Unveiled by Courtney Milan Page A

And I will simply 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.
    â€œCome now,” he said. “Such a little thing I’m asking for.”
    â€œWhat kind of a Christian name is Ash?” She shook her head. “What is wrong with Luke or John or Adam?”
    This was not something he wanted to talk about. “It’s not my Christian name. It’s a…a use name. Of a sort.” His mother had given all her children full Bible verses for names. Telling her the mouthful of a name he’d been born with would simply take too long. “I don’t have a Christian name. I have…” Ash paused, frowning. “I have a label, recorded in a parish register. And it’s of no moment. Everyone who knows me calls me Ash. If you are going to refuse to be my love slave, you should at least do me the honor of not Mr. Turnering me.”
    She looked up at him from behind wisps of hair that had fallen from her knot. For the first time that evening, he caught a glimpse of one hint of a dimple, an unwilling smile that quirked her lips. That amusement was a fragile, delicate thing, as insubstantial as moonlight on water. He held his breath, waiting. But she dispelled it with a shake of her head.
    â€œIt’s too familiar. People will say—” She stopped, and ran one hand down the serviceable fabric of her dress. “They’ll say I’m reaching above my station.”
    He shrugged to hide his appalled reaction. Miss Lowell had fire. She had intelligence. She had an almost haunting beauty. And yet she wouldn’t reachabove what she saw as her station? What a monstrous waste.
    Whoever was in that locket had a lot to answer for.
    â€œI am going to guess,” he said quietly, “that you’ve heard about your station all your life. That you’ve been told, over and over, what you can and cannot do because of some foolish accident of your birth.”
    Her nostrils flared, and her fingers clenched around the key he’d given her.
    Ash continued. “What do they know? Do they hear the secret dreams you whisper in the dark of the night? Don’t let your station in life strangle you.”
    Her bosom held motionless, as if she didn’t dare exhale.
    â€œIf I never so much as breathe against the skin of your wrist, I want you to forget what you’ve been told.”
    Her hand had gone to her wrist as he spoke, as if she felt the heat of his breath there.
    â€œSo call me Ash,” he said with a smile. “Call me Ash, not for me, but as a small defiance. Call me Ash because you deserve it. Because your station is just so many words in a parish register, not a sentence of death.”
    She swallowed and swayed towards him—not even an inch, but still, she moved. Ash stood very still, willing her closer. She opened her lips a fraction and wet them. His blood stirred at the sight of the pink of her tongue.
    â€œAsh.” She breathed the word as if it were the last name on earth. He stood there, almost tipsy at the sound of it on her lips. Yes. Yes.
    â€œYes?” His own voice was hoarse.
    She looked him in the eyes. And he saw there every last scrap of strength, every inch of backbone that he desired. She drew herself up straight. He could almost taste her on his tongue.
    â€œAsh,” she repeated more firmly. “I have no desire to be your sordid love slave. Now leave me alone. ”

CHAPTER FOUR
    T HE SUN WAS SO HOT at noon the next day that waves rose from the track in front of her, blurring the small town two miles distant into