by Tanya Wilde
He’d ruined this marvelous night over toast? Well, not actual toast, but rather a metaphor for his obnoxious rules and her refusal to follow them.
“And what if I seek pleasure elsewhere?” Willow challenged, her temper rising at the utter audacity of the man. She wouldn’t, but she was furious that he’d crushed a spectacular moment, that he’d reverted them back to their battle of wills. Of course, she’d planned to do the same thing in the morning, but not now.
“I would not test me that way if I were you.” Black eyes darkened to resemble a thunderstorm. “Not if you do not wish to be locked away in a remote castle on abandoned moors for the rest of your life.”
“You wouldn’t!”
He only smiled.
Willow watched, crippled with astonishment, as he rose from the bed and padded over to his room with no modesty whatsoever, turning the key in the lock to unlock the door. He did not so much as spare her a second glance!
Glaring at his back, she tossed a pillow at him, but it connected with the wall. The devil with him and his threats so nonchalantly declared! The man was a beast. An appealing beast, but a beast all the same.
And she was just the woman to tame him.
AMBROSE CURSED A STRING of foul oaths as he slammed the adjoining door shut. He was supposed to remain detached and stoic. He was supposed to be a master at it. What the hell, then, had happened? Where had all the years of control gone?
In the short time he’d spent with his wife, he’d felt desire, fury, possession, protectiveness, jealously, pleasure, and even—he couldn’t comprehend it—affection. He hadn’t actually thought she’d go through with the wedding night. He had gone to her chamber fully intending to disrobe and fully expecting her swift word that the marriage would not be annulled.
He wasn’t even sure why he had given her the choice, only that it seemed right. And yes, while he had meant for the marriage to be one of convenience, there had been nothing convenient about what had just happened. His world had been pushed over a ravine and was now careening down into some unknown abyss.
Never had he known such raw hunger for a woman. The anger that had burned inside him all day had transformed into wild lust the moment his wife faced him, eyes flashing with defiance, and declared she refused to follow his rules. And then she turned and asked him to unlace her.
The memory still burned against his skull.
With a groan, he fell back on the mattress, staring at the canopy of his bed. He had planned on treating his wife with detachment and distance. But tonight his control had snapped. Just snapped. As if it was nothing more than a thin piece of centuries old rope.
The thought rightly terrified him.
Ambrose needed the ever-present constant of what control provided in his life. Predictability. Routine. Not bloody surprises lurking around each corner. Or underneath petticoats.
He rose to his feet and sauntered over to the window, pulling another robe over his shoulders. The moon had slid behind a cloud, casting gloomy darkness over Mayfair. He lifted a trembling hand—trembling, for Christ’s sake—watching the moonlight play over his fingers with a scowl. If he had been in a mood to summon up any form of humor, he’d have laughed for being so unsettled over a woman.
Denial, however, was a waste of his time. Tonight had disturbed him. His wife disturbed him.
But he could not help his mind returning to the memory of how she’d come undone in his arms.
Confusion swamped him.
Why hadn’t that been enough? Didn’t that make a point about who was in charge?
It should’ve, but it hadn’t.
He hadn’t felt in control in the slightest. It was as if, on hearing her pleasure, on seeing her satisfaction, he panicked. And in his panic, he slammed his mask on and tossed out a challenge—said anything to prevent her from looking at him with affection, with hope.
And it had worked. Fury and shock had overtaken her softer emotions instantly.
But bloody hell. What was he getting himself into? He’d incited a war. War was not detached.
A movement drew his attention to the shadows where a slight contour flitted over the garden. His eyes narrowed on the silhouette, certain he was hallucinating. But sure enough, a slender figure dashed over the lawn and down the street.
Everything inside him ceased to function.
His gaze ripped away from the window to his wife’s chamber and before he could even blink, he threw open the adjoining door. Rage exploded in him, throbbed at his temples. The bed was empty, as was the chamber.
His gaze swept to the open window. Anger choked him. Had the bloody woman been idiotic enough to climb down the window?
It was two stories up!
This, this, right here was why he required control in his life. Because once control slipped and the woman in your life ran rampant, nightmarish things happened. God only knows what she was up to—though he suspected it had to do with Holly Middleton. God knew whether she would be safe. He didn’t even know where she might have gone. He was powerless to protect her should trouble happen upon her.
How the hell was he supposed to manage an unmanageable wife?
Reason? Threaten? Command? Beg?
He stomped back into his room and sank down onto the bed to wait. His mind raced, considering what to do about his wife. Kissing her had been a huge mistake, and he could not repeat it. He had to keep his distance, remain detached. Detachment allowed him the best control.
So Ambrose waited and waited until he heard the tell-tale sound of the floorboards creaking, signaling her return. Only then did he let loose a breath and climb into bed, still no wiser as to how to handle the new Duchess of St. Ives.
Chapter 7
Willow scaled down the side of her new home with little effort—it was a skill she and her sisters perfected when they were twelve years old. Her new home was built in much the same way their country house was, and the distance from this chamber to the ground was not at all different from her chamber in Derbyshire.
The only real difference in this particular house was that it housed a most suspicious, arrogant, misguided male, who would try to stop her. So for that reason, she tried to keep her grunts and heaving to a minimum.
She dropped to the ground with an easy thud, her chin lifting to gaze back up to her window. She wouldn’t be able to make it back up again. And there was no tree near her window she could climb. She would have to find another way inside or slip in when the servants woke.
If her husband learned of it, he’d be furious.
Willow shrugged.
Oh well.
What would he next threaten to deny her if he learned about this? The sour cur!
Well, he’d learn. She could live without that pleasure. In fact, she could live without a great deal many things if his seed had taken root. Indeed, if tonight had accomplished her goal, then she’d be the one to withhold rocking his world.
See how he enjoys that!
One thing she was not about to do was give up all her dignity and let him plow away for his own pleasure. She wasn’t that desperate. If she was not with child . . . Then she would wait until she and Ambrose were on more agreeable terms.
Nevertheless, she was curious to see just how serious he was about his declaration. She needed to take stock of his word, push the boundaries, and discover what sort of character her husband possessed and work from there.
With a resolved nod, she dashed across the lawn.
The thudding of her boots against the cold cobblestones kept her on high alert. It had been less challenging to slip out than she first thought. Right before her sister had departed, Poppy mentioned that the duke planned on stationing footman at her door, or so it was rumored, and Willow hadn’t wanted to take the chance to slip out that way. But even in choosing to go out the window, part of her had expected to be caught in the garden.
Keeping her head low and her cloak tightly wound, she spied Warton’s carriage in the distance. The footman spotted her and jumped from his perch to
open the door.
She gave a curt nod in acknowledgment.
“Milady,” he nodded back, ushering her inside—all very cloak and dagger.
Willow found herself peeking through the window every two seconds, half expecting her husband to give chase on the back of a fire breathing dragon. Or God forbid, follow from a discreet distance and catch her in the act of meeting with Holly.
Luckily, the ride to Warton’s residence did not take long.
But it wasn’t until Willow stood across from Holly in Warton’s drawing room that her heart settled back into a steady rhythm.
“Holly?” Willow murmured, her voice cracking just a bit.
Then her sister was in her arms, drawing her into a tight embrace.
Tears gathered in Willow’s eyes as she fought to regain some control over her emotions, which appeared to be scattered all over the British Isles. The weight of the day’s events bore down hard on her heart, as did the fear that her sister may be angry with her and even feel betrayed by her actions.
“I thought I wouldn’t see you before we left,” Holly murmured.
“Nothing could keep me away,” Willow said, drawing back to take a good look at her sister. “However, my husband made it slightly more difficult when he supposedly stationed two footmen outside my bedchamber. To keep me in or to keep you out, who is to say? It seems he does not believe I would risk scaling down the side of a house to see you.”
“Forgive me, Willow. If I’d known you would do something so insane in an attempt to correct my imprudence, I would never have left you alone in that room. Was he furious with you?”
“Oh, he was quite beyond that, but nothing I couldn’t manage. The Dragon Duchess, as you so suitably named her, on the other hand . . .” Willow shuddered. “That woman’s wailing almost drove me through the walls. Her incessant caterwauling gave me head pains. She needs to take to the waters of Bath.”
“I am so sorry.”
Her sister appeared truly torn up by the events, as though she was to blame. When in fact, the choice had been Willow’s. And she did not regret it. Well, maybe a tiny bit after tonight. Clearly, she hadn’t understood what she was marrying into or she might have run faster than Holly had. Maybe. But she was in this marriage now and had to make the most of it. Middletons did not give up.
“Oh, hush, I would never have allowed you to marry that beast, not after what you told me. Besides, I have my own motivation for wedding the man.”
“You wanted to marry St. Ives?”
“Of course not. My reasons have nothing to do with the duke himself.”
“I am confused. The reason you married him has nothing to do with him?”
“Yes,” Willow said with a slow nod, her heart jumping into her throat.
“But the man is a beast,” Holly pointed out, a worried look flittering across her face.
“He is something, all right,” Willow murmured, giving her a soft, reassuring smile. And while it was certainly an infuriating something most of the time, Willow also had to admit that the “something” also included a peculiar presence. An aura surrounded the duke that Willow felt drawn to—and she was certainly attracted to the man given their most recent interaction.
But she couldn’t admit any of this to her sister. Holly had been in love with St. Ives mere days ago.
“I believe what your sister is saying, Miss Middleton,” Warton spoke up, his eyes resting on Holly, “is that she wished to marry and took advantage of an available groom.”
Holly’s gaze flew to Willow. “Is that true?”
Willow nodded, relieved that Warton had so easily come to the right conclusion. She gave her sister a sheepish smile. “But please know I never intended on stealing your betrothed before that moment.”
“I suppose that is a comforting thought,” Holly said, her eyes sparkling. Then just as suddenly, her amusement faded. “Has St. Ives spoken to father yet?”
Willow nodded, allowing Holly to tug her to the sofa.
“So, does father mean to lock me away in a tower or perhaps, dare I ask, a dungeon?”
It would be just like her sister to find that thought most intriguing! “I’m afraid not. The duke has requested father’s permission to establish a betrothal agreement for you and his brother, Lord Jonathan Griffin.”
“I must not have heard you correctly, Willow, because it sounded like you said the duke wants me to marry his brother?”
Willow gave her a solemn look.
“I cannot marry your brother-in-law, I do not love him!”
“Regardless of anyone’s feelings, St. Ives has men searching every inch of the city. He suspects, or at least I think he does, that you might return to Derbyshire. He has already dispatched men there, as well.”
“But why? Lord Jonathan is on tour. He even missed the wedding.”
“He is expected back any day now, I’m afraid.”
“Surely Lord Jonathan will not stand for this?”
“I thought so as well, but what if the duke threatened to cut his brother off?”
“He could marry an heiress.”
“It will still require him to marry. So why not marry you and keep his brother happy?”
“Has father agreed to this arrangement?”
“Not as of yet.”
“Well, then, St. Ives must have demanded father agree, and Lord knows father hates to be told what to do.”
“No man does,” Warton muttered from behind them.
Holly let out a small sigh. “Is it not a crime to wed a relation by marriage?” she asked.
“Unfortunately not,” Willow said. It would have made things much easier.
“A pity.”
Willow gave her sister’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I won’t let it come to that. But it might be best if you put some distance between you and the city.”
A lot of distance.
“The marquis has agreed to escort me to one of his properties in—”
Willow held up her hand, stopping Holly midsentence. “Do not tell me where you are going. I don’t want to take the chance of spilling your whereabouts, however unintentional.” She glanced at Warton, considering him a moment.
He was a man of passionate temper, but a gentleman of honor. They made quite the pair, these two. Almost like pork and apples, an odd combination, but somehow the flavors worked. “What of your servants? Are they aware of your destination?”
“I assure you, madam,” Warton drawled, “my servants do not gossip.”
How utterly male of him to assume that.
“Servants gossip among each other, if nothing else,” Willow pointed out. “And you’ve given yours the night off in the wake of a huge scandal. They may not realize the significance, but others may draw suspicion from that.”
“Point taken,” Warton grumbled.
Willow suppressed a smile. She wondered what could have driven Warton to help Holly. It wasn’t precisely in line with his reputation or character. The man was a well-known grump. By all accounts, the marquis ought to have dragged Holly back to their father and washed his hands of her, not dive straight into the hornet’s nest.
Was there something more to it than simply help? He was difficult to read, but she noticed how he always seemed to keep his eyes on Holly. That, if nothing else, would likely keep her out of trouble.
And Willow trusted Warton.
“We shall be careful to remain undetected,” Holly reassured.
Willow nodded. “Stop only where you are confident no one will recognize you. For the time being, the duke doesn’t suspect you have a protector. That gives you an advantage, Holly, so use it wisely. I will do what I can from here, but we must think of an alternative plan in case I fail to convince the duke to let the matter go.”
“No one will catch us off guard,” Warton griped.
“Thank you.” Willow knew she needed to assure him that they were all grateful for his aiding Holly. “I owe you a great debt for aiding my sister.”
He g
runted. “The duke will not get his hands on her.”
Willow turned to her sister, one brow arched. She said with her eyes what she could not speak out loud with Warton within earshot: Now is not the time to fall in love with this man.
Holly shrugged noncommittally and Willow fought the urge to huff out in frustration. She adored her sister, but Holly was too quick to fall head over heels.
“How will you appeal to St. Ives to accept an olive branch?”
“I have no clue, but I shall figure something out. The man is as stubborn as an ox, intent on dictating the lives of others. It shall give me great pleasure to bring him down a notch or two.”
“He has not hurt you?”
Willow heard the fear in Holly’s tone, but she truly didn’t think that her husband was that kind of man. He would’ve shown those colors already if he was. Instead, he’d threatened to deny her pleasure. Intolerable behavior, certainly, but she felt that his “rules” and “boundaries” were the worst of it.
“No, dear, I do not believe he shall. He seeks only to control me, and I daresay, should he discover me gone, it will give him quite the fit! But that’s the most of it.”
“You are so terrible, Willow,” Holly said with a smile. “Best hope he does not realize you are gone.”
“It might do him some good to discover his wife is in possession of a fine backbone.”
“I cannot express enough how sorry I am,” Holly murmured.
“Stop apologizing,” Willow demanded. She glanced at Warton. “I came to see if you were all right, and I am pleased to find you have chanced upon a champion of sorts, however shocking.”
Warton lifted one dark brow.
“Well, it is,” Willow reaffirmed. “If I penned down all of the least likely gentlemen to aid my sister, you would have been on the top of that list.”
“And why is that, Duchess?”
“Oh, you are known to have a brooding temperament and a quick temper. Not to mention you lack the subtle charm that most gentlemen possess.”
“I have charm,” he muttered.
Holly was clearly smothering a smile. “I’m sure Warton regrets the curiosity that led him to stumble upon me,” she teased.