Chapter Twelve #3
And Raven’s sense of honor, despite his complicated desires, ran deep.
She’d seen it in the way he’d offered marriage to save her from a second scandal.
Seen it in his careful restraint over three months of marriage, believing he was protecting her from his darker nature.
Seen it in the way he’d made love to her last night with such controlled intensity, always checking that she was comfortable, that she wanted what he was doing.
He would want justice for her. Would want to punish whoever had put her in this position.
And that absolutely could not happen. Ivy’s reputation would be destroyed, and Ashley wanted her sister to have the choices she never had. The choice to fall in love with any man worthy of her. The choice to know her place in society and be accepted.
Ashley threw back the covers and stood, ignoring the protest of her body as she looked around for something to wear.
Her gypsy costume was scattered across the floor in colorful disarray—the scarves Raven had used to bind her wrists lay tangled with her skirts and embroidered vest. Her shift was somewhere on the far side of the room.
She grabbed Raven’s discarded dressing gown from a chair, wrapping it around herself.
It was far too large, the hem pooling at her feet, the sleeves hanging well past her hands.
But it was warm and smelled like him—sandalwood and leather and something uniquely Raven—and it would suffice until she could return to her own chambers.
But not yet. First, she needed to think. To plan.
Ashley moved to the window where she’d glimpsed Raven standing earlier, looking out at the London streets beginning to wake. Servants were already moving about their business, tradesmen making deliveries, the city stirring to life.
Somewhere out there, the man who’d tried to elope with Ivy three years ago was going about his day, believing himself safe from consequences.
Believing the threat he’d made afterward had been sufficient to keep Ashley silent forever.
He’d threatened her sister with harm if Ashley told the truth about what really happened… She daren’t reveal his name.
Tell anyone the truth, and your sister will pay the price. I will reveal her letters. Her reputation will be in tatters.
And he could do it. Ashley believed that wholeheartedly. He still had the letters Ivy had written to him. She would not let her sister go through what she’d suffered.
Ashley’s hands clenched into fists in the oversized sleeves of Raven’s dressing gown.
Lord Edmund Carstairs. She could still see his handsome face twisted with spite as he’d hissed those words at her in the aftermath of his failed plan to entice Ivy to elope with him.
Ashley had intercepted that letter and foiled his plan and he had been so angry…
She could still remember the cold fear that had washed over her at his threats.
Ivy, who’d been only seventeen and still mourning their father.
Carstairs had taken advantage. If he was being honorable, he would have waited for the family mourning period to end.
But no. He needed a large dowry and saw a way to make it happen sooner rather than later.
Ivy had written him foolish love letters that would have destroyed her if they’d ever become public.
Letters the scoundrel still had, and would use if pushed.
When Ashley had discovered his plan to run away with Ivy, she’d acted on pure instinct—confronting him, demanding he leave Ivy alone, threatening to expose him to her brothers.
But Carstairs had been faster, cleverer.
He’d turned the situation around, grabbing her and making it appear that Ashley had been the one trying to elope with him. She had a large dowry, too.
Lady Featherington had seen her—along with a trunk Carstairs had for Ivy’s things—get into the carriage with a man, but had let it be known that Ashley was eloping.
Ashley had fought Carstairs and she managed to convince the scoundrel that her brothers would kill him, when she escaped.
So he’d dumped her on the side of the road, saying she was too much trouble.
Her brothers had found her thirty miles north of London.
She’d refused to tell them who had taken her or what had happened because Carstairs’s threats were very real.
Let the world believe Ashley was the guilty party, or he’d produce Ivy’s letters and destroy them both. Her sacrifice would have been in vain.
So, she’d let everyone believe the lies. Let society tear her reputation to shreds. Watched her friends drift away one by one, except for the Sisterhood. None of her friends had judged her or even asked her what the scandal was.
But she’d suffered through three years of cut directs and whispered speculation. All to protect her younger sister.
But Ivy was safe. That was all that mattered. Besides, she was a duchess and even Carstairs couldn’t touch her now.
But if Raven started investigating…if he began asking questions, demanding answers from Wolf and Rockwell… If he and her brothers somehow discovered Carstairs’s identity… Well, a caged lion was a dangerous lion. Would he make Ivy’s letters public? She already knew the answer to that.
Ashley’s breath came faster, panic rising in her chest. She had no idea where the man even was. Was he married now? Did he still care? Would he simply hand the letters back to her?
If Raven found him, if the Duke of Blackstone demanded justice for his wife, Carstairs would have nothing to lose and could well go through with his plan to destroy Ivy’s reputation.
Ashley just didn’t want that man back in her life.
Or Ivy’s life. Her sister was still unmarried. What if he set his sights on her again?
No. She couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t let it happen.
But how did she stop Raven without explaining why? Without revealing Ivy’s involvement?
And now she’d told just enough truth to her husband to send him on a quest for justice she absolutely could not allow him to achieve.
Stupid, she berated herself, pressing her forehead against the cool glass of the window. You should have kept your mouth shut. Should have let him believe you were exactly what society said you were. But the fact that she was a virgin hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Last night, wrapped in his arms, feeling cherished and desired for the first time in three years…she’d wanted him to know she wasn’t what everyone believed. Wanted him to know that he was her first, her only. She wasn’t the woman he’d thought she was.
Pride. Vanity. Foolish sentiment. And now it might cost Ivy.
Ashley wrapped her arms around herself, Raven’s dressing gown providing inadequate comfort against the cold dread settling in her stomach. She needed to talk to him. Needed to make him understand that investigating the scandal was a terrible idea, that some secrets were better left buried.
But how did she explain without revealing too much?
How did she convince him to let it go without telling him about Ivy, about Carstairs’s threats?
Ivy would be devastated if she learned Ashley’s scandal had been her fault.
And if Carstairs decided to use those silly letters?
She didn’t want to think about it. Ivy had been hurt when Carstairs had vanished so suddenly, but she had been young and was still mourning her father, so it hadn’t broken her.
A soft knock at the door made her jump. “Your Grace? I’ve brought tea.”
Simpson. Raven’s valet. Oh God, the entire household would know by now that she’d spent the night in her husband’s bed.
The servants would be gossiping, speculating.
Though perhaps that was good—evidence of a normal marriage, of marital relations finally occurring after three months of separate bedchambers.
“Just a moment,” Ashley called, looking around frantically for something more appropriate than her husband’s dressing gown. But her costume was scattered everywhere, and she certainly wasn’t going to appear before a servant wearing nothing but scarves and a shift.
She tightened the belt of the dressing gown and moved to open the door just wide enough to peer through. Simpson stood in the hallway with a tea tray, his expression perfectly neutral in the way good servants had mastered.
“His Grace asked me to bring this,” Simpson said, not quite meeting her eyes. “He’s in his study attending to correspondence but wanted to ensure you had refreshment when you woke.”
Of course he did. Even in the midst of plotting whatever revenge he was planning, Raven thought about her comfort.
“Thank you,” Ashley said, opening the door wider to accept the tray. “Is His Grace…that is, did he mention when he might be free?”
“He said he had several urgent matters to attend to this morning, Your Grace. But he asked me to inform you that he’ll join you for luncheon if that’s amenable.”
Several urgent matters. Like writing letters to her brothers, perhaps. Like making inquiries about her scandal. Like beginning an investigation that could destroy everything Ashley had sacrificed three years to protect.
“That’s perfectly amenable,” Ashley said, her voice remarkably steady. “Please tell His Grace I look forward to it.”
Simpson bowed and withdrew. Ashley carried the tea tray to a small table near the fireplace, her mind racing.
She had a few hours before luncheon. A few hours to compose herself, to figure out how to approach this conversation with Raven. To find a way to make him understand that investigating her scandal was dangerous—not just to her, but to people she loved.
She poured tea with hands that trembled slightly, then sank into the chair, still wrapped in Raven’s oversized dressing gown. The morning sunlight painted golden patterns across the floor, birds sang outside the window, and somewhere in the house below, servants went about their daily routines.
Normal. Everything appeared perfectly normal.
But Ashley’s world felt like it was balanced on a knife’s edge.
On one side, the fragile new intimacy she’d built with her husband—the honesty, the trust, the possibility of something more than a convenient arrangement.
On the other side, the secret she’d kept for three years, the sister she’d protected, the threat that still hung over both their heads.
She couldn’t have both. Couldn’t be honest with Raven about everything and still protect Ivy. One or the other had to give.
And Ashley had already decided, three years ago, which was more important.
Her hand drifted once more to her stomach, that small gesture of hope. Perhaps she was already carrying Raven’s child. Perhaps in a few weeks, she’d have confirmation that at least one of her goals was being achieved.
A baby would change things. It would give her leverage to ask Raven to let the past stay buried, to focus on their future rather than seeking justice for old wrongs.
Ashley closed her eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened.
She’d thought last night marked a new beginning—a real marriage built on truth and trust and mutual respect.
But already, less than twelve hours later, she was back to keeping secrets.
Back to protecting others at the expense of her own happiness.
Some things, it seemed, never changed.
No matter how much she might wish they could.