understand.”
Raven felt a flicker of something—disappointment?
Relief? He couldn’t be sure. Social dinners had become easier with Ashley by his side, her quiet dignity a buffer against the curious stares and whispered speculation that still followed them both.
But perhaps an evening alone with just Marcus and Penelope would be more conducive to discussing his investment strategies.
“I see. Well, I shall send your regrets to Lady Skye.”
“Yes, please do. And do go ahead without me. I wouldn’t want you to miss the evening entirely.”
“Very well.” He moved toward the sideboard where he kept a decanter of brandy, then thought better of it. His drinking had been…excessive lately. “How was your day?”
“My day?” She seemed surprised by the question, which gave him pause. Did he ask her so infrequently about her daily activities?
“Yes. Did you receive any callers? Attend any social functions?”
“No, no callers. I…spent most of it reading. I’m not at my best due to my ladies’ problems…” She gestured vaguely at the book in her lap. “And thinking.”
“Thinking about what?” But even as he asked, his mind drifted back to the shipping venture. If he could secure backing from two more investors, the returns could be substantial enough to surely put him well ahead in the wager. Marcus might know of some interested parties…
As if sensing he wasn’t concentrating on her, she answered, “Nothing of consequence,” her voice oddly flat.
He nodded absently, already calculating the potential profits. “Well, I should prepare for dinner. Ring for Mrs. Henderson if you need anything. I hope you feel better soon.”
“Of course.” She picked up her book again, but he caught her watching him over the top of it as he headed toward the door.
“Ashley?”
“Yes?”
“Are you…that is, do you have everything you need? You seem…” He struggled for the right word. Restless? Melancholy? “Unsettled lately.”
For a moment, something flickered in her dark eyes—hope, perhaps, or longing. But it was gone so quickly, he might have imagined it.
“I’m perfectly fine, Your Grace. Enjoy your dinner.”
The formal address stung, though he couldn’t say why. He’d given her permission to use his given name in private, yet she’d reverted to titles again. Perhaps it was better this way—cleaner, more honest about what their arrangement truly was.
“Thank you. I shall.”