by Tanya Wilde
He raised his eyes to meet her own, his green gaze steady. “I would never say those words if I did not mean them.”
Oh.
“Am I still barred from your chamber?”
The question was sudden and yet expected given the heat between them. It brought along with it all sorts of provocative feelings. Feelings that demanded to be explored. Willow paid them no mind. She was stronger than her wanton longings.
“Beyond a doubt,” she breathed.
“Not even a sliver of a doubt?”
“Ambrose . . .”
He leaned into her until her back was firmly pressed into the door, an arm reaching out on either side of her face, caging her in.
Her breathing accelerated. The more she tried to shove her thoughts—her wicked, wicked thoughts—in a box and shut the lid tight, the fiercer they grew in their strength.
Then his mouth was slanting across hers, and Willow did not possess the power to push him away. Leisurely, with infinite sensuality, he kissed her, his tongue coaxing her mouth apart. It felt like more than a kiss. It felt like an enticement. Like a whispered secret. Like seduction. And beneath the tenderness of his lips, she felt the urgency. The desire. His. Hers.
Mine.
Panic flooded her at the sentiment. She tore her hands off his chest and fumbled for the doorknob behind her. She broke the kiss.
“Will—”
She turned and escaped into her room, slamming the door shut before Ambrose could finish her name. She fell back against door inside her room, breathing hard.
Well, that certainly hadn’t gone as planned.
Chapter 12
The following evening found them dancing at the Cleveland ball. One moment, Willow had admired a particularly obnoxious shade of yellow breeches and the next, the cords of the first waltz that evening had struck up. Ambrose had turned to her, his dark eyes alight with sincerity, and asked her to dance. At first, Willow had been stunned—no words escaped her lips. Her composure, thank God, had recovered quite quickly.
She was in his arms.
His strong, muscular, powerful arms. Surrounded by the woody musk of his scent. Why that thrilled her so much was not up for debate. They were at odds with each other. Or at least Willow thought they were. Last night had sent her mind spiraling. Ambrose had kissed her. Honestly, he mussed up her brain. And Lord Jonathan was here, in London. Always had been.
What Willow did know was that she was not supposed to feel this delighted at the prospect of dancing with her husband.
For the life of her, she could not determine the angle he was playing at. But then again, a waltz was hardly the stuff of war. A kiss was more debatable. Except in both cases, his proximity and overwhelming presence bestowed chaos on her senses.
Or was that, perhaps, his plan?
Regardless, he was an excellent dancer. So good, in fact, that with every step he took, her body burned with greater desire to draw nearer to him still. Which made him exceptional in two things so far—dancing and . . . well, three things then, Willow mused, if she counted lovemaking, which she indeed did, and kissing. The thought made her eyes drift to his lips.
How can I be so obsessed with a mouth?
And thinking about his lips caused her mind to wander over to their first night. And she so did not want to wonder about that in the middle of a ballroom.
But how could she not think about that, with his body so sensually guiding hers in their dance? Willow felt a hot flush spread across her neck and ears.
For goodness’s sake!
She had to get a hold of herself. But really, was there anything this man did not excel at?
Oh yes. Yes, there was. Namely relationships.
And communication. But she wasn’t inclined to dwell on that at the moment, not while dancing in his arms.
For this moment, however fleeting, she could close her eyes and make-believe. They were in love. They were happy. Her husband was not a stick-in-the-mud duke with control issues, and she was not a woman who had married a man to use him as a stallion.
This night, this moment, almost seemed like a small reprieve.
It was also their first night out in public, and all eyes were on them, watching, observing, and waiting for the faintest mistake on their part.
Any other time, Willow would have danced herself dizzy or aided her cousin Belle in some mischief. But tonight, she had entered the marble halls of the ballroom at her husband’s side, head held high.
Not once had he left her side, introducing her to various acquaintances. Everyone clamored to get a peek at the couple of the season. They were like wolves, waiting for the first sign of weakness.
Let them watch, Willow thought. No matter what happened between her and Ambrose, she would not give cause for the gossipmongers to spread their ill will.
So she savored the sensation of being twirled around and around, and with every turn, it seemed like his hand on her back slid lower. Or was that her imagination? She glanced up at him to see his eyes glowing as they stared down at her.
Willow wondered if this would be their only dance tonight. She did not imagine that a lesser dance—the quadrille, for example—would tempt a man such as Ambrose. He was much too contained for that.
A wild thought suddenly occurred to her. Was she allowed to dance with other gentlemen?
She scrunched up her brow.
Since she refused to read the rules, she wasn’t sure. But then, she excelled at breaking rules—’twas her skill. Of course, instinct told her he wouldn’t mind as long as she remained above reproach.
Willow kept her gaze locked on the duke in an attempt to decipher his mood. Which was impossible. He had been acting strangely all evening, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on exactly how or what it might be.
As usual, his posture was stiff and uncompromising. But at the same time, he appeared less so. Was this his way of putting on a false air that nothing was amiss?
“You are an excellent dancer,” Willow murmured on another whirl.
“I do not dance often,” he returned.
“I would not have guessed from your skill.”
This close to him, Willow found herself fascinated by the stubble on his cheeks. He hadn’t seemed to have shaved since the wedding—so unlike him, she thought. For some unfathomable reason the rough coat struck her as significant, but Willow did not know why it would.
“Do you not enjoy dancing?” she asked. The grip on her hand tightened.
“I find it a pointless endeavor.”
“And yet here we are, dancing.”
His fingers flexed around her waist. “Husbands are obliged to dance with their wives, no?” he said, his eyes innocent. Too innocent, to Willow’s mind. “And you are my wife, last I checked.”
A flush stole over her cheeks when his gaze boldly roamed over her. “And here I thought it was not fashionable for husbands to dance with their wives.”
“Then I am most unfashionable.” His voice was low. Amused.
“You must be careful, Ambrose, or people might get it into their minds you are doting on your wife,” Willow teased. “And we both know you don’t want that.”
“Perhaps,” he said, a knowing smile on his lips. “Husbands who dote on their wives get to drag them off to secluded corners and kiss them senseless.”
Willow felt suddenly hot. Very hot. “And we cannot have that,” she said. Oh, but she wanted just that. “So I’m changing the topic.”
He chuckled. “Change away.”
She puckered her brow in thought, watching him from beneath her lashes. “Surely you must have enjoyed dancing at some point?”
He pulled her a breath closer than was proper. “As a child, I enjoyed the practice, especially when it got me out of chores.”
“Somehow I can imagine that.”
He smiled at the dry note in her tone. With teeth. A real, honest-to-God smile. It was so unexpected that Willow started in his arms.
“It was always a point o
f great vexation for Celia.”
Willow’s ears perked at the mention of his sister, but she was careful to show no reaction except mild curiosity. “She loved dancing?”
“I could never understand why,” he murmured. An amused expression crossed his features and Willow felt a curious warmth unfurl in her chest.
“Is that why you enjoyed it, because she had?”
“I learned because it was expected of me, but I tolerated it because of her.”
“You must have enjoyed her company a great deal.”
His jaw clenched, and he glanced away. Willow almost regretted saying anything. Honestly, why couldn’t she just have kept her mouth shut? It was a ridiculous thing to say. Of course, he had enjoyed his sister’s company! It was easy to forget, given the time that had passed, that he may still mourn Celia’s death. That he would always feel bereft.
Just like Willow would always feel the loss of her mother.
All the more, Willow began to suspect Celia’s death was the reason for his profound need to control the lives of others. What had happened to her exactly? A heart ailment, Cook had said. But that could mean so many things.
And she could not bring herself to ask. Already he was back to his old somber self, and Willow wished she knew how to get the other Ambrose back, the one that had just flashed his teeth.
“I love to dance,” she chimed up, firming her lips into a bright smile. “It feels as though life’s possibilities are endless when you dance, like you can dance straight into another world.”
“Dance into another world?” he said, amusement back in his voice.
“Or across the sky and into another universe altogether.”
“Now you are just conjuring things up.”
“I am a known conjurer.”
“Ah yes, you thought my brother a monster.” He leaned in closer. “What else are you known for?”
“Whimsical notions?”
“Now that I find hard to believe.” His eyes gleamed.
“Because I haven’t fallen at your feet?” Willow suggested.
“I’m somewhat a legend in that regard, so it is most exasperating.”
“I’ll just bet, it must frustrate you so that your wife is an unmanageable heathen.”
He pulled her closer and immediately heat bloomed, beckoning, enticing. Then he whispered five little evocative words that wrapped around her like silk.
“Less and less each day.”
AMBROSE HAD LOST HIS mind. There was no perhaps about it. He was dancing, bloody dancing—something he never did—with his wife. Never mind the madness that had besieged him last night. But he’d decided not to dwell on that—overmuch—but who was he fooling? He thought about her every second of his day. And that was nothing compared to his hot and steamy dreams.
Which brought him back to the present. Why was he dancing? Because the waltz had struck up and he had this absurd desire to see a flush of desire on her skin again.
He resisted the urge to snort at himself.
Ambrose ought to be more concerned about the sudden flush he was feeling.
And then he’d mentioned Celia, a topic he never talked about. Ever. This was all Benson’s fault for planting ideas in his head. He should not have allowed the seeds of his valet’s words, of all people, to grow in his mind. As always, he hadn’t intended to dance and as always, he did the complete opposite. Now she was in his arms, smiling up at him. And the worst part—he didn’t want to stop dancing.
She intrigued him.
She challenged him.
She made him question himself.
Had he known waltzing with her would cause such a reaction in him, he’d never have asked. He’d wanted to see her desire for him, not go mad with desire himself.
So far, she had been a model duchess, holding her head high in the wake of all the stares and whispered speculation. He knew—or at least, strongly suspected—she hadn’t read his rules. The radiant light sparkling in her eyes burned too bright. And like a fool, he found himself not wanting to do anything to diminish it.
More absurd sentiments.
His rules were in place for a reason. They were necessary. So why then, did he appear to waver in his resolve?
She disorientated him, that’s why.
“You must have been the most proper youth in the kingdom,” she murmured, drawing him from his thoughts.
“I would not venture so far as to say that.” He had been quite the rascal growing up. Carefree even. Before . . . He hardened his mask. He had to keep his mind focused. “That was a long time ago.”
“I have always wanted a brother. We’d have had a smashing time.”
Her features lit up for a moment. Indeed, he could very well imagine her getting into all sorts of trouble with a brother at her side: riding bareback on horses, chasing each other in the field, and lighting fires in the conservatory. Smashing, however, was not the word he would’ve used. Incorrigible, perhaps.
Ambrose was suddenly struck by how much his wife reminded him of Celia. She had been just as full of life as Willow.
A disconcerting thought.
Alarming, really.
His shoulders stiffened, and his back snapped straight. He did not want to see the goodness, the once vibrant light that had shown in his sister’s eyes, in his wife. It disarmed him. And that was dangerous. It would lead to a lack of rules, a lack of control, and eventually a lack of light. Just like Celia.
Though Willow was not exactly like his sister. Celia had been regal, a true lady. She would never have been labeled a heathen. Oddly, that comforted him. But perhaps heathens fared better with sickness. Perhaps the rules were now more necessary than ever.
The doubt and uncertainty ate at him.
“Ambrose?”
His gaze lowered to her eyes, saw the question there.
“Are you alright?” she prompted.
“My apologies,” he murmured. “I seem to be distracted.”
“Well, there is nothing like an eclair to bring you back to the present. Their sweetness solves all problems, you know,” she said as the dance ended. “Would you like to join me for one?”
Eclairs. Sweets. Unhealthy. But he did not point that out. Because at that moment, she smiled at him. And he was lost. He was such an idiot. A lost idiot. But in that moment, he didn’t care.
“Lead the way.”
Chapter 13
The following morning at The Royal Academy
There was something to be said about a dashing gentleman forever frozen in time and neatly captured in a canvas. Not only could the gentleman be ogled in blatant regard, but one could, at the same time, imagine the gentleman to be the most charming of characters.
Willow was by no means an expert in art. She could hardly explain what she found appealing in any given piece that caught her fancy. Neither was she a dilettante but she did find there was something peaceful about admiring good art. For the most part, she just liked to browse over portraits to marvel at how talented the artists that painted them were—she never tired of the amount of detail they managed to express in their work.
Today, howbeit, Willow just wanted to clear her mind, and nothing opens your mental faculties and carries you away like visiting an art gallery. Alas, that was proving impossible to do.
Because her husband had decided to accompany her.
Willow cast a sidelong glance at him.
Must the man look so dashing? Like the gentleman in the portrait she was inspecting, he bled confidence and male arrogance. Unlike that man, who was leaning against a giant pillar with a charming smile, the duke was as stiff as a tree trunk.
Willow’s gaze traveled over his clenched jaw before dropping to his hands. They weren’t clenched, but there was a twitch in his thumb that belied his restlessness. The picture of a grouchy male.
A sudden urge to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him assailed her. These days she was confronted with many such urges, so she’d become quite the expert in brushing them asid
e.
Her head swiveled back to the painting, her breathing shallow. Brushing them aside did not mean she was free of their effects.
Willow knew better than to fantasize about her husband. Unfortunately, regardless of all his faults, the man was tempting as sin. It was hard not to daydream and give in to bouts of hot fantasies when around him.
She snuck another peek and found his cool black eyes staring back at her.
“Do you not enjoy art?” Willow asked. Because really, she couldn’t just glance away now that he had caught her stealing lingering glances at him. And honestly, he ought to have remained home if he was only going to sulk about.
“It’s crowded.” His brooding eyes flicked beyond her to the painting she had been admiring. “And how long can one stare at Viscount Granville Leveson-Gower?”
Willow’s gaze traveled back to the portrait. That was Viscount Granville? She regarded the man in a new light. She would never have guessed.
“The man’s a stuffed-shirt.”
Willow shot her husband a look that said look who’s talking. “I believe this was painted while he served as an Ambassador in Russia.”
“Remarkable.”
“He worked himself up from a second son to a titled peer,” she pointed out, bemused. “That is something.”
“And here I thought the man could not become any staler.”
Willow bit back a smile, and then felt him tense when a trio of giggling ladies passed them. She turned to him and asked, “Why did you accompany me if you knew you’d be miserable?”
“I’m not miserable. I just don’t find pleasure in gawking at paintings of men.”
“Your posture is stiff, you are clenching your jaw, and you have a twitch in your fingers—all signs of being utterly miserable.”
“Perhaps I did not wish to deprive myself of the company of my bewitching wife?”
“But what you mean to say is that you did not wish to take the chance of me slipping away to meet my sister.”