Page 58 of A Game of Scandal

This position, coupled with his rolled shirtsleeves, made the muscles in his forearms tense. Once again, the black-ink edge of his tattoo was on display. A wash of heat moved over me, and I wondered what it was about Ash’s flexor carpi ulnaris that stimulated such a peculiar physical response in me.

Perhaps it was because I was distracted by these typically uninteresting muscles that I said unthinkingly, “Because you’re going to settle your brother’s affairs and attend his funeral as the new Baron Ely and next in line for the viscountcy.”

When I finally tore my eyes away from Ash’s arms, I found him staring at me with a look of such profound shock on his face that a nervous giggle escaped my lips before I could think better of it.

“How could you…” Ash began, voice rough with surprise. “Hardly anyone knows about…” He trailed off again, and I could almost see his clever brain working. Finally I saw the realization hit, and his expression cleared.

“The pretty slippers,” he said at last, his tone rueful.

“Yes,” I conceded sympathetically. “In my defence, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop on anyone’s family secrets. I only wanted to get away from the crowd.”

Ash scrubbed his hands over his face, made a noise that sounded like a growl. “So you’ve known all along?” he asked.

“That you’re a gentleman?” I asked.

The growl again, louder this time.

“I didn’t know the details,” I said, eyeing him warily. “Not until the poker game, when you got the note. That’s when I realized you must be Perry’s brother.” He still looked grim and I wondered why he was so annoyed that I had discovered his secret.

“Would it help,” I said tentatively, “if I told you I never thought of you as a gentleman?”

This surprised a laugh out of him, breaking the strange tension. “Actually, it would help a lot.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” I asked. If his parentage was really something only a few knew about, I supposed that he hadn’t had much opportunity to do so.

“Why not?” Ash shrugged. “You already know the worst of it.”

I thought it strange that he’d consider being the son of a viscount “the worst of it”, but kept this to myself. He looked at some fixed point over my shoulder for a moment, face stony, before he began.

“I was born the third son of the Viscount Ely.” He spoke as though he was making a confession. “My father already had his heir in my eldest brother, Perry, and a spare in his middle son, Christopher. My parents are not … fond of each other.” I nodded; this was common in my circles, where matches were often made for practical reasons rather than any romantic feeling.

“Having done her duty to my father and produced two healthy sons, my mother engaged in a number of affairs with other men.” He said the words as though they couldn’t touch him. “It’s always been clear to me that I was the result of one such affair.”

If he expected shock he wouldn’t get it; not only did I already know this piece of gossip from my mother, but I wasn’t so naive that I didn’t know that many society marriages had similar rules. Turning a blind eye to such things was only one of myriad hypocrisies that “polite” society enjoyed.

“Do you know who…” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, and I’ve got no desire to find out. Neither of my parents has ever had the slightest interest in me; I don’t feel the need to go searching for another.”

Again, the words were said with no bitterness or pain, as though he were speaking about strangers, but I was quite sure that we were touching on an old, deep wound.

He blew out a long breath. “I was something of a wild child.” He paused at my sound of amusement. “Hard to believe?”

“Not at all.” I grinned. “I was only thinking what scrapes the pair of us would have got into together. My mother had not the least idea what to do with me.”

The look we shared then took me by surprise. It was a look of friendly recognition, something sweet and simple, as if in that moment I saw the boy he had been and the man he was now, and knew that both were kindred. I felt certain that he was having a similar experience.

“Then you understand,” he said, a smile still warming his eyes. “I decided that rather than being sent away to school I’d like to go and have an adventure. I asked my father if he thought I might have a career in the navy.”

“When you were thirteen?”

“I was actually twelve at the time.” He cut another slice of apple. I liked watching his teeth bite into it.

“It’s not uncommon,” he continued. “I went on board as Boy First Class, employed as a sort of valet for one of the officers. It’s the start of a quick climb up the ladder for members of the aristocracy. Most of the boys stay on land for those years, while officers log fictitious hours at sea for them so that they can gain a promotion, but I was adamant I wanted to be put to work. My father didn’t care enough to argue.”

“And you enjoyed it?” I asked.

“I loved it.” There was no restraint in his grin now. “Took me a while to convince the rest of my crew that I was there to work, not too high and mighty to get my hands dirty. I proved myself. Made friends, travelled the world.”